by Hope Ramsay
“I still look like the girl next door,” Sarah said as she stared at Ruby’s handiwork in the mirror.
“Of course you do. That’s your charm.”
“But I don’t want to be the girl next door.”
Ruby laughed aloud. “What are you talking about? Every man on the face of the planet wants the girl next door. You can trust me on this.”
“But—”
Ruby held up her hand. “They do. But here’s the secret. They want you to be the girl next door, just not necessarily look the part.”
“But that’s the point. I look like the girl next door. I can’t do a thing about it either. Even with a new haircut and makeup and everything. I still look like the redheaded, freckle-faced girl next door.”
“There isn’t anything wrong with your freckles or red hair. That just makes you adorable. I declare, Sarah, you have a cute curvy body. You need to quit hiding it in baggy chinos and man-tailored suits. All you need are a couple of pairs of tight blue jeans, and a few tank tops that show off your assets.”
Ruby cocked her head and studied Sarah in the mirror for a long moment. Then she pulled her cell phone out of her smock and speed-dialed a number.
“Elbert, honey,” Ruby said into the phone, “I’m not going to be home for supper.”
She paused and listened. “No, it’s not a dire emergency, but something extremely important has come up, and I have to go shopping.”
She listened again. “Uh-huh, it’s a beauty disaster. So you tell Stone to take the girls out for dinner tonight. And you can eat the leftover ham and butter beans. Clay and Jane are up in Columbia tonight with the band. I’ll be home no later than ten.”
She folded the phone closed.
“All right, sugar, you and I are going shopping together over to Florence. I’m just itching to dress you up in some green. And pink, of course.” She laughed at that.
“No doubt because pink is such a power color.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “I don’t want to wear pink any more than Tulane does.”
“Sarah, you would look good enough to eat in pink. You just need the right formfitting tank top. And a pair of bad-girl high-heel boots, of course.”
“Bad-girl high-heel boots?” she asked. The idea titillated her, even though it was suggested by Tulane’s mother.
A grin touched Ruby’s lips. “I’d recommend strappy little sandals, sugar, it being the summertime, but they have rules about open-toed footwear in the garages. But boots are allowed. And I’m thinking really naughty boots.”
“Wow. I’ve never owned shoes like that. I’ve always been so practical in my footwear choices.”
“Yes, I’ve figured that out about you. And I surely do appreciate your practicality. It will come in handy in the future. But for now, we need to play up the bad girl. If you want to look naughty, you have to kiss ‘practical’ good-bye. Now, mind, wearing boots like that will kill your feet, but I guarantee you they will get noticed down on pit row.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
“Well, okay, then,” Sarah said with a nod. “Bring on the high-heel boots.”
CHAPTER
12
Tulane lengthened his stride, pushing himself into a full-out run as he started another lap around the dirt harness track at Dover Downs. The horse track sat right inside Dover International Speedway. In a few hours, the Monster Mile would come alive with almost four dozen screaming machines, all trying to qualify for the next NASCAR Sprint Cup race. But for now, it was just a peaceful, slightly hazy Friday morning.
He concentrated on the slap of his running shoes against the earth, the burn in his thighs, and the pounding of his pulse. He wanted to find the zone where the endorphins kicked in. The zone where he could leave his head and live in his body.
He’d made several laps already—almost his five-mile quota—and he still hadn’t managed to empty his mind of anything. He counted all the things that were distracting him from his job.
Sarah came first. Ever since Pete’s funeral, the woman had been the last thing he thought about when his head hit the pillow and the first thing he thought about when he awoke. He wanted that woman, but having her would be a big honking mistake. If he wanted to be responsible and mature, he had to treat her professionally. Somehow, being responsible and mature wasn’t all that much fun.
Then there was the whole what-to-do-about-Pete’s-letter thing. The entire family was squabbling over this issue, and he just wanted to run away. Why had Pete made him responsible for this? It wasn’t fair.
He also couldn’t ignore the pile of business issues and offers that had suddenly materialized because of his interviews on nonsports television. Apparently a guy in a pink bunny suit was news. Ford Motor Company needed him to think about doing a bunch of television commercials. Half a dozen minor sponsors wanted him to think about die-cast cars and branded apparel.
It was totally insane. Why did anyone give a durn about a driver whose best finish was twenty-ninth out of a field of forty-three? He didn’t want fame. He wanted to drive fast and win races and make Pete proud of him.
Shoot. All this thinking was driving him crazy. Especially the part of his brain that only wanted to think about Sarah.
Sarah had e-mailed him a few times since his boneheaded decision back at the river. Her e-mails were professional and kept to topics like the upcoming schedule, which involved a VIP dinner with the governor tomorrow night. Sarah seemed to have everything under control. The whole skinny-dipping-in-the-Edisto thing didn’t seem to be bothering her at all.
A sign of true maturity on her part.
Tulane finished the lap, sweat pouring off him and his lungs working overtime. He continued to walk briskly toward the infield motor-home lot that was his temporary home away from home. The next complication to his life greeted him the minute he got back.
Lacy DuBois, an assistant to an assistant NASCAR assistant, sat draped over a folding lawn-chair like so much tarnished Christmas tinsel. Despite her job title, her appearance at this hour of the morning was strictly unofficial.
“Hey, good-looking,” Lacy said in a lazy Louisiana drawl. “Have a nice run?” She unfolded all 5 feet 10 inches of her body from the lawn chair and tossed her Farrah Fawcett do for effect. The woman was built straight up and down, like a boy, except for her artificially enhanced breasts. She resembled Trailer Trash Barbie in her tight lime-green jeans and the cropped Daisy Duke top that showed both her belly-button ring and a prodigious amount of silicone cleavage.
The boys down in the garages thought Lacy was about as hot as a Shelby Ford Mustang. Tulane found her singularly unappealing.
Lacy was a fabled pit lizard with an agenda as long as there were drivers and owners. It was a lead-pipe cinch that her appearance today meant Tulane had moved up from last to first on her to-do list.
Lacy sashayed across the infield grass and stopped just inches from him. “My, my, but aren’t you impressive, all sweaty and hot,” she said, reaching out and running a red-nailed finger down his cheek before he could flinch away. She made a great show of popping the sweat-dampened finger into her mouth.
“Yummy,” she said in a husky voice. “I do like the taste of salty man.”
He leaned in. “Lacy,” he said softly.
She gazed at him out of a pair of brown eyes fringed in fake lashes and about three pounds of mascara. “What, honey?”
“Get lost.”
She startled but didn’t retreat. “Now, is that any way to treat a lady who is willing to make you a very good offer?”
She had to be kidding. Did she use that line with everyone? Good grief, that didn’t say much about the boys of professional stock car racing, did it? He leaned in a little closer and was on the point of whispering into her ear that she was no lady and that her offer was pretty tawdry. Only he never got the words out, because Sarah Murray pulled up in a golf cart.
At the sound of approaching tires, he stepped away from Lacy and turned, hoping that
whoever had just arrived wouldn’t get the wrong idea. But Sarah had gotten the wrong idea.
His day took a simultaneous turn for the better and the worse. Sarah had let her hair down, and she wore a pair of jeans and pink T-shirt that hugged her hips and her waist and her curvy boobs, where a little golden crucifix nestled.
The sight of that little religious symbol should have cooled his ardor, but instead he reacted just like a horny teenager. She was the spitting image of the proverbial nice girl, right down to her adorable freckles.
Sarah was like some unearthly combination of virgin and harlot. Tulane wanted her deeply, and now. He didn’t actually have to think about this reaction. This reaction had nothing to do with his brain.
Boy, he had really missed her these last few days. He wanted to walk over there and say something outrageous and kind of immature—something that would make her blush a deep red.
But the expression on her face—lips pursed, hazel eyes fiery—told him he was never going to get another chance with her, which was probably the right thing all the way around.
“Sarah,” he said, trying to find some way to keep his voice even, “meet Lacy DuBois. She’s an assistant to an assistant to a not-very-important NASCAR flack. She’s here to make my day.”
He turned toward Lacy, who was looking at him suspiciously. No doubt she was trying to figure out if he had just insulted her. Since Lacy didn’t have much in the brains department, it took a while for her to process the thought. “Lacy, Sarah is the National Brands liaison to Ferguson Racing,” Tulane said.
“Oh.” Lacy managed a weak smile. “Nice to meet you.”
Sarah said nothing to Lacy. The silence said enough, since everyone knew the best insult is simply to ignore the competition. Sarah did a real fine job of pretending that Lacy wasn’t even standing there.
She hopped down from the golf cart onto a pair of pointy-toed, do-me boots. She tottered on them as she tried to walk over the grass. She reminded Tulane of a little girl who had just dressed up in her momma’s clothes. Only in this case, Momma would be a streetwalker. The effect was adorable and deeply disturbing.
What the heck had happened to her? Where was his little librarian? Obviously escaped from the library and on a wild tear to raise some more hell. The fact that she was off doing this without his help made him ornery. He was going to miss out on some major-league fun.
She held out a FedEx overnight envelope for him. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said in a polite voice. “But Deidre insisted that I deliver this to you right away. It came yesterday to the office. She thought you might be interested.”
“What is it?” he asked, taking the cardboard folder.
“Artist’s renderings for new paint schemes. National Brands is starting negotiations with the owners of the rights to the Racer Rabbit cartoon character. The artist is trying to make the car look like the one Racer Rabbit drives. It’s painted green.”
“Green?” Hallelujah.
“Pale lime green,” she said soberly. “About the shade of Lacy’s pants. With fuchsia trim.”
He flicked his gaze to Lacy’s green outfit and stifled a groan. This was not what he had in mind.
“And, just for the record,” Sarah said, tossing her hair, “I wrote a totally bogus memo to Deidre about what happened at the funeral. I’ve kept all your secrets, but I’m telling you, Tulane, I’m really tired of lying for you. I’m starting to regret the promises I made.”
She finished her piece and turned unsteadily on one spike heel. She headed back to the cart, fired up the electric motor on that baby, and zoomed off at an unsafe speed.
Tulane watched her leave. The folks in Last Chance were going to laugh their heads off when they saw him in a lime green and fuchsia car. And wasn’t fuchsia a shade of pink? Thank goodness Pete wouldn’t ever have to see that.
“Sugar, what did you do to that girl to get her so riled up at you?” Lacy asked, pulling him away from his sour thoughts.
He leaned toward the long-legged blonde, feeling ornery as a snake with the hives. “Same as I’m going to do to you.”
“What’s that?”
“I turned her down.”
With that, he turned and climbed the stairs to his mobile home, slamming the door right in Lacy DuBois’ face.
“Tulane,” she bellowed behind him, and he tried not to listen. “What the hell is the matter with you? Are you gay or something?”
Eight hours later, Tulane’s mood had improved marginally. In an attempt to build more team spirit, Doc Jackson, Tulane’s crew chief, had organized an impromptu cookout at Tulane’s motor home.
Dwayne, the gasman, brought several cases of Budweiser. Kyle, the jack man and team driver, brought hamburgers and hot dogs and all the trimmings. Lori Sterling, the team’s logistics coordinator and wife of Sam Sterling, the team manager, brought all the makings for her rum punch—a powerful concoction of Bacardi and orange, apple, and pineapple juices that Tulane never touched.
All Tulane had to do was sit back, sip his beer, and revel in the fact that, for once, they seemed to have gotten it right this afternoon. The No. 57 Ford had been the fastest car during today’s two-hour practice.
Tulane’s bliss lasted about two minutes, until Ken Lewicki showed up. True to form, the jerk hadn’t brought anything to eat or drink. But he had the balls to show up with Sarah.
Her appearance at this impromptu gathering shouldn’t have surprised Tulane. After all, she was detailed to the team as if she were actually a member of it. It was their showing up together that annoyed him.
What was she up to?
She gave him only the barest of greetings—a little nod of the head and that was it. Then she and Kenny snagged a couple of lawn chairs about fifteen feet from where Tulane was sitting. They sat there like a couple of kids with their heads together. Kenny the motormouth was doing his thing, and Sarah appeared to be hanging on every one of the man’s three-syllable words.
He wanted to walk over there and smash Kenny flat. Only he couldn’t do that. Kenny was exactly the right kind of man for Sarah. Just because he was an opinionated snob didn’t mean that he and Sarah weren’t made for each other.
Tulane sat there watching for the better part of an hour while Sarah and Kenny each downed a large cup of Lori’s punch, as if that stuff were only fruit juice and not laced with both dark and light rum. When Lori headed out with another round, he decided Sarah had had enough.
He pushed up from his chair and grabbed Lori before she could deliver the drinks. He took the plastic cup of punch from her hand. “I’m cutting Sarah off,” he said quietly.
“Hey, gimme that back. Since when are you her keeper?”
“Since right now. And while I’m at it, you’ve had enough, too.”
“Gimme back that cup, Tulane.” She attempted a lunge at the cup, and he backed away.
“Look, Lori, the thing is, Sarah doesn’t drink all that often, and those rum drinks are really strong. You don’t want to get her into trouble now, do you?” Tulane asked.
Lori tossed her mane of dark hair and rolled her eyes in disgust. “You know, Tulane, just because Sarah’s not a pit lizard doesn’t mean she isn’t capable of letting her hair down and having some fun. Now gimme that back.” Lori lunged again and managed to pull the drink right out of his hand without spilling too much of it. She turned around with a little sniff and marched on toward Sarah and Ken as if she were on a crusade.
“Leave Lori alone, Tulane,” Sam said. “We’re supposed to be having fun tonight. I’m sure Sarah can handle it.”
Tulane wanted to argue the point, but he clamped his mouth shut. Arguing with Sam would be stupid, because Sam was the team manager, and Lori was Sam’s wife.
So Tulane sucked it up and walked away.
Like a man.
Pete would be so proud.
“Hey,” Doc shouted to his back. “Where you going?”
“Taking a walk,” Tulane said, and didn’t look back.
> He walked for a good hour, around the mile-long asphalt track a few times, still searching for the no-head zone. It continued to elude him, so he focused on the problem of how to excise Sarah from his head.
Unfortunately, though, he had a deep-down hankering for Sarah. So that was a problem.
When the evening faded to twilight, the weekend concert got under way at the bandstand. Tulane figured the party had moved on, so he headed back toward his motor home. But when he came around the corner of the Prevost Coach, his little piece of the infield was still occupied.
Kenny had Sarah pinned against the motor home’s exterior. The engineer was making a thorough and deep-throated inspection of the little librarian’s tonsils.
Ugly and dangerous emotions welled up inside Tulane and made his hands ball up into fists. He ought to turn around and walk away, but his anger held him captive. He stood rooted to the ground while his pulse and respiration climbed into the red zone.
His anger turned into rage a moment later when Sarah’s fisted hand pressed up against Kenny’s shoulder in an unmistakable gesture that said she had had enough. Instead of letting go, Kenny grabbed her upper arm and slapped her tiny hand up against the motor coach, where he pinned it by the wrist. Then he spread his legs and used his much larger body in an attempt to smother her efforts to get away from him. She bucked against him and tried to twist away, but Kenny was larger and more powerful.
Tulane’s raging emotions propelled him forward. Three long strides carried him close enough to grab Kenny by the shoulders of his golf shirt. He yanked the man back, whirled him around, and gave him a hard shove backward that sent him sprawling into a lawn chair, which promptly collapsed underneath him. The engineer and the chair tangled up and ended down on the ground.
Tulane took two steps forward and stared down at his adversary. “Get the hell out of here before I break your face.”
Kenny untangled himself, scrambled to his feet, and stood there a little unsteadily. “What’s the matter, Tulane? Jealous?”
“I said get going. I don’t want to pick a fight. And I don’t want to hurt you. But it’s clear to me Sarah isn’t interested in where you want to go. You’re drunk. So just get out of here.”