Adam Drake had sex appeal in spades.
“Hello, Ms. Newman.”
The clipboard slipped from her hand. Rebecca lurched and caught it, the metal back jamming against one of her long fingernails and causing her to gasp. When she straightened, she knew her face glowed as brightly as an overheated brake pad.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said. It didn’t help matters that Cece stood behind Adam, her hand covering her mouth, her eyes laughing loudly even if her mouth did not. “And I’m glad to see you made it.”
“I did,” he said, giving her a smile that exposed wonderfully masculine teeth.
Masculine teeth? What the heck was that?
“Sorry I was late. I got a little lost on the way out.”
“Where’s Lindsey?”
“Still grounded after that little stunt last month.”
“Oh, too bad. I was looking forward to seeing her.” She sounded too fake. Too chipper. Too…
Okay, just admit it. Too smitten.
It didn’t help that Cece had stopped laughing. She began to move her hands, mimicking sign language from
Austin Powers. You complete me,
she pantomimed.
Stop it,
Becca warned with her eyes.
But Cece didn’t stop anything and so after a glance at Adam—who was busy watching the truck on the track, thank God—Becca lifted a fist and narrowed her eyes for good measure. She managed to drop her hand just in time for Adam not to notice—she hoped.
“Here,” Rebecca said, shoving the timing board and pen back at Cece. “You can have this back. I’ll go introduce Adam to Blain.”
“Oh, great. I’ll go with you,” Cece said, having to shout over the sudden roar of the truck as it came down pit road. All three of them paused as Cece prepared to record the lap time, but the truck was coasting.
“I guess he’s done,” Cece said as the engine abruptly shut off. He rolled down pit road and into his pit stall.
“Who is that?” Adam asked.
“Sam Kennison,” Cece answered, falling into step with them, Adam in the middle. Adam didn’t see it, but Cece leaned back, lifting her eyebrows in a “He’s cute” kind of way.
“Kennison. Kennison. Is that Carl Kennison’s kid?”
“It is,” Cece said. “Do you know him?” she asked as the truck finally came to a stop.
“I’ve bumped into him on a track or two.”
“Well, that’s him waiting to help Sammy out of the truck,” Cece said.
Becca followed Cece’s and Adam’s gaze, watching an older man with gray hair and a middle as big as a Bridgestone tire rush forward to lower the net, taking the steering wheel, the driver’s helmet and then the HANS device a second later.
“Outstanding,” he was saying to his son as they walked up, placing the helmet and HANS on the roof, his face flushed with pride. When the driver emerged, Becca ran her eyes over him, thinking the kid didn’t look a thing like his old man. And he really did look like a kid, Rebecca noted. No five o’clock shadow in sight.
Holy crawdad, she felt old.
“You kicked ass out there, son,” Carl said, clapping Sam on the back of his beige firesuit with
Addeco Insurance
sewn onto the front.
Carl turned back to Blain Sanders, who stood nearby. “Told you the kid could drive. He’s a chip off the old block. Give him a couple years and he’ll be vying for a Cup championship.” Carl’s eyes swept the group of people surrounding Blain, passing by Adam only to return again with such swiftness it looked like magnets had drawn them back.
“Holy shit,” he said to Adam. “What the hell are
you
doing here?”
Adam’s shoulders were suddenly stiff with tension. Not surprising. It wasn’t so much what Kennison had said, but the way he’d said it. As if Adam had no business being in Concord.
“Actually, Mr. Kennison, Adam’s here to test,” Becca said.
Silence. Nobody spoke. “You’re kidding, right?” the man asked, his eyes going from hers to Adam’s. “I didn’t see his name on the list.”
“A late addition,” Cece said. “We’ve heard some great things about his driving.”
“We have?” Blain asked.
Cece gave her husband a look perfected by years of marriage. It said:
Don’t contradict me, oaf.
Blain said, “Oh, yeah. We have.”
Becca would have laughed if she wasn’t too tense to do more than nod in agreement.
Carl glanced back at his son, motioning him forward. “Sammy, come here and meet the man who cost me the Kentucky Speedway year-end championship.”
Ah. That explained it.
Adam stepped forward, a pleasant smile on his face. “Aw, now, Carl. You’re not still grumbling about that, are you?”
Carl’s eyes narrowed, his ruddy cheeks turning redder. He was definitely still grumbling, Becca thought. Grumbling like Mt. St. Helens before it erupted. But a glance at his son must have reminded him this was neither the time nor the place to rehash the past.
“Nah,” the older man said. “I figured we were even when I introduced your wife to John Garreth.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Becca saw his son and Adam stiffen, the son warning, “Dad…”
“They sure hit it off, didn’t they?” Carl added.
Okay, that does it,
Becca thought.
She stepped forward and with as pleasant a smile as she could muster, said, “Thanks for coming today, Sam. Mr. Kennison,” she said, giving the older man a look that was as cold as nitrous oxide, “it was a pleasure to meet you. We’ll be in touch with Sam as to whether or not he’s made the cut for tomorrow’s testing.”
Blain and Cece exchanged glances. They usually sat down and chatted with the drivers after their session, letting them know if they might have a shot at day two’s test—a full day of media training, photo shoots and television taping.
It was apparent Carl Kennison expected that very thing because he looked as if he’d just been insulted. “Don’t you want to talk to my boy?”
“No,” Becca answered, cutting off whatever Blain had been about to say. “We have a lot of other drivers to see today, including Mr. Drake here. We’ll call you.”
Which was not the norm, but she didn’t care. She turned her back on the man, saying to Adam, “If you want to suit up, the bathrooms are open at the end of the garage. You’re in the last group to go, so you have a bit of a wait.”
But Adam still stared at Sam’s father, and Becca could tell he wanted to say something more—probably something insulting.
She stopped him by turning and then pretending to almost collide with Mr. Kennison. “Oh, Mr. Kennison,” she said pointedly. “You’re still here. I’m sorry. I thought you’d left.” She turned to the crew members standing near the wall. “Boys, put a fresh set of tires on it and take her back to stock. We need to get a move on or else we’ll be here all night.”
Finally Mr. Kennison seemed to get the message, though she could tell his son knew exactly what had caused their abrupt expulsion from pit road. She could hear the kid all but growling in his father’s ears as they walked away, Sam shrugging out of the top portion of his firesuit and tying it around his waist. Becca smiled to herself.
“You mind telling me what that was all about?” came a low, slightly irritated voice.
Becca glanced up, Adam having leaned so close to her head that their lips almost touched when she turned.
She stopped breathing for a moment.
“What do you mean?” she managed to gasp, catching Cece’s amused eyes behind him.
Adam must have followed her gaze because he turned to Cece and Blain and said, “Excuse us a second,” before hooking his arm with hers and marching—yes, marching—her away.
Uh-oh.
CHAPTER FOUR
“I DON’T EXPECT favoritism, Ms. Newman,” Adam said.
Rebecca Newman’s eyes widened in surprise. “Favoritism? Mr. Drake, I assure you, you’ll be receiving no preferential treatment here.”
“That’s not what it sounded like,” he said as they stopped near an opening in the black fence that separated pit road from the garage, heat radiating up from the asphalt. How could she look so calm and cool in her sparkling designer jeans and frilly white top?
Her lips had parted, her face turning pale and then pink and then bright red. And all at once Adam felt amused. No. He felt flattered, because judging by the guilt that poured into her green eyes, she
had
been defending him.
“I don’t need you to fight my battles for me,” he said softly, admiring the way her red hair fell past her shoulders, the ends curling near her breasts. “I appreciate that you’ve taken such a shine to my daughter that you feel a certain measure of loyalty to me, but it’s not necessary. We both know I’m probably going to make a fool of myself today. Heck, I didn’t even make a hotel reservation for tonight ’cause I know I’m not going to be around.”
The blush had started to fade, her pretty mouth clamping together before her face softened. Oddly enough, she appeared to look relieved. “Loyal to your daughter. Yeah. I guess that’s what this is.”
What
what
was?
“But Carl Kennison is an ass,” she added, her cultured accent making the word
ass
sound high-falutin. She tilted her head saying, “And you’re not going to make a fool of yourself.”
He scratched the back of his neck, his nervous habit. He wondered if tilting her head was hers. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Ms. Newman, but we both know it’s a crapshoot.”
“I told you to call me Becca. And I’m not in the habit of saying things I don’t mean. You’re more than qualified to run a few laps around here. Heck, Adam, you could hardly do worse than some of the other drivers we’ve seen.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah,” she said, lifting her hands to her throat and pretending to choke.
He smiled. From behind them came the sound of the race truck’s engine, both of them turning in time to see a crew member snap the window net in place. Smoke drifted out of the tailpipe for a second, momentarily obscuring the yellow and red grandstand seats in a gray haze.
“I don’t know why I came.” He hadn’t meant to say the words out loud.
“You’ll do fine,” she said, placing a hand against his arm, only to draw it away quickly. But the image of her manicured nails and smooth, white skin against his own tan arm imprinted on his mind. She didn’t have the hands of a woman who worked around race cars. Heck, she didn’t look like a woman who hung around a racetrack at all.
“Would you do me a favor?” he asked, having to remind himself that they were from two different worlds, and that after today he’d never see her again.
“What’s that?” she asked.
So beautiful. And way,
way
out of his league.
“Would you tell Lindsey that I did okay? No matter what happens?”
She seemed to lean back a bit, her face going momentarily slack before softening, the look in her eyes kind. “Of course,” she said softly.
“Thanks,” he said. Behind them, the engine revved once before the driver put it in gear and took off down pit road. Once again they turned and watched.
“You know,” Adam said, watching as the red, white and blue truck headed toward the track, “I really don’t mind making a fool out of myself. That I can handle. I’d just hate for Lindsey to think her dad is a total idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot.”
He looked back at her, wondering how a celebrity such as herself had stayed so nice.
“Although I feel I should tell you that if you break it, you pay for it,” she added.
He laughed, saying, “I might be washing a lot of dishes then.”
“Given the size of my kitchen, that might come in handy,” she said, a smile coming to her face, chuckles slipping from between her own lips.
“Wait a second. I might have to wash
your
dishes?”
“Of course.”
“That does it,” he said. “No deal.”
She laughed when he pretended to turn away, grabbed his arm and said, “I was just kidding.”
He couldn’t help but take a moment to simply stare, and to think to himself how bizarre it was that he was standing on pit road with Becca Newman. “Well, I guess that makes us even because I was just kidding about being a race car driver.”
“Yeah, right,” she said.
“Seriously. I’ve never raced anything in my life. My daughter and I cooked up a scheme to see if we could get you to put me behind the wheel of one of your trucks.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Liar. Not only did Carl Kennison recognize you, but I did a Google search for you the day your daughter came to visit. You’ve not only driven modifieds, but you’ve driven everything in between, too.”
“Dang,” he said, shaking his head. “I was hoping to freak you out.”
She smiled back. But just as suddenly as his mood improved, it deteriorated again. “Guess I better go change,” he said, the roar of a single engine getting louder and louder as the driver out on the track exited turn four.