Race To The Altar. Patricia Hagan
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