Chapter Seven
Rick’s idea to call an old girlfriend to try to get his mind off Liz did not work.
Dina Fox lived in Rockingham, and when he had phoned her and asked her out that night, she had driven right over to the motel, since the roads had been cleared of snow.
They had gone to dinner, and Rick found himself wondering what he’d ever seen in her in the first place. She drank too much, giggled too much, and kept whispering how she couldn’t wait to get back to the motel and get him in bed.
He did not share her enthusiasm. Maybe once upon a time, he’d have been just as eager. But not now. No more wild nights and waking up the next morning feeling like hell. Sure, after his marriage breakup, he’d been a little reckless trying to get over it, but things were different now.
Then, as he and Dina were leaving the restaurant and he was trying to think of a way to keep from taking her to his room once they got back to the motel, Liz walked in with a bunch of reporters.
She did not, at first, notice Dina, instead registering surprise to see Rick. “I thought you were playing cards with the guys or I’d have called and asked you to join us.”
He doubted that. She might be smiling, but her eyes were cold as ice, no doubt because of the words they’d had earlier in his room.
“I’m not a gambler, remember?” He then spoke to those with her that he knew and introduced himself to the ones he didn’t. It was important to make himself known to the media as much as possible.
Liz waited till he’d finished, then, having noticed Dina, said, “Hello. I’m Liz Mallory, Rick’s PR rep.”
Dina, wearing tight jeans and a scoop-necked sweater, hooked her arm possessively through Rick’s and gave her long, platinum hair a toss. “Well, aren’t you the lucky one? I’d love to have an excuse to be around him all the time.”
Some of the writers chuckled, and Rick, strangely feeling the need to explain Dina, said, “She’s an old friend…lives here in Rockingham. We just had dinner.”
“And now we’re going back to the motel for dessert.” Dina’s purple-shaded eyes narrowed as she looked Liz up and down, as though sizing her up as competition.
Liz managed a smile, though she felt sick inside. Was this the kind of woman Rick was attracted to? Someone who reeked of perfume, wore too much makeup and didn’t mind announcing to strangers she was about to go to bed with somebody? Sweetly, lightly, Liz said, “Well, remember he’s got a race tomorrow.”
“Oh, we go way back, honey. I know all about how he likes to get to bed early the night before. Don’t worry. I plan to get him there just as quick as I can.” She tugged at Rick’s arm. “Come on, sweetie.”
The guys exchanged knowing glances. One winked approval at Rick, but Rick was amused neither by the wink nor his possessive hand on Liz’s back as he steered her into the restaurant.
It was none of his business who she went out with. Still, she was a rookie of a different sort, and he just hoped she didn’t get involved with the wrong crowd. He had heard about some of the single sportswriters getting a bit wild now and then. Sometimes the married ones, too.
He wondered if he should warn her but decided against it. She might wonder why and even start thinking he had a personal reason. He couldn’t risk that. Besides, she was no teenager. She could take care of herself.
At least he hoped so.
Back at the motel, he tried to get away from Dina without making her mad or hurting her feelings. “I really have got to turn in early,” he said, easing out of the car. They had driven hers, because he hadn’t brought his. Bobby Holmes, driver of the team’s hauler, wasn’t feeling good, and he’d asked Rick to ride with him to Rockingham in case he needed relief. Rick was only too glad. Actually, he liked riding in the new hauler. It had a sleeper behind the seats and was roomy and comfortable.
Dina giggled. “So we’ll make it a quickie.”
She got out of the car and threw her arms around him and kissed him. But all he could think of was saucy green eyes and hair the color of a Georgia sunrise.
He untwined her arms from around his neck. “Sorry, Dina. I’ve got to get plenty of sleep tonight. Maybe next trip.”
She jerked away from him. “Well, how do you think it makes me feel that you’d rather sleep than make it with me? Why’d you even bother to call me?”
He looked about, worried someone might have heard them since she’d raised her voice. Then he attempted to soothe. “Listen, I wanted to see you, take you to dinner, see how you’re doing. I didn’t intend to ask you to spend the night with me.”
“Fine.” She got back in the car. “But don’t bother calling me next time you’re in town unless you want to make a real night of it.”
He watched her tear out of the parking lot, tires squealing, and shook his head in disgust—but at himself, not her. He never should have called her, never should have tried to get one woman off his mind with another.
What he should have done was kick his rear end all the way around the speedway for letting Liz get to him the way she had. He wanted her like no other woman he’d ever known…and not just to take to bed. The plain truth was that he enjoyed being around her. Not only did she have a cute personality, but she was also fun to talk to.
Thinking back, it was hard to recall having a conversation in the past few years with any woman that held his interest.
Until Liz.
True, he spent as little time with her as possible, but they still had to get together to discuss the press releases she sent out on a regular basis. She would come up with a topic and want to discuss it and ask him questions.
Like the one she had written about the upcoming race in Las Vegas.
Her idea had been to offer his views on gambling, like whether he had any tips on how to win. When he’d said he didn’t gamble, instead wishing he had time to go backpacking or hiking in the beautiful desert surrounding Vegas, Liz had focused on that. The result had been a press release writers latched on to as something totally different from the run-of-the mill stories about slot machines and showgirls.
But besides being a press release that could be used verbatim—something all reps strove to provide—Rick had thoroughly enjoyed everything they had talked about that night. She had phoned him at the condo he called home in Charlotte and they had talked for hours. Afterward, he wished they hadn’t, because he fell asleep thinking about her, dreamed about her again, then woke up to renew his pledge to be rid of her before he did something stupid—like fall in love.
He would not let himself think he already had.
He was just attracted to her, that’s all, and it was one-sided, because she couldn’t stand him. So even if he hadn’t sworn off romance for many years to come, involvement with Liz could only be a one-way ticket to heartache.
After another restless night, Rick met Mack for breakfast. They were almost through eating when Rick caught sight of Liz across the room with the sportswriter he now thought of as The Winker.
“Find a way to tell her not to hang around the pits so much,” Rick said dryly.
Mack glanced up from the stack of pancakes he was devouring. “Huh? Tell who not to hang what where?”
“I don’t want Liz hanging around us so much. She gets in the way. She’s going to get hurt.”
Before responding, Mack took a big swallow of orange juice, eyes riveted on Rick, obviously surprised at his edict. “No, she isn’t. She’s careful. And she doesn’t get in the way. And none of the other crew members have complained, so how come you are?”
“How about Daytona?”
“What about it? She was sick from the heat. Could’ve happened to anybody. Probably won’t ever happen again.”
“She’s distracting. You know I don’t like women hanging around.”
“She’s not just any woman, Rick. She’s your PR rep. She works for your sponsor.” Mack shook his head, disgusted. “What’s with you? How come you keep giving her a hard time? She’s only trying to do her job.”
“She doesn’t have to hang around the car. She doesn’t have to hang around me. She doesn’t even have to go to every race. You and I both know I won’t be doing autographings and radio and TV stuff at every track we go to. Just like there won’t be a pizza party thrown by Big Boy’s every week for the media.”
“True,” Mack allowed, “but it’s not up to us to say where she can and can’t go. That’s between her and the sponsor. I say we stay out of it.”
Rick had ordered scrambled eggs but didn’t feel like eating. Darn it, he had a five-hundred-mile race to run, and here he was, all knotted up inside because he’d let himself get strung out on a woman.
And it had to stop.
Then an idea struck when Mack remarked that Bobby wasn’t feeling any better. “I think he’s coming down with the flu. His wife’s driving down here to pick him up.”
“Then how do we get the cars to Vegas? We’ve got to leave from here.” Thanks to sponsorship money, they were able to have two race cars, one to run and one for a spare, which they used for a show car. Some of the bigger teams hauled more, but he was grateful for the two.
“I guess Benny will have to do it. The rest of the crew had to get back to the shop and work on the new engine. We can fly it out there with us when we leave Wednesday.”
Rick looked at Liz from the corner of his eye. She was laughing with The Winker, obviously enjoying herself. Then The Winker saw Rick watching and winked again.
Rick felt like slugging him.
But an idea was also forming.
A very wicked idea.
Benny was a good old boy from the backwoods of Georgia and had about as much savoir-faire as a pig at a cocktail party. He chewed tobacco and spat four-letter words as easy as stones skipping on water. He tried to watch what he said around Liz but, more often than not, forgot.
“Anybody going with Benny?” Rick asked.
“Who’d want to? He only listens to country music turned up loud enough to wake the dead, smokes like a chimney, and you have to be dying to make him stop for anything. He gets behind the wheel and drives till the gas tank is empty.”
Rick shot another glance at Liz. It would be a terrible thing to do to her or anybody else, but if that’s what it took to get rid of her, so be it.
When they were through eating, Mack said they’d best get to the track. It wasn’t quite seven o’clock, but there was a lot to be done.
Rick said he would meet him at the car. “I want another cup of coffee. Just bring my bag down when you come.”
Liz did exactly what Rick thought she’d do when she saw Mack leaving. She got up to follow, wanting to be at the track when the team arrived. She did not see Rick until he followed her into the lobby. “Hey, how’s it going?” he said, trying to sound bright and cheerful. “All set for the big day?”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” she said, a bit flustered. She had worried about how to react when she ran into him, because the image of him with Dina Fox had kept her awake most of the night.
“So are you ready to race?” She managed to ask, then dared to add, though she didn’t really want to know, “Did you get to bed early last night?”
“Sure did.” He walked over to a newspaper vending machine, fished in his pocket for two quarters and dropped them into the slot. “There’s always good race coverage in the Charlotte paper.”
“Oh, that’s who Mark writes for.”
“Who’s that?”
“Yes. Mark Higgins. He just started with the paper. You met him last night, remember? He was standing next to me outside the restaurant.
The Winker.
“He’s got a nice story about you in there,” she said, pleased. “We just had breakfast, and he showed it to me. It’s all about how well you did in Daytona even though you didn’t finish the race. He agrees with me you’re a heavy contender to win the rookie title.”
“But not if I don’t start finishing races.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen. I have a good feeling about today.”
“Yeah, me, too.” He paused, wanting to make sure he had his act together so she would fall right into his trap. “But you know, Liz, it might be nice if you could do something on the crew once in a while.”
“I don’t think anybody is interested in the crew. It’s the driver people want to read about.”
“Oh, I’m not talking about for a press release to the newspapers. I’m thinking something for the press kit. You know, a feature-type story. Sometimes the tracks use stories they lift out of the kits in their souvenir programs. It makes for a lot of nice exposure, and the guys appreciate it, too.
“You know a driver is only as good as his crew,” he added.
“True, true,” she said, fumbling in the big leather bag she always carried. She found the pad and pen she was looking for. “I’ll make a note to do a bio on each of them.”
“Not just a bio.” He tried to keep his eyes glued to the paper and not drift to appreciate her outfit—navy-blue skirt to her knees, pale blue turtleneck sweater and, of course, her leather jacket like the rest of the team wore. Only her jacket had fallen open, and the way the sweater clung to her breasts made him want to pant.
She looked at him expectantly. “So what do you suggest?”
“Oh, different stories about what each guy does. Take Bobby Holmes, for instance. He drives the new hauler, and he could tell you some real interesting road tales from our short track days. He’s a hoot. He’ll be leaving right after the race for Vegas, because it’s a couple days’ drive. If I could, I’d ride with him just for the fun of it.”
Liz liked the idea. She could get a lot of mileage out of a story like that. The souvenir programs might pick it up, but there were also other racing publications. It was certainly different. After all, how many PR reps climbed into the cab of the team hauler to ride across the country just to see what it was like?
“I’ll do it,” she said excitedly.
“Do what?” Rick played innocent as he leafed through the newspaper.
“Ride to Las Vegas with Bobby.”
Rick fought to keep his face from splitting wide-open with a huge grin of triumph. She had taken the bait.
Very nonchalantly he asked, “Why do you want to do that?”
“To write a story about it. You said you’d love to do it for the fun of it. Well, I want to do it because I think it will make good copy.”
“Oh, I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”
She was stunned. “Would you mind explaining that?”
“The two of you traveling alone could get awkward.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she cried, exasperated. “That doesn’t matter when I’m doing my job.”
“I’m afraid I have to disagree.”
“Oh, I forgot, Rick,” she said, struggling to keep her temper in check. “You resent women working in what you consider a man’s world.”
“In some instances, yes. And say, I’ll bet if you worked in pro football instead of racing, you’d be like some of those women writers who go right into the locker room with the players.”
“That issue was resolved several years ago,” she pointed out. “It was established that a woman sportswriter had every right to go in with her male peers to get her story. Ballplayers were still keyed up from the game and gave their best quotes right then. Otherwise, by the time they’d showered and dressed and came out, the men writers already had the better story.
“But yes,” she continued without hesitation, “if I had to in order to do my job, I’d go in there, too.”
They looked around as Mack opened the door leading to the parking lot and called, “Hey, let’s go.”
“See you at the track,” Rick said, giving her a little salute. “And if I were you, I’d forget that story. You won’t be able to stand such a trip.”
“Oh, yeah? We’ll see about that.”
Rick was whistling as he crossed the lobby.
Like Liz, he had a feeling it was going to be a good
day…and also a good week.
There were ten laps to go, and Rick’s heart was well into overdrive. He was running sixth, and every time he passed the main grandstand, he could hear the crowd screaming over the roaring of the cars.
Jack Blevins, in fifth place, and a driver also favored to win the rookie title, was dueling it out right beside him. They were so close, tires rubbing against sheet metal sent up smoke like a blown engine.
Sweat rolled from Rick’s brow, trickling behind his goggles and into his eyes to smart and burn, but he didn’t dare lift a hand from the steering wheel to give them a swipe. Let them sting. A few more minutes, and it would all be over, anyway.
Mack’s voice came through the headphones. “Watch him, Rick. He’s gonna block you when you try to pass him. Don’t let him spin you out, ’cause you need those points for finishing.”
“I know, I know,” Rick said, adrenaline pouring. “I can’t believe we’re both rookies and racing for fifth position. I’ve got to take him, Mack.”
“Be careful. You’re going to be coming up on some slow cars soon.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll wait for the right time. Till then, I’m hanging on to position and watching traffic.”
Finally, with three laps remaining, Rick saw Jack dipping low.
Anticipating that Rick was about to try to pass, Jack was getting ready to block as they charged into the fourth turn and down the straightaway.
Rick bit down on his lower lip, gripped the wheel even tighter and sucked in his breath so hard it felt as if his ribs were shoved back into the seat.
In order to get around Jack, he had to take the high side—the suicide side, it was called—because it was an extremely dangerous maneuver. If his car so much as feather-kissed the concrete retaining wall, if control was lost for even the blink of a second, he could spin out.
But Rick had to chance it.
They were side-by-side as they went into turn two of the next-to-the-last lap. No one cared who was going to win the race. All the attention was focused on the two rookies who had the crowd on their feet and cheering like mad.
Rick hoped the cheers were for him.
Race To The Altar Page 10