“What exactly does NSB want me to do?”
“Let a reporter follow you around for the majority of the month of June.”
“A month?”
Gil nodded. “A sort of ‘a month in the life of a Sprint Cup Series driver.’ A profile that will encompass the next three races, and come out soon after the race in New Hampshire.”
“Come out in what? A newspaper?”
“No, Sports Scene magazine.”
Rafael shook his head. Sports Scene had international distribution. “I can’t agree to that.”
“You already did. Emma-Lee hit you up about doing an interview with the magazine,” Gil countered, referring to his personal assistant. “But when she tried to get you to commit to a firm date, you blew her off. That won’t work this time.”
Gil paused, then shook his head. “Look, I know you took a lot of ribbing from the team after People magazine ran your picture and dubbed you ‘the heartthrob of NASCAR.’ But that was the season before last when you were a hair away from winning the Sprint Cup Series championship. Water under the bridge. And articles in Sports Scene tend to focus on an athlete’s abilities, not his or her looks, so history isn’t likely to repeat itself.” The heartthrob moniker had barely fazed him, Rafael thought. The ribbing he’d taken over it had been a minor annoyance. What had bothered him was seeing his photo plastered across an entire page of the magazine, leaving no chance that his image would blend in with pictures of other drivers. He’d held his breath that a copy of the magazine wouldn’t wind up in the wrong hands. After two years, he figured he’d dodged that bullet. Now, he apparently had another one to avoid.
“I still don’t like the idea of a reporter shadowing me for a month.”
Gil leaned forward slowly, his gaze narrowed. “Carpenter and the board love this idea. If you want NSB to remain your sponsor, you’re going to have to agree to this. It’s midseason. There’s no way I could arrange another sponsor for you at this point. So if you want to keep driving for Double S Racing, you’ll go along with NSB’s wishes. This is nonnegotiable.”
Hands fisted, Rafael rose, strode across the second-floor office to the waist-to-ceiling wall of glass that looked down on the garage. As always, the work center was spotless, the floor immaculate. Mechanics and other crew members were preparing the gleaming black No. 499 car for Sunday’s race at Pocono. The car would be loaded into the hauler and leave for the track the following day.
Gazing at the NSB decal that stretched across the hood, Rafael couldn’t imagine not being able to climb behind the wheel. Driving was more than just a job. It was his passion. Out on a race track, sitting in the driver’s seat, was the only place where he could shut down the pretense, shift mentally into race mode and be who he really was.
He needed that sense of freedom. Not to mention his earnings. He wasn’t the only person dependent on them. Without a sponsor, he couldn’t race. There would be no money coming in to continue the shipments.
“Rafael, NSB has a valid point. If you held back on the race track the way you do where PR is concerned, you and I would have an insurmountable problem.”
Rafael turned from the window. Gil had left his chair and was now leaning against the front of the desk, arms crossed over his chest. “I would never hold back on the track. You know that.”
“Yes, I do. That’s one reason you’re driving for my company. You and your team are new to Double S Racing. I understand that everyone is still working to get in stride with each other. If that happens soon, you’ll have a good shot at winning this year’s championship. But all bets are off if NSB walks away.”
“I understand.”
“So, cooperate. Sports Scene magazine contacted Emma-Lee again. They’re sending George Grant to write the profile. He’s got an appointment with me this afternoon to get an overview of Double S. Then he’ll hook up with you this evening at NSB’s employee health fair where you’re scheduled to sign autographs. Grant’s covered NASCAR for years, so I imagine he’s interviewed you before.”
Rafael pictured the tall silver-haired reporter. A couple of times Grant had snagged him for short interviews before and after races. “A time or two.”
“Then you know from experience he has the reputation as a straight shooter. All you have to do is let George follow you around for a couple of weeks while you tell him about your past and present. You do that, everybody will be happy.”
And a few people might wind up dead, Rafael thought.
Gil pushed away from the desk. “What do you say? Do I tell Acer Carpenter that you’ll go along with this?”
Rafael glanced across his shoulder at the gleaming black car. Driving wasn’t his only skill. He also knew what it took to survive. He had proven that while living on the crime-infested streets of São Paulo where life could come to a sudden, violent end at any time. Only two other people knew about that dark and murky part of his past.
And that Rafael O’Bryan wasn’t his given name.
He had legally changed his name when he moved to the States, and he would do whatever else it took to guard his secrets and keep the people he loved safe.
He looked back at his boss. “Relax, Gil. You can count on me to give George Grant the exact information he needs to write the profile.”
YOU CAN PULL THIS OFF, Caitlin Dempsey told herself as she wheeled her rental car into a parking spot in front of Double S Racing’s headquarters building. After all, you’ve written about hundreds of sports figures. This is just one more to add to the list.
Admittedly most of those athletes had been involved in some sort of scandal. Which was the type of meaty, dig-for-the-truth-no-matter-what-it-took story Caitlin preferred to tackle. But circumstances in the form of a fellow journalist’s family medical emergency had sent this assignment her way, so here she was, about to embark on a month-long interview of an athlete whose sport she’d never covered and knew little about.
After turning off the engine, she stared through the windshield at the three-story brick building with windows tinted a smoky gray. Well-maintained beds of flowering shrubs and colorful annuals bordered the front, looking as bright as gems in the noonday sun.
The knot of nerves in her stomach served as a reminder that she had never before walked into an interview without having a solid understanding of the sport in which a celebrity athlete participated. And, dammit, she hated that feeling. Hated knowing that when it came to NASCAR, the only research she’d had time to conduct was a fast read of the information in the bulging file folder George Grant had shoved into her hands early that morning. She’d met George at the hospital where his only daughter had been taken after a car broadsided hers, leaving her seriously injured.
Understandably, the veteran reporter had been in no condition to answer any specific questions about NASCAR. So Caitlin had used the flight time from New York to Charlotte to start boning up on stock car racing. In truth, she felt like an errant college student who’d ditched class all semester, and was now desperately cramming for the final.
To make matters more complicated, not only was she flying blind about all things NASCAR, but about Rafael O’Bryan, too.
Grabbing her leather portfolio off the seat beside her, she slid out of the car, then smoothed a hand over her pencil-slim black skirt. Her high heels clicked sharply along the flower-bordered sidewalk that led to the building’s entrance.
She had studied O’Bryan’s picture on the flight for so long that his image was now branded into her brain. Just under six feet tall, he looked hard edged and physical in a way that suggested solid gym time. His olive skin, thick black hair and Viking-blue eyes evidenced the mixed Latino and Irish heritage background mentioned in his official bio. She would definitely make note of those striking looks when she wrote the profile on him.
Striking looks, she thought, and rolled her eyes. Gorgeous had been the first thought that popped into her brain the instant she saw his picture. The reporter for People magazine who’d dubbed O’Bryan the heartthrob
of NASCAR had scored a direct hit.
Which was neither here nor there, Caitlin reminded herself as she started up the steps leading to the building’s entrance. Sometimes it seemed to her the sports world was overloaded with good-looking males. She had interviewed an uncountable number of them. Rafael O’Bryan might be one of the hottest-looking race car drivers on the circuit, but his looks made no difference. She would sink her teeth into this project by learning all she could about the man’s past and present, then sprinkle those facts throughout the profile. After that, she would move on to the next project her editor assigned to her.
She’d resolved a long time ago that moving on was the safest way to live her life. On those rare times when she crossed paths with a man whom she sensed might be a little hard to distance herself from, she forced herself to take a hard look at the scars she’d earned to remind herself how life really worked. That was all it took for her to move on, both physically and emotionally.
She had just reached for one of the building’s heavy glass entry doors when it swung outward, jolting her arm. The unexpected blow sent her skittering back, one of her spiked heels catching between a seam in the concrete. She swore aloud as she stumbled awkwardly, hampered by the narrow skirt that ended just above her knees. The only thing that saved her from going down were the hands that latched on to her upper arms.
“Steady.”
She looked up into a pair of bright blue eyes, and everything inside her went still. That face. It was the one that had seared into her brain during her flight. Yet it was different from what had been captured by the magazine’s photographer. In person, there was a toughness about Rafael O’Bryan’s face, a hardness that had to do with more than tanned skin tight over bones. It wasn’t a kind one, she thought. There was too much living in it, too much knowledge, for kindness. And in the depths of those laser-blue eyes, she saw secrets.
People with secrets posed a distinct challenge for the reporter in her.
“Sorry. Are you okay?”
His mouth held no softness whatsoever, but his voice was smooth and warm like a fine brandy, almost seductive, a little concerned. The rich Portuguese accent made her knees weak.
“Fine,” she managed to say. “I’m fine. No harm done.”
“Glad to hear it.” For a second, maybe two, he stood staring down at her, his hands still gripping her arms. The touch of his flesh against hers was inconsequential. Except for the sudden burst of heat.
Whoa. Her fingers clenched on the handle of her portfolio. Where did that come from?
Something flickered in his eyes then was gone, making her wonder if he’d felt it, too. His hands slid down her arms, grazing her fingers as he released her.
She took a step back. He wore a starched white shirt that was open at the collar, the cuffs rolled up on strong, tanned forearms. The shirt was paired with pressed black jeans that molded his powerful legs.
She felt a sudden vulnerability that she hadn’t felt in years—and had sworn to never feel again. Straightening her spine, she did a mental shake of her head. She was back on her feet physically. Time to get the inner balance she worked so hard to maintain under control.
“Mr. O’Bryan, I’m Caitlin Dempsey, Sports Scene magazine.” As she spoke, she pulled a business card out of the side pocket of her portfolio. “I understand we’ll be working together on a profile for the next month.”
His dark brows rose as he accepted the card. “And I understood I’d be working with George Grant. Are you his assistant?”
“Replacement. I happened to be in our editor’s office when George called to say his daughter had been injured in a car wreck. I’d just wrapped up my latest assignment, so I got tagged to replace George.” She angled her chin. “My editor said he would have his secretary phone Double S Racing to let your boss know about the change. Sounds like that didn’t happen.”
“It didn’t.” Rafael glanced at her card, studied it for a long moment, then those electric-blue eyes remet hers. Good Lord, if there was ever a man who looked like the kind of fantasy a woman didn’t want to wake up from, this guy was it.
“Are you as much an expert on NASCAR as your colleague?” he asked.
She struggled to steady her heartbeat. It was hard to believe—even harder to accept—that a man’s physical appearance could jangle her nerves. Which was totally ridiculous. She was not some teenager in the throes of her first wave of hormones.
“No one tops George when it comes to knowing the ins and outs of your sport,” she replied. “I’m a quick study, so it won’t take me long to get up to speed on NASCAR, so to speak.”
Keeping his gaze on hers, he slid her card into the pocket of his shirt. “I’ll be happy to tutor you privately on all aspects of NASCAR, if that will help.”
Her lungs were backing up. She took a careful breath to clear them. She might not know the ins and out of stock car racing, but she was aware that some NASCAR drivers were rumored to have gigantic egos. O’Bryan apparently fell into that category.
“Thanks, but I prefer to use a number of sources when I research a topic.” She glanced at her watch. “I don’t want to be late for the meeting George scheduled with your boss. After that, I’m off to touch base with your sponsor.”
Rafael gave her a thin smile. “Then I’ll see you this evening at NSB’s employee health fair.”
“That’s the plan.”
He reached for the door, holding it open. “Gil Sizemore’s office is on the second floor.”
“Thanks.” It took a blast of internal strength, but her unsteady legs managed to carry her into the building.
She paused, watching through the glass until he strode out of sight.
“Holy cow,” she muttered. She didn’t know what it was about him that put her hormones on full alert, but she was going to have to get over it. Control it. It would take more than a handsome face and killer blue eyes to make her forget her purpose for being here, which was to dig into and report on every aspect of Rafael O’Bryan’s life.
Caitlin gave her pulse another minute to settle before she turned and headed toward the reception desk and the bank of elevators beyond it.
CHAPTER TWO
THE HOT JUNE DAY had turned into a soft, balmy evening, perfect weather for National Steel Buildings’ annual employee health fair and family picnic. The line of people waiting for Rafael’s autograph had initially fanned from the table where he sat, snaking between a gazebo illuminated with white twinkle lights and the booths assigned to representatives of various health insurance companies. Located beyond those booths were food kiosks, carnival rides and other entertainment that had been brought in to keep those in attendance amused. As was the gleaming black No. 499 National Steel Buildings stock car parked near the table.
Now, two hours after Rafael had signed his first autograph on a glossy publicity photo, only five people remained lined up in front of him. He’d be the first to admit that his attention wasn’t directed at those five fans.
It was the auburn-haired reporter standing a few feet away chatting with Acer Carpenter, NSB’s CEO, who held his interest.
It was impossible not to notice that Caitlin Dempsey’s lightly tanned skin carried a blush of rose in the evening light. And that her cat-green eyes seemed animated. She’d changed from the sexy black suit and mile-high heels she’d worn earlier into a pair of narrow, aqua cropped pants and a matching sleeveless blouse. Her hair was still gathered back in an intricate French braid.
For an instant, Rafael found himself wondering how many pins anchored that thick braid. And how long it would take him to loosen them, sending those fire-colored tresses streaming over her shoulders.
He narrowed his eyes at the thought. Not a smart thing to be wondering, considering the sensation that had hit him when he’d barged out the door of Double S Racing and nearly sent her sprawling onto the pavement. For a second, maybe two, while he’d gripped her bare arms to steady her, a sudden burst of heat had sizzled beneath his palms then explode
d through his entire body. Bright, hot, sexual heat.
He had felt that same physical desire for other women. But considering his need for secrecy, he would have expected his reaction to have muted the instant Caitlin handed him her business card that identified her as an investigative reporter.
It hadn’t. So, he’d spent the hours since their encounter cautioning himself that the last thing he needed was to feel any type of physical pull to a woman who’d been hired to dig into his past. A past that he’d spent a great deal of time and effort burying.
Shifting his attention, he signed autographs for the remaining people in line, aware that the freelance photographer Sports Scene magazine had hired hovered nearby, snapping photos. When Rafael rose from the table, Acer Carpenter waved him over and extended his hand.
“You’re a big hit here tonight, son,” declared the middle-aged man who sported a gingery mustache and wire-rim glasses. “I’m calling your boss’s office in the morning and have Emma-Lee schedule you to make an appearance at NSB’s Christmas party.”
“Sounds good.” As with every driver on the circuit, Rafael’s schedule away from the race track was pretty much at the whim of his major sponsor.
The CEO checked his watch. “Dancing’s going to start soon. I’m headed over to the gazebo to make sure our band’s got everything they need. I told Caitlin you’d have time now to answer questions.” Carpenter delivered a hearty slap to Rafael’s shoulder. “I’ve briefed her on what the board would love to see in the profile, but it’s her article. Rafael, I’m counting on you to make sure she gets all the information she needs.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Caitlin, he’s all yours.”
As she stepped closer, Rafael caught the faint whiff of a spice-and-flower-scented perfume, and felt his insides tighten. Apparently, his knowing that she was about to spend an inordinate amount of time poking her nose into his business was not enough to blunt his physical reaction to the woman. Just one more complication he didn’t need.
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