Full Throttle(2)

The rest, as they say, is history.

“Well,” the medic continued, releasing his wrist. “You look good. We’ll have the doc check you out, but I expect he’ll let you go quickly.”

“Thanks.” At least the guy hadn’t asked for an autograph.

“Hey, does your dad usually come to the races?” the medic asked, craning his neck to look around as they stepped out of the ambulance.

Kane sighed. “No, he doesn’t.”



HER HANDS TREMBLING, Lexie Mercer mounted the stairs to the Hollister Racing company jet. Though she’d been calm when she assured owner Bob Hollister that she’d get the team back on track for Bristol next Saturday night, she was still furious and bitterly disappointed by Kane’s finish in the race.

Half a lap. Half a damn lap.

It was frustrating beyond words, and only made the pressure of an already stressful job jump up another notch. Careers and millions of dollars were at stake. As car chief, she was already a woman in a male-dominated world. How many of those men would love to have her position with a successful team like Hollister?

While her father’s role as crew chief made him, well, the chief of the entire team, it was up to her to see that his plans and orders were carried out, to keep the crew on task, to supervise the technicians and engineers and make sure the car for the next race would fare better.

She got the praise when the car and team performed well, and she felt her boss’s disapproval when one or both didn’t. The fact that her boss was her father added a whole new level of anxiety.

Still, it fell to all of them—her, her father and Kane—to take charge of recovery and moving forward. Back home at the shop, they had to face the team members who didn’t travel with the team. They had to overcome the emotional low of not finishing the race. They had to examine the wrecked vehicle and see what parts could be salvaged.

Most of all, they had to get into the top ten.

The first person she saw on the plane was James Peterson, Kane’s best friend and manager. His nearly shoulder-length, shaggy blond hair framing his handsome face, he was bent over, clicking beer bottles with Kane, who, bravely, sat in the front row, so he would have to face each person on his team as they walked by him to take their own seat.

She’d admire him more if she wasn’t so furious with him.

She exchanged a look with James, who approached with his ought-to-be-outlawed killer grin, then glided past her, heading toward the exit. “Go easy,” he muttered.

She glared at his retreating back, seeing no reason for leniency. Something had to change on this team. And Kane Jackson better be prepared to transform himself ASAP.

Thankful the plane was deserted except for the flight crew, she dropped into the seat next to her driver, who, during the TV interview following the race, had actually shrugged and said, “Oh, well” in response to his wreck.

“‘Oh, well’?”

“Rookies cause wrecks sometimes. He misjudged the passing distance and got into me. He apologized.”

She rolled her eyes. “‘Oh, well’?”

He glanced at her at last, and the force of those bright-blue eyes made her heart flutter ridiculously. “I had to tell the media something.”

“Something with a bit more force and passion would be welcomed.”

“Passion, huh?”

Too late, she realized the door she’d opened. “You know what I mean.”

He grinned. “Do I?”

She felt the heat from his body and his stare. That’s old and finished, she tried to tell herself. But with little conviction. Ever since she’d left the Research and Development division of Hollister Racing and come back to work with her father this year, the tension between her and Kane had been building. She wondered when—not if—it would explode.

Their relationship in high school had been just as volatile. Full of heat and conflict, frustration and arguments.

But very passionate.

The team needed that fever now. They needed the old Kane, not the one who’d somehow gotten buried over the years under the corporate endorsement man. They didn’t need the man who moved to the side and let drivers pass when he should hold his position. Or the man who accepted sixth place when he should go for the win. The man who’d been trying so desperately all his life to fulfill his image of perfection, he’d somehow lost his racing fire.

Personally, though, she had to be careful about passion. She’d been hired to stoke some new life into Kane and the team. But how did she pour gasoline on a fire and not get burned again?

If she could get past his security team, masseuse, personal trainer, manager and accountant, she was going to kick Anton Jackson’s butt when they got home. This “oh, well” version of the once-hot-blooded Kane could be laid right at Anton’s feet. He couldn’t turn his boy into a mini football version of himself, and he didn’t approve of Kane’s racing, so he chose to focus on his son’s media image rather than his driving.

Anton sent Kane on endless autographing jaunts that crisscrossed the country. He’d forced him into anger management classes. He had reporters follow Kane around as he visited the children’s cancer center his charity helped fund, even though Kane had always kept his philanthropic efforts private.

His constant interference and criticism had taken its toll on Kane, draining him of his personality. His confidence suffered. His driving became too cautious. He’d lost his will to win.

“There’s always next week,” Kane said in that calm tone she’d come to hate.

“There aren’t that many next weeks.”

Kane raised his eyebrows. “No kidding?”

“Don’t be a smart—”

He waggled his finger. “Watch that language, Miss Mercer. NASCAR wouldn’t be pleased.”

“I’m not worried about NASCAR. I’m worried about you.”

“I’m touched.”

“Dammit, Kane, wake up! That rookie screwed up big. This could cost us The Chase.”

“He’s a rookie, Lexie. It happens.”

“It can’t happen to us. We can’t afford it.”

His eyes went frosty. His jaw tensed.

Come on…yell at me. Tell me to go to hell, she thought.

“We’ll do better next week.”

She bowed her head. “Sure we will.”

He slid his fingers along her jaw. “Chin up, L—”

She jerked back. Her skin tingled where he’d touched her. Her heart pounded as they stared at each other.

Dear God, why him?

The past washed over her as if a minute had passed instead of a decade. She recalled frantic groping in the backs of cars, private smiles and notes in geometry, sitting in the empty grandstands with a bottle of champagne, Kane next to her, unable to leave the scene of his first win.

But she also remembered shouts and tears, Kane leaving her at the homecoming dance, so he could sneak out to the garage at James’s grandfather’s house where they kept the race car they were secretly building. She’d introduced him to racing—and quickly fallen into second place in his heart.

A calmer, gentler Kane would be different, her traitorous heart whispered.

For her, maybe. But not for her race team.

Confused and frustrated, she rose. “We have to win.”

He set his beer bottle aside and stood next to her. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I mean, that’s what it’s going to take—finishing in the top five for the next three races and winning at least one of them. If Pat hadn’t wrecked…well, it would be a lot worse. We can still make it. We just can’t have any more mistakes.”

“I didn’t make a mistake today.”

“I didn’t say you did. I’m just telling you what we’re dealing with.”

“No problem.”

The flare of attraction in his eyes turned to anger. Something about that moment when they’d looked at each other had set him off. Maybe he was struggling with his own memories. Maybe he was frustrated and tired. Or maybe…maybe he was finally fed up with swallowing his emotions.

“If it’s no problem, why haven’t we done it?”

“You tell me. You set up the cars.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my setups.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my driving. We won at Charlotte back in May, remember?”

“Oh, right.” She smirked. “It was so long ago I forgot.” She watched in fascination as his mouth thinned to a furious line. She could almost hear him start his count to ten.

Naturally, she wasn’t letting him get past five.

“How about I call over to Bristol and tell them to go ahead and engrave your name on the trophy? Or maybe you’re the next Petty or Earnhardt, and they’ll name a grandstand after you.”

“Stop it, Lexie,” he said in a barely controlled whisper.

Maybe she’d feel guilty later for pushing him over the edge. But she didn’t think so. “While you’re doing all that winning, you can do the setups yourself, too.”

He leaned close to her face. “Why won’t you let me touch you?”

“I—what?” She stepped back.

He jabbed a finger at the seats they’d just vacated. “You jerked away from me like I’d hit you.”

“I was just…It was nothing. I was…surprised. It’s been a long day.”