“Meet me in the parking lot. We need to get to the track right away. I’ll drive.”
“But—”
He hung up before she could begin firing questions, such as how long did he need her…and for what? Maybe she should have told him earlier about her luncheon appointment with his sponsor, and then he would’ve known she didn’t have time to ride out to the track.
She tried to call his room, but there was no answer, which meant he was on his way to his car. She had managed to get a room at the same motel as the team for convenience sake. Now she wondered if that had been a smart idea.
She yanked on her sneakers and hurried downstairs. She wasn’t thrilled over anyone seeing her dressed as she was, but she was in a hurry to let Rick know he had to find someone else.
Pushing through the doors to the outside, she saw him parked at the curb, the car’s engine running.
She opened the passenger door and leaned in. “Listen, I can’t go,” she began. “I forgot to tell you—”
And that was all she had time to say before he reached to grab her arm and pull her in. “Sorry, but there’s nobody else. The guys are at the beach.”
“But I can’t go. I’ve got an important lunch date.”
He squealed tires leaving the parking lot. “Your boyfriend can wait.”
“It’s not with a boyfriend.” Liz was having a hard time getting her seat belt fastened as he hurtled through traffic. “And I wish you’d slow down. You’re going to get a ticket.”
“Sorry.” He eased back on the gas. “I’m just in a hurry to get to the track and get started.”
“Doing what? And by the way, the lunch date is with your sponsor. The VIPs are coming in, as well as my boss from New York, and—”
“Your boss can handle it. Isn’t your job to help me?”
“Yes, in PR matters, but I can’t think of anything going on at the track you need me for.”
“It’s not PR. And I hate asking you to do it, but it’s got to be done, and I can’t trust anybody but you.”
“Sounds real James Bond,” she said, annoyed, “but I still need to make that appointment on time.” If he needed help, and she could provide it, she supposed that was part of her job. After all, if he was stressed, it could not only affect his driving but the persona he presented to the public as well. “How long will it take?”
“Don’t know yet. Don’t even know if it’s going to be necessary, but I can’t risk not checking it out.”
“Well, can’t you tell me what it’s about?”
“It’s about the team maybe getting fined anywhere from twenty-five to fifty thousand dollars.”
Liz nearly choked on a gasp. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Afraid not. There have been a lot of violations lately, and somebody just called to tip me off that NASCAR is going to do some surprise inspections of fuel tanks late this afternoon. I need to make sure ours is okay.”
“Well…well, why wouldn’t it be?”
“Everybody is supposed to run the same kind of fuel, bought at the track. But there’s always somebody trying to find a way to cheat.”
Liz flashed him a look of disgust. “Like you were obviously planning to do, and now you’re scared you’ll get caught.”
“Not exactly. Mack was telling me somebody has come up with an oxygen enhancer. It’s an improper additive. We didn’t plan to use it, but Mack did say he got hold of some and thought about testing it out in practice just for the fun of it, to see if it worked. Nothing wrong there, but—” he paused for emphasis “—if it’s still in there when NASCAR does a check, they aren’t going to believe we never intended to use it for the race. So I need to make sure everything is okay.”
“By doing what?”
“By draining the fuel out and putting the right kind back in.”
“And what do you need me for?” Liz didn’t like being a part of it.
“To keep an eye out for any NASCAR officials roaming in the garage till I can get rid of it. But it may not be in there. Mack might have been running his mouth. Who knows? But I can’t take any chances.”
“Well, he never should have put it in there to start with, and then you wouldn’t have to worry about it.” Though it was not in her job description, Liz knew when she saw Mack she’d say something to him about even toying with anything illegal. The sponsor would be furious if the team were caught and fined.
“Okay, so maybe we do need to check, but I’m not dressed for this,” she grumbled.
Rick was pleased she wasn’t. That would add to her misery. It was a hot day, even for Daytona in February, and the humidity was so thick you could almost slice it. “Don’t worry. I’ve got some overalls in the truck. You can wear those.”
“As hot as it is? I’ll die.”
“Can’t be helped. They’d never let you through the garage gate wearing shorts, even if you do have a pass.” He stole a look at her legs. Nice and shapely. And if he ran his hand across her thighs, her skin would probably feel like satin—
Perspiration beaded his forehead, and he knew it was not from the heat outside.
“Overalls.” Liz sank down in the seat looking as if she wished she were anywhere but there. “I hope this won’t take long.”
He felt a twinge of guilt. She had been doing a great job. The guys liked her, but, more importantly, the press seemed to, also. He’d never dreamed of having the exposure he’d gotten in the past week. He could tell his number of fans was growing by the attendance everywhere he had gone to sign autographs.
All in all, Liz was pleasant to work with. And if she were a man, he’d be tickled to death. But she wasn’t. And she didn’t belong.
Not at the track.
Not in his dreams.
And she sure as heck paid him a nightly visit in those.
Turning into the speedway entrance, he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She was cute in her shorts and T-shirt. Her red hair was pulled back in a ponytail. And even though she wasn’t wearing any makeup that he could tell, she was still gorgeous.
She hadn’t told him about meeting the VIPs. If she had, Rick would probably have changed his mind. He had chosen this afternoon, because he knew the guys wouldn’t be around. But maybe it would even work out better that the big kahunas were around. They’d be annoyed she didn’t show up for her appointment. And they would also raise eyebrows to see her in greasy overalls. He, of course, would give the impression—when Liz wasn’t around, of course—that she had insisted on getting deeply involved with the team.
“I really shouldn’t be doing this,” Liz protested as they walked toward the garage. “Even if we left right now, I’d never get to the restaurant on time.”
He kept a tight hold on her arm. “This is more important.” Actually, his conscience was really starting to bother him. He only wanted to make her ask for another assignment. Not get fired.
“I don’t even have my credentials with me,” she pointed out. “I didn’t plan on coming with you.”
“Doesn’t matter. We can go to the NASCAR office and tell them you forgot. They’ll issue temporaries.”
When they reached the garage entrance, the guard on duty stepped out of the booth and held up his hand. “You can’t go in there like that.” He pointed to the open-toed sandals Liz was wearing, then raked her legs with an appreciative glance. “And you can’t wear shorts, either.”
Liz, not wanting the guard to think she didn’t know any better, attempted to explain. “I didn’t intend to come dressed like this, and—”
Rick cut her off. “I’ve got overalls in the truck she can wear. How about giving us a break? And I’m going to make sure she doesn’t get hurt. Come on, we don’t have a lot of time, and there’s something I need her to do.”
The guard scratched his chin. “Well, I don’t know…”
“I told you I had overalls for her.”
“Oh, all right.” Frowning, he waved them on their way as he said to Liz, “If you’re gonna wor
k around a track, learn how to dress.”
“This wasn’t my idea,” she called over her shoulder.
Rick gave her a tug. “Come on. We’ve wasted enough time.”
Liz was mad all over again. He seemed to have a knack for humiliating her. The guard would probably laugh about how Rick Castles’s PR rep was such a rookie she showed up wearing shorts and sandals. And, once again, she’d be the butt of jokes and snickers. All week she’d had to put up with writers making cracks about how she should bring them a hot dog when she went into the garage. She wondered how long it would take to live that down.
The overalls had long sleeves, was way too big for her, and Liz was sweltering before she even got it buttoned. Perspiration made her eyes sting, her ponytail hung limp, and she felt like a wilted dandelion.
She was exhausted from the hectic pace she had been keeping. Working on the press kits had taken a lot of time. Then there were all the parties she felt obligated to attend to meet everyone involved in corporate sponsorships, as well as speedway personnel. After all, racing was like one big family, everyone traveling together from track to track throughout the year. And she wanted to be a part of it, to be accepted.
She had also been busy with Rick’s activities, making sure he got where he was supposed to be on time and connected with his fans.
Once she got the hang of things, Liz was sure she’d be well-organized and have plenty of time for everything. But for the time being, she could only stumble through and do the best she could.
Rick could see how her impatience and annoyance was building. He decided to make it even worse. “Listen, I think it’s time you realized that PR work in racing is different. Real different. It’s not a nine-to-five job.”
“It never is,” she snapped, “and I wish you’d quit talking and hurry.”
“I am. Don’t worry. And I’m trying to help you here, because I think you’ve got this candy-coated idea that your only function is to line up appearances for me and schmooze the press into writing about me every chance. But it’s more than that, because sometimes we get into a bind—like now—and you have to go above and beyond the call of duty.
“But,” he continued, “you being a woman, you naturally aren’t willing to pitch in like the regular reps.”
She scowled. “And by regular you are no doubt referring to the male reps, right?”
“Hmmm,” he pretended to ponder, “I guess you might say that. I don’t hear them complaining when they have to do something besides hand out press kits or go to a cocktail party.”
Liz was seething. “I can do my job as well as any man.”
“Okay.” Rick’s shrug was practiced nonchalance. “Well, I’m about through. All we have to do is refill the tank, and then we’ll be ready to leave.” He turned his back so she wouldn’t see the grin he could not hold back. She was mad, all right, which was exactly what he wanted.
Liz blinked to see him roll a red wagon out of the back of the truck. It looked identical to one she’d had as a child. “And what is that for?”
“For you to go to the fuel shed and get two containers and bring it back. It’s too heavy to carry.
“Even for a man,” he added with a wink. “All the guys use wagons.”
“Well, maybe you’d better go get it. I have no idea where it is.”
“Follow Rusty over there.” He pointed to a man with an empty wagon and called, “Hey, Rusty, take Liz with you and show her the ropes, okay?”
Rusty gave her a wave to fall in with him.
“Why can’t you go?” she demanded of Rick.
“I just remembered I’ve got some more photos in the truck I need to sign for a Boy Scout troop coming by first thing in the morning. You go on. I’ll wait for you.”
After she’d gone, Rick got in the cab of the truck and leaned back to relax, feeling he had taken the first step in making Liz want to quit. She was going to have to stand in line for the gas a half hour, maybe longer, just to hear she had to have a gas card. Then she’d turn around, come back, only to have to do it all over again.
It was nearly noon. He wasn’t sure what time her luncheon appointment was, but, if she was lucky, and the lines weren’t long for fuel, she might get to the restaurant in time for dessert and coffee.
He grimaced to think about it. The truth was, he didn’t like playing dirty tricks on her, but it was for her own good. Too many bad experiences had made him a firm believer that women did not belong in the world of racing…experiences he didn’t like to think about. So he was actually doing her a favor to make her quit.
It was steaming hot. Rick rolled down the windows of the truck and leaned his head back, hoping to catch a breeze. He had almost dozed off when someone yelled, “Hey, Castles. Somebody wants to see you at the gate.”
“What for?” He gave his head a brisk shake to wake himself up. One of the NASCAR officials was standing at his window.
“I dunno. Something about a special request for you to see some kid in the parking lot. I think they said he’s got a cast on his leg or something.”
Rick thanked him for bringing the message and promptly got down out of the truck and hurried to the gate.
A woman was waiting, scanning faces anxiously, and when she recognized Rick cried, “Oh, I’m so glad he found you. My son broke his leg last week. It’s in a cast, and he can’t get around very well. We’d had this trip planned for months, so we brought him on, but he’s insisting we get your autograph for him.
“He’s only six,” she added, almost apologetically.
Rick smiled to think how race fans sure started young. It was one of the reasons the sport had grown to a thriving two billion dollar industry fifty-two years after it started as a small family business on the Daytona Beaches. Attendance in the past ten years was up sixty-four percent, and it was the second-highest-rated sport on television, trailing only pro football.
The woman shyly held out a souvenir program. “I was really sorry to have to bother you, but Jamie adores you, and if you’d sign your picture in here, he’d be thrilled to pieces.”
“Well, I’ll do more than that,” Rick said. “Stay right here and wait for me.”
He hurried back to the truck and found the box of T-shirts Liz had left there for the crew’s families. He found one he thought would fit a six-year-old and also took a press kit.
“Okay, let’s go find Jamie,” Rick said when he returned to the gate.
The woman looked at him as if she’d just met an angel. “I don’t believe this,” she said in wonder, and began to lead the way.
Liz saw Rick walking beside the woman, heading out of the pit area, and abruptly dropped the handle to the wagon. Rusty had loaned her his card to get fuel so she wouldn’t have to go all the way back to the garage, and now, hands on her hips, soaking wet with perspiration, she squinted in the glaring sun at Rick and wondered what the heck was going on.
It took only a few seconds for her to decide she would find out. She’d be darned if she was going to haul gas around while he went traipsing off with women.
Abandoning the wagon, she took off behind them, right into the crowded infield.
It was like a sprawling campground. Men sat on top of platforms built on the backs of pickup trucks. Woman lay on the hoods of cars sunbathing. Children ran and played among the picnic tables and folding chairs.
“Hey, look,” someone shouted. “It’s Rick Castles.”
“Hey, Rick,” another hollered. “You’re the man. You’re gonna win the rookie title, for sure. Blow ’em off the track.”
A crowd began to gather, asking Rick for autographs and wanting to talk racing. Liz hung back to watch, marveling at his charisma and also his popularity with the fans. Even children were tugging at his sleeve wanting him to sign a cap or T-shirt.
He was obliging, even to the bikini-clad women who fawned over him. He was, Liz realized, certainly different from when she was around him with his fans. He was now loose, laughing, laid-back. Not stilted or co
olly polite.
This was a side to him she’d not seen…and one she liked.
A lot.
Eventually he moved on, and Liz followed him to where a small boy sat in a chair outside a camper. His right leg was in a cast from ankle to hip. He looked very uncomfortable, but, at the sight of Rick, he became a neon sign of joy.
“Rick Castles. Oh, Mom, wow. I can’t believe you got him to come see me.”
Rick gave him the press kit and T-shirt, signed the shirt, as well as the cast. Then he sat down and took the time to chat with him and ask how he’d broken his leg, where he was from and so forth.
The boy was entranced, as were his parents and all the fans gathered about to watch.
Afterward, when Rick said his goodbyes and started back toward the garage, Liz surprised him by falling in step beside him.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” He gave her a withering glare of displeasure. “You’re supposed to be getting fuel.”
She thought about how she’d left the wagon in the middle of pit road and hoped it hadn’t been stolen. Rick’s car number was painted on it, so maybe it was all right. If not, he was going to be really mad, but she would apologize and buy another. “That was really nice of you, Rick. You’re going to be one of the most popular drivers on the circuit. Just wait and see.”
He didn’t say anything, wondering how much she had seen.
“I was also impressed over how you handled the women. You usually seem to be so averse to having them around.”
He stopped walking to look down at her with scathing eyes. “Listen, you’ve got it all wrong. I have nothing against women race fans. They buy tickets and help make the sport what it is today. I just have a problem with them hanging around me, you got that?
“And that’s what you’re doing right now,” he added to goad. “Hanging around me when you’re supposed to be getting fuel.”
Suddenly Liz had had it. With a childish stomp of her foot, hands clenched into fists, she met his blistering glare with one of her own. “No, I’m not supposed to be getting fuel. I’m not supposed to do anything that doesn’t fit the job description of public relations, by damn.”
Race To The Altar Page 6