“Dell?” Jeff's voice came through the headset.
“I'm okay. All clear?” Dell asked, waiting for an affirmation before he unhooked the restraint system and lowered the net on the driver's side window.
With his feet firmly on the ground, he removed his helmet, waved his hand over his head to indicate he was fine, and looked around. He counted half a dozen cars in varying stages of wreckage. Most wouldn't race again today, a few might make it back out for the last thirty laps. His wasn't one of them. But, damn, what a rush!
Only a true adrenaline junkie understood the thrill of a violent crash – one you could walk away from virtually unscathed.
* * * *
Caro counted to ten, then one hundred, then ten again. She would not go ballistic in front of her entire pit crew, and God-only-knew-how many other people, press included. By the time she finished counting, she was alone on top of the war wagon, and reasonably calm, given her state of mind. Dell was trying to kill her, and her business. It was the only explanation for what he'd done, and she wasn't just thinking about earlier in the week when he'd taken her to heaven, or at least awfully close, before leaving her without so much as a. “Thank you, ma'am.”
She spent the rest of the week avoiding him as if he carried a deadly disease – which he did. She didn't know what the scientific name was, but it was commonly referred to as too damned sexy for his own good, on top of a serious case of arrogance. It was the latter that kept her away for the last six days and the former that kept her body yearning to be exposed to him again. And again.
Caro desperately wanted to get close to Dell, and sex had nothing to do with the reason why.
She climbed down from the war wagon and smiled for the reporter waiting to ask her about the race. The delay coming down gave her a few precious minutes to find a smile to put on her face, and think of something to say besides the truth. The racing world was full of sharks, and the pool they all swam in was relatively small. Even a hint of weakness, and the others would sense blood in the water. Then it was all over. No caution flag to give you a chance to get your shit together. No restart on equal footing. The predator sharks would pick your crew off one at a time, and your creditors would show up on your doorstep, padlocks in hand.
Caro smiled at the reporter, who smiled at the camera lens before she launched into the interview – leaving Caro no choice but to participate. Anything else would be interpreted as just what it was – weakness.
“I'm here with Carolina Hawkins,” she said into the microphone, “owner of Hawkins Racing.” She turned to Caro. “Ms. Hawkins, what can you tell us about the wreck? Is Dell okay?”
“I haven't heard the official word, but Dell indicated he was fine, just a little bunged up, which is to be expected. NASCAR does an excellent job of making sure the cars are safe.”
“Given what happened to Caudell Senior, Dell's father, I'm sure this kind of thing must be especially difficult for Dell. How does he handle it?”
Caro resisted the urge to laugh. Was she kidding? Dell drove like every race was a demolition derby – that's how he handled it. A sudden thought chilled her blood. Could it be deliberate? No. She'd mentioned it to him before. No. It wasn't possible. Stupid to think that.
She pushed the thought away and gave the expected answer. “As you know, there have been many improvements in the safety systems within the cars since Caudell Wayne's accident. Dell knows better than most how dangerous stock car racing is. He takes every precaution, and follows every safety guideline – just as we all do at Hawkins Racing.”
“Do you know what caused today's crash?” she asked.
Arrogance. Stupidity. Suicidal tendencies? “Which one?” she asked instead of voicing her actual thoughts.
The reporter laughed. “I guess that was a stupid question,” she said. She turned away to address the reporters in the booth, dismissing Caro.
She couldn't get out fast enough.
She found Russell, told him she was leaving, and headed for the chopper pad. She needed to talk to Dell, but not until she took some time to consider what she would say. If what she was thinking were true, Hawkins Racing was in trouble, and Dell was in even worse trouble.
* * * *
Her head spun with the possibility that instead of hiring a driver who would help her save Hawkins Racing from bankruptcy, she'd hired one whose death wish would murder her company in the process. No matter how she looked at the bottom line, it didn't get any better. Debt and bad luck were sucking Hawkins dry faster than a vampire horde in a blood bank. If things didn't turn around soon, she'd be penning the bottom line in her own blood, unable to afford the red ink.