Teaming Up Page 2

  A thumping on her front door startled her. Oh, heck, don’t say Dad had turned up to forcibly remove her to his house. Kim fumbled to do up her blouse as she headed into the hallway.

  The figure she could see through the opaque glass of her front door was too slim to be Hugo. And only one other person called around here regularly.

  “Where’s the fire?” Kim demanded as she opened the door just in time to save her best friend Isabel Rogers from a renewed bout of thumping.

  Isabel stepped inside and headed down the hallway, taking small, brisk steps in her elegant, high-heeled sandals. “I figured you’d be immersed in some horribly boring stem cell treatise.” Isabel was part owner of Fulcrum Racing, and she considered just about everything except NASCAR to be horribly boring. “In which case you wouldn’t hear me knock. You know how you are.” She took in the stack of boxes in the living room. “What’s all this?”

  “I’m getting rid of some old junk.” Kim saw the folder with that stupid list lying open, and moved swiftly to grab it. On impulse, she tore the list free, folded it and stuffed it into the pocket of her jeans. It was a tight fit, thanks to those extra pounds she’d gained, and she fancied she could feel the folded corner of the paper digging into her, prodding her into action.

  “I’m getting rid of my boring life,” she blurted, surprising herself so much that she clammed up and stared at Isabel.

  Isabel’s beautifully shaped eyebrows rose. “It’s about time. Tell me more.”

  Kim already wished she hadn’t spoken. Maybe she could distract Isabel. “Let’s have a drink. I made tea this morning.” She glanced at her watch. Dialysis patients had to limit their fluid intake, but she was okay to have something now.

  She poured tall glasses of iced tea, then she and Isabel sat down at the dining table, one of those round ones that folded down into a semicircle to save space when Kim ate alone. Which she almost always did.

  “So, your boring life?” Isabel prompted.

  The list had softened and crumpled in Kim’s pocket, and she could no longer feel it. “I need to think about it some more,” she hedged.

  “Nonsense, you spend far too much time thinking.” When Isabel used that brisk tone, Kim was reminded of the age difference between them. Isabel was fifty, but she’d never been a maternal figure in Kim’s life, maybe because they’d become friends after Isabel had just suffered a series of personal losses. Ten years ago, when Kim had seen Isabel floundering and abandoned, for once in her life she’d known the right thing to say, and it had been Isabel who’d looked to Kim for support rather than the other way around.

  These days, they were equals in the friendship, though the bond had been tested two months ago when, to Kim’s shock, her father and Isabel, who worked together at Fulcrum, had started secretly dating. But the two women had soon fallen back into their old rapport. Kim admired Isabel’s social skills, and Isabel claimed to envy Kim’s self-possession, her lack of reliance on other people.

  Kim wondered now if that was a polite term for “nerdy loner.”

  Isabel chattered on, Isabel-style, not needing much input. As Kim listened with half an ear to her friend’s advice about the importance of acting rather than thinking, her fingers traced the outline of the list through her pocket.

  Most of the items on it were so laughably tame that these days the average fourteen-year-old had done them. Surely it was too late for Kim to do them now? She was a mature adult, a busy scientist, with important work. She didn’t have time to…how long did it take to get a tattoo, anyway? She looked at the back of her hand, envisaged a cell division diagram permanently engraved there. Or maybe a daisy.

  The idea was preposterous, yet it wouldn’t die. Kim took a sip of her tea, then another one. The chilled liquid seemed to seep through her body, down to her soul, reaching places that were parched from lack of living.

  Isabel paused, expecting comment at last.

  “You’re right, I think too much,” Kim said hesitantly. Then, as her resolution firmed, she added, “I need to get a life. I don’t want the next thirty-three years to be as boring as the last.” And there would be at least another thirty-three years, no matter what Dr. Peterson said.

  “How did you get on at the hospital yesterday?” Isabel asked, suddenly astute. “I called your cell, but it was switched off.”

  She sounded like Hugo. “Did my father ask you to come by?” Kim asked, suspicion forming.

  Isabel’s lips flattened. “He’d have to speak to me first.”

  Kim grimaced her sympathy. “Is he still being cagey?” By mutual agreement they usually shied away from “girl talk” on the subject of her friend’s love life. But Isabel cared a lot about Hugo and sometimes she needed to share.

  “He and Justin’s car chief have been exchanging words again,” Isabel said. “It puts Hugo in a bad mood.”

  “That shouldn’t affect you,” Kim said.

  Whatever Isabel would have said was halted by a knock on Kim’s door. This time, Kim thought, it would be her father.

  It wasn’t.

  Her cousin Rachel breezed into the condo, greeting Isabel as she plunked herself on the couch and crossed one leg over the other. She glanced at the cartons, but evidently had more important things on her mind. “Cuz, I need to talk to you.”

  “Did Dad send you?” Kim asked again, aware from Isabel’s frown that she sounded paranoid.

  Rachel shook her head. “Why would he do that?”

  Rachel and her brother, Justin, had grown up with Kim—Hugo had taken them in after their father died, shortly before Kim’s mother left. They were more her foster sister and brother than her cousins. But while Kim was Hugo’s daughter, Rachel and Justin had always been a part of the NASCAR world. They shared Hugo’s blood.

  Rachel glanced at Isabel, who took the hint. She gathered the tea glasses and went to the kitchen to wash them. Kim joined Rachel on the couch.

  “You know I want the new crew chief job, right?”

  Kim rolled her eyes. “I’d have to be deaf and blind not to.”

  Ever since Fulcrum Racing had announced it was planning to run a third NASCAR Sprint Cup Series car next year, Rachel had been dropping unsubtle hints about the crew chief job to Hugo, who would recommend the appointee to Dixon Rogers, Isabel’s brother and CEO of Fulcrum. But Rachel had only just been promoted to the team’s engine specialist.

  “Yeah, well, Hugo is deaf and blind, it seems,” Rachel said morosely. “Every time I mention the job, he changes the subject. I know I haven’t proven myself as the engine specialist, but I will. After this weekend he’ll know I can handle anything.”

  “Dad knows you want it,” Kim said.

  Rachel perked up. “Did he say something?”

  “Uh, no. But why wouldn’t he want to give it to you?”

  “Because Wade Abraham keeps acting like he owns the whole damn garage, that’s why.”

  Wade Abraham again. “From what I hear, he and Dad don’t get along,” Kim said.

  “They do and they don’t. But Wade’s hard to ignore.”

  “What do you think of him?” Kim asked, curious.

  Rachel pulled a face. “He knows race cars. And his team respects him. But he thinks he’s God’s gift to women, he’s bossy, and—” she was clearly saving the worst for last “—he’s a pain in the butt know-it-all.”

  Since Rachel had accused Kim of being a know-it-all every time they’d squabbled as kids, Kim felt a twinge of sympathy for Wade Abraham. Hugo and Rachel were a formidable pair. Wade probably had to state his position forcefully, or else be ganged up on.

  “Does Wade want the job?” Kim asked.

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  Kim shrugged. “Maybe he’s unambitious.”

  Rachel snickered. “You haven’t met him.” She switched to pleading. “Will you talk to Hugo for me? Will you tell him I’m perfect for this job?”

  Kim snorted. “He won’t listen to what I say.”

  “He has a lot of respect for your opinion, even if he doesn’t always show it.” Rachel waved away Kim’s protest. “He’s always bragging about his genius daughter. He says you’re the smartest person he knows, and you’re going to win the Nobel Prize one day.”

  Kim cringed. “That’s awful.”

  “Yeah, it is.” Rachel grinned. “But I’m willing to put up with it if you’ll help me out.”

  Kim loved when Rachel asked for her help. Deep down, she harbored a lingering envy that Rachel had more in common with Hugo than she did. The sentiment shamed her, so she welcomed times like this, when she could prove she was better than those low thoughts.

  “Of course I’ll help,” she said. “I’ll tell Dad you’ll be the best darned crew chief ever.”

  Rachel hugged her. “Thanks.” She pulled away, scrutinized Kim. “You’re looking really well, by the way.”

  “I feel great,” Kim said. Ha! Take that, Dr. Peterson.

  Rachel stood. “You’ll be at Indy, right?”

  “Of course.” Kim made up her mind. “And at Watkins Glen. And everywhere else.” Because if she wanted to get a life, she had to get out of this condo, away from these sad boxes. Away, even, from work. The new Kim Murphy would feel at home in NASCAR.

  “Cool,” Rachel said.

  “Cool,” Kim agreed, even as her mind shrieked, I’ve never been cool in my life.

  She owed it to herself to change that. Her list might be childish, but at the time she wrote it, it had been a genuine cry of need. And she’d let her younger self down by never doing those things. If she’d lightened up back then, maybe she wouldn’t be such a misfit now. From now on, she would seize the day. The philosophy ran counter to good science, which was about hypothesizing, testing, cataloguing and eventually reaching a co
nclusion. Counter to Kim’s whole life.

  But that, she already knew, was no life at all.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “I DIDN’T EXPECT YOU until tonight.” Hugo Murphy kissed Kim’s cheek and caught her in a hug. His gentleness recognized the frailty she refused to.

  Kim stepped out of the way of a mechanic pushing a trolley jack between Cargill Racing’s hauler—Cargill’s driver Dean Grosso was one of the favorites to win today—and the garage. The area was abuzz with activity, as teams prepared race cars for the qualifying laps that would determine the starting order for Sunday’s NASCAR Sprint Cup Series race here in Indianapolis.

  “I’m playing hooky,” she admitted. “I flew in last night.”

  Hugo stared. “Good for you,” he said at last.

  She could have taken one of the many vacation days still owing to her, but that would have violated the spirit of hooky-playing. Instead, she’d phoned in sick this morning—right after she woke up in her hotel room feeling perfectly well. Of course, her boss had believed her and been all sympathy, which made her feel terrible.

  “Did Rachel do her usual wonderful job on the engine? Good choice promoting her, Dad.” She might as well get started tooting Rachel’s horn. Kim looked down the line of cars in the garage. Justin’s points tally for the season to date meant his team would be somewhere in the middle. Which was a big improvement on the early part of the season, when engine problems had him ending several races with a DNF—Did Not Finish—and moving further and further down the garage hierarchy. Since Hugo had fired the team’s engine builder and promoted Rachel to the job, everyone was a lot happier.

  “Hmm.” Hugo’s noncommittal response was darkened by a frown. “It’s the driver I’m worried about. Justin got back to his trailer pretty late last night, by all accounts, and he hasn’t showed up yet. I’m on my way to kick him out of bed.”

  “Be gentle with him. You know he’s not a morning person.”

  Hugo chuckled. “You sound chipper. You feeling better?”

  “I’m feeling…livelier,” she said. It was true. Maybe because her presence here was a small act of rebellion, the sun felt warmer on her bare arms, the air headier and the clatter and clang of race car preparation resonant in a way that riffed across her senses.

  She should have played hooky years ago!

  “Don’t overdo it,” Hugo warned. His gaze roved the garage area. “It’s pandemonium in there, maybe I should assign one of the guys to keep an eye on you.”

  “No way.” She could just imagine how some busy mechanic would feel about having to play nanny.

  Hugo had already turned and taken a step in the direction of the Fulcrum Racing area. Kim grabbed his arm. “Dad, please. I’ve done my dialysis, I’ll be fine. Let me hang out in the garage like a normal person.”

  “Okay, hon, no problem.” The innocent assurance in his hazel eyes didn’t fool her.

  She shook his arm. “I mean it, Dad. Don’t you dare sneak back there and tell those guys to look out for me.”

  “As if I would,” he blustered. “And since when do you get to tell me what to do?” When she didn’t back down, he patted her hand and said ruefully, “You know me too well.”

  “The rumors going around about my health are bad enough,” she said. “If you start telling them I need a transplant—yes, you would,” she said sternly as Hugo made to protest. “It’s too late to do anything about the gossip that’s already out there, but I want you to promise you won’t discuss my condition with anyone on the team.”

  Hugo pressed his lips together.

  “Promise,” she ordered. “Or you’ll ruin my enjoyment of the race.”

  It was that last comment, rather than her attempt to boss him around, that swung it. Hugo sighed. “I promise. But you need to promise you’ll ask for help the second you need it.”

  “Of course,” Kim said, relieved. Once her dad gave his word, he stuck with it. She kissed his cheek. As always, he stiffened for an instant, then relaxed.

  She left Hugo and strolled past the garages, enjoying the colors of the cars, the bustle of the teams. They were sensually stimulating in a way the hushed white solemnity of Booth Laboratories couldn’t be. She passed the No. 483 car of Danny Cruise, saw two mechanics sharing a joke. One of them looked Kim up and down, then winked. Her instinct was to duck her head and hurry on by…instead, she smiled back at him. Because the new Kim Murphy did that kind of thing.

  She glanced back over her shoulder after she passed by, saw the mechanic eyeing her bottom in her slim-fitting pants. Yep, this was where she needed to be to complete her list.

  She couldn’t even begin to Be the life and soul of a wild party at Booth Laboratories, or in any other part of her life. But here in NASCAR, no matter that everyone was deadly serious about their racing, they knew how to have a good time.

  They probably had wild parties every night.

  She fingered the list in her pocket—tucking it in there had emboldened her for that call to her boss this morning.

  Two Fulcrum Racing team members—Kim recognized them by their orange-and-brown shirts—passed her, pushing a trolley stacked with tires toward the pits. She’d reached her destination.

  The bright orange No. 448 Turn-Rite Tools car stood out from the cars either side. The hood was open, and a mechanic leaned over the engine, tinkering with goodness knows what. Kim saw thick dark hair, broad shoulders and strong hands turning a spanner. Then he looked up.

  Kim’s pulse skipped, her mouth dried. An aftereffect of this morning’s dialysis, she told herself. Nothing to do with the fact that this guy might just be—what was Rachel’s expression?—God’s gift to women.

  Ink-black eyes met hers, halting the progress of her gaze across hard-planed cheekbones, firm lips and a strong chin. She had never in her life noticed a man’s cheekbones, she was certain. That heightened-senses-from-playing-hooky thing was working overtime.

  He turned away and said to one of the mechanics, “I’m done here, give everything a wipe-down, will you?” His voice, like the low rumble of a well-tuned engine, triggered a tingle between Kim’s shoulder blades.

  He tucked the spanner into the pocket of his dark uniform pants, wiped his hands on a cloth and, without looking, threw it onto the war wagon with a precision that saw it land exactly atop another cloth. He’d probably played football in college, Kim thought.

  More likely, he hadn’t been to college. His command might have sent the mechanic scurrying to obey, but Wade Abraham—who else could he be?—possessed the kind of rough-hewn, leader-of-men authority they didn’t teach in universities.

  Item number seven on Kim’s list popped into her mind, complete with flashing lightbulbs around it: Date a jock. This guy was a jock, oh, my, yes. In fact, if there was such a place as Jock Kingdom, Wade Abraham would have a pretty strong claim to the throne.

  Seize the day. Buoyed by the appreciative look Danny Cruise’s mechanic had given her derriere, she took a step in Wade’s direction. The movement drew his glance. “Uh, hi,” she said. “I’m Kim.” The words were out before she remembered she was no good at talking to strangers, especially men. Now what? Her new self evaporated, leaving her old, nerdy self exposed.

  Wade had no discernible interest in her butt, going by the jerk of a nod he directed at her. Then his gaze flicked to Kim’s hard card, which identified her as a team member, and some of the impatience left his expression. “Wade Abraham,” he said.

  Kim stuck out a hand. Wade’s fingers were as strong as they looked, gripping hers in a way that sent a little shock through her. He smiled, perhaps sensing her reaction, and the slow curving of his mouth made her stomach clench.

  For a crazy moment, Kim wondered if the hospital pharmacy had mixed up her meds this week, and she’d been taking some kind of female Viagra.

  Because no matter what fanciful thoughts she’d had when she was seventeen, her intensely physical reaction to a jock like Wade Abraham made no sense. He was a million miles away from the academics she dated. Good with his hands. She felt her face flame. Then she heard herself say, “Would—would you like to grab a coffee?”

  She held her breath, and it seemed to her that a silence swelled, occupying the entire space between them, threatening to smother her.