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Race To The Altar
Patricia Hagan
Liz Mallory may have been a whiz at public relations. But when it came to a NASCAR driver hotshot named Rick Castles, Liz had her hands full.For Rick proved to be the epitome of alpha maleness and smooth seduction–a dangerous combination for a woman trying to get her life back on track. And it wasn't at all the right time for Liz to be finding herself falling in love….She was one heck of a woman, all right, Rick thought. And under different circumstances he would let nothing stand in the way of making Liz Mallory his. But his career hurt relationships. Could he risk her being the one with whom he could finish the ultimate race–to the altar?



“This is ridiculous. We’ve got to try to keep each other warm.”
With that, Rick rolled over into the back seat and put his arms around Liz, drawing her close. “We’ll use our body heat,” he said, trying to sound casual about it when he was anything but.
“Hey, it’s a good thing we called a truce. Otherwise you’d have let me freeze to death.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” Rick said gruffly. “It’s late. Maybe we need to stop talking and go to sleep so the night will pass quickly.”
“I used to do that, you know. As a kid, I used to lay awake half the night on Christmas Eve so Santa Claus would hurry and come. Only, it didn’t work.”
“That’s what you get for believing in Santa Claus.”
“Oh, and you didn’t?” She turned her face to his.
Huskily Rick murmured, “If I did, I’d ask him to leave you in my stocking.”


Dear Reader,
May marks the celebration of “Get Caught Reading,” a national campaign the Association of American Publishers created to promote the sheer joy of reading. “Get Caught Reading” may be a phrase that’s familiar to you, but if not, we hope you’ll familiarize yourself with it by picking up the wonderful selections that Silhouette Special Edition has to offer….
Former NASA engineer Laurie Paige says that when she was young, she checked out The Little Engine That Could from the library fifty times. “I read it every week,” Laurie recalls. “I was so astounded that the library would lend books to me for free. I’ve been an avid reader ever since.” Though Laurie Paige hasn’t checked out her favorite childhood storybook for a while, she now participates in several local literacy fund-raisers and reads to young children in her community. Laurie is also a prolific writer, with nearly forty published Silhouette titles, including this month’s Something To Talk About.
Don’t miss the fun when a once-burned rancher discovers that the vivacious amnesiac he’s helping turns out to be the missing Stockwell heiress in Jackie Merritt’s The Cattleman and the Virgin Heiress. And be sure to catch all of THE CALAMITY JANES, five friends sharing the struggles and celebrations of life, starting with Do You Take This Rebel? by Sherryl Woods. And what happens when Willa and Zach learn they both inherited the same ranch? Find out in The Ties That Bind by Ginna Gray. Be sure to see who will finish first in Patricia Hagan’s Race to the Altar. And Judith Lyons pens a highly emotional tale with Lt. Kent: Lone Wolf.
So this May, make time for books. Remember how fun it is to browse a bookstore, hold a book in your hands and discover new worlds on the printed page.
Best,
Karen Taylor Richman
Senior Editor

Race to the Altar
Patricia Hagan

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Joe Kennedy,
one of the best racing PR reps
I ever had the pleasure of working with.

PATRICIA HAGAN
New York Times bestselling author Patricia Hagan had written and published over 2,500 short stories before selling her first book in 1971. With a background in English and journalism from the University of Alabama, Pat has won awards for radio, television, newspaper and magazine writing. Her hobbies include reading, painting and cooking. The author and her Norwegian husband, Erik, divide their time between their Florida retreat in Boca Raton and their home in Bergen, Norway.



Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue

Chapter One
Liz Mallory knew high heels and a business suit were not appropriate attire for a racetrack. But she couldn’t help it. On her way from New York to Daytona she had missed a connecting flight, and her luggage hadn’t made it. She had planned to change into neat slacks and a blouse once she got to her hotel. Instead, there was no time to even stop by a mall and buy anything, because the plane was late, and she’d had to come directly to the track.
So here she was, feeling as out of place as a Christmas tree on the Fourth of July.
She drove the rental car through the tunnel and into the infield, which reminded her of a huge circus, sprawling in all directions. Flags and balloons were flying, thousands of people were milling about, and it wasn’t even race day.
But that’s how it was at Daytona in February during Speed Weeks. She had learned that much, at least, during the brief time she’d had to study up on the sport since being given her new assignment.
Never in her wildest dreams had she thought she would find herself involved in the world of stock car racing. She knew absolutely zilch about it.
When she had said as much to Jeff Strohm, her boss at Star Media Enterprises, an advertising and public relations agency, he had told her she had better learn fast. Star had obtained the contract to represent Big Boy’s Pizza in their sponsorship for up-and-coming rookie driver Rick Castles, and Liz had been assigned as PR person only a week before the season opener at Daytona.
She had bought every book and magazine she could find on racing though hadn’t had time to read them all. But she wasn’t too worried about it. It was her job to market Rick Castles and get as much exposure as possible for his sponsor. It was PR plain and simple, and she knew how to do that.
She followed the map she had been given to the press parking lot, which had a chain link fence around it.
An attendant wearing an orange vest over his T-shirt held up a hand, and she promptly stopped and rolled down her window.
Sorry, lady.” He pointed to a sign that read Media Only.
“Well, that’s me,” she said cheerily, holding up the pass she had been given when she checked in at the speedway’s PR department.
The man shook his head. “That gets you into the pits. A parking decal gets you in here.”
“Maybe I’ve got one. They gave me so much stuff back there.” She fumbled through the big white envelope, then triumphantly held up the red-and-white decal.
“Lick it and put it on your windshield so I won’t have to stop you next time.”
“I sure will, and I’m sorry I didn’t know to do that. This is my first time, and—”
Behind her, a horn sounded impatiently.
She wet her finger, then rubbed it over the back of the decal and affixed it to the glass.
Satisfied, the attendant motioned her in.
It had been raining earlier in the day, and there were muddy places where the grass was worn down. She stepped out of the car and into a puddle, groaning as her heel sank to her ankle. She was going to have to pick her way along carefully and opted to leave her heavy briefcase behind.
Pausing beside the car, Liz gazed up at the crystal-blue sky and marveled at what a beautiful day it was. Not a cloud in sight, and a balmy breeze was blowing in from the ocean, just a few miles to the east.
Despite her trepidation over her new assignment, she was grateful for the tropical respite from the cold chill of New York in February.
According to the schedule she had been given in her credentials packet, it was the day before trial runs, and several cars were out on the track taking practice laps. Now and then a roar from the grandstand would herald a favorite driver pulling onto the track.
Elsewhere in the infield, campers and trucks were parked. She could also see that a lot of tents had been erected.
The air was thick with the smell of food sizzling on charcoal grills, and seagulls circled overhead, drawn to the picnics going on below.
There were concrete buildings for toilets and showers. First-aid stations were dotted about. Concession booths sold souvenirs—mostly T-shirts and jackets emblazoned with different photos of drivers and their race cars.
It was, Liz thought, like a small city. Fans actually lived at the track almost the entire month of February, and the local economy welcomed them with open arms.
She found her way to the concrete retaining wall behind the area where cars made their pit stops for gas and new tires. According to the speedway map, by walking alongside it, she would eventually reach the garage area, where she hoped to find her driver.
Liz had no idea what Rick Castles looked like. There were not, as yet, any publicity photos, but she planned to take care of that right away. She was glad she had tossed the caps imprinted with the sponsor in her carry-on bag instead of packing them in her checked luggage. Otherwise, she couldn’t have had the photos taken today, because Rick and all his crew needed to be wearing them to give Big Boy’s exposure. And she could not afford a delay. His press kit had to be made available as soon as possible.
At the garage gate, a separate pass had to be issued. While the guard was making it out, she asked if he could tell her where she could find Rick Castles.
“Well, let’s see…” He pulled a clipboard from under the counter and scanned it. “Castles is car number sixty, and he’s got stall fifty-five.”
She thanked him, pinned the garage pass to her badge, took a deep breath and entered her new world.
The first thing she did was trip over a lug nut someone had dropped.
She almost fell, but a man in a greasy jumpsuit grabbed her arm and brusquely warned, “Lady, you better watch it in those shoes. This is a dangerous place.”
She gave a nervous little laugh. “Oh, I agree. And thank you. I’ll know better next time, believe me—”
He grabbed her again, this time to keep her from being run over by a car whipping off the pit road to enter the garage area. “You’re gonna get yourself killed if you aren’t careful. What are you doing here, anyway?”
Liz pulled herself up to her full height of five foot four and tried to look self-confident, which wasn’t easy when she had just been rescued twice. “I’m the new public relations representative for driver Rick Castles. Could you tell me where I can find stall fifty-five? That’s his garage space.”
He glanced about thoughtfully. “Well, let’s see. Castles is a rookie, so he won’t be with the hot dogs, that’s for sure. Fifty-five should be back that way.” He pointed, then started to walk away but paused to repeat his warning for her to be careful. “If you don’t keep an eye out around this place, you won’t make it. Trust me.”
Liz was puzzled. She didn’t see any concession stands inside the garage and wondered what difference it made if Rick were a rookie as to whether his garage space was near them. Maybe being located near the food stands was some kind of privilege older drivers got that newer ones didn’t.
Someone whistled as she continued walking.
Again she wished she could have changed. Ordinarily she would have traveled in leisure clothes, but Jeff had insisted she join him and the rest of the staff for brunch to say goodbye before going to the airport. So she’d had to dress for that.
Spotting a young man with several cameras hanging from straps around his neck, she waved and called, “Hi there. Are you a freelance photographer?”
“That I am,” he said with a tip of his ball cap. “The name’s Pete Barnett, and I’m the best in the business. What do you need and when?”
“Publicity shots of Rick Castles. I’m Liz Mallory, PR rep for his new sponsor—Big Boy’s Pizza. And I’d like them done this afternoon and possibly delivered tomorrow.” She held her breath hoping he wouldn’t laugh in her face for such a quick deadline.
She was relieved when he said, “Not a problem. I’m going to do a shoot right now. Where will you be in about an hour?”
“Space fifty-five in the garage. That’s where his car is.”
He laughed. “Not with the hot dogs, eh? Ah, the curse of being a rookie.”
Again Liz wondered about that and continued on her way.
The garage was noisy, crowded and chaotic. Race cars drove in and out on the way to and from the track for practice. Air wrenches roared and engines revved as the track loudspeakers tried to break through the din.
Spotting numbers on the concrete, she began to count. When she reached number fifty-five, she was relieved to see a car with the logo for Big Boy’s Pizza on the hood, top and sides. Painted blue and yellow, the Monte Carlo had dozens of little decals around the fenders, and a big 6-0 on the doors.
No one was around, and Liz thought that odd when everywhere else crews were working like mad on their cars. Maybe Rick and his crew had gone to eat.
Then she glanced at her watch. Four o’clock. Too late for lunch and too early for supper.
So where were they the day before the all-important twin-qualifying races?
The stalls on either side were empty, cars no doubt on the track with crews watching behind the retaining wall.
Liz’s annoyance was growing with each passing moment, because things had gotten off to a terrible start, and she was determined not to fail in her career…again.
She was not worried about failing in her personal life, because she did not intend to have one. After all, being deceived by not one man, but two, had sent her plunging to the bottom rung of her career ladder.
She had been on the very top and probably still would be if not for having been so naive…and, yes, stupid.
Liz had begun her career in her native California, where she had worked her way up from PR rep to account executive, making top wages. Then she made the mistake of falling in love with Craig Hatcher, who happened to be employed by a rival company.
They became engaged, and Liz believed him when he said they could keep their work separate even though their agencies were competitive. But, too late, she discovered he was only using her to further his career and had accessed her files. By the time she found out what a lying, two-timing worm he was, he had succeeded in taking her top three accounts away from her agency.
Not only had he broken her heart, but his deviousness made her lose her job, as well.
Forced to start over with a new company, Liz foolishly made the mistake of rebounding into another relationship with Mike Lowry, a co-worker. That didn’t last long. There was too much job conflict between them. When it ended, she decided not only to change jobs but to move to New York and make a whole new life.
Twice burned, twice shy, she promised herself that never again would a man best her, nor would she become involved with anyone she worked with.
Depressed by her bitter musings, Liz began to circle the race car slowly, trying to get her mind on something else, like familiarizing herself with the car.
She noted there were no windows, just net coverings, and only one seat for the driver.
The inside of the car was completely gutted, and she knew the tubed frames were called roll bars, to keep the car from being crushed if, God forbid, it turned over.
Fascinated by all she was seeing and learning, Liz did not notice the feet sticking out from the under the car. She tripped, screamed and was barely able to grab a window frame to keep from tumbling to the ground.

Beneath the car, Rick Castles jerked his head up to painfully bump it. “Ouch. Damn it, who’s the nitwit that can’t see where they’re going?”
Lying on a roller board, he angrily swung himself out from under the car, ready to lambaste the person responsible. “Why don’t you look where you’re going?”
He found himself gazing up a skirt framing a very shapely pair of legs.
But only for an instant.
Embarrassed and red faced, the woman connected to the legs quickly stepped back.
“I…I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t see your feet down there. I didn’t know anybody was under the car.”
He stood, taking in the rest of her as he did so and, despite his annoyance, liked what he saw. Her legs weren’t the only thing about her that was shapely. Long, thick lashes framed very apologetic green eyes that sparkled with little flecks of gold. Her turned-up nose gave her a saucy, playful look.
But there was nothing playful about her full, sensuous lips.
They begged to be kissed, and, with a warm rush, Rick was reminded how long it had been since he’d had a woman.
“If you can’t see feet as big as mine, lady, then you need glasses.”
Liz automatically looked at his feet and saw that, indeed, they were large. Then, unable to help it, she thought of a dirty joke she’d heard once about the size of a man’s feet being indicative of the size of his—
She blushed, all the way to the roots of her flame-red hair, and turned away lest he be able to tell what she was thinking. “I…I’m truly sorry,” she stammered. “I was just mesmerized by the car, I guess. I’ve never seen a race car up close.”
Rick bit his lip to keep from laughing. He knew the joke about women comparing the size of a man’s foot to the size of something else.
Her red hair was pulled up in a knot on the top of her head, and she looked quite dignified in her gray linen suit and matching heels. But he also did not miss how her breasts strained against the white silk blouse, nor how her skirt hugged, then cupped, her high, tight buttocks. She was a knockout, all right, but he was still irritated.
“I’ve got work to do,” he said grouchily. “Why don’t you move along? The garage is no place for women, especially wearing stupid shoes like that.” He pointed accusingly at her heels. “It still amazes me how they’ll give just about anybody a garage pass.”
Liz felt rancor quickly rise. She could have told him she had every right to be there by introducing herself, but she wasn’t about to. Whoever he was, she didn’t like his attitude. After all, she hadn’t stepped on his feet on purpose. Still, she couldn’t help noticing how his broad shoulders and chest filled out the tight, grease-stained T-shirt, or how his jeans molded his muscular thighs so deliciously. And despite his oil-streaked face, she found him ruggedly good-looking, his sleepy, mocha-colored eyes complemented by his thick, black hair.
She had feared there might be some leftover macho types who would resent a woman working in what was considered a man’s sport. This one was obviously a member of Rick’s pit crew, and she decided it best to try to make friends. After all, it was important she get along with all the guys. The fact his nearness sent her heart into overdrive had nothing to do with it.
“Actually,” she said, “I’m looking for Rick Castles. I take it you are a member of his crew.”
Rick wasn’t about to reveal himself, instead stringing her along in hopes of getting rid of her. Cute or not, he wasn’t about to take up time with another groupie. “Yeah, you might say that. What do you want with him?”
“I just want to meet him.”
“So you’re a fan,” he said, unimpressed as he noted her media badge. “What are you doing wearing that?”
“Somebody gave it to me,” she replied, which wasn’t a lie. “And, yes, I’m a big fan, but I haven’t been for long. Rick is my favorite driver, though,” she added with a confident grin, then pointed at the logo. “New sponsor?”
He shrugged. “Yeah. Just think. We get free pizza for painting that all over the car.”
Liz stiffened. Even if this guy was just a part-timer, hanging around to get into the races free, he was going to have to learn how to act around people. What he should have said in response was that yes, Big Boy’s was the new sponsor, and Rick and all the guys were grateful. Not act as though it was no big deal because all they were getting out of it was free pizza, for heaven’s sake. Besides, for the kind of money the sponsor was shelling out to try to make the car competitive, even a part-timer should be appreciative.
Rick was watching her out of the corner of his eye, thinking again how good-looking she was and wishing all the more she’d disappear. He had no use for females hanging around the pits. Or anywhere else around a racetrack for that matter. They were nothing but trouble and got in the way. “Look, I don’t know when Rick will be back, so you might as well go on—”
“But where is he?” She had seen the schedule in the office, knew that this was the last practice session before tomorrow’s race. “How come he’s not here to try the car out?”
“He practiced this morning. He’s at the beach this afternoon. Sunbathing. Now you really should get out of here. The garage area is a dangerous place.”
“I’ve heard that before.” She was almost petulant, fighting to hold her temper all the while. Obviously Rick Castles was not taking himself, or his career, seriously. Otherwise, he would be at the track and not the beach. And even if he weren’t planning on practicing anymore he should be around to greet fans.
There was also another problem with his absence. She had the photographer lined up to take his publicity photos.
She suddenly remembered the blackboard she had seen on the wall of the booth where she’d gotten her garage pass. “There’s a drivers’ meeting at five o’clock. Won’t he have to go to that?”
“Yeah, probably.” Rick wondered if he was going to be able to get rid of her, after all.
“Then I’ll wait.” Before he could protest, she pointed to the smooth tires on the car and, figuring she might as well spend her time learning something, innocently asked, “How come there’s no tread?”
“They’re old tires. All worn-out. Can’t afford new ones.” He felt no guilt at the lie. He had no intention of being her racing tutor, for Pete’s sake. Let her go bother somebody else.
He lowered himself to the board again. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Oh, don’t mind me.” Her eyes went to his thighs, and a tremor ripped through her tummy. His jeans fit like they were molded to him, and she couldn’t help noticing the manly bulge, and…
She told herself to get a grip. Even if she was interested in men—which she wasn’t—she would never get involved with this one, because he obviously had an attitude.
“Keep hanging around, and you’re liable to get embarrassed,” he warned, rolling himself out of sight. “Sometimes guys cuss around the garage.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll ignore it.”
“But you have no business here,” he said again, this time with gritted teeth. “And Rick Castles has got a girlfriend,” he said, adding another lie. “So you’re wasting your time.”
“Oh, I see,” she said, her teeth also grinding. “Just because I want to meet the man, talk to him, I want to go to bed with him.”
He rolled back out, barely missing her as she quickly jumped out of his way. “Now did I say anything about thinking you want to go to bed with him? Jeez, what’s wrong with you? I just wanted to let you know if you had any notions about flirting with him, he’s not interested.”
“And I’m not interested in him that way.” She was so tempted then and there to introduce herself and then say, By the way, you’re fired. The team no longer needs to swap work for race passes. They can afford to hire good help. Instead, she reminded herself he wasn’t worth getting all steamed up over.

She had not moved far enough away, and, once more, he could see up her skirt. Quite an eyeful, too, and he forced himself to roll back under, lest she see his heat show.
Just who was she, and what did she want with him? He was tempted to end the charade but was too mad—with her, but, most of all, with himself. After all, he had learned his lesson about women in racing. They either couldn’t stand the stress and got hysterical every time he spun out, afterward tearfully begging him to give it up, or they found somebody else while he was traveling all over the country.
He thought of Maggie and twisted the wrench too hard. It slipped and flew back to pinch his finger, and he swore.
Liz heard and teased, “Hey, you were right. I do hear somebody cursing.”
He ignored her and continued to allow memories of Maggie to wash over him, to bathe him in rationale as to why he was not about to let the cute redhead get to him. Maggie had sworn she loved him, sworn she wanted to share his racing life with him. He’d loved her, too, and so they had married.
Then a year later she left him for a guy with a steady job who came home for dinner every night.
After that, Rick promised himself that never again, while he was involved in racing, would he have a serious relationship with a woman. Those he went with just for sex knew that, but lately those times were getting further and further apart. Casual lovemaking had begun to leave him feeling empty and cheated. So instead he worked all the harder, trying to make his dream of becoming a competitive driver on the NASCAR circuit a reality.
Liz leaned in the car window on the driver’s side to examine the seat. “How come there’s a hole in the bottom?”
Rick did feel a teeny bit guilty when he brazenly asked, “Well, where do you think a driver goes to the bathroom when he’s on the track four, maybe five, hours at a time?”
Once again Liz felt her cheeks flame. “I…I hadn’t thought about that,” she mumbled.
“Yeah, they say NASA is interested in using the same type of toilet for the astronauts.”
“Well, that’s great.” She saw there was no ignition for a key to turn. “What starts the car?”
“See that button?”
“Yes.”
“Well, when the signal is given for the race to start, the driver pushes the button. That signals the control room, and another button is pushed there that starts the engine.”
That sounded strange, even to a novice like Liz. “Why go to all that trouble? Why not just turn a key like in regular cars?”
“Well, the officials want to make sure all cars start at exactly the same time so everybody gets a fair chance.”
Liz wondered if he was jerking her around. “Are you sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure. That’s what I’m under here doing now—making sure the wires to the button are hooked up like they’re supposed to be.”
Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t had time to eat lunch. “Where do the rookie drivers eat since they aren’t given garage stalls near the concessions stands?”
Rick blinked, sure he hadn’t heard her right. “Excuse me?”
“When I was asking where Rick’s garage area was, someone said he wouldn’t be near the hot dogs, because he’s a rookie. So I was wondering where there is to eat around here? I’m awfully hungry.”
He choked back a laugh. “Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to walk back up front, because they told you right. Rookies don’t get space near the hot dogs. That has to be earned.”
Though he was silently laughing at how gullible she was, he began to feel mean. Besides, he couldn’t help thinking about those long, shapely legs and where they had ended the last time he accidentally got a glance up her skirt. But he couldn’t let her get to him. Not that way. The best thing to do was really get her hackles up so she’d leave. “You’re stubborn, aren’t you? I told you—Rick has a girlfriend. You’re wasting your time.”
“Well, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not some bimbo groupie chasing after him.”
“Then what do you want with him?”
“That’s between him and me.” Just then she saw the photographer she’d hired approaching and quickly ran to meet him lest he give her away. “The driver isn’t here, and I don’t know whether or not he will be. We may have to postpone this till tomorrow.”
He looked as disappointed as Liz felt. “Can’t do it then. I’ve got three shoots lined up before the first qualifying race. Everybody is wanting photos the first race of the season. There’s a drivers’ meeting pretty soon. Maybe he’ll show for that.”
She had forgotten about the meeting in her annoyance with the smart-mouthed mechanic. “Good idea. I’ll see if I can find him there.”
“Okay. I’ll hang around outside and look for you. Good luck.”
She returned to the car, planning to ask the mechanic to tell Rick Castles if he did return that she was looking for him. “Excuse me?”
From beneath, Rick saw her shoes and groaned. Whatever she wanted, he wasn’t interested. Maybe she was good-looking, but after his marriage had broken up because his wife couldn’t handle racing, he wasn’t looking for girlfriends at race tracks.
Just then someone called, and Liz turned to see several men, all dressed alike in blue pants and red T-shirts, rolling tires along as they came toward her.
Rick had not heard them and did not know anyone else was around as he came sliding out from under the car, face cold with fury. “You’re getting on my nerves, lady.”
He fell silent to see his crew chief, Mack Pressley. “See if you can get rid of her,” he snapped and disappeared under the car. “I’m sure as hell not having any luck.”
“Hi,” Mack held his hand out to Liz. “I’m the crew chief—Mack Pressley. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I—” She was about to introduce herself when she saw the tires they were rolling had no tread left, just like the ones already on the car. “What are you going to do with those?”
Mack exchanged grins with the other crew members, who, like himself, were intrigued by the pretty young woman wearing a media badge. “Well, you can be sure we aren’t going to tie them to a rope and swing from a tree. We just bought them, and we’re going to put them on the car.”
She was stunned. “But they’re no better than the ones already on there.”
Mack blinked, equally bewildered. “They certainly are. The others are almost ready to blow. That’s why Rick hasn’t taken the car out to practice. We had to go get these. We’ve got a new sponsor, and we just got the money from them today to buy the right kind of tires for qualifying.”
Beneath the car, Rick grimaced. If Mack kept talking to her, being nice to her, she’d never leave, damn it. And if she didn’t, she’d find out he’d been putting her on.
Liz continued to stare, not understanding about the tires.
Mack set the tire down and pulled a rag from his hip pocket to wipe his hands. “Like I said, I’m Mack, the crew chief.” He gestured to the others. “Bobby, Weyland and Jake. We’ve got to get these tires on, but if you have any questions, I’ll try to answer them. We’re just so pleased for this sponsorship we’ve got with Big Boy’s Pizza, and it’d be nice if you could work their name into your article.
“Who are you with, by the way?” he asked over his shoulder as he bent down next to the car.
“Well, I’m not a reporter, I’m—”
She was drowned out by the noise of the jack lifting the car, followed by the whine of air wrenches removing the tire’s lug nuts.
“Sorry,” Mack said when it was quiet again. “Go ahead. What paper did you say you’re with?”
“I’m not with a paper. I’m Liz Mallory, the PR representative for Big Boy’s Pizza, and—”
That was all she had time to say before Rick came careening out from under the car, and this time, he did knock her down.
She fell right on top of him, her bottom landing on his stomach.
Reacting in time to grab her and keep her from cracking her head on the concrete, he cried, “The heck you say. Tell me this is a joke.”
“No, you’re the joke,” Liz cried, struggling to get up, but he held her tight, her breasts brushing his cheek as he tried to sit up with her still on top of him. “And you’re out of here, mister. With your attitude you’re not the kind of person my agency wants identified with the Rick Castles racing team. So you can go elsewhere and wheedle your freebie race passes.”
Rick and Liz locked furious eyes while the rest of the crew burst into raucous laughter.
Liz turned to glare. “I’d like to know what’s so funny. You don’t realize how this man behaved…how he talked to me. He even had the nerve to intimate that all the new sponsorship meant was free pizzas. You think I’m going to put up with having someone like that around this team?”
Mack, still laughing, walked over to take her arms and pull her to her feet. “Well, I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.”
The mechanic was greasy, and thanks to falling on him, she was, too. She yanked the rag from Mack’s hands and began swiping at the black streaks on her skirt, but it only made matters worse. Then she suddenly realized what Mack had just said. “What did you mean by that?” she demanded, eyes narrowed.
“I mean,” he said, grinning, “that you’re going to have to put up with him, because this is our driver.
“Liz Mallory,” he said with relish, obviously enjoying the moment, “meet Rick Castles.”

Chapter Two
“Mack, is this one of your stupid pranks?” Mack was the team joker and always clowning around.
Still laughing, Mack said, “I’m afraid not.”
The cords in Rick’s neck stood out, his lips a thin, angry line. “Tell me this is a gag,” he demanded of Liz. “You can’t be the PR rep for Big Boy’s.”
“I most certainly am.” She reached down to retrieve her bag. When she’d been knocked down, everything had spilled out. She had to search for her business cards, finally thrusting one at Rick. “Here. This explains me, but I’m still hoping you are the gag.”
He let that dig pass. “How come you didn’t say who you were to start with?”
“You gave the impression you weren’t a regular member of the crew, so I didn’t figure it was any of your business.”
“Well, regardless of whether you thought I was or not, it would have been polite to introduce yourself.”
“Ha! Look who’s talking about being polite. Is the snotty way you acted with me the way you treat all your fans?”
“Groupies, yeah,” he said, hands on his hips, all the while telling himself not to think about how cute she looked with her green eyes sparkling mad. “If I took the time to talk to every woman who wrangles a pit pass to flirt with a driver, I’d never get anything done.”
“Oh, so you assume that every woman who speaks to you has romantic notions? What an ego.”
“Hey—” he jabbed his finger in the air “—don’t talk to me about nerve. You were the one putting on an act. All you had to do was say who you were, and it would have been a whole different ball game, sweetie.”
“Yeah, right. And I’d never have known what an arrogant, conceited, self-assuming chauvinist you really are, Rick Castles. But you did keep me from wasting my time trying to make you presentable to the public…and wasting the sponsor’s money, as well.”
She jabbed right back, only her finger hit him right in the chest as she added, “And don’t call me sweetie.”
“Oh, yeah, great, fine. But it’s okay for you to call me names.” He pushed her hand away. “And don’t touch me.”
“Who wants to?” She knelt down to scoop up the rest of her things and stuff them back into her purse.
She did not see the wild, pleading look that Mack and the rest of the crew were giving Rick.
And Rick was still too mad to care.
Mack said, with a nervous laugh, “Hey, you two are acting like kids. How about both of you calming down and let’s talk about all this.”
“What’s to talk about?” Liz said as she reached under the race car to retrieve a lipstick that had rolled beneath. She snagged her stockings but didn’t care. She was already a mess.
“You two have got to get along,” Mack said.
Liz stood and slung her bag strap over her shoulder, turning away from Rick to respond to Mack. “I disagree, because when I tell the sponsor what a jerk your driver is, they’ll rethink things and probably withdraw.”
She was bluffing, because she doubted she had that kind of clout. Besides, if she told Jeff she detested Rick Castles, he might pull her off the account and give it to someone else. She did not want that…did not want to fail at anything in her career again…especially because of a man.
Mack said to Liz, “Hey, please don’t do that.” Then he grabbed Rick’s shoulder and shook him. “Listen, man, we need that sponsorship money, and you know it. So apologize and call a truce.”
Liz folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot as she waited for Rick’s response. So what if she was trying to pull off a bluff? It was important to establish some ground rules here, or he’d walk all over her. And she couldn’t have that. He had to know who was in charge when it came to public relations, and, by golly, she would not stand for him being unfriendly to fans, regardless of whether some of them were what he so scornfully referred to as groupies.
Rick started picking up tools that had scattered when he came out from under the car so fast. “I don’t see where I did anything so terrible.”
“You lied,” Liz coldly pointed out. “And it most certainly was my business to know who you were.”
“Yeah, if you’d told me who you were instead of playing coy.”
“That’s beside the point. You were rude, and you don’t treat fans like that.”
“Okay, hold it.” Mack got between them. “So you two have gotten off on the wrong foot. Suppose you start over. Liz, I’m afraid Rick acts off the track like he does when he’s on it—he never gives an inch.”
“That’s called being stubborn,” she said. “And maybe it works when he’s racing but not now.”
Rick ignored her as he went about his business.
Mack allowed, “Maybe so, but that’s how he is. And who’s to know how it would’ve been if you’d introduced yourself in the beginning? I don’t think he’d have jerked you around like he did.”
Liz stared at Rick’s back as he bent beneath the raised hood of the car. His T-shirt was stretched tight, and she could see the ripple of his muscles as he worked.
Her mind danced back to when she had fallen in his lap and he had instinctively put his arms around her to keep her from toppling backward. In that briefest of moments, she had felt a swirl of desire sweep over her and actually wondered what it would be like if he pulled her tighter and pressed his lips against hers, and—
She gave herself a mental shake. She had just met the man, and he had acted like a clod, and here she was thinking how great it would be to have him kiss her. She had to banish such ponderings from her mind or she’d wind up right back in the situation she swore never to find herself again—helpless and made to feel like a fool because her body, her heart, had betrayed her.
“Well, Mack,” she said stiffly, angry at herself and directing it at Rick, “I’m afraid he’s going to have to get down off his pedestal or it’s not going to work.”
Rick withdrew from beneath the hood to turn on her. “Who are you talking about being on a pedestal? You’re the one trying to take over the team all of a sudden.”
“That’s enough. This is getting ridiculous.” Mack had lost patience and was getting mad himself. He motioned Liz to stand back and told the rest of the team to get to work changing the tires. Then he drew Rick to one side.
Liz couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Mack was right about one thing—she and Rick had gotten off on the wrong foot, all right. And now she feared her job was going to be even harder than she’d thought.
Pete Barnett walked up just then to ask if she were ready to have the pictures taken. “We’ve got time before the drivers’ meeting. Where’s Castles, anyway? I’ve never met him.”
Liz cocked her head to where Mack and Rick were still in close conversation. “That’s him on the right.”
Pete frowned at the sight of Rick in his greasy clothes and dirty face. Loudly, he said, “Well, he’d better hurry up and change. You sure don’t want to shoot him looking like that.”
Rick heard and coldly demanded, “What is it now?”
Liz stonily answered, “It’s the photographer I’ve hired to take your publicity photos, but I’m not sure we’re going to need them now.”
At that, Mack hurried to her, waving his arms. “Oh, now wait, Liz. We can work this out.” He shot a pleading glance at Rick for confirmation. “Can’t we?”
Rick did not have to think about it, even though he had let Mack argue on and on as to why he should apologize and cooperate. He knew they needed the money if they were to make a serious run for the rookie title. The smaller sponsorships weren’t enough. Sure, they could sell ads on the lower quarter panels for twenty-five thousand dollars, and on the front fenders for thirty. But that was a drop in the bucket. Tires alone were over three hundred and fifty apiece. Depending on conditions, they might use six to twelve sets each race, which meant they’d have to spend nearly twenty thousand. And they just didn’t have it. They wouldn’t have even been able to come to Daytona if not for the new sponsorship, and, waiting for the first check had been tough, because they couldn’t buy tires needed just for practice.
He stared thoughtfully at the car. He and Mack were co-signers on a banknote to buy it for one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars.
He had even had to borrow against the farm his grandmother had left him in the Georgia mountains to pay some bills. So he really couldn’t afford to walk away from Big Boy’s Pizza just because he didn’t want to work with a woman around a racetrack.
“Come on, Rick,” Mack urged, sounding desperate…which he was.
Pete asked what the problem was, and that moved Rick to do something. He well knew how motor journalists gossiped among themselves. The last thing he needed was for rumors to start flying that there was sponsorship trouble before the first race, especially over a female. It would make good copy for the sidebars that writers needed when there wasn’t much to write about.
“Let’s talk.” He motioned to Liz. And to Pete, he said, “There’s no problem. We’re just discussing maybe making the logo a little bigger. Chill out, and I’ll be ready before you know it.”
Pete looked relieved, glad he’d be making some more money that day after all and set about getting his equipment ready. He told the crew where to roll the car for the best light and background.
Meanwhile, Rick walked to a pavilion nearby where there was a water fountain. Mack started to go with them, but Rick waved him away. No one else was around, and that’s the way he wanted it.
Rick took a paper cup from the holder and filled it with water. Then he politely handed it to Liz and began. “All right, let’s get something straight. We both know I need the sponsorship, but I’d rather work with a guy.”
She smiled. “Of course, you would. I know your type. You feel threatened by women.”
At that, he threw back his head and laughed, slapping his hand against his forehead. “Give me a break.”
“So tell me what you have against working with a woman?”
“Honey, I’ve raced against women, and—”
“Don’t call me honey.”
“Okay, okay. Sorry.” He held up his hands in surrender. “I just don’t think women are cut out for this kind of sport.”
He had positioned himself on the other side of the water fountain. He didn’t like being close to her, didn’t like the woman scent of her.
Her hair smelled like sunshine, and touching her was like holding a moonbeam—so fragile, yet supple and longing to be caressed. When she had fallen on top of him, he had actually had to fight the impulse to kiss her…to taste her lips, her tongue, and then trail his mouth down her throat and on to her breasts and…
Liz was irate over how he was taking up so much time when they had little to spare. The photographer was waiting, and Rick still needed to change. “Will you get to your point?”
“I just said it was a job for a guy.”
“No,” she corrected. “You said women weren’t cut out for it. There’s a difference. But it happens to be my job until my boss assigns me to another account. So you are going to have to let me do my job. Otherwise, you leave me no choice but to go back and report you won’t cooperate. Then, it’s up to the sponsor what to do next, and you can believe they won’t be happy campers.
“PR, in case you don’t realize it,” she went on, trying not to think of warm mocha coffee as she fought to keep from drowning in his gaze, “stands for public relations, and what that means is having relations with the public. Good relations. And with your attitude, I’m not sure that’s possible. Now I think you should know there are several other rookie drivers that were being considered.” She didn’t know if that was true. She was merely trying to scare him into shaping up to make her job easier. She had no intention of quitting or reporting problems.
“In case you don’t realize it,” he said with a mocking twinkle, “the team has a contract with Big Boy’s. We haven’t violated any of the terms of that contract at this point. Just because you don’t like me—”
“No. You don’t like me. And Mack’s right. We did get off on the wrong foot, and it wasn’t my fault, and I’m not sure we can ever get along.”
“So what difference does it make if we don’t?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just this.” He leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. “You’ve got your job. I’ve got mine. Stay out of my way, and we’ll get along.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Yes, it is. I’ll cooperate. I’ll go right now and take a shower and put on my new blue uniform with the gold stripes and the Big Boy’s logo. I’ll shave and comb my hair and give you a big smile for your photos. But I don’t want you hovering around while I do it.”
“Well, you’re just going to have to get used to my hovering—as you call it—because I plan to be around most of the time. You see, part of my job is to make all travel arrangements for the team. And I go with the team and attend all the races.
“In addition,” she went on, not failing to notice how his smile had abruptly disappeared, along with his cocky air, “I arrange your press parties and interviews. I do anything and everything I can to get you public exposure. I expect you to be on time and be cordial. And your first one is tonight.”
He quit leaning and stood to tower over her, anger rushing back. “No one told me anything about having to make an appearance tonight. This is short notice.”
“It’s not an appearance. I’m taking you and the crew out to dinner.”
“Mack and I always take the guys out the night before qualifying.”
“Well, surely you don’t mind me joining you and picking up the check. I’d like to get to know everybody. Besides, we’ll be doing a lot of things together from now on, so get used to it. I’m part of the team now.” She held out her hand. “What do you say we shake on it and try to start over?”
Rick knew he really had no choice.
Beyond her, he saw Mack motioning for him to take her hand.
The photographer was also watching and, worse, raised his camera and took a picture. No doubt he’d like his own sidebar to go with it to say trouble was brewing on the Castles team before the first race of the season.
Rick shook her hand. “Okay. We start over. But I still don’t want you hanging around any more than necessary.”
“Fine,” she said, biting back a sigh of relief. She did not want him to know she had been worried he wouldn’t cave. Actually, he hadn’t. Rick, she could tell, was a very dogged kind of guy. But he was willing to try, and, for the time being, that’s all she could hope for.
She urged him to please hurry and change for the pictures, then turned and walked back to the garage area.
Rick watched her go, her high, rounded hips swaying as she walked. He cursed himself as another heated wave rolled over him.
He had not been bragging when he’d talked about the groupies and how they came on to him. It was a known fact that some women were attracted to professional athletes, and race car drivers were included in that group. And, being single, he’d had more than his share chasing after him.
But, focused as he was on his career, he ignored all the women he came into contact with, from groupies to fans to beauty queens.
But not this one.
He wanted her.
Badly.
And he could never have her.
Therefore, she had to go.
And the way to do that, he decided as he headed for the drivers’ lounge and the showers, was to find a way to make her quit.
He figured it shouldn’t be too hard. After all, she didn’t look like the type who could take the extreme heat at certain tracks during the year, or the dirt and noise for very long.
Besides, it was hard living like gypsies, traveling to a different track almost every week. The NASCAR schedule currently consisted of thirty-four races, and sometimes a few got rained out. That meant running the next clear day, then heading for the next track right away.
One day he hoped to be successful enough to afford his own plane to travel the schedule like the hot dogs—a nickname given to the top drivers. Or at least a fancy motor home that could be used at the track.
If he could win the rookie-of-the-year title, good things were sure to follow. Other big sponsorships would come in, and there would be money for better engines, better parts. He could really be competitive, maybe even one day win the big one—the NASCAR championship. Then he could write his own ticket and never have to worry about money again. After all, there was not only money to be won but endorsements and his share of sales of licensed products bearing the likeness of him and the car.
For the time being, he and Mack were owners but knew—and hoped—success would bring a real team owner, or that they would be taken on by a sponsor fielding several teams. Life would be a whole lot easier. As things were, they worked on the car themselves at a rented garage just outside Charlotte, North Carolina, the acknowledged hub of the stock car racing world.
Rick had wanted to race since he was a kid. Now, with no family except a sister up north he seldom saw, he was truly on his own and really didn’t mind being a kind of gypsy. Sure, one day he’d like to be married and settle down, but everything had to happen according to plan. He could not let anything get in his way, especially a beautiful redhead that made him want to kiss her till they were both breathless.
He quickened his pace toward the lounge, because right then a cold shower was what he needed more than anything else.
Later he would figure out how to make Liz Mallory quit.
Because he’d be doing both of them a favor.

“I’m just real sorry things happened like they did,” Mack said to Liz while they were waiting for Rick. “He’s really a nice guy.”
“Till it comes to women at a racetrack,” Liz said. “And he has got to stop thinking that every woman who approaches him wants to go out with him. There are plenty of genuine female race fans who aren’t romantically interested in the drivers, though I realize it must be hard for someone as egotistical as Rick to believe that.
“And I mean it when I say he’s got to be polite to everyone,” she added firmly.
“Hey, you don’t have to worry about that. Maybe you were coming on too strong, because you wanted to find out as much as you could about Rick and about the team. Ever think about that?”
She hadn’t, but, now that she did, allowed that perhaps Mack had a point. After all, Rick had been working, and she’d tripped over him, causing him to bump his head. No doubt, that had put him in a bad mood. Then she hadn’t gone away when he told her to. “Okay.” She managed a smile. “I’ll agree maybe I came on too strong and let it go.”
“Good. And welcome to the team. Things will be okay, and we’ll all enjoy working together.”
“All set?” Pete called from where he was standing with the camera ready. “The light is good, so I hope he’ll hurry up.”
Suddenly Liz remembered to ask Mack, “Did the new uniforms arrive?”
“Yeah. For the whole crew, too. I have to tell you, we’re going to look good tomorrow. Those are sharp outfits.”
Moments passed. Liz kept glancing at her watch. They were still okay for time but would not be for long.
The noise in the garage area was deafening as drivers pulled off the track. Practice was over. Soon it would be time for the meeting.
“I’m taking everyone out to dinner tonight,” Liz told Mack once things quieted down so he could hear. “It will give us a chance to get to know one another.”
Mack frowned. “Well, that’s nice of you, Liz, but have you told Rick? I mean, he and I are partners and we’ve been the ones to foot most of the bills since we started the team. It’s always been sort of traditional that we take the guys out for steaks the night before qualifying. I don’t think they’d like to change to pizza.
“Oh, not that they don’t like pizza,” he added quickly, eyes worriedly searching Liz’s face in hopes he hadn’t said the wrong thing. “Especially Big Boy’s. That’s one of the reasons we were so tickled when they offered sponsorship, because it’s always been our favorite, and…” He drifted into silence, obviously embarrassed for going on so.
Liz understood and cheerily assured, “Hey, I understand. And there’s no rule that says every time I take the team out we go for pizza. I’ve got an expense account, and steaks work for me. The only thing I’ll change about your tradition is paying the bill. How’s that?”
Mack said it was fine, but Liz knew it wasn’t, because she could tell Rick hadn’t wanted her tagging along. Well, that was just too bad. He was going to have to get used to having her around, as well as her calling the shots on lots of things from now on.
Gingerly she suggested, “Mack, I think you and I should get together for a meeting, just the two of us, and go over a few things. I realize this isn’t a big operation, like Hendrick Motorsports and the Pettys and a lot of others, so there’s not a team manager to really run things. But I can make things a lot smoother by taking care of motel and travel arrangements, in addition to overseeing the budget for expenses connected with team operations in general.”
“And you don’t want Rick to sit in?”
“Not this time. Let’s you and I talk first. I’d really like to go over the budget with you, too, because while I’m sure the sponsors appreciate you cutting corners to stretch the money, there are some things I’m sure they won’t like you skimping on.”
Liz was unaware she could be heard by the crew working on the car next to Rick’s. Not that they were purposely eavesdropping. They were just enjoying a little eye candy in the garage. Like Rick, they could not help but notice and appreciate the way her suit hugged her generous curves.
Concerned over what she had just said, Mack demanded, “Like what? Show me where I’ve skimped on anything.”
“Those tires.” She pointed. “Maybe they aren’t about to blow like you said the old ones were, but I still say they don’t look any better. The tread is completely gone, and—”
Liz was drowned out by a sudden explosion of laughter.
For a few seconds, Mack laughed, too, then, seeing the look on Liz’s face, took her arm and led her away.
“What…what was that all about?” she stammered when they were out of earshot of the others. “What did I say that was so funny?”
“Liz, I need to explain about the tires. They don’t have any tread, because NASCAR doesn’t race in the rain.”
“You mean they never have tread?”
“No. But you couldn’t be expected to know that. And don’t pay any attention to those hyenas laughing about it. You’re a rookie when it comes to racing. But I’ll try to help you learn along the way. Just ask me anything you want to know.”
“Like I asked Rick?” she countered tightly.
“What do you mean?”
“I asked him why the tires on his car didn’t have any tread, and he said it was because they were worn-out.”
She could tell Mack was biting back a grin, which made her all the madder.
“Damn him,” she cursed between clenched teeth. “He knew I’d make a fool of myself with that.”
“No. In all fairness, I doubt he planned it that way. Remember. He didn’t know who you were then. He was just annoyed you were there so he was being a smart aleck.”
Liz supposed that was true but still felt deeply humiliated and vowed to find a way to get him back.
“Here he comes,” Mack said. “Raise hell with him later if you want to, but let’s get these photos over with so he can get to the meeting.”
“By all means,” she said sweetly, turning in the direction of the drivers’ lounge.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Rick was probably the best-looking thing she’d seen since her last Mel Gibson movie. There was only one word to describe him—hunk.
The uniform was formfitting. And what a form he had, she mused, swallowing a sigh. He had not zipped the suit all the way, and dark hairs on his superb chest were provocatively revealed. His narrow waist emphasized great buns, and his relaxed stride was like that of a jungle animal, lazy after feeding yet ready to spring at any moment.
He reached Liz and Mack, his hair still damp from the shower. Liz clenched her fists against the ache to touch it, run her fingers through it. Her gaze dropped to his partially exposed chest, and she felt a stirring of desire to explore there, as well.
“Well, are we ready?”
He spoke curtly, impatiently, which dissipated the spellbound moment for Liz. “Yes, let’s get on with it.”
She turned and walked toward Pete, wishing all the while the sponsor had chosen a married driver…or, at least, one who didn’t heat her blood every time she got near him.

Chapter Three
The restaurant was located right on the beach. Liz tipped the maître d’ to give them a window table for a sweeping view of the ocean.
“Wow, this sure beats that greasy spoon we’re used to,” Benny Dyson, a crew member said. “The food was good, but choice seats there looked out on the swamp and the alligators.”
Rick’s jaw knotted. “Buckeye Joe’s has the best steaks in Daytona, and you know it, Benny.” Liz was in the ladies’ room, and he seized the chance to grouse. “We’ll be lucky to get anything besides caviar and roast duck at a place like this.”
Mack was scanning the menu. “I don’t know about that. They’ve got a sixteen-ounce T-bone that sounds good if she doesn’t mind me ordering something that costs almost thirty bucks.”
“Caviar is good,” Benny said innocently. “I think you ought to lighten up on the babe, Rick. She seems nice, and footing the bill to feed us is even nicer.”
“Let me tell you something.” Rick picked up his fork and shook it at him. “She’s not the one paying. The sponsor is. And I’d rather see thirty bucks spent on the race car.”
“Rick, I agree with Benny,” Mack said. “Lighten up. Buying us dinner is part of the package. Enjoy it.” He turned to Benny. “And if I were you, I’d strike the word babe from my vocabulary. She’s got a name. She expects you to use it.”
“Yeah, all right. I’ll watch it. Say, Rick, how come you don’t like her?”
Mack reached for a hot roll a waiter had set on the table, along with a pat of honey butter. “Ah, you know how he feels about women in racing. They get on his nerves.”
“They’re bad luck,” Rick said, not about to divulge his real feelings. “Big Boy’s could just as easily have sent a man to do the PR.”
“But they didn’t,” Mack pointed out. “They sent Liz. And like I’ve been telling you all evening, forget how you two rubbed each other the wrong way. We’ve got a qualifying race to run tomorrow, and you need to focus.”
Oh, he was focusing, all right, Rick thought furiously as he watched Liz approach.
But not on the race.
Mack had told him how humiliated she had been about the tires, and he figured on embarrassing her again. Hopefully she would then have second thoughts.
Maybe, he brooded, he wouldn’t be so opposed to having her around if she weren’t so good-looking. She had gone to her motel from the track, meeting them at the restaurant. She’d happily shared the news her lost luggage had been found and delivered. So she had changed from her business suit into a blue and white pants outfit. The top was scooped low enough to be sexy but still in good taste, and her tiny waist emphasized the rest of her.
She was not wearing her hair in the austere bun; instead it hung softly around her face.
He was glad she had put Mack between them. That made it easier to ignore her…or try to, anyway.
Mack leaped up to pull out her chair. “We were just saying what a nice place this is, Liz. Be sure to tell the VIPs at Big Boy’s we appreciate it.”
She gave everyone at the table a sweeping smile, even Rick. “You can tell them yourselves next Sunday. I had a message waiting at the motel saying Gary Staley, the CEO, is flying a crowd in for the race.”
“So we get to meet them in person,” Mack said. “We’ve only talked on the phone.”
“Oh, yes. I’ve got to make reservations somewhere special for dinner Saturday night, and—”
Benny laughingly interrupted to remark, “Well, how much nicer can it get than this?”
“You’ll see,” she said with a wink, then continued, “I’ll also arrange garage passes for them before the race, and—”
“Hold it.”
All eyes turned on Rick.
“The last thing we need right before a race is a bunch of people getting in the way and asking stupid questions.”
Mack cried, “Hey, wait a minute, Rick. We’re talking about the people footing the bill for you to try to win the rookie title.”
“Which won’t happen if I’ve got to worry with them,” Rick argued. “PR reps for other teams handle the VIPs themselves. They don’t bring them around the driver right before a race.”
“Well, I don’t intend to do that,” Liz defended. “I don’t want them to get in your way, either. So I’ll remedy the situation by keeping them a good distance away, and I will answer their questions.”
“You?” Rick scoffed.
“Sure.”
“You don’t know beans about racing, Liz.”
Mack groaned. “Here we go again. I thought you two called a truce.”
“We have,” Liz said sweetly. “We’re just talking, Mack. We aren’t arguing.”
“Well, you’ve got a week,” Rick said smugly. “Maybe you can learn enough to carry on an intelligent conversation, or fake it, at least.”
A waiter came and took their orders. Liz emphasized they should all have whatever they wanted, regardless of the cost.
After he left, she turned to Rick. “I won’t have to fake it. And I don’t have to take a crash course. I know enough about your car to explain it to them.”
“Yeah? Well, let’s hear it.” Rick leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. Maybe he wouldn’t have to do anything to humiliate her. He would let her do it herself.
Liz wriggled in her seat, as though eager to show off her knowledge. Then, propping her chin on coyly laced fingers, she began. “Well, I know that the toilet facilities in race cars are being studied by NASA, because they’re thinking about using the same system for the astronauts.”
Benny choked on a bite of roll.
Two of the other crew members, having just sipped their beers, sprayed the table.
Mack cried, “Liz, no—”
She ignored him. “I also know about that little button on the dash that sends a signal to a big computer somewhere to make it fair for everybody to start their cars at the same time.”
“Oh, man.” Benny reached for his water glass, still coughing and choking.
The others reached for their beer, struggling with the hilarity of it all.
Mack grabbed Liz’s wrist. “Hey, you’re just clowning around, right? You don’t really believe all that?”
Making her eyes wide with innocence, Liz replied, “Why, of course I do. I had a very good teacher.”
Mack looked accusingly at Rick, who had been listening stone-faced and silent. “Did you tell her all that crap? I heard about the tires. Jeez, Rick…”
Liz had wasted no time once she got to her motel room unpacking the books she had bought on racing. Scolding herself for not finding the time to do so earlier, she had located information on the construction of race cars and devoured every word.
She relished the astonished look that came over Rick’s face with each word she spoke. “The typical Winston Cup car weighs thirty-four hundred pounds and has a seven- to seven-hundred-fifty-horsepower engine that drives the rear wheels through a four-speed transmission. Top speed is 220 miles an hour. The roll cage inside the car is made of 150 feet of steel tubing to protect the driver. There are no doors, no passenger seat, and no speedometer. The tires have an extra layer of rubber to try to guard against a flat. They’re fortified by a belt network that was designed to keep their shape under extreme stress.”
She paused to sip her wine, reveling in the moment, then continued. “There are two eleven-gallon rubber gas tanks encased in steel for safety, but fuel economy would be a nightmare for the ordinary street car. Race cars only get five miles to the gallon, and, of course, they use a special kind of fuel that is much more expensive than regular gas.”
A hush had fallen over the table.
Rick was the first to break it, not about to let her get the best of him, merely because she’d managed to speed-read some technical stuff before dinner. “Well, now, Liz, that’s real impressive. Maybe with all that information to share, you can keep the bigwigs out of my way.”
“I intend to. But I’m sure they’d like to hear about the toilet facilities. I thought maybe you could explain that to them.”
Mack shook his head. “What in heck did you tell her, Rick?”
The waiter appeared with stuffed shrimp appetizers for everyone. Rick helped himself before flippantly responding. “She can’t take a joke. Or maybe she doesn’t know enough about what’s going on to realize it’s a joke. She asked about that hole in the seat. I made up a story about how it’s the way drivers use the bathroom during a race.”
“When actually,” Liz corrected, “it’s where the driver’s shoulder harness connects. You were just teasing, I know.” She flashed her sweetest smile at Rick, but her eyes were cold. “But enough funny stuff. From now on I would appreciate it if you would tell me the truth when I ask you a technical question, okay?”
Rick gave a curt nod of assent and bristled to think how she might have won the lap but would never finish the race.
Not if he could help it.

Mack breezed into the motel’s coffee shop and went to where Liz was waiting in a booth.
“Is Rick coming?” she asked. She had scheduled a breakfast meeting to go over a few things, and, since the night before, she had arranged for Rick to be a guest on a popular local talk show for that evening.
Mack signaled the waitress for coffee. “He’s taking a shower. He said he’d skip breakfast and head to the track. He wants to get started checking the car out before the races today.”
“Well, I need to tell him about a radio show I’ve got him scheduled to be on tonight.”
Mack’s eyes widened. “The one called Pit Stop?”
She nodded.
“Oh, man, that’s great. During Speed Weeks, it’s broadcast from one of the hottest nightclubs on the beach. He’ll get a lot of exposure.”
“I know. So will you please call him on a house phone and tell him I need to meet with him now?”
Mack frowned. “Liz, he said he’d rather me deal with you, so I’ll tell him about it when I get to the track. I’m sorry, but that’s just how he is.”
“Well, it’s not how I am, and he’s got plenty of time. It’s only seven o’clock. He can be at the track by eight. Now if you don’t want to call him, Mack, I will.”
She started to get up, but Mack waved her to stay seated. “I’ll do it. But I can’t understand why you and I can’t handle everything and leave him out of it.”
“That’s just the point. He is everything. He is the focus of my job. I’ve also arranged an interview for him with an Atlanta journalist. Big Boy’s has sixteen restaurants in the Atlanta area. They’ll be thrilled to see a story about Rick in the paper. I need to tell him what time to meet the writer and where.
“Your job, Mack,” she politely reminded, “is to take care of the car. I plan to ease a lot of your burdens over managing the team to give you more time to do that. Now please get Rick down here so we can discuss all this and get it over with so you can do your job, and I can do mine. Okay?”
Mack made the call and returned to say Rick was on his way. “He’s grumbling, but he’ll be okay.”
Liz couldn’t care less.
About ten minutes later, Rick all but threw himself into the other side of the booth next to Mack. “All right, what’s so important it can’t wait?”
Liz handed him a schedule for the week that she had prepared. “I just wanted a quiet moment to go over all this with the two of you.”
Mack, reading over Rick’s shoulder, said, “This is all PR stuff—appearances at the mall to sign autographs, stuff like that. What has it got to do with me?”
She explained how she needed Mack to know Rick’s schedule so he wouldn’t have him practicing or working on the car at those times. “I’ve checked the track schedule, and I’ve made sure there won’t be any conflicts as far as what he needs to do there. I want you to coordinate with me.”
“Great. No problem.” Mack looked up to see Benny waving from the door. “Gotta go. See you guys later.”
“We’ll have dinner again later in the week,” Liz said.
“Afraid not. My wife’s driving in from Charlotte today and bringing the kids. We’ve got an efficiency, so she’ll be doing some cooking.”
“Well, maybe she can join us,” Liz said. “I’d like to meet her. In fact, I’d like to meet the families of the entire crew. I want us to be like a family, all working together to win and make Rick a star.”
Mack gave her a little salute and left them.
Rick reached for the coffee Mack hadn’t had time to drink. “I knew he was going to duck out and leave me with all this.”
“All what?” Liz said, troubled that he continued to resent her at every turn. “I just want to make sure you understand about the show tonight, what time you need to be there, and—”
“The show,” he scoffed, staring down at the schedule. “Now I know some drivers who aren’t rookies that haven’t been able to get on there. Pit Stop features the biggies, not the little guys like me. But—” he paused to give his most mocking grin “—I guess that’s an advantage to having a female PR person, right?”
“Wrong.” Liz was fast getting her dander up. She knew what he was implying and didn’t like it.
“Then how did you arrange it? Tell me. I’d like to hear. Exactly how did you manage within twenty-four hours of arriving in Daytona to get me on that show tonight?”
“I met Jimmy Barnes, the host, at a party last night.”
“A party. After you left us at the restaurant, you went to a party.”
“That’s right. The invitation was in my press package. I was introduced to Jimmy, and I told him about you and the new sponsorship, and he said great, he’d like to have you on his show tonight. Simple as that.”
Rick knew it wasn’t that simple at all. Jimmy Barnes had been turned on by Liz like any normal man would be, and he’d let her wheedle him into putting him on the show. Maybe some drivers would consider that an advantage—having a sexy female pave the way for them—but not Rick.
Still, he knew better than to gripe about it. He did need the exposure. And he wanted it badly. That’s how other sponsors became interested in a driver.
“Well, that’s nice, Liz. I’ll look forward to it.”
Something in his voice raised suspicion that he wasn’t all that pleased, but not about the show. He probably thought she had flirted with Jimmy Barnes to get him on there. But she hadn’t.
One of the things Liz adhered to was her personal rule that she would not use womanly guile to open doors. Yes, she would try to dress nicely, but she would be all business. If anyone got any ideas, she set them straight. And that was how she intended to conduct herself in the racing world.
Liz ordered breakfast, even though she wasn’t hungry. In fact, she never ate breakfast, just grabbed a quick cup of coffee on the run.
She told herself the only reason she was eating this morning was because it was going to be a long day. She needed her energy. She would not even remotely consider it was to prolong her time with Rick because he was being friendly. Still distant. Still reserved. But it was an improvement over his previous demeanor.
He was wearing a T-shirt again. It reminded her of Clint Eastwood in Bridges of Madison County. The man might be pushing seventy, but in a T-shirt he was a sex symbol nonpareil.
Liz munched on a piece of toast she didn’t want and wondered what size shirt Rick wore. She seized on an excuse to ask. “I should be receiving the new T-shirts today that Big Boy’s had made up to sell at the concession stands. I’ll take out a few for you guys. What size do you wear?”
“Extra-large.”
She should have known.
“And how big are you?”
“Thirty-four, C cup,” she blurted without thinking and wanted to die then and there. What was wrong with her? She gulped and corrected, “I meant medium.”
“I can’t believe you’re blushing.”
“Am I?” She took a big swallow of orange juice, hoping it would cool her cheeks.
“Yeah, you are. And that’s kind of nice. I didn’t know women blushed anymore.”
“I just got too much sun yesterday.” Maybe it had been a big mistake to prolong the meeting. But she had dared to think she had her emotions under control. Last night she had lain awake for hours lecturing herself that she was a fool to be even remotely attracted to him.
The waitress brought the check. Liz reached for it, but Rick got it first.
She protested, “I’m on an expense account.”
He leaned across the table so those around would not hear. “Then next time make arrangements to pay the tab before it’s put on the table.”
“What difference does that make?”
“I don’t know where you come from, Liz, or how they do things there. But I hail from a small town in Georgia, which makes me, I guess, a country boy, with old-fashioned ways, and one of them happens to be the man pays the bill when he’s dining with a lady.”
“I paid it last night.”
“It wasn’t just the two of us.”
She argued, “I’m not paying for it. The sponsor is.”
He countered, “Others don’t know that.”
“I don’t see why we should care what others think.”
“Hey, aren’t you the one who was giving me a lecture on public relations just yesterday? Well, we’re in public, and we’re having relations—social, anyway. So that means I have to be aware of what others think. Am I right?”
“You’re stretching it a bit,” she said stiffly.
“Oh, don’t worry about it. It’s not a big deal. And I don’t have time to debate the issue, anyway. I need to get to the track. I’ll let you know tomorrow how the show went tonight. Or maybe you’ll listen to it.”
He rose, and so did she to quickly inform him, “Not only will I listen, I will be there. In fact, I’d like for us to drive together, if you don’t mind. It will look good for you to walk in with your PR rep.”
Rick did not like that picture, at all. After the dream he’d had last night, he wanted to avoid Liz like the plague. He hadn’t had a dream like that since high school, for crying out loud, which only reminded him all the more how long it had been since he’d slept with a woman. And he needed one badly. But not Liz.
She fell into step beside him. “I’m going to the track, too. In case you do really well in the qualifying races, I’ll need to be around to put a spin on it.”
She had been up since dawn, doing more studying and now understood the twin qualifying races. At other tracks on the circuit, drivers just went out individually for time trials. The starting lineup was set according to the average speed they ran for two laps. It was different at Daytona, where two 125-mile races were held, and the way drivers finished was how they would start the race on Sunday.
Liz realized Rick had stopped walking and had come to an abrupt halt. She whirled around to see that he was staring at her as if she’d lost her mind. “What?”
“This isn’t politics.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to hang around me putting a spin on things.”
She felt totally frustrated. Was everything that came out of her mouth that day going to sound all wrong? “What I meant was—I’ll be around to drum up as much coverage from the media as I can. Brag about how you did and point them in your direction.”
“I guess that’s okay.” He started walking again.
As he caught up with her, his bare arm brushed against hers, and he cursed himself for the rush. She was wearing slacks. Tight white slacks. And a pale green blouse of some kind of cool, clingy material that emphasized her nice breasts.
No doubt about it, he thought on a sigh. He had to make her want to quit…and fast.
Liz heard Rick sigh and mistook it for annoyance at the trio of girls standing in the lobby.
“Rick Castles, it’s really you,” one of them squealed. She was poured into her jeans, which cut below her navel. Her braless bosom was about to tumble out of her halter top as she bounced up and down on the toes of her platform slides.
“Can we have your autograph?” asked another girl, dressed almost identically, as she rushed up to Rick.
“Yeah, sure,” Rick said pleasantly. He suspected Liz thought it was for her benefit that he was being so nice about it, but the truth was he didn’t mind when the girls weren’t at the track. “Got a pen?” he asked Liz.
“Who’s she?” one of the girls asked, scowling jealously at Liz.
“My PR rep.” He took the pen Liz handed him and signed the piece of paper the girl thrust at him.
He did the same for another, but the third girl, who had been hanging back, moved in and said, “I want something else autographed.” She indicated her arm.
Liz held her breath to see how Rick would react.
“Sorry. No body parts.”
His smile could have melted an icicle. In fact, it kept the girl from having her feelings hurt, because she was practically swooning before it. “Then…then just sign this,” she stammered, overcome by his nearness, and handed him a souvenir race program.
Outside in the parking lot, Liz offered him a ride to the track. “You could come back with one of the guys.”
He shook his head, not about to be cozied up with her in a car. Too intimate. “No, I’ve got some stuff in mine I’ll need, and it’d take too long to switch.”
“Well, okay.” She tried not to sound disappointed. It was for the best, anyway. She knew she didn’t need to be alone with him any more than absolutely necessary. “By the way, you were really nice to those girls back there.”
“Of course, I was. They weren’t bugging me at the track when I’m doing something. Besides, to them I’m just another driver.”
Liz watched him walk to his car, wickedly observing that he looked just as good going as he did coming.
But he was wrong about thinking he was just another driver to those girls.
Like Liz, they knew a hunk when they saw one.

Rick was in the second qualifying race, and he and Mack and the crew used the extra time till then to keep working. Still Liz managed to get the whole crew lined up beside the car for more photos.
It did not take much to get caught up in all the excitement, and she felt so proud to walk with the crew as they rolled the car onto the track to line up for the start of the race.
The grandstands were packed. Bands were playing. All around fans were cheering for their favorite driver.
Liz wondered where she should watch the race. She didn’t want to be in the way in the pits but wanted to keep up with what was going on. Then she noticed some PR guys she’d met at the party last night heading for the press tower in the infield. She fell in step behind them, figuring she couldn’t go wrong following her peers.
The tower was floor-to-ceiling glass on all sides, and Liz thrilled to be able to see the entire track. It was deliciously air-conditioned, and there was plenty to eat and drink.
As writers worked on laptops, other PR reps passed out freebies like caps, T-shirts and other items with their drivers’ logos. Liz hoped her own supplies would come in. As soon as the race was over and she knew where Rick would be in Sunday’s lineup, she was off to work on his press kit.
“There’re off,” somebody shouted.
Liz found a chair and sat down to watch. The cars had taken the pace laps. The pace car had pulled in, and the green flag was waving.
Her eyes stayed on Rick’s car, and, for a while, things went smoothly. Then there was a four-car pileup right in front of him. She clenched her fists and bit down on her lower lip—hard—to keep from screaming. It looked as though he was going to plow right into the middle of the melee. Instead, he went high, and then she feared he’d hit the wall.
“Hey, look at how slick car sixty got around all that,” a writer yelled. “Who’s the driver?”
“Rick Castles,” Liz said loudly and proudly. “Sponsored by Big Boy’s Pizza.”
“He’s a rookie,” somebody else said. “Quite a feat. He’s gonna bear watching this season.”
“Right.” Liz was beside herself. “I’ll have his press kits in a few days. Meanwhile, if anybody needs to line up an interview, I’ll take care of it. The name’s Liz Mallory, and I’m his PR rep.”
She turned back to the race, thrilling to every second as Rick kept up with the pack. When he moved into fifth place, she heard more murmurs from the press as to his driving ability.
When he passed for third, and it looked like he might give a run for victory…actually had a chance to win, Liz could contain herself no longer. She was jumping up and down and clapping her hands and so were a lot of the writers, eager to pull for an underdog.
But he never made it closer than third. Still, cheers went up for a rookie who had done so well.
Suddenly Liz found herself surrounded by journalists clamoring to set up interviews. Rick Castles’s finish was worthy of a feature story.
“Say, why don’t you call down on your radio and get him up here for an interview?” someone suggested. Others agreed.
Liz felt stupid not to have her own headset and radio. She’d seen how a lot of other PR reps had them to keep in touch with the crew chief, but that was something she just hadn’t thought about. Boy, did she have her homework cut out for her.
“Radio wasn’t working,” she said with an exaggerated shrug. “I’ll just go get him.” She passed the food tables, laden with sandwiches and fried chicken. “He’ll probably be hungry, anyway, since his garage space is far away from the food like the rest of the rookies.”
A writer helping himself to cake squares gave her a strange look. “What are you talking about?”
“The rookies. They aren’t near the food. They have to earn it, you know.”
Others, overhearing, turned to stare.
“The rookies,” she repeated lamely, wondering what was wrong. “They aren’t near the food like the top drivers.”
“Would you please explain that?” the one with the heaping plate of cake squares asked, a slow grin spreading across his face. “I mean, what does being a rookie have to do with being near food?”
Stiffly, defensively, Liz said, “That’s what I was told by the garage guard my first day when I asked where I’d find my driver. He said he’d be in the back, not up front with the hot dogs. I asked somebody what that meant, and they said rookies weren’t near the food stands, and—”
As the room exploded with laughter, Liz slapped her forehead and groaned to remember just who that somebody was.
The mechanic under the car.
Also known as Rick Castles.
And once again he’d made her look like a fool.

Chapter Four
There were two days left before the big race. Liz was sequestered in her hotel room going over her notes to make sure she had not forgotten anything. Gary Staley’s jet would arrive just before lunch, so she had plenty of time.
Jeff was coming in on a commercial flight and had said he would meet them and take them to lunch. Liz had made reservations at an upscale restaurant and planned to join them there.
The press kits had been completed by midweek. She was very proud of them, and several journalists had complimented her on a great job. She had thanked them without explaining they would be even better once she had time to write some feature articles on Rick herself. But she could not do that till she got to know him a little better, and since the humiliating incident in the press box, she had avoided him as much as possible.
A week had passed since his performance in the qualifying races had given him a little more than fifteen minutes of fame. He had been the subject of several stories the following day in newspapers all over the country. He’d also been interviewed for radio and TV.
Liz had planned to play it for all it was worth, but the next day a well-known driver had wrecked his car in practice. The car was nothing but crumpled sheet metal, and she could not believe anyone could have survived such a crash. The driver had to be airlifted from the infield medical center to a local hospital, mercifully with no life-threatening injuries, but, of course, the media focused on him.
The day after that, something else had happened, and so it went. The sportswriters were constantly looking for new subjects to write about, so no one driver stayed in the limelight for long. Still, Liz had stayed busy trying to drum up interest in Rick. She had wanted to have a big story in the Sunday paper to impress not only the sponsor but her boss, as well.
She was sprawled on the bed, wearing shorts and a T-shirt with Rick’s picture on it. The tees had just gone on sale at the track concession stands the day before, and she was anxious to find out how they were selling. But first things first.
After lunch, Jeff was to drive the VIPs to the track, where Liz had arranged for them to have passes to the pit area to watch the last practice session. However, the crew was taking a day off. Their families had arrived, and they planned to relax at the beach the rest of the day.
She picked up Rick’s folder and began leafing through it. She knew it by heart. He was thirty-two. Older than the other rookies in their mid-twenties. But his had been a small, cheap operation. It had taken a lot of work and time on a very small budget to finally catch the eye of a sponsor willing to back him on the NASCAR circuit.
It had also taken skill as a driver, which Rick obviously had. He and Mack were longtime friends from a small town in Georgia. They had formed the team and run the short tracks all over the Southeast. Rick had won several local championships, made a name for himself and now he had been given a chance to run with the hot dogs.
Liz made a face to recall her humiliation in the press box. Though sorely tempted, she’d not said a word to Rick and spent little time in the garage, instead focusing on the press kits and getting them distributed, as well as trying to line up publicity for him.
She had approached him only when she needed to talk to him about something specific—like the autographing he’d done earlier in the week at a nearby mall. She had been quite impressed at the crowd he’d drawn. He was obviously popular with his fans, and she hoped to make him even more so and win new ones.
She read in his bio again about his degree from Georgia Tech in automotive engineering. He had probably commanded a high salary in that field before giving it up to go into racing full-time.
She took out the color photos from the press kit. She especially liked the one of Rick beside the race car. He made wonderful pictures, his dark, rugged good looks coming through on camera.
As always, Liz found herself wondering about his personal life and what he would be doing on a day others were with their families. Someone so handsome was bound to be in a relationship, which would explain his ambivalence to the beautiful young women who flocked around him at every opportunity. If so, it was an admirable trait. She liked loyalty in a man…something she, unfortunately, had yet to experience.
But she did not envy Rick’s girlfriend his archaic views toward women. Maybe she never showed up at the track because he made it clear he thought it was no place for females. Probably he kept her in what he considered her place—at home.
That would never work for Liz. But it didn’t matter. She was hoping if all went well, Jeff would move her on up the ladder to bigger accounts. So it wasn’t as if she would have to remain Rick’s PR rep for the duration of his sponsorship with Big Boy’s Pizza.
She wondered about her own schedule. The next race was in Rockingham, North Carolina, in only a week. Qualifying would begin midweek, which gave her just a few days to return to Charlotte and settle into her new apartment. She’d rented it on the Internet and hoped it would be okay. It really made no difference, though, because with a thirty-four-race schedule to follow, she’d hardly be home long enough to unpack, do her laundry, then throw everything back in her suitcase.
A glance at the clock told her she still had plenty of time to get dressed for lunch. Still, a long, soaking bath would be nice.
She was about to step into the tub when the phone rang. It was Rick, and he sounded annoyed.
“I need your help.”
She went into her public relations mode, sounding cordial but all business. “Certainly. What can I do for you?”
“Meet me in the parking lot. We need to get to the track right away. I’ll drive.”
“But—”
He hung up before she could begin firing questions, such as how long did he need her…and for what? Maybe she should have told him earlier about her luncheon appointment with his sponsor, and then he would’ve known she didn’t have time to ride out to the track.
She tried to call his room, but there was no answer, which meant he was on his way to his car. She had managed to get a room at the same motel as the team for convenience sake. Now she wondered if that had been a smart idea.
She yanked on her sneakers and hurried downstairs. She wasn’t thrilled over anyone seeing her dressed as she was, but she was in a hurry to let Rick know he had to find someone else.
Pushing through the doors to the outside, she saw him parked at the curb, the car’s engine running.
She opened the passenger door and leaned in. “Listen, I can’t go,” she began. “I forgot to tell you—”
And that was all she had time to say before he reached to grab her arm and pull her in. “Sorry, but there’s nobody else. The guys are at the beach.”
“But I can’t go. I’ve got an important lunch date.”
He squealed tires leaving the parking lot. “Your boyfriend can wait.”
“It’s not with a boyfriend.” Liz was having a hard time getting her seat belt fastened as he hurtled through traffic. “And I wish you’d slow down. You’re going to get a ticket.”
“Sorry.” He eased back on the gas. “I’m just in a hurry to get to the track and get started.”
“Doing what? And by the way, the lunch date is with your sponsor. The VIPs are coming in, as well as my boss from New York, and—”
“Your boss can handle it. Isn’t your job to help me?”
“Yes, in PR matters, but I can’t think of anything going on at the track you need me for.”
“It’s not PR. And I hate asking you to do it, but it’s got to be done, and I can’t trust anybody but you.”
“Sounds real James Bond,” she said, annoyed, “but I still need to make that appointment on time.” If he needed help, and she could provide it, she supposed that was part of her job. After all, if he was stressed, it could not only affect his driving but the persona he presented to the public as well. “How long will it take?”
“Don’t know yet. Don’t even know if it’s going to be necessary, but I can’t risk not checking it out.”
“Well, can’t you tell me what it’s about?”
“It’s about the team maybe getting fined anywhere from twenty-five to fifty thousand dollars.”
Liz nearly choked on a gasp. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Afraid not. There have been a lot of violations lately, and somebody just called to tip me off that NASCAR is going to do some surprise inspections of fuel tanks late this afternoon. I need to make sure ours is okay.”
“Well…well, why wouldn’t it be?”
“Everybody is supposed to run the same kind of fuel, bought at the track. But there’s always somebody trying to find a way to cheat.”
Liz flashed him a look of disgust. “Like you were obviously planning to do, and now you’re scared you’ll get caught.”
“Not exactly. Mack was telling me somebody has come up with an oxygen enhancer. It’s an improper additive. We didn’t plan to use it, but Mack did say he got hold of some and thought about testing it out in practice just for the fun of it, to see if it worked. Nothing wrong there, but—” he paused for emphasis “—if it’s still in there when NASCAR does a check, they aren’t going to believe we never intended to use it for the race. So I need to make sure everything is okay.”
“By doing what?”
“By draining the fuel out and putting the right kind back in.”
“And what do you need me for?” Liz didn’t like being a part of it.
“To keep an eye out for any NASCAR officials roaming in the garage till I can get rid of it. But it may not be in there. Mack might have been running his mouth. Who knows? But I can’t take any chances.”
“Well, he never should have put it in there to start with, and then you wouldn’t have to worry about it.” Though it was not in her job description, Liz knew when she saw Mack she’d say something to him about even toying with anything illegal. The sponsor would be furious if the team were caught and fined.
“Okay, so maybe we do need to check, but I’m not dressed for this,” she grumbled.

Rick was pleased she wasn’t. That would add to her misery. It was a hot day, even for Daytona in February, and the humidity was so thick you could almost slice it. “Don’t worry. I’ve got some overalls in the truck. You can wear those.”
“As hot as it is? I’ll die.”
“Can’t be helped. They’d never let you through the garage gate wearing shorts, even if you do have a pass.” He stole a look at her legs. Nice and shapely. And if he ran his hand across her thighs, her skin would probably feel like satin—
Perspiration beaded his forehead, and he knew it was not from the heat outside.
“Overalls.” Liz sank down in the seat looking as if she wished she were anywhere but there. “I hope this won’t take long.”
He felt a twinge of guilt. She had been doing a great job. The guys liked her, but, more importantly, the press seemed to, also. He’d never dreamed of having the exposure he’d gotten in the past week. He could tell his number of fans was growing by the attendance everywhere he had gone to sign autographs.
All in all, Liz was pleasant to work with. And if she were a man, he’d be tickled to death. But she wasn’t. And she didn’t belong.
Not at the track.
Not in his dreams.
And she sure as heck paid him a nightly visit in those.
Turning into the speedway entrance, he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She was cute in her shorts and T-shirt. Her red hair was pulled back in a ponytail. And even though she wasn’t wearing any makeup that he could tell, she was still gorgeous.
She hadn’t told him about meeting the VIPs. If she had, Rick would probably have changed his mind. He had chosen this afternoon, because he knew the guys wouldn’t be around. But maybe it would even work out better that the big kahunas were around. They’d be annoyed she didn’t show up for her appointment. And they would also raise eyebrows to see her in greasy overalls. He, of course, would give the impression—when Liz wasn’t around, of course—that she had insisted on getting deeply involved with the team.
“I really shouldn’t be doing this,” Liz protested as they walked toward the garage. “Even if we left right now, I’d never get to the restaurant on time.”
He kept a tight hold on her arm. “This is more important.” Actually, his conscience was really starting to bother him. He only wanted to make her ask for another assignment. Not get fired.
“I don’t even have my credentials with me,” she pointed out. “I didn’t plan on coming with you.”
“Doesn’t matter. We can go to the NASCAR office and tell them you forgot. They’ll issue temporaries.”
When they reached the garage entrance, the guard on duty stepped out of the booth and held up his hand. “You can’t go in there like that.” He pointed to the open-toed sandals Liz was wearing, then raked her legs with an appreciative glance. “And you can’t wear shorts, either.”
Liz, not wanting the guard to think she didn’t know any better, attempted to explain. “I didn’t intend to come dressed like this, and—”
Rick cut her off. “I’ve got overalls in the truck she can wear. How about giving us a break? And I’m going to make sure she doesn’t get hurt. Come on, we don’t have a lot of time, and there’s something I need her to do.”
The guard scratched his chin. “Well, I don’t know…”
“I told you I had overalls for her.”
“Oh, all right.” Frowning, he waved them on their way as he said to Liz, “If you’re gonna work around a track, learn how to dress.”
“This wasn’t my idea,” she called over her shoulder.
Rick gave her a tug. “Come on. We’ve wasted enough time.”
Liz was mad all over again. He seemed to have a knack for humiliating her. The guard would probably laugh about how Rick Castles’s PR rep was such a rookie she showed up wearing shorts and sandals. And, once again, she’d be the butt of jokes and snickers. All week she’d had to put up with writers making cracks about how she should bring them a hot dog when she went into the garage. She wondered how long it would take to live that down.
The overalls had long sleeves, was way too big for her, and Liz was sweltering before she even got it buttoned. Perspiration made her eyes sting, her ponytail hung limp, and she felt like a wilted dandelion.
She was exhausted from the hectic pace she had been keeping. Working on the press kits had taken a lot of time. Then there were all the parties she felt obligated to attend to meet everyone involved in corporate sponsorships, as well as speedway personnel. After all, racing was like one big family, everyone traveling together from track to track throughout the year. And she wanted to be a part of it, to be accepted.
She had also been busy with Rick’s activities, making sure he got where he was supposed to be on time and connected with his fans.
Once she got the hang of things, Liz was sure she’d be well-organized and have plenty of time for everything. But for the time being, she could only stumble through and do the best she could.
Rick could see how her impatience and annoyance was building. He decided to make it even worse. “Listen, I think it’s time you realized that PR work in racing is different. Real different. It’s not a nine-to-five job.”

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