Thunderstruck

by Roxanne St Claire

  “But I’m not leaving this place until I know you are set up to be competitive and I don’t think a four-race season of filling the field is competitive. I want you racin’ with the real teams, makin’ the Chase, maybe winnin’ a Cup. Then I can sleep at night.” He slumped in his chair, suddenly looking drained.

  Had she been so caught up in fighting the fight that she’d failed to notice Ernie getting older before her very eyes? Could she do this without him? The question sent blood pumping in her ears, but beyond that everything seemed unnaturally quiet.

  After a few beats, she finally leaned forward on her elbows. “So you want to be a silent partner, Ernie?” She didn’t like it, but he’d always be there to offer advice. Well, maybe not always. “I can live with that.”

  The shake of his head was so slight it was nearly imperceptible.

  “You want me to buy you out?” Still not the end of the world. She’d figure out a way. She always did. “Let’s talk numbers then.”

  “No.”

  She frowned at him. “No what?”

  “No, I’m not selling to you. I found a buyer for my half of the business.”

  For a moment that blood in her ears just stopped cold. “Excuse me?”

  “I have a plan, Shel, and I want you to hear me out before you start stompin’your boots and gettin’all redheaded tempery.”

  But she couldn’t stomp. Her legs were numb. “Who?”

  “Well, it’s not just who….” He repositioned himself and took a deep breath. “It’s what he is.”

  What he was? Oh, she didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Before I tell you, I want you to think—”

  “I don’t want to think. I want to know. Who is it?”

  “Think about the future, Shel.” His gaze shifted to the image of Thunder on her computer screen. “Instead of the past.”

  She leaned forward, slowly enough to let Thunder’s chair moan, low and plaintive. “Ernie, if you want to sell out to some mammoth corporation with a bunch of suits in a boardroom more concerned about household impressions than horsepower, I’ll never go along with it.”

  “I’m not,” he said, his eyes lighting. “Really, I’m not. And I swear to you I won’t do anything without your one hundred per cent agreement. You gotta buy into this, just like I have.”

  Her shoulders dropped and she released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. That blood thumping had stopped in her head. Replaced by…nothing. The sound of relief, she imagined. “Then who?”

  “I met someone. Someone who can bring us international attention, someone who can bring fresh ideas and new blood, someone who has an uncanny understanding of how to draw people in and make them want to root for you.”

  Only half her brain was taking in his “someone” speech. The other half was stuck on the silence. Holding up one hand, she stood, frowning, listening. “Just a sec, Ernie. Do you hear that?”

  “I don’t hear a thing,” he said. “But then, I’m damn near deaf.”

  “No. You’re right. You don’t hear a thing.” She closed her eyes and focused on the sound of silence in the air. “No engines, no tools, no work being done.” She glanced toward the shop. “It’s perfectly quiet out there.”

  He stood slowly, his signature scowl firmly in place. “What’s going on?”

  Wordlessly they both walked to the door, down the hall and into the cavernous—and empty—shop.

  “Do you think the new hauler was delivered early?” she asked. “It’s not due here till ten or so.”

  An array of tools and equipment was spread on the shiny white floor as though they’d been dropped. Impossible.

  “I don’t hear anything from the engine area either,” she noted to Ernie.

  He pointed to where the wall of garage doors stood wide-open. As soon as he did, the first of the North Carolina winter chill wafted over Shelby. Ernie rounded an open Craftsman tool chest, and Shelby nearly hurdled over it. Something was wrong.

  She paused at a loud shout, followed by what sounded like applause. Applause?

  Just beyond the open doors, at least thirty Thunder employees gathered in a large circle among nearly melted snowbanks, white clouds of late-January air puffing from everyone’s mouth as they hollered and screamed and cheered.

  Shelby took a few steps outside, peering to see between the bodies. Was someone fighting? Performing? What was going on?

  She glanced at Ernie and caught a funny, knowing expression in his eyes. “What?” she asked.

  He just lifted his eyebrows but didn’t speak.

  She marched toward the crowd, her boots crunching on the frozen grass. Just as she approached, a black-and-white ball shot in the air and two people stepped aside, forming a break and giving her a clear shot of a man in the middle of the circle.

  Shelby stared, slack-jawed, wide-eyed and only vaguely aware that her heart slid around her chest and hit her ribs like a rear quarter panel slamming into the wall.

  It was him. The painter. He was surrounded by a crowd and…kicking a soccer ball?

  As though he sensed her there, he spun around and locked those green eyes on her, flipping a lock of long, blond hair off his face. Just as the soccer ball came plummeting back to earth, he whacked it with his knee, shooting it skyward again and eliciting a delighted cheer from the crowd.

  He never took his eyes off her.

  Behind her, Ernie’s hands tightened on Shelby’s shoulders as he pulled her just a little closer. “Do you recognize him?” he asked.

  She blinked. “The guy who painted the car?”

  Ernie snorted. “Not hardly. That’s Mick Churchill, the most famous soccer player on the globe. That man is the most popular, beloved athlete in the universe.”

  Really. “I never heard of him,” she murmured.

  “Get your head out of the hood, girl. He’s an international icon. A media magnet. A household name in every home in Europe, South America and beyond. That man is a corporate sponsor’s dream.”

  Why did Ernie know so much about some soccer star?

  The blood started singing in her head again. Oh, no. No, no…no.

  “And that man, Shel, is going to be the new co-owner of Thunder Racing.”

  Slowly Shelby turned to burn her grandfather with an incredulous stare. “You have got to be kidding.”

  But he looked so pleased she thought he’d do a little jig. “Isn’t this great?”

  “Great? Are you serious?”

  “Oh, I’m serious.” He looked past her, back to the man who stood at the center of the circle—and threatened the center of her universe. “Mick Churchill is the answer to our prayers.”

  She turned back just in time to see him catapult the ball over the treetops again, laughing easily as the applause and cheers rose as high as the ball.

  His muscular body moved with fluid grace. She narrowed her eyes in distaste, but her body betrayed her with a response that was the polar opposite of distaste.

  The answer to their prayers? “I guess that depends on what you’re praying for, Ernie.”

  “I was praying for a miracle,” he said quietly. “And then I met Mick.”

  “Well, I’ve never heard of him,” she repeated, as though that would negate everything Ernie had just said.

  “Then you’re the only one on the planet,” Ernie said. “Trust me, this man will bring worldwide interest to Thunder Racing and sponsors with endless pockets and oodles of cash.”

  Cash again. Resentment rocked her as the crowd oohed loudly. She shook her head in dismay. “He doesn’t know squat about racing,” she said, unable to take her eyes off him.

  “He knows sports.” Ernie squeezed her shoulders as if he could transfer his excitement to her. “He knows the media. He’s buying a NASCAR team, and we want it to be ours.”

  They did? She flinched out of his touch and glared at him. “He doesn’t know a restrictor plate from a…a…a dinner plate!”

  “Don’t matter.” Ernie looked pas
t her, then his gaze followed the upward path of a flying soccer ball. “I think he’s perfect.”

  Slowly Shelby turned back to find Mick Churchill staring at her.

  Oh, he was perfect all right. Perfect for flirting. Perfect for heartache and sin and trouble. Perfect for a whole host of things that could bring a woman to her knees or flat on her back, but so not perfect for Thunder Racing.

  She pivoted on one foot and seared her grandfather with her most obstinate gaze. “No way. Not happening. Forget about it.”

  He tapped her chin and chuckled. “That’s what I love about you, Shel. You’re as open-minded as your daddy. But you’ll come around.”

  Oh, no, she wouldn’t.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MICK CHURCHILL FOOT-TRAPPED the ball with a sneaker that bore his own autograph and the nickname the Striker stitched into the side, acknowledging the crowd’s cheer. His attention, however, remained on Shelby Jackson’s slender hips and the way they swayed with an angry beat as she strode back into the garage.

  That was not a happy woman. Lovely to look at, cheeky and smart. But definitely not happy.

  Now he understood why Ernie was so darn mysterious about his granddaughter. The older man had held back one key piece of information when they’d pounded out their unorthodox arrangement: the potential business partner was dead sexy.

  No wonder Ernie made him vow to keep the relationship strictly business. An easy caveat to add in the unwritten agreement…before he saw her.

  He caught Ernie’s eye, but then the older man shrugged and turned to follow his granddaughter. Before Mick could do the same, a woman approached with a paper and pen. He scribbled his name with a flourish and some small talk. Two young mechanics were next in line, both effusive in their praise. Mick gave them knuckles and signed a T-shirt.

  “Where’s Shelby Jackson’s office?” he asked the last woman waiting for his autograph.

  “The business offices are at the far end of the main shop,” she said, looking up at him with wide-set eyes. “Are you going to be here all day, Mr. Churchill?”

  “It’s Mick. And I’ll be here for a while.” How long depended on Shelby Jackson.

  “Really? Oh, my little boy, Sam, would love to meet you. He plays soccer and has posters of you all over his room. If I get him to come over here after school, will you say hello? I’m Janie, in Travel.”

  “Absolutely, Janie in Travel.” That earned him a giggle. “Have him bring one of his posters so I can sign it for him.”

  She beamed. “He would love that!”

  He accepted her spontaneous hug and then crossed the vast race shop, glancing at the body of the number eighty-two car, partially painted and bearing the red-white-and-blue logo of Country Peanut Butter. A bank of shiny tool chests lined one entire wall like soldiers standing sentry against the painted concrete. From a work bay on the other side, several men pushed the silver skeleton of a car forward on wide tires.

  His brother Kip was right about one thing. This was as far from the football pitch as he could get. Not a blade of grass, goalpost or referee in sight. Which, after last season, wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

  All he had to do was get past one bright-eyed bird who had misjudged him and misquoted Churchill. With Ernie to pave the way, Mick hoped all he needed to do was slather on some charm with the lovely Miss Jackson, and the first hurdle would be crossed. He’d own a NASCAR team. Half of one, anyway, which was enough. Then he had to win a race. Then…

  One thing at a time.

  “Hey, I’m Billy.” A tall, bushy-haired blond with a sideways grin stopped to shake Mick’s hand. “This is the chassis,” he told Mick, pointing to the frame. “We’ll have this car built by the end of the day.”

  “I’d like to see that,” he responded, peering into the empty hole where an engine would go.

  “More’n happy to show you,” the man offered.

  Mick watched them work for a few more minutes, then continued toward the business offices. As soon as he pushed open the glass door to the hallway, he heard Shelby’s distinctly throaty voice coming from the first open doorway. A voice that sounded as if she’d just swallowed a tumbler of whiskey and it burned on the way down. Only she didn’t sound too terribly sexy at that moment. She sounded furious.

  “Nothing will change my mind, Ernie, so just forget it. For. Get. It. I won’t even discuss it.”

  Something squeaked noisily, masking Ernie’s response.

  “Because he’s an outsider!” she insisted. “He can’t possibly understand this sport or our team or the history of Thunder Racing.”

  Mick stepped into the open doorway, catching Ernie’s eye as the older man leaned back lazily in one of the guest chairs. Shelby stared at a wall-size whiteboard covered with black and red markings, dates and words, giving Mick another view of her backside, with one hip notched to the side in anger, one booted foot tapping with pent-up energy.

  “He knows nothing about racing,” she murmured.

  “But I know about winning.”

  Instantly she spun around, amber eyes flashing at him.

  “At the end of the game—or race—that’s all that matters, isn’t it?” Mick asked, taking a few steps into the room and holding her gaze with one he usually saved for his mark on a man-to-man defense.

  She stared him right back down. “It is not all that matters.”

  “No?” He looked at Ernie with incredulity. “Do you remember who came in second in last year’s championship? Who lost the World Series? Who was the second person to fly across the Atlantic? Who won the silver medal in anything?”

  She didn’t say a word.

  He grinned at Ernie. “I see things are going swimmingly on your end, Ernest.”

  “She’s never been a fan of new ideas,” Ernie said in a stage whisper. Shelby simply gave him a deadly look.

  Mick offered his hand to her with an engaging and genuine smile. “I don’t think we were properly introduced. Mick Churchill.” He winked at her. “No relation to Winston.”

  No humor flickered in her wide-set brandy-colored eyes. “The word games are over, Mr. Churchill. Ernie shouldn’t have made any agreements, verbal or otherwise, to sell his half of the team to you, because I am his partner.” She stashed her hands into the pockets of khaki work pants, brandishing a gunfighter’s stance. “I don’t know how long you two have been pals working on this insane idea, but you can put it to rest right now. If anyone is buying Ernie out of his half of this race team, it’s me.”

  “A financial impossibility,” Mick noted, easing himself into the other guest chair and locking his hands behind his neck.

  “Not necessarily.”

  Yes, necessarily. He certainly hadn’t entered into this relationship without having legions of lawyers look at the risks. And, yes, some actually tried to talk him out of it. But that would have cost him a year, maybe more. And he had to get this done this year, this season. Or else he’d let some people down, some people he loved very, very much.

  “Ernest has been very candid about the economic situation of Thunder Racing. A situation, I might add, that I plan to rectify.”

  A tiny hint of color rose in her alabaster complexion. “We don’t need your rectifying, Mr. Churchill. We just signed a new sponsor. We have a second car. We are in excellent shape for the upcoming season.”

  “Excellent being a relative term.”

  “Shel.” Ernie sat forward. “You need to hear him out. You need to think outside the box and consider what Mick can bring to the—”

  She waved her hand at Ernie. “I get the whole international-icon-media-magnet-sponsors-will-circle-us-waving-dollar-bills bit.”

  Mick set his elbow on the armrest and balanced his chin in his palm. “And your problem with this is?”

  She gave him a withering look as she sat in her squeaky chair. “My problem is that we are a family-owned team. And you are not family.”

  Ernie shook his head as though she just didn’t get it. “The d
ays of family-owned teams are over in NASCAR.”

  She closed her eyes but said nothing.

  “Shelby,” Mick said quietly, “I hope you will at least give me the opportunity to talk to you and make you see the benefits I could bring to your team.”

  “You’ll love him, Shel,” Ernie interjected.

  “I doubt that,” she shot back, then leveled her gaze at Mick. “And I appreciate your interest in our operation, but we are less than a month from the biggest race of the season. That would be Daytona, in case you don’t know, and this really isn’t a good time. Maybe…next year?”

  “Look, you’re right about one thing.” He leaned forward and looked hard at her. “I don’t know jack about racing. I’ve never been to a stock-car race. I’ve never driven over a hundred and sixty kilometers. And, until the guys out in the shop told me differently, I thought ‘getting tight’ meant you had a pint too many.”

  “And this is supposed to get me all excited about sharing the pit cart with you?”

  “What should get you excited is that I know everything a bloke needs to know about how to win a game. Any game.”

  “And the press loves him.”

  At Ernie’s second interjection, she pushed herself away from her desk. “Good for you, Mick.” She stood up and indicated the door with one hand. “We’re done here. I have a busy day.”

  “Shel—”

  She ignored her grandfather, her fiery gaze still on Mick. “I’m glad you know everything there is to know about winning and playing and kicking and whatever it is you do on a soccer field, but this job—” she pointed down to her desk, “—has nothing to do with running around the grass in shorts and sneakers.”

  “Cleats.”

  Her eyes sparked. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go see what’s happening with our dyno, because you probably don’t realize this, but overrevving the dyno can ruin a forty-thousand-dollar engine, and we don’t have too many of those laying around.”

  “You’re right, I don’t realize that. Because I don’t know what a dyno is.”

  “It measures horsepower. And, frankly, knowing what it does and why we have one is part of team ownership, Mr. Churchill. Just like worrying about equipment and people and sponsors and rules and sanctioning bodies and speed, speed, speed. You couldn’t be farther from where you belong.”