Was he flirting? Was he saying she looked good or the opposite? While she was cogitating that riddle, it seemed perfectly natural to tuck her hand under his arm.
Oh, my. He wasn’t just easy on the eyes. The touch…the feel of those warm, hard muscles… They made her think of raw power, strenuous physical exertion. Rumpled sheets.
Now where the devil had that come from? She seemed to have lost her mind somewhere around thirty-five thousand feet.
As they wove their way through the streaming crowd to the baggage carousels, they passed the restrooms. She excused herself and pulled away. She was breathing hard, or maybe hardly breathing, as she darted inside, only to find standing room only.
She was forced to wait in line. By the time she reappeared in the noisy claims area a mob had formed by carousel B, where her luggage was supposed to be coming in. Trapped in the center of the crowd was Aidan O’Keefe. Well, maybe trapped was the wrong word, because he certainly didn’t appear to be either downcast or anxious to get away. In fact he was talking and laughing with the people around him and signing autographs on whatever they shoved at him—pieces of paper, tickets, baseball caps. One woman had him sign her handbag.
Ellie stole a glance at the carousel behind him and caught sight of her handcrafted Italian luggage disappearing behind the rubber curtain at the far end.
Great. At this rate she’d be here all night.
Aidan’s eyes caught hers. He grinned, winked and shrugged his big, broad shoulders. She didn’t know whether to sigh or cry.
Her luggage did another rotation while he continued to mingle with people. Another ten minutes crept by before he was able to make his escape.
“Sorry about that,” he told Ellie. “It’s hard to say no.”
“Does that happen very often?”
“They don’t usually recognize me when I’m wearing a long beard and dark glasses. Didn’t think it would be necessary this late at night.”
She was at a loss. Was he serious or was this all a big joke to him?
“Why don’t you just say no?” she asked.
He appeared positively appalled at the suggestion. “Why would I do that? Without fans where would we be?”
Her oversize pieces of baggage burst out through the curtain at the other end of the moving conveyor belt.
“There they are.” She pointed needlessly. The three matching pieces in dark leather were the only ones left.
He gaped at the size of them and snorted. “Are you visiting or relocating?”
Before she could answer he long-stepped to the moving conveyor and manhandled the trunk-sized pieces to solid ground. A porter appeared with a cart.
“Can I help you, Mr. O’Keefe?”
Aidan blew out a breath. “Like a ten-second pit stop.”
A ten-second pit stop? What in the world did that mean?
A minute later they were exiting the lower level of the terminal. A shiny orange Corvette convertible with green speed stripes glowed under the glare of nighttime floodlights. Another porter hovered nearby, obviously standing guard.
“Thanks, Lou. Appreciate your help.” Aidan tucked some bills discreetly into the man’s hand.
“Anytime, Mr. O’Keefe. My, she sure is a beauty.”
For a moment Ellie thought he was referring to her and was about to take offense at his impertinence.
“New?”
“Got her a couple of months ago,” Aidan replied.
He frowned over his shoulder at the luggage cart, confirming what he’d already deduced inside—there was no way these behemoths would fit in or on his car.
He peeled another bill from the roll he took from his pocket and handed it to the porter wrestling with the dolly.
“Load them in a taxi, will you, Frank, and have them delivered to the Hyatt. Tell the driver I’ll meet him there.”
“You bet, Mr. O’Keefe.” He pushed toward the taxi stand.
Meanwhile the man who’d been serving picket duty opened the passenger door of the Corvette for Ellie and extended a hand to assist her into it.
Self-consciously she accepted it and dropped down into the very low, cream-colored leather bucket seat. While she reached for the seat belt, Aidan circled the front of the car, grabbed the top of the windshield and threw a long, denim-clad leg over the side and slid behind the wheel.
The porter closed Ellie’s door, and Aidan turned the key that was already in the ignition. The engine roared to life, the smooth, rich, intimidating sound reverberating off the concrete walls and overhang.
Aidan waved to the porter and, without perceptibly checking his rearview mirrors, darted out into moving traffic. Ellie expected to hear horn blasts of protest, but he’d executed the maneuver so smoothly and efficiently no one objected. A moment later he shot left, around the van in front of them. It seemed to Ellie in no more than the blink of an eye they were on the open road.
She wasn’t sure if she should protest his recklessness or just sit back and enjoy the ride. She opted for the latter.
OKAY, HE WAS SHOWING OFF, but Ellie Satterfield was having that effect on him. Damn, the picture Shirley had been able to scare up on the Internet of Ellie in cap and gown didn’t look anything like her. Not much, anyway.
The short tawny hair was about right, but he hadn’t realized her eyes were nearly the same golden amber. Like none he’d ever seen. And the gown she’d been wearing in the graduation photo gave no hint of the curvaceous figure beneath its folds.
A bit stuck-up, but he’d expected that. If Walter’s description of her mother was close to accurate, the old lady was a harridan. Ellie had tried aloof disdain when she’d seen the ’Vette, but Aidan hadn’t missed the fascination twinkling in her eyes before she’d taken control of her expression.
He hadn’t missed the intriguing way her body tensed up, either, when he goosed the gas pedal and shot into traffic. Or the tiny grin she tried so hard to suppress when he shifted into high gear and pulled away from the pack.
He continued to wend his way through traffic, then tapped the brakes as they approached downtown. Not many cars on the streets after midnight in the middle of the week, but traffic lights still stopped him.
She was surveying the scene, taking it all in.
“Ever been to Charlotte before?”
“No.” She continued to rubberneck. Actually, he decided, it was a very nice neck. Long enough to be elegant.
“Ever been to a NASCAR race?”
She met his eyes this time, and he wondered what it would take to melt that brown sugar. “No, I haven’t, Mr. O’Keefe.”
“Aidan, remember? If we’re going to be partners I think we can do so on a first-name basis. My condolences on the loss of your uncle.”
That stopped the protest or whatever she was about to say.
“Thank you.” She gazed straight ahead.
“He was a good man, one of the finest I’ve ever known.”
She turned her head away, clearly uncomfortable with his remark.
The light turned green. Instead of stomping on the gas this time, he gently accelerated forward.
Less than three minutes later they were pulling into the driveway of her hotel. He halted under the canopy, catapulted himself over the door onto the pavement and rounded the front of the shiny sports car. A valet was already bending to open her door. She hadn’t made an effort to open it herself, Aidan noted.
He tipped the valet, told him about the taxi that was following with the luggage and asked to be paged as soon as it arrived.
“Sure thing, Mr. O’Keefe. The minute it gets here.”
Ellie had stood by. He took her gently by the elbow and escorted her toward the revolving door.
“Does everyone in town know you by name?” she asked.
“Probably not everyone,” he admitted.
She glanced over at him again, not completely sure if he was serious.
He’d confirmed her suite reservation earlier, and the same clerk was still on duty, so there
was no problem getting Miss Ellie Satterfield checked in.
“The lounge is still open,” he said. “Would you like a nightcap while we’re waiting for your things to get here?”
She let out a breath. “I think I could use one.”
The cocktail lounge was empty, the bartender getting ready to close—until he saw them walk in.
“Evening, Mr. O’Keefe. Ma’am. What can I get you folks?”
Since he was driving, Aidan ordered a soft drink. Ellie inquired what white wines they had available, selected a label Aidan had never heard of and watched as the cork was pulled from the bottle.
He was about to ask if she ever got tired of being a prima donna when he was saved from the gaffe by the doorman announcing that the luggage had arrived. He left her, paid the taxi driver and had the bellhop take the three huge pieces up to her suite. She must have paid a king’s ransom, or rather a princess’s, in overweight charges, he mused. He stopped off at his car for a moment before returning to the bar. Coming in behind his new partner, he took his time, using the extra seconds to appreciate the view.
He also noted that half the wine in her glass was already gone and realized from the slope of her shoulders how exhausted she must be. He stepped up beside her stool, reported her baggage had been safely delivered, took a healthy swallow of his soda and placed the thick manila envelope he’d retrieved from his car on the bar beside her.
“I figured you’d want to review our financial status,” he said, “so there are our last three annual reports, as well as our most recent audit.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
He tossed a large bill on the bar. “I’ll have someone pick you up in the morning at ten,” he told her, “and bring you out to Satterfield Racing. We’ll be going to the track, as well, so wear something casual with long sleeves. Oh, and comfortable shoes that are closed-toe. We take safety very seriously.”
She extended her hand. “Thank you for picking me up and attending to everything, Aidan. You’ve been very kind.”
Her hand was cool from her wineglass and slightly damp. But that didn’t disguise the softness of her skin or the firmness of her grip.
“My pleasure, Ellie.”
As they held each other’s hands he had an urge to lean over and kiss her. On the cheek.
But he resisted.
CHAPTER THREE
AS EXHAUSTED AS ELLIE WAS from the cross-country flight and light-headed from the single glass of wine she’d had in the lounge—at least she supposed it was the wine that had made her that way—she slept poorly. She kept picturing Aidan O’Keefe in jeans and T-shirt and the way both garments clung to his well-toned body. She kept recalling, too, the warmth of firm muscle when she accepted his arm.
In the sitting room of her suite she finished her croissant and poured more coffee from the silver pot room service had delivered, then she glanced at her watch. A quarter to ten. She’d reviewed the documents Aidan had furnished her and was pleased with what she’d found, assuming of course the reports were accurate. She could page through them again while she waited to be notified that her driver had arrived, but she decided not to.
She wasn’t pleased with her performance the previous evening. She’d played a snoot—played it well, of course—but that had been the wrong approach. She might represent the controlling two-thirds of Satterfield Racing, but there was no point in alienating the other third.
Aidan, in contrast, had been easygoing, generous and considerate, and she’d treated him like hired help. It was unfair and decidedly didn’t reflect well on her.
Shaking her head at her uncharacteristic lack of good judgment, she rose, went to the bathroom, brushed her teeth, patted her hair, adjusted the waistband of her slim jeans and returned to the living room. Giving herself one last appraisal in the full-length mirror by the door, she picked up her small shoulder purse, made sure she had her key card and left the suite.
No games today, she vowed, as she rode down in the elevator. Today was business. She had a multimillion-dollar enterprise to evaluate.
She was startled when she stepped into the lobby and found Aidan O’Keefe sitting in an upholstered armchair, long legs crossed, reading a newspaper.
He glanced up and a smile spread across his face. “Good morning.”
No five o’clock shadow—or she supposed she could call it his midnight shadow—and without the dark whiskers the cleft in his chin was even more pronounced. Scruffy hadn’t really been all that bad, but she decided she still preferred his naked skin. As the mental choice of words conjured up other images, heat began to flow into her cheeks.
“I thought you were sending someone else.” Maybe it hadn’t been the wine last evening after all, because that certainly wouldn’t explain her slightly dizzy feeling right now.
“Everybody was busy,” he replied easily, “so I thought I’d pick you up myself.”
“Do NASCAR drivers normally moonlight as chauffeurs?”
He laughed, and the deep, male, rumbling sound stirred a fresh twitter in her midsection.
Uncrossing his legs—pressed jeans this morning and lace-up work boots—he dropped the newspaper on the table beside his chair and rose to his feet. “Shall we?”
He didn’t offer his arm this time, which was disappointing but maybe just as well. She had to focus on things other than this man’s muscles. They moved side by side toward the door and the bright orange Corvette parked at the curb just beyond it.
“Nice outfit,” he said, as he held the door for her. “That green color brings out the gold in your eyes.”
She was stunned, not just by the compliment, but by its specificity. This race car driver was more observant than she’d given him credit for. “It’s teal,” she said, then added, “and thank you.”
He did the gentlemanly thing again and held the car door for her, but this time the courtesy annoyed her, not because he’d done it but because she’d let him. She wasn’t a delicate blossom who had to be coddled, and the sooner he realized that the better.
The trip to Satterfield Racing was different from the ride from the airport the night before. Traffic was heavier, which meant more opportunities for him to weave in and out, but she was also better prepared for his driving skills now. Last night her reaction had been anxiety. This morning it was excitement.
She also had a better chance in the bright daylight, sunglasses in place, to check the guy out. She definitely liked what she saw. The elegant profile. His nose was aquiline and stately, but not overlarge. Somehow she’d missed the dimple in his right cheek last night. Now she found it fascinating. Then there was the athletic body, the dark hair. He, too, was wearing sunglasses, but she hadn’t missed his eyes before he’d put them on. Last night they’d seemed darker. This morning they were mountain-lake blue.
By the time he pulled up in front of a modern, three-story, concrete-and-glass edifice beyond city limits, she decided she might as well forget everything her mother had ever told her about stock car racing. This was no greasy, ramshackle garage.
Aidan switched off the engine and as usual hopped over the door. It was hard not to stare at those long, denim-covered legs as she fumbled with her door handle. She had the door open—to make sure he understood she wasn’t helpless—by the time he reached her side. She probably should have ignored his outstretched hand to help her out of the low seat, but…well, that would have been impolite. Besides, he was so close, she couldn’t possibly avoid him. She slipped her hand into his, only to find her pulse quicken when he pulled her up. Suddenly they were standing face-to-face, mere inches apart. For a moment they froze in place, eye contact masked by their sunglasses.
Unnerved by his closeness, she had to force herself to swivel her head and look around.
The grounds were well maintained. The continuous rows of dark-tinted windows sparkled. The sign that identified the building as the headquarters of Satterfield Racing was prominently displayed and tastefully designed.
Just beyond the au
tomatic, sliding tinted-glass doors was a reception counter, neatly decorated with colorful pamphlets and brochures, single-page handouts and fliers and a variety of decals. An attractively dressed woman of perhaps thirty-five sat behind the counter on a stool.
“Morning, Aidan.”
“Morning, Nell. Nell, this is Ellie Satterfield, Walter’s niece.”
The woman’s professional smile of welcome warmed, and she extended her hand.
“I’m real glad to meet you, Miss Satterfield. Your uncle was a wonderful man. We all miss him a whole lot. If there’s anything I can do, you just let me know.”
“Thank you,” Ellie said, removing her glasses.
Aidan did the same and led her around the counter to the main lobby that had all the hallmarks of a museum. Stock cars formed a row down the middle and glass cases containing all sorts of items lined the walls. Uniforms, helmets, hats, gloves, emblems, along with mysterious pieces of equipment, which Ellie assumed were automotive parts. Written explanations accompanied most of them. In one corner was a video-viewing module.
Aidan pointed to a gaudily decaled stock car that gleamed under high-intensity pin lights. She knew it was a Monte Carlo only because the name was boldly emblazoned on the hood.
“That was my first car in the NASCAR Busch Series. It’s been restored, of course. And that—” he motioned to a crumpled mess of distorted steel a few yards away “—was my first NASCAR NEXTEL Cup car.” He grinned. “It obviously hasn’t been restored. I flipped twice and rolled four times in that baby.”
“My God,” she exclaimed. “How badly were you hurt?”
“Hurt?” He shook his head. “Walked away without a scratch.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He stanched the impulse to take offense at being called a liar. Instead he laughed and moved on.
They arrived at a steel door with a wire-mesh safety-glass window.
“This is where the real work gets done.”
He used an electronic key card to open it. They were immediately greeted with the clang of metal being hammered, the shrill scream of pneumatic tools and a medley of smells—lubricants, electrical ozone and hot rubber.
A NASCAR Holiday 2: Miracle SeasonSeason of DreamsTaking ControlThe Natural Page 13