“Have fun,” John said.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” someone else added.
Adam nodded, cool air hitting his face as he all but jumped onto the car lift that someone had lowered, his battered race truck poised at the edge of the ramp. Later on it would be loaded onto the hauler, but for right now it stood there, waiting, its smashed front end looking worse beneath the overhead lights, radiator fluid leaking out and leaving lurid green drops on the oil-smeared ground.
“Mr. Drake, can I get your autograph, please?” someone asked. Adam was suddenly aware of the race fans milling around as he stepped into the darkened evening.
“Adam? Can you sign this for me?”
He looked left. Becca had reached the end of an outbuilding, her red hair easily recognizable beneath the overhead lights. It looked like she, too, had been asked to stop and sign autographs.
“Sure,” he said, taking a Sharpie from the outstretched hand of a teenager.
“Good race,” the kid said as Adam signed the program. “I loved the way you took Jason Ingle out.”
“Yeah, that was great,” an older man said. “The guy’s a total putz. Someone should pull his NASCAR license.”
“Or they should kick him out of the Series,” someone else added.
And then it became surreal. Suddenly he was surrounded by race fans. Oh, not as many as if he’d been doing the Cup Series. Or maybe so, he thought, taking another look at Becca. She’d disappeared into the shadows.
“Thanks for your support,” Adam said absently, trying to sign faster. His name became nothing more than a straight line with a few bumps near the end by the time he’d worked his way through, saying, “Catch you at the next race.”
Served him right for getting caught. He hadn’t bothered to change out of his firesuit, something he normally did first thing after a race. But he’d been too distracted with Becca to remember to do that, and then in too much of a hurry to meet with NASCAR to have time to change afterward. And so now he raced after her, his run attracting the attention of other fans whom he waved off apologetically. Unbelievable. And this after only one race.
She’d already crossed the steep-banked race track and slipped beneath the massive grand stands. Parking wasn’t allowed inside the infield—crews had to walk to an exterior parking lot—so Becca had been swallowed up by a dark hole. Adam hurried his steps. He was going to miss her.
But when he came out from under the grandstands, his gaze lit upon her red hair again. “Becca,” he called.
But she either didn’t hear him, or ignored him. He moved so fast he nearly lost his footing, the asbestos soles of his racing shoes having little traction against the black asphalt.
“Becca,” he called again.
She had to be ignoring him. There was no way she couldn’t hear him now, the concrete barrier passenger cars were allowed to park against only a few feet away. He vaulted over the white barricade, then charged down the main road that separated the rows of parked cars. He lost sight of her for a second amid the vans and SUVs common to team parking lots. Luck helped him spot her, a car starting up near where she’d parked, drawing his eye. She’d just pulled open the door of her Explorer.
“Becca,” he called again. “Wait up.”
She slid inside the car and Adam thought she might just take off on him. He rushed forward, arriving just as she rolled down her window a crack.
“What’s up?” she asked, wiping at her eyes. There were lights in the parking area, fluorescent lamps on tall poles directly overhead, so he could see her face perfectly.
She was crying.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“WHAT’S WRONG?” Adam asked.
Becca shook her head, tempted to roll the window up and drive away. “Nothing.”
Except I needed a good performance tonight to bolster the race team’s profile.
At this rate no one would want to lend her money. “What do you need?” she asked, her palms starting to feel clammy, her heart beating so hard and so fast she started to panic all the more.
Calm down.
She hadn’t lost the team yet.
“I need to talk to you,” he said.
She swallowed even harder, knowing she needed to get on the road and drive—do something, anything to turn her thoughts.
“I can’t right now,” she said. Her hands shook as she started the ignition. “I need to go.”
He opened the car door.
Becca gasped and drew away. His big hands reached inside. He grabbed her by the upper arms and pulled her toward him.
“Adam, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“We’re going to talk.”
“I don’t think—”
He turned and sat on the edge of her seat, Becca shifting away.
“What’s wrong?”
She almost gave in to the urge to tell him then, almost broke down and told him everything.
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“That’s a lie. There’s something wrong. I can see it in your eyes, and at the shop when you think I’m not looking. Or didn’t you realize I can see you sitting at your desk with your head in your hands? I see the stress on your face while you’re studying paperwork. Something’s wrong and you’re keeping it from me. Keeping it from the team.”
She looked straight ahead, started to shake her head.
“Becca,” he said. And out of the corner of his eye she could see him move, feel a hand touch a cheek and turn it toward him. They were so close now their hips touched. “Talk about it.”
“I can’t,” she said, the feel of his hand against her cheek making her want to close her eyes.
“You don’t always have to be so strong.”
“Yes,” she said softly, and—oh, God—was that her voice sounding so weak? So miserable? So close to tears? “Yes, I do.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “You don’t.”
“Adam—”
“Come here,” he said.
What was he about to do? And then she realized he wanted to hug her. “No.”
“Shh,” he soothed. “It’s all right.”
His arms wrapped around her. She froze. He pulled her to him.
And she didn’t resist.
She told herself to. Told herself to pull back, to tell him this was way out of line.
But then he rested his head atop her head, just like Randy used to do. But rather than drive a wedge between them, it made her want to bow her head and cry.
She missed Randy.
She’d missed having someone to talk to.
“Shh,” he soothed again, his body so warm against her own if she’d been wax she would have melted right onto him. “I understand what it’s like. I know how hard it is to hold on. But I’m here for you, Becca.
I’m here for you.
Whatever the problem, I’m here for you.”
He did understand, she realized. She’d sensed that about him from the moment they’d met. Maybe that was why there was such a strong attraction between them. She couldn’t deny that as he held her she started to feel other things, things that had nothing to do with the shop or her financial situation.
“Please,” she said softly. “Let me go.”
“No.”
She tried to draw away, but she couldn’t with her back against the seat. She glanced up, saw the look in his eyes.
And almost gasped.
There was a heat there, one so scorching it made her flushed cheeks feel merely lukewarm.
“Adam—”
He didn’t move. She didn’t, either. One of his hands began to move in circles, gently at first, but then bigger and bigger, lower and lower. It dropped to the small of her back, and then moved lower still, to that spot just above her hips. The jeans she wore hung loosely there, allowing him access to her bare skin. Two fingers dipped beneath the fabric.
She gasped.
“Becca,” he said softly, his lips nuzzling her hair.
No. She shouldn’t.
Randy.
But she was tired of thinking about Randy. God, was she tired.
His hot fingers found a sensitive spot right above her hips, his touch sending sharp tingles of excitement down the backs of her legs.
His hand sank lower. “Becca,” he said again, her name pronounced in wonder. She felt his mouth nuzzle her ear, felt his lips work their way around her lobe. Warm breath misted her flesh, and then a searing heat as his tongue licked at the shell of her ear.
She fell apart.
“Adam,” she sighed, tipping her head sideways.
He caught her top lip between his teeth, nipping her and then releasing her, his tongue taking the place of his teeth.
“Adam,” she whispered again. Or maybe she didn’t whisper. Maybe it was all in her head. Maybe this was all in her head. If it was, it was such a good dream, she didn’t want it to end.
A car door slammed shut.
They pulled apart.
Adam stared down at her, eyes dark and intense, his breathing just as harsh as her own, she suddenly realized.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Let’s—” she swallowed “—go?”
“I’m taking you to your hotel, Becca. We’re going to finish what we’ve started. No more backing away. No more shutting me out. We’re going to finish this, the way you know we both want to.”
Her body flushed. Yes. She could see that that was exactly what would happen.
“Adam, I—”
He kissed her, pushing her up against the side of her car, his tongue pushing into her mouth when she gasped. But then she was kissing him back, and moaning and gasping and wanting…just wanting to forget.
“Don’t say no,” she heard him murmur. His hand reached up to cup the side of her face, and this time he said the words more gently. “Don’t say no,” he said softly. “Please.”
And so help her, she didn’t.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SHE WOKE UP in his arms the next morning.
Or, at least, she thought she did.
But when Becca turned to look at Adam, she quickly realized it wasn’t Adam at all and that she was staring at….
Randy.
She gasped, sitting up.
“Hello, Becca,” he said, his dark hair rumpled and curling around his head like it always had.
And all at once she started to cry. Tears fell from her eyes as she covered her mouth with a shaking hand. “Randy.”
His light blue eyes twinkled as they gazed down at her, his lips quirking into the smile he’d always given her whenever she’d done something silly.
“How you doin’?”
It was the question he always used to ask. Not
how are you doing,
but
how you doin’
in that Jersey accent of his.
“Not good,” she said, her voice thick with tears.
“Come here,” he said.
She sank into his arms, a part of her knowing this was a dream—he only came to her in dreams—but caring little. His body was warm against her own, his breath misting her shoulder, wiry chest hairs pressing against the cool flesh of her cheeks.
“Don’t leave,” she begged, just as she always begged. “Please don’t leave me again.”
And then he was gone and Becca was at the funeral, standing at the edge of an open patch of earth.
Oh, God.
“I’m so sorry,” Blain Sanders said softly, the grass he stood upon so bright it was as if a can of green paint had been upended beneath them. “Damn it, Becca, I’m so very sorry.”
She looked up at her husband’s longtime friend, seeing his own tears stream down his face, tears matched by those in her eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” he said again.
“Please. I think I’m dreaming—”
And she was. She knew that. The flowers around the edge of her husband’s grave were just a little too bright—yellow, white and dark purple blooms nearly blinded her. The people who stood around them looked too waxy, the grief on their faces frozen in time.
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you,” Blain said.
She’d heard the words, began to shake her head because this was a dream—just a dream.
“Mrs. Newman,” the pastor was saying.
“No,” she said, knowing what was coming next.
“It’s time.”
No,
her heart screamed. No.
But in her dream her hand clenched around a piece of metal she’d been holding.
Randy’s lucky penny.
The hole where the chain had been was twisted and scarred. She’d stared at the thing in dismay, the metal warm in her hand. But then it turned cold—ice-cold.
Oh, God.
She felt the tears build again—not just one or two, but a flood of them, a whole river of them, a whole ocean. And though she tried to hold them back, she couldn’t. Her lips grew numb about the same time a horrible pain began to build in her heart.