In the Groove (8 page)

Obviously, she'd been wrong.

CHAPTER NINE

So she went to the autographing, although to be honest, mostly to prove that she could interact with Lance and not make a fool of herself.

As they climbed into the waiting car, Sarah told herself to relax. The hotel was close by, or so the driver told her. She could sit next to Lance and act as if nothing had happened between them. He sure did a good job of it.

But the fact of the matter was, she couldn't just dismiss it as he apparently did. Every time she came near the man her pulse rate elevated like she had hypertension. A chronic blush tinted her cheeks. Within two minutes of climbing into the rental car, Sarah realized that despite all the times her heart had been stomped on in the past, she seemed to have developed a crush—a bona fide, heart-pounding, palm-sweating crush—on her new boss.

What.

An.

Idiot.

A little voice inside her head told her she should quit, but she was fresh out of courage and quitting meant sinking even further into debt, not to mention owing Lance for the repair of her car. No, she was kind of stuck trying to stick it out. As long as she nipped her crush right in the bud she was safe. And if ever she needed further proof that she didn't stand a chance at catching Lance's interest, all she had to do was glance around the spacious ballroom and look at the women who'd come with the very obvious intention of becoming the Saran Wrap to Lance's Tupperware.

She'd entered Babeland.

Seriously, there were so many pretty women in the room, it looked like a cattle call for The Rolling Stones' next video. Oh, not every woman was decked out to the nines, some even had husbands and boyfriends with them, but the majority of the women had come with the very obvious intent of scoring themselves a driver—if only for a night. Sarah watched as each woman turned toward the door, breasts thrusting up, hair swishing over one shoulder, mental "welcome" signs all but hung around their shoulders.

She, apparently, was immediately dismissed as a nonthreat. More than one woman looked at her and glanced away without a single sign of visually wishing for her death.

Too plain. Not flashy. Must be a friend.

Sigh. Story of her life.

"Lance," Miss Super Tools said, coming forward in her too-tight pants that made her waist look so narrow, Sarah wondered if a McDonald's French fry had ever passed her lips. "I'm so glad you could make it. There's drinks over there for you and your driver," she said, glancing in Sarah's direction before pointing toward a corner of the room. "We're having an autograph session in an hour over there." And now she pointed to another side of the room. "Todd is here. And so is Brock Ashton—they'll both be signing with you. Feel free to mingle. I'm sure the fans are dying to talk to you."

Lance nodded, glancing in her direction. Sarah smiled brightly as she said, "Go ahead. I'll be okay," all the while wondering what the heck she was doing here. Why had she come? Had she really needed to prove to herself that she could act disinterested in Lance?

You came because you wanted to see what his life was like. Because you were curious about how fans would treat him.

But to her surprise, he didn't abandon her. What he did was say, "No way," the words all but whispered in her ear, which caused shivers to slide down her back and her cheeks to color. "I'm not leaving your side. Not with so many barracudas in the room." And then he looked momentarily pained, as if he regretted his words, Lance adding, "We might be friends, but they don't know that."

Friends. Yeah. Right.

"C'mon," he said. Sarah's blood rushed to her thighs at the way he smiled at her, a smile that was obviously meant for their audience. "Let's go get a drink." And then—
then
—he placed a hand at the small of her back.

And suddenly, Sarah became The Competition. If the lights had suddenly been dimmed, if eyes had suddenly turned into laser beams, she would have had a million little red dots all over her torso.

"What do you want?" he asked when they stopped before a portable bar, the man behind the chest-high counter staring at Lance in awe.

You.

"Just some orange juice, please."

Lance's eyes widened. "No Cosmopolitan? No martini? No foo-foo drink?"

"Actually, I'm a beer and pretzel sort of girl— when I drink, which isn't very often."

He held her gaze, his face softening into a look that could only be called approval. "My kind of girl," he said, patting her back and turning to the bartender.

Sarah just stood there, frozen, her whole body flushing with pleasure.

It's just an act, remember Sarah. Think "professional."

Yet after her drink was served—a double shot of OJ, over ice—he stayed by her side, introducing her to the other drivers there, all of whom she gleaned drove Fords because heaven forbid you should mix a Chevy driver with a Ford driver (or so she surmised). Fans came up to them and asked questions, Lance always answering with a smile and a funny quip. She found herself smiling, too, and falling deeper and deeper into crush mode as the afternoon wore on. And then, when it came time for him to do his signing he gave her waist a goodbye squeeze. She blushed, feeling pleasure even though she told herself to not, not,
not
take the gesture personally.

When he turned and left (and the haze of hero worship wore off) Sarah looked around.

And felt like a fish head tossed into a tank of sharks. A blonde eyed her up and down, the look she gave her saying, "He's mine next, honey."

Sarah just smiled, flicked her chin up, and retreated to the balcony like the coward she was.

Not a coward, she swiftly corrected, taking a deep breath of salt-scented air,
realistic
—or at least she was trying to be.

She closed her eyes, tilting her head back. Over the hum of conversation in the ballroom she could hear the roar of the ocean. When she tipped her head back she noticed the fluffy clouds of the morning had turned into serious thunderheads, the sand on the beach turning gray beneath the shadow of a cloud. Yes, she would be realistic, because no matter how much she wished she were a different person, she wasn't about to risk getting involved with Lance. Not even for only a night, which she quickly reasoned she could probably entice him into having with her. He might have agreed with her "let's keep things professional" but she'd caught a look in his eyes once or twice this afternoon, one that made her think that maybe he wasn't quite as disinterested in her as she'd thought. He'd hugged her waist, too. A man didn't give a woman a hug like that unless he liked her. Maybe more than liked her.

And then she heard it.

"He's washed up, anyway," said a woman whose voice drifted to her from inside the ballroom.

"Yeah," said another woman. "What's the big deal?"

"But I'd still like to know what he sees in her," said the first. "I mean, she must be good in bed or something because she sure isn't much to look at."

If humiliation had been flames, Sarah would have combusted on the spot. They were talking about
her.
Obviously.

"Maybe that's the best he can do now that his career is on the skids," said the second woman.

"Shame, too," said the first. "He used to be such a good driver."

"Well, after the way he tanked last year, I'm surprised Blain Sanders let him come back
this
year."

"Rumor has it he and Sanders are good friends. He probably let him come back out of pity."

"He's probably with that
woman
out of pity," said the second voice. They both laughed.

Sarah turned, blindly staring out at the ocean. Her hands clutched the rail as her hair whipped around her in the wake of a sudden breeze.

How dare they? she thought. How dare they criticize Lance? How dare they criticize
her?
They didn't know her. And they sure as certain didn't know Lance. So what if he'd been having an off year? Okay, an off couple of years. From what she'd read on the Internet, that wasn't unheard of in the racing industry. More than one reporter had predicted he'd pull it together again. Who's to say he wouldn't do it this year? Or next?

She stewed at the injustice of it all. People could be so cruel. So mean and petty. She'd dealt with it all the time in her job, not so much with the children—no, she saw it in the parents. The well-off, well-dressed moms would roll their eyes at the moms that drove beat-up cars instead of a new SUV. They'd form cliques just as they had in high school, some of the moms "in" and others "out," and Sarah witnessed the hurt those "out" moms would try to hide when they weren't invited to play Bunko or whatever else the "in" crowd was doing that week. It wasn't fair. It was childish and she couldn't stand people like that.

Thrusting herself up, she almost turned back to the ballroom, but something stopped her. What did she expect to do? Find those two women and then blast them with a look? She didn't even know who they were. Besides, it wasn't in her to be rude. But it still angered her to no end that they'd been so cruel when talking about Lance. The criticism to herself she could take. After all, she'd known for years her looks weren't much more than average. But criticizing Lance was another story. He might not be an "in" driver, but he was a nice man. That should count for
something,
certainly for more than his driving skills.

"Hey," said a familiar, masculine voice.

Sarah jumped. But when he came up alongside her, she tried to give him a wide smile. It wobbled.

"Don't let 'em get to you."

"What?"

"Those women. Don't let what they said get to you."

"You heard that?" she asked, aghast.

"I came in through the other door," he said, pointing to a door at the far end of the balcony. "And it was kind of hard not to hear."

"Oh, jeez," she said.

His face softened, his eyes holding hers so tightly, it was like he held her face between his hands. "Don't let it upset you. It's what race fans do. Their favorite sport, besides racing, is bashing other drivers. Men and women do it, only women seem to think it's okay to attack a driver's wife or girlfriend, too. It's not right, but it happens."

"I'm not your girlfriend."

"No," he said instantly, making her think the glimmer of interest she might have seen in his eyes had been all in her imagination. "But they think you are."

She couldn't argue that point, didn't want to argue the point. "It's not their comments about me that upset me," she admitted. "Really, Lance, what they said about me is nothing worse than what I've heard before. What bothers me is that they attacked you."

"Don't let it," he said again. "It comes with the territory. Yeah, sure, sometimes it stings, but that's the nature of the beast."

It more than stung. For a second there she'd caught a glimpse of it, the anger and humiliation he felt at being a public figure of scorn. He might try to hide it, but she'd seen it.

"Lance, you're a great driver. Don't let people bring you down."

He snorted. "This from someone who's never watched a race in her life."

"I'll watch you."

"Will you?" he said, peeking at her in a boyish way that made her heart melt.

"Well," she sighed with long-suffering resignation, "If I have to."

He chuckled a bit. "Good."

She turned, knowing if she didn't look back out over the ocean he might see something in her eyes she didn't want him to see.

"You're not an object of pity, Sarah," he said softly. "You're witty and you make people laugh, not to mention sing a stirring rendition of 'Wheels on the Bus.' So no matter what those so-called ladies might have said, you're twenty times prettier than they are and any man would be lucky to have you as a girlfriend."

Just not Lance.

Sarah gulped and swallowed back something that felt suspiciously like tears. She tried to distract him by saying, "Are you sure you didn't wreck your car last weekend?"

He looked puzzled. "No. Why?"

"Because I think you must have double vision or something if you consider
me
prettier than some of the women in there."

She wasn't fishing for compliments. Really, she wasn't.

Yes, you are.

He leaned toward her, something that made her breath catch and her heart give a giant leap.

"Sarah," he said, "You have a beauty that has nothing to do with your physical appearance and everything to do with the soul inside of you. Nobody in the room can hold a candle to you."

And there it went. It was happening again. A massive swell of bona fide crush filled her heart and made it difficult to breathe.

"Thanks," she said softly.

He seemed to recall himself. When he drew back Sarah wanted to weep. "Let's blow this taco stand," he said quickly.

Too quickly.

"Ah, yeah, sure."

CHAPTER TEN

He took her back to a hotel after commandeering a room from one of his team members. But when he'd left her there, all Lance could do was clutch the steering wheel and think:
what the heck am I getting into? You can't afford to be distracted, buddy. Not now.

Maybe in a few months, when he'd gotten his driving back on track again, but not now.

When you get your driving back?
a little voice asked.
What if you don't?

That was part of the problem. His need for complete and total concentration was at its maximum right now and he couldn't be distracted, not even a little bit. Not to mention, a relationship with a woman like Sarah was doomed from the outset. She didn't "get" racing, and while that was something that attracted him now, he also knew it would lead to problems down the road.

Damn, it had been adorable the way she'd tried to make him feel better.

Stop it, Lance. No more thoughts about Sarah, lime to focus.

He couldn't focus.

Crap. He was a frickin' nervous wreck.

And to top it off, the whole world knew it. All right, maybe not the whole world, but those watching ESPN had seen him climb into the number twenty-six car, his team owner, Blain Sanders, helping him in. They watched him wipe the sweat from his brow, and then nervously fasten his helmet with hands that very obviously shook.

And it was just a practice.

To wit: it was the first practice of the weekend, which meant if the car performed badly, they had time to fix it. Unless he wrecked, and then he'd have to go to a backup car.

You're not going to wreck.

Why? he kept asking himself. Why were these sudden thoughts of doom and gloom consuming him? It drove him nuts, he admitted, waiting for the okay to start his engine so he could back his car out of the garage and head on out to the track. In front of him Allen, their crew chief, spoke to a television broadcaster, a white star in the center of the hood reflecting their image back thanks to the fluorescent lights above their heads. Blain had left the garage and gone back to the hauler parked out behind them. Lance glanced left and right. All the other drivers were in their cars, crew members buzzing around and making last-minute adjustments. In front of him a wall of Plexiglas allowed fans to peer into the garage, their gazes transfixed on the action.

He's washed up, anyway.

The woman's words echoed in his ears, the same words Sarah had heard, too, along with the not-so-flattering things those women had said about herself. He'd been right at the entrance to the balcony when they'd spewed their poison. Lance was furious for Sarah's sake and, it would appear, subconsciously affected by the words, too. There was no other explanation as to why he suddenly felt as if he were about to run his first race.

Washed up.

Stop it, he ordered the voice. It's nothing worse than you've heard before. Crap, half the reporters who followed racing had said much worse. Washed up. A has-been. Lost his edge.

It was the look on Sarah's face that made him furious. That's what had him so nervous, not because he was afraid of practicing his car, but because he knew his concentration wasn't what it was supposed to be and that had him worried. Never before had a woman intruded on his time in a race car. Never.

"Start 'em up," came his crew chief's voice, Lance looking up only to realize Allen wasn't giving an interview anymore. He stood alongside his car, his crew chief for the past three years tapping on the roof. Lance flicked the starter switch. The roar of the motor instantly filled his ears, even through his mask, ear pieces and helmet. Usually the sound of the engine worked as a filter, a white noise that helped him to focus. Not today.

She hadn't come to watch him practice. He'd told her to stop by when he'd dropped her off at her hotel. He'd mentioned it in a casual way and she'd nodded and smiled a bit—

"Lance?" Allen asked.

Lance jerked, brought back to reality by the sound of his crew chief's voice.

"Any day now," Allen added.

And when Lance glanced left and right, his movement restricted by the safety restraints attached to his Day-Glo orange helmet, he noticed all the other drivers had already pulled out of the garage.

Son of a—

He jerked the car into reverse, backing it out with barely a look at the crew member who directed him. Jeez. Talk about spacing out.

"Okay, buddy," Allen said. "We've put new springs, new shocks and a different track bar on the rear than what we had in for the 500."

In other words, they'd started from scratch. Again.

"She shouldn't be as loose as she was in the spring, so just take it out and let me know how it feels."

It felt like crap, Lance admitted a few laps later, the grandstands a blurry gray as he passed by at a hundred and eighty miles per hour. His lap times were crap, too.

"She's too loose, Allen," he said, as he pulled in, nearly hitting his crew chief's orange-clad legs when he pulled into the garage. "Doesn't matter what line I take, the rear end is swinging around like a ballroom dancer."

"Ten-four," Allen said, consulting his clipboard. Other crew members stood around waiting to be told what to do. He pressed the talk button on his headset. "Blain, you got any ideas?"

His car owner came on the line. "Try some tire pressure adjustments."

"All right, let's take it down a half a pound in the front and a pound out of the rear. Frank, take a round of wedge out, too. Let's see if that makes it any better."

And that's what he did for the next hour. He'd drive around for a few laps, see if the changes helped (they didn't), then come back in, his crew chief's blue eyes looking more and more puzzled each time he rolled into the garage. In the end they took out numerous rounds of wedge (and put them back in), took out a few rubbers (and added a few, too) and fiddled with the tire pressure, all to no avail. The car was crap and everyone knew it. The white shirts they wore above their orange pants were looking as pale as their faces. Even Blain climbed down from the hauler, trying to offer advice. Didn't help.

Not good. And with the vice president of Star Oil showing up to root him on...

"Too bad we can't just pull out the backup car," Blain said after Lance had taken off his helmet and pulled his earplugs out. "It couldn't be any worse."

"Very funny. Though with the way my luck is going," Lance said, setting his helmet down on the aluminum platform to his right, and then inhaling a fresh blast of cool air. Damn, but that felt good. "It probably could."

"Starting at the back just might be better. Too bad it's not legal."

Car owner and crew chief said nothing, Lance meeting their gazes. He had a sinking feeling in his stomach again, the feeling he'd had more and more of late.

"I don't know what the matter is, but every time I take her into the corner she's so loose it feels like I'm on skates."

"Loose is good," his crew chief said as Lance wormed his way out of the car, his firesuit catching on the hooks for the window netting. And Lance didn't need to be told what his crew chief's unspoken words were:
You should still be able to drive it.

"There's loose and there's loose," Lance said, leaning up against his car, his firesuit and the humid day making him feel like a caterpillar wrapped up in a cocoon.

"We've tried everything we can," Allen said. "I don't know what else to do."

"Too bad," Lance said, feeling edgy. "Because when this car is loose, it's really loose and when it's tight, it's really tight. There's no in-between."

Allen and Blain exchanged looks. Lance shook his head and walked away.

"Lance, wait," his car owner said.

"I can't," Lance said, walking toward the hauler. He wanted out of his firesuit; the high collar all but choked him. "Courtney set up an interview for me."

"The interview's not for another half hour," Blain said, stopping him right in the middle of the road between the garages and the haulers.

Lance should have known their PR gal had filled Blain in on his media appearances. She always did.

"Look, I don't know what's eating you today, but you gotta relax."

Lance forced himself to meet the gaze of the man who he'd idolized for just about as long as he could remember. Blain Sanders was an icon in the racing industry, a man who'd pulled himself up from the ranks of tire changer to car owner in the fourteen years he'd been in the business. Not only was he a brilliant engine builder, he was a good man, and Blain and his wife Cece were two of the nicest people Lance had the privilege to know. Any other team owner would have tossed him out on his ear after two years of poor performances.

And it killed him that he wasn't driving up to par.

"You're not yourself," Blain said. "Even Cece noticed it, and she's watching from home."

Terrific. Just as he'd thought. That ESPN camera crew had trained their lens on him just a little too close.

"Look," Blain said. "I know you're struggling. Everyone in the garage knows it. But you've never had a problem driving crap cars in the past."

He had in the last year.

"You're one of those rare drivers that can make a bad car look good and a good car look excellent. But something's got you messed up here," Blain said, tapping his black hair, now liberally salted with gray hair, compliments of his first child—or so he liked to tell people. "Figure out what it is so you can start driving like the Lance I remember."

Which was as close to an ass-chewing as Lance had ever gotten from his owner. That was the thing about racing for Blain and Cece Sanders. They were special people in the industry, which made his crap driving all the worse.

"I'll do my best, boss."

"Good," Blain said, patting him on the back. '"Cause I miss the wisecracking Lance of old."

"Oh, I can still make wisecracks."

"I don't doubt it."

"I just hate for you to grow self-conscious about your thinning hair."

"Very funny," said the man whose hair was every bit as thick as it'd been the day Lance had first met him.

"I thought it was," Lance said.

Blain shook his head, patting him on the back again. "Go." And Lance went.

He smelled cookies.

It was the first thing he noticed when he went up the aisle between his motor coach and the next, the driver parking area so crowded with buses and fancy RVs that it looked like a dealership. The blue-and-white Prevost next to him belonged to Sam Kennedy, NASCAR NEXTEL Cup racing's current brightest star and a man who had the good fortune to be married to a wife that cooked. Man, those cookies smelled good. Made his stomach growl.

It was only when he opened the door that he realized the smell was coming from
his
motor coach, and that the person cooking them was Sarah Tingle.

His knees went weak.

That's exactly what seemed to happen when she straightened up from pulling a batch of cookies out of the oven, a wide smile on her face. Granted, that smile seemed a bit forced—as if she wasn't sure he'd be happy to see her—but when she held out the aluminum tray and said, "Want one?" he forgot all about weak knees and strode forward to grab an... animal cookie?

She'd baked him animal cookies?

He almost laughed, almost leaned down and kissed her. It was amazing how close he came, considering all the times he'd told himself in the past few hours to forget about her. The cookie he plopped into his mouth melted on his tongue. Sugar and butter flavored his mouth, causing him to purr. "Mmmm," he said.

Her smile turned genuine. He could see her tension fade, although she didn't look him in the eye for a second or two. Instead she busied herself with taking the cookies off the tray.

"The secret is waiting for the tray to cool down in between batches. A tray that's too hot will burn the bottom and so I wash my tray off before I put another batch in."

He watched as she did exactly that, grabbing another cookie from the cooling plate while her back was turned to the sink.

"I saw that," she said.

He laughed. And, man, he almost felt like crying, so good did it feel. His tension just seemed to melt away, the smell of fresh-baked cookies so familiar and from such an achingly good time in his life that he wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her in gratitude.

What you should do is marry her.

He jerked as if the thought had dive-bombed his head.

But he couldn't deny how good it felt to stand there watching her bake cookies. It made him want to do something to ensure that feeling happened again... and again, not because he was falling in love with her or anything, but because he needed the calm she provided after the chaos of driving a car.

"Sarah Tingle, you're a woman after my own heart."

She peeked up at him. It was one of the things he loved about her. There were no boldly sexual looks of invitation on her face, just a sweet innocence that made him want to cuddle her.

Innocent?

Remember, Lance, she'd been wearing someone else's privates a few weeks ago.