by Hope Ramsay
CHAPTER
2
Sarah kept counting way past twenty as she paced back and forth across the gray linoleum of the Columbia Metropolitan Airport’s General Aviation Terminal. The heels of her not-so-sensible pumps clicked against the floor like a ticking time bomb. She pressed her cell phone to one ear while she kept one eye on that infuriating man.
Tulane Rhodes sprawled in an athletic fashion across several of the terminal’s plastic seats. He’d squared the baseball cap on his head, and the brim shaded those come-hither eyes of his. He was clearly happier on the ground than in the air. She wondered how she might actually use that little tidbit of inside information to control him.
Like that was ever going to happen.
Steve Phelps’s assistant came on the line and gave her the bad news: There had been a screwup, and their scheduled limousine pickup had been inadvertently canceled.
Sarah knew that this screwup had been intentional, on purpose, and fomented by Steve, so that Sarah would fail to get Tulane to his personal appearance on time.
Steve wanted her gone from National Brands as quickly as possible. This explained why Steve, who was in charge of the NASCAR program, had ordered her out of the research department and onto the corporate jet.
This assignment might be beyond Sarah’s experience, but she was not going to fail. “Oh hell,” she muttered as she ended the call with Steve’s less-than-helpful assistant.
As if on cue, Tulane licked his long index finger and drew an imaginary chalk line in the air. “That was real nice, honey, but in situations like this you probably want to really let it fly, you know?” Tulane said from his relaxed position on the bench. “There’s nothing like yelling the f-word right out loud when things get screwed up.” He launched an impossibly sexy smile that didn’t show any teeth. “Go on. Do it. It might be real fun.”
He was right, of course, but she couldn’t let her lips form that word or say it out loud. She hated herself for that inability. So many of her problems would be solved if she could learn how to be like Deidre or some of the other women at National Brands. Maybe if she were that sort of hard woman, she could hurry Tulane along to one of the rental car agencies. With the weather delay and Steve’s apparent sabotage, they needed to rent a car, and fast.
Sarah took a deep, calming breath. She could manage this situation.
“Well,” she said to the man draped over the bench, “if Mohammed won’t go to the mountain, then I guess we’ll have to get the mountain to move.” She braced her hands on her hips.
“Am I Mohammed or the mountain?” he asked, tipping back the brim of his dirty baseball cap.
“The mountain. God knows you’re big enough. Isn’t there some kind of weight penalty for race teams with large drivers?”
“I’m just long, honey, but I don’t weigh much. You stick around me, and you’ll find that out, sooner or later.”
The blood heated her cheeks, and that appeared to amuse him. No doubt, in grade school he’d been like Georgie Porgie, kissing all the girls and making them cry.
“If you’re suggesting that you and I will become intimate, the chances of that ever happening in this lifetime are nonexistent.”
Tulane clutched his chest. “Man, you are one coldhearted woman. Can’t you see I’m trying my best to get on your good side? And trust me, honey, you got several real nice sides hiding under that man-tailored suit you’re wearing.”
“Mr. Rhodes, you”—she pointed her finger, even though it was appallingly rude—“are trying to get me in trouble. So just stop with the lewd remarks, salacious suggestions, and offers to impugn my integrity. Grab your bags and get the lead out. We’ve got to go rent a car.”
“Wow, how many three-dollar words do you know? I’m impressed.”
“Mr. Rhodes, time is flying, and if I don’t get you to Orangeburg on schedule, I will get into trouble.”
“Oh. Well. I don’t want to get you into any trouble.” He settled deeper into the chair.
She had to control her temper. She counted to ten and tried hard not to grind her teeth. “Please get your bags,” she finally said quietly. “We don’t have much time.”
“You mean I have to get up?”
“Yes,” she ground out.
“You mean I have to carry my own bags?”
“Didn’t I just ask you to get your bags?” For goodness’ sake, she sounded just like Mother. How awful.
“Well, hell,” Tulane drawled, “what does National Brands pay you for, anyway? I thought an advance man was supposed to carry baggage, sort of like a Pullman porter. I thought an advance man was supposed to have all the details worked out.”
“Are you suggesting that we’ve got a problem because I’m not a man, Mr. Rhodes?”
“I sure do wish you would call me Tulane. And no, we don’t have a problem because you’re a woman, but jeez, I have a reputation to maintain, you know, and you seem to be impervious to my many charms.”
“Pick up your bags,” Sarah said in a hard tone of voice that betrayed her fury. “We’re heading for the rental car shuttle. And if I hear one more whine out of you, I’ll call up USA Today and tell them lies about you.” She turned on her heels and started walking away, her shoes making a lethal sound against the tile floor.
“What kind of lies?” he asked from behind.
“I’ll tell them you’re a sissy who’s afraid of flying, enjoys wearing pink, and is ready to come out of the closet.” She turned away before he could see the color rising to her cheeks. She felt a rush of satisfaction. Finally, she was acting the part of a tough businesswoman.
And her gambit worked. Tulane got up, picked up his duffel bag, and followed her out of the terminal.
“Please tell me that was a joke,” he said as he caught up to her.
Well, wasn’t that interesting? The man was actually worried about what people thought of him. Maybe she could control him, after all.
Thirty minutes later, Sarah knew that controlling Tulane was an impossibility. The man was incorrigible and immature.
And his chest was really ripped. She had watched him change his shirt and pants in the rearview mirror as she navigated a rented Camry onto the highway. He was now dressed in the official pink golf shirt bearing the logo for Cottontail Disposable Diapers.
“Honey, you can go faster,” Tulane said as he leaned forward from the back seat and spoke directly into Sarah’s ear. “I should have known you would drive like some kind of granny. Have you always been this uptight?”
A delicious flush of gooseflesh prickled her skin. “In case you haven’t noticed, there is heavy traffic, and the speed limit is sixty,” she said.
“Just because the speed limit says sixty doesn’t mean you have to keep the speedometer right at that mark. No one goes the speed limit if they can help it. You can pass that truck.”
He pointed over her shoulder. Sarah eyed the big eighteen-wheeler. “Not on the left, I can’t. The traffic is slower in that lane.”
“On the right, honey. Take the high side if they won’t give you the low side.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Look, dig deep and punch the gas. It’ll give you a thrill. And I have this notion that you need a few thrills in your life besides checking me out in the rearview mirror while I change clothes.”
“I did no such thing, Mr. Rhodes,” she said, and the blush gave away her lie.
He snorted. “Oh, yes, you most certainly did. I’m starting to think that hiding out under that black suit is a woman who’d like to live a little more dangerously. And I would be obliged if you’d call me Tulane.”
“I have no wish to live dangerously, Tulane. I am a sensible woman.” She said the words without much conviction. After all, hadn’t she turned down the safe job in Boston for the marketing job in New York with National Brands? That had not been a sensible decision, as Mother had pointed out on many, many occasions. Mother was always right.
He leaned forward a little farther until
his lips were mere millimeters from her ear. He smelled like sunshine and good ’ol boy—a heady and intoxicating mix that made her a little light-headed.
“Honey,” he whispered, “we got a baby race to officiate. Either you pull over and let me drive, or you put this thing in gear and pass that truck. I know you can do it. Just think of that bull-riding daddy of yours and punch the gas and feel the thrill. C’mon, baby, do it. You know you want to.”
Her right foot inched forward. The engine revved, and the Camry strained forward. She checked her rearview mirror, but Tulane preempted her by checking the lane to the right. “You’re clear, honey,” he said. She gritted her teeth and pulled out around the truck, passing on the right.
She flexed her hands on the wheel as the full force of the car’s engine pressed her into the seat.
“Okay, now pull over to the left and get around that van,” Tulane directed. She stopped thinking and did what he told her to do. She crossed three lanes of traffic and passed the van on the left, where the road was less congested, her focus fixed on the road before her.
“God, this is fun,” she whispered.
“All right, y’all, are you ready?” Tulane said into the microphone. He stood on the sweltering blacktop of the Value Mart in Orangeburg, South Carolina, while he strolled down a line of makeshift baby-changing tables that had been set up under a tent.
Someone in New York had to have their head examined. This was pitiful and embarrassing. He stared down the lane of changing tables manned mostly by women. This was also a symptom of something seriously wrong with his sport and his country. The corporations were taking over. They were trying to tame the good ol’ boys. They were trying to appeal to women.
At least there was one guy competing. Tulane strolled over to him and sniffed his baby daughter. Ewwweee, that kid was ripe. Tulane shook his head and leaned in to the young man. “Son, I’d say your young ’un needs more than a new set of tires. I’d say she needs a major rear-end adjustment there, if you catch my drift. You sure you’re up to this?”
The young man nodded. “I’m not about to let a bunch of women show me up,” he said.
Me neither. Tulane nodded and grinned. “You show ’em, you hear?”
Tulane turned back to the lineup of contestants. “All right, ya’ll, listen up.” The contestants assumed positions of readiness as he waved a green flag over his head. He felt like an idiot.
He took a fatalistic breath and began to recite his lines. “This is the final heat of this competition, and the winner gets five hundred big ones to spend in the store. Ready? One… two… three… Ladies—and gentleman—start your changing.” He dropped the flag.
The adults set about changing their little ones using the patented Cottontail “quick-release tabs for faster pit stops” and Cottontail baby wipes in a pop-up box.
It was over in about a minute, and the young man with the stinky child had managed to win first place. Tulane felt a certain amount of male pride. He posed for photographs with the winner, holding the baby while she drooled on him. Meanwhile, the manager of the Orangeburg Value Mart fussed and fretted while Sarah lined people up for autographs.
Twenty more minutes of this humiliation and he could relax in the air-conditioned Camry, watching Miss Priss drive like a granny all the way back to Palmetto, South Carolina, where Ferguson Racing had its headquarters. By this evening, he could get off this merry-go-round for a few hours before he had to do it all over again.
This whole setup was torture, pure and simple. He ought to make a protest under the Geneva Convention, or call out the Red Cross, or something.
Sarah, still wearing her black suit and looking hot and sweaty and good enough to eat, led him to a card table under the tent and put a Sharpie in his left hand and a bottle of water in his right. She turned and began hustling the line of autograph seekers forward. She was competent and well organized, he would give her that.
He also found himself staring at the rounded contours of her butt. Imagine all those curves… and brains to go with them. The nice ones were always smart, weren’t they? He studied Sarah’s round little bottom and felt his body heat rise.
Tulane inhaled and held his breath for a moment. The venue smelled like popcorn and sunburned blacktop. He let the breath out and focused on putting Sarah and all his troubles with his sponsor out of his mind. He needed to keep his temper and remember that he was here among race fans. He wanted to improve his reputation. He needed to make Jim Ferguson happy.
He started signing stuff. He’d been at it for about fifteen minutes when a flash of something bright in the corner of his eye made him look up.
“Oh sh… oot,” Tulane muttered. His day had just gotten a whole lot more complicated.
He turned away from the line of autograph seekers and toward Sarah, who stood beside him like the jailor she was supposed to be, even if she was stacked and well educated. She leaned down over his chair, close enough for him to get a good look down her notched-collar blouse.
“Is something wrong?” she whispered, her breath whistling in his ear.
Was something wrong? Was she kidding? He was on the brink of disaster. “See that lady crossing the parking lot? The one way over yonder?” he asked.
“The one in pink?”
“Uh-huh. Do me a favor, honey, and tackle her before she gets here.”
“Tackle? I’m only five two and, really, the point is to avoid lawsuits. Do you know her?”
“She’s my mother.”
“Your mother?” He was so dead. She wouldn’t tackle his mother. Sarah and his mother were two of a kind.
“Why do you want me to tackle your mother, Tulane?” she asked in a sweet, innocent voice.
“Look, I didn’t tell Momma I was going to be here today, and Last Chance is just down the road a ways. Truth is, I was trying to avoid having to go home this evening.”
“When was the last time you visited your mother or talked to her?”
He gritted his teeth. “It’s been a while. You gotta help me here. Go talk to her before she embarrasses me in front of all these people.” He gave her that clueless guy look every female fell for.
Except Sarah Murray, Boston-born advance person and jailor.
She continued to stare down at him with an arch look. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
With that deeply troubling response, she turned on her heel and strode across the melting macadam. He hoped Sarah could divert Momma before she publicly bawled him out for not visiting Uncle Pete. Visiting Pete sucked these days, on account of the fact that Tulane’s uncle was very ill with lung cancer.
He pushed thoughts of Pete out of his head and, in the vacuum created, it suddenly occurred to him that he’d just sent his corporate jailer over there to talk with his momma. And Momma was going to tell Sarah everything, including all the stuff Tulane hadn’t put in his official NASCAR Sprint Cup biography.
Oh great. He was done for.
Based on Tulane’s appearance this morning, Sarah wouldn’t have been surprised if his mother had turned out like a Jeff Foxworthy redneck joke: fat, dumpy, and dressed like trailer trash.
But Ruby Rhodes didn’t fit that bill. She stood only an inch or so taller than Sarah, with a girlish figure and a cap of curly black hair that spilled over the brim of a pink golf visor. Her green eyes had been tastefully made up, and her peaches-and-cream complexion said she had either a beauty regimen that included retinol or a plastic surgeon hiding out somewhere.
She didn’t look old enough to be Tulane’s mother. Her sleeveless pink shirt had been hand-appliquéd with the words “Tulane’s #1 Fan,” done up in striped pink seersucker that matched her pedal pushers. The shirt, like the woman, might have just come off a country club golf course.
Sarah intercepted her before she could reach the shade of the tents. The sun beamed down on Sarah’s shoulders. Her suit trapped heat like a convection oven.
“Mrs. Rhodes,” Sarah said in her best professional voice, “Tula
ne asked me to escort you to the store, where you can wait for him in the air-conditioning.”
Tulane’s mother stopped and took a long moment to size Sarah up. “Who died?” she asked.
“I beg pardon?”
“Sugar, in that black suit, you look like you’re either on your way to, or just come from, a funeral. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that black is not your color?”
“No, ma’am. I’m… uh…” Sarah ran out of words. Her stomach felt suddenly queasy. The Value Mart hot dog she’d consumed twenty minutes ago rested there like cement.
“It’s hot as Hades out here, sugar,” Tulane’s mother continued. “And black is a poor choice for this part of the country. You aren’t from around here, are you?”
“No, ma’am. I’m from Boston, originally.”
“Well, that explains it. You know, if I were you, I’d definitely try green. It would bring out the color of your eyes and complement the highlights in your hair. Is that a natural color?”
“Yes, ma’am. Why don’t we step inside the store and we can wait for Tulane?”
“Oh, no thanks. I’m used to the hot. Born and raised not twenty miles from here. I can manage. And I see him right over yonder and—”
“Mrs. Rhodes, Tulane—”
“Oh, call me Ruby, sugar. And you are?”
“I’m Sarah Murray. I’m with National Brands.”
Ruby blinked a few times. “Well, if you’re with National Brands, why are you wearing black?”
Because black is a power color, and I thought it would help me keep your son in line. Instead it was doing a good job of slow-cooking her.
“I mean,” Ruby continued, while Sarah stood there sweating through the armpits of her hundred-dollar silk blouse, “shouldn’t you be wearing pink?”
Was that the Southern variety of sarcasm? It was delivered in a friendly tone, like Ruby Rhodes might be giving fashion advice and not expressing her opinion of the Cottontail Disposable Diaper pink car advertising campaign. It was hard to decide, what with the sweat running down Sarah’s back, and the sun beating on her head, and the heat radiating up through the soles of her closed-toe shoes.