Full Throttle(4)

Several more stools were brought out, and Kane found himself sitting between the DJ and Lexie. Their gazes met for a moment as Brian questioned Pete about life on the racing circuit, but Lexie quickly looked away.

Kane fought a wince. Maybe his silence had been a mistake. He hadn’t even apologized. He’d justified himself by insisting she’d provoked him—and on purpose. But that didn’t excuse his actions. Taking out his frustration on her was uncalled-for. He definitely didn’t want her to think it would happen again, or that she was in danger of being grabbed at any moment. They needed to trust and support each other.

As a team, of course. The other…personal stuff, well, that was over. Way over.

“So, Lexie,” the DJ said as he turned away from Kane, “you’re the only female car chief on the circuit. How does it feel being surrounded by guys all the time?”

“Sweaty.”

Kane grinned at Lexie’s deadpan tone. She always shied away from the spotlight and hated talking to the media, answering “all those stupid questions.”

Naturally, everybody laughed at her response, which only caused her frown to deepen. She was no doubt serious.

“But how well do you get along with the team?” Brian persisted. “The track is kind of an odd place to find a woman.”

“After the voting booth, it seemed to be the last barrier for us.” Silence and a few uneasy chuckles followed this statement. And though Lexie was definitely more comfortable in the garage than on stage, she sensed the tension immediately. “We get along fine, Brian, and I raced go-karts as a kid, so I’m used to guys. And challenges.”

“Go-karts,” Brian said, glancing down at a piece of paper in his lap. “This was back in California. Your father was your coach and crew chief.”

“If you want to call me and my mom the crew.”

“She passed away suddenly, and you moved to North Carolina.”

Lexie pressed her lips together briefly. “Yes. Dad got an offer to work in stock car racing, I retired from the track and we became part of the NASCAR family.” She glanced at Kane and smiled, and even though he knew her joy was for the audience, warmth still spread through his chest. “James and I even took Kane to his first race.”

“Again, football’s loss is NASCAR’s gain.”

This time her smile for Kane was filled with genuine warmth. “Oh, yeah.”

After a few audience questions, the interview was wrapped up, and Kane slid off the right-hand side of the stage for autographs. A long line of car collectors formed, and he spent the next two hours signing mini plastic versions of his race car and taking photos with fans. A few would undoubtedly wind up on eBay to be resold, but most people seemed to be big fans of his, Hollister Racing or just NASCAR in general.

The kids, in particular, were a blast. They liked to push the cars across the table and make “rrrring” noises. The older ones claimed they, too, would one day be signing autographs; the younger ones were just happy to be part of the excitement.

Kane remembered signings from his own youth, when his father had been the star. When he’d sat on the floor of the stadium media center, pushing toy cars and trucks around on an imaginary track. When the fans had smiled indulgently over a legend’s cute kid. Maybe he didn’t see the devotion and awe in the eyes of Cincinnati people that his father inspired, but he didn’t need it. He was happy making a living at the sport he loved.

Though having legions of fans wouldn’t suck.

“Nice job, everybody,” James said as they climbed into the rented SUV. “Who’s hungry?”

“No burgers,” Lexie said. “Let’s go somewhere besides the drive-through window.”

James, sitting on the bench seat next to Lexie, laid his arm around her shoulders. “As it happens, I made reservations at a charming Italian place just a few blocks away.”

Lexie grinned up at James, and Kane clenched his hands into fists. How could she be so easy with James when all Kane managed to do was irritate and annoy her?

“I made the reservations,” their driver, Stan, reminded them. A race fan and manager at their premier sponsor, Sonomic Oil, he’d volunteered to serve as host and designated driver for their night in Cincinnati. After the last few stressful days, James had decided they all needed a break, so they were spending the night in a hotel.

A relaxing dinner sounded like a dream compared to the upcoming weekend at Bristol. Forty-three drivers, all hell-bent on surviving the grueling half-mile track on a wild Saturday night in front of more than 150,000 fans was an intense experience.

After Kane shoved aside his stupid irritation at James and Lexie, their dinner group was upbeat as they were escorted to their corner booth by the hostess. Over pasta, salad and buttery garlic rolls, they shared stories and talked racing. Kane tried to ignore his tingling hands when Lexie laughed.

What was wrong with him?

They were professional colleagues now. High school was long over. Their relationship didn’t extend beyond friendship.

A fact that was cemented when a group of female fans approached their table and asked for his autograph. Showing no signs of resentment, Lexie laughed along with the rest of the group and even volunteered to take their picture with him. After his jealous rumblings all night, Kane felt like an even bigger heel for kissing her yesterday.

At the time, he was sure she’d responded with their old fire, but clearly reading female responses was lost on him unless the woman happened to be pressing a hotel key in his hand—as the blond autograph-seeker was currently doing.

“I’m at the Best Western,” she said close to his ear. “Room 242.”

He’d had similar experiences before—had even accepted a couple of times early in his career—but he inevitably wondered what the woman really wanted. The pedal-to-the-metal driver on the track? Anton Jackson’s son? A signed photo, with a “Thanks for the magical night” scrawled on the back? Did they care that he liked green beans and hated brussel sprouts?

He smiled at the woman and nudged James’s elbow—their long-established distress signal.

“Well, ladies.” James clapped his hands and slid out of the booth. “It was great meeting you. Be sure to check out Kane’s Web site for his upcoming appearances.” Like the slick pro he was, James had the women shuffling away seconds later, content with their autographs.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said as he turned back to them.

Back at the hotel, Kane, James and Lexie met by mutual agreement in James’s room. He and Kane popped a couple of beers, and James even convinced Lexie to have some wine he ordered from room service. They relaxed in the living area, watched ESPN and went over the weekend schedule.

“The car’ll qualify well,” Lexie said. “It’s the same body and setup from last spring when Kane won.”

“You know the drill, man,” James said. “Stay patient and out of trouble.”

Lexie nodded. “Be flexible early in the race, then you can bump people out of the way later.”

Kane shook his head. “I’m not bumping anybody out of the way.”

“If somebody’s won’t move, and you have a stronger car, you will.”

“I don’t need to win that way.”

“You need to win any way you can.”

James leaned back into the sofa cushions. “Kids, kids, let’s not fight.”

A cell phone rang, and James snatched his off the coffee table. After a quick grin, he rose. “I’d better take this in the other room.”

Lexie watched him stroll into the bedroom and close the door. “The man has more women on his line than a fisherman has minnows.”

“Hasn’t he always?” Kane said, feeling nerves jump in his stomach again.

Why did being alone with Lexie always affect him this way? Why was he questioning the wisdom of his championship-winning crew chief and team owner? Why had they felt the need to bring her into the mix? They were doing just—Okay, so maybe they weren’t doing just fine.

He’d never made The Chase. His highest year-end finish was sixteen. He had brilliant people all around him, and yet something was wrong. The chemistry wasn’t right.

But did he really need her to push him? Did he really need her to come along and mess with his concentration?

He’d been fighting memories of her, of them together, all season. He’d pretended his attraction to her had faded with time. How had it gotten so bad that he couldn’t spend three minutes in her company without jealousy or desire—or both—attacking him?

They were inches apart. She sat at one end of the sofa; he sat in the middle. James’s seat now seemed palpably vacant, as if his leaving had turned up tension that had been building for the past six months, and especially since yesterday afternoon.

If he leaned over, he could repeat the rash move he’d made on the plane. He could yank her against him. He could feel her soft, womanly curves pressed against him. Instead of that idea knocking him back to reality as it should have, every second that ticked past seemed encouraging.

She angled her body toward him. “You’re no amateur yourself.”

He clenched his hands into fists to keep from reaching for her. “Huh?”

“Fishing for minnows.”