Fully Engaged Page 3

  “I only had a few drinks.” Bart buried his face in his hands, and Sandra noticed he was shaking. It might be true that he hadn’t drunk much—she should have realized that the late night and early start would have compounded the effect of the alcohol.

  “A few too many,” Taney corrected.

  “Obviously, if I’d known I was going to be on TV with that fat cow—”

  “Enough,” Taney roared.

  Bart fell silent. And once again, Sandra’s stomach picked a prime moment to grumble.

  Taney rounded on her. “Will you stop doing that?”

  “Not ’til I have my breakfast,” she retorted. “How about you stop all this prowling and roaring?” He reminded her of an enraged lion. “You might find it satisfying, but it’s not getting us anywhere. We’ve screwed up—”

  “You screwed up,” Taney corrected.

  “And now we need to figure out what to do.”

  He looked as if he had some ideas that revolved around staking her to a racetrack and letting the entire fleet of NASCAR Sprint Cup Series cars drive over her. But before he could share them, his cell phone rang.

  TANEY HAD BY NO MEANS finished giving Sandra a piece of his mind—hell, he hadn’t even started—so although reflex had him pulling his phone out of his pocket, his thumb went straight for the off button. Then he saw the number.

  Damn. He was tempted to go ahead and switch the thing off. But from the moment Bart had lost control in his interview, Taney had known this call was coming. If any window existed for damage limitation, it was now.

  “Mary, I guess you saw the show.”

  “Forget it.” Mary Kelly, the hard-nosed, sharp-minded CEO of Her Fitness didn’t waste time. “If you think we’d pay money to have that loose cannon represent us…if you think women want to go to a gym whose spokesman insulted Olivia Winton—one of the most revered women in America—about her weight, you’re nuts.”

  Explaining that Will and Bart had swapped places would hardly make Will seem more reliable. “Today wasn’t the best timing for the show.” Not exactly a compelling response. “Will’s been under a lot of pressure.”

  “Which brings me to my next point,” Mary Kelly fumed. “You said he would keep quiet about his father.”

  There was nothing Taney could say to placate her. He told her he’d call her next week, but they both knew she wouldn’t change her mind.

  FROM THE FIRM SET of Taney’s jaw and the hard look he sent her as he ended the call, Sandra figured Her Fitness had pulled out of the deal. Visions of paying her loans evaporated.

  “You just lost your brother a new sponsor,” Taney said to Bart.

  Bart looked momentarily guilty, but then he said sulkily, “You’ll find someone else.” He eyed Sandra, and the deep V of her blouse. Insolently, he said, “Just take Sandra with you and have her flash those killer—”

  Taney grabbed him by the collar and twisted, hauling him off the sofa. “Watch your mouth,” he growled.

  Taney was defending her? So soon after wanting to stake her to a racetrack? Guilt flip-flopped in Sandra’s stomach—either that, or she was so hungry her stomach was eating itself.

  “I can look after myself,” she said to Taney. Because she didn’t deserve his defense. Not when it was her fault they’d lost Her Fitness.

  He let Bart go. The younger man glowered as he tugged the neck of his shirt back into place.

  “Any more comments like that,” she told Bart, “and you’ll be trying to convince a hundred reporters that the official press release announcing your impotence was a hoax.”

  Bart recoiled. The sound from Taney might have been a laugh, but when Sandra glanced at him, he still looked mad, with both her and Bart.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  “Sorry,” Bart mumbled.

  “We’re not going to fix this here,” Taney said. “Bart, drag your brother out of bed, take him back to Charlotte. Did you come on the team plane?” Bart nodded. “Tell him I want to see him tomorrow, I don’t care how sick he is.

  “You—” he turned to Sandra, and his mouth was so uncompromising she wondered how she could have imagined that laugh “—get to come with me. We need to talk.”

  When she’d woken this morning, she’d let her imagination wander ahead to this part of the day. Funnily enough, her mental picture had included Taney saying, “We need to talk.” Followed by him signing a check.

  Sandra hadn’t graduated summa cum laude from Duke without the brains to figure out there would be no check today.

  She gulped, but it wasn’t enough to swallow the bitter truth.

  Taney was about to fire her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  IF TANEY HAD NEEDED a reminder that his heart was no longer in NASCAR, this was it.

  As they took off from O’Hare in his private jet, he wasn’t worrying about what Bart’s stunt and the continued lack of a sponsor would do to team morale, or even about whether they could afford to race through to the Chase for the NASCAR Sprint Cup.

  All he could think about was how Sandra’s appalling lapse of judgment would affect his personal plans.

  Although he’d schooled his face into its usual distant impassivity, he was so mad he could shake her. Which he didn’t consider inappropriate conduct, because she was tall enough and tough enough to look after herself.

  Though to make it a fair fight, she’d probably have to slip out of those gray high-heeled shoes with the pink bow at the toes, so she’d be steadier on her feet. Taney’s ill-disciplined gaze dropped to her slim ankles.

  And she hadn’t exactly looked tough when her blue eyes had gone wide and anxious, and her face pale, when she’d realized it was Bart up there on stage.

  He allowed his gaze to wander past her, sitting in the black leather upholstered seat next to his in the center of the airplane, as if he wasn’t really seeing her. It was a useful skill he’d acquired back when he’d started All Sports, the sporting goods company that was now one of the largest chains in the country. The ability to look around with apparent vacancy, all the while taking in every detail of the sales graphs on a rival’s office wall, was of immeasurable value.

  Not that Sandra was a rival, as she’d pointed out earlier. They were on the same side…and if this had been a basketball game, Taney would have chosen her for his team. He guessed she could be as much as six feet tall. She was curvy, but not overweight, and with that red hair complementing her creamy complexion, very striking. If she couldn’t play ball, she’d do a damned good job of distracting the competition.

  Taney yanked his thoughts back. This wasn’t a game, this was business, and Sandra was responsible for a royal screwup. It was inexcusable.

  He almost wished she would let rip with some kind of excuse, some argument that would justify him ripping into her in return. But she’d avoided his eyes since they got on the plane. Her long lashes shielded her thoughts, but the droop of her full lips hinted at a vulnerability that made it hard for him to yell.

  She’d probably guessed his intention. A twinge of guilt pinched him, but he shook it off. She’d find another client, that wasn’t his problem. She deserved this, dammit.

  But he couldn’t say what had to be said if she wouldn’t look at him.

  He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out the Krispy Kreme bag he’d all but forgotten.

  “Here.” He pushed it into the nest made by the fingers she’d laced in her lap.

  Sandra jumped, as though she’d forgotten he was there. Which annoyed Taney, when he was so aware of her. “What’s this?” Her voice came out quiet, and she cleared her throat.

  “What it looks like—breakfast. I picked it up when I went out to find Will before the show.” Before you messed up my plans. “Your stomach was so loud I thought it might scare the kids in the audience.”

  She colored—the curse of that fair complexion, he assumed—but returned feistily, “Your yelling would have scared them more—they probably heard you all the way from the greenroom.
” She opened the bag and sniffed the contents. Her tongue came out and licked her lips. Taney shifted in his seat. “Mmm, apple cinnamon,” she murmured. She crumpled the bag closed and said without much resolution, “I shouldn’t. The carbs…”

  “Eat,” Taney ordered. “I want to talk to you and you’re going to need your strength.”

  Her head jerked around, and for a moment she looked downright scared, which irked Taney—as if he was some kind of monster!

  She pulled the donut from the bag and bit into it, leaving a trail of powdered cinnamon on her lips. “Thank you, this was very thoughtful of you.”

  Okay, he wasn’t a monster, but he didn’t want Sandra getting any fanciful ideas about him being a soft touch.

  “Is there anything else you’d like to say about this morning?” He hardened his voice. He would hear her out, but then he’d do what he had to.

  His tone had the effect of wiping away that fragility he’d seen. Sandra straightened in her seat, took her time finishing a mouthful. Then she looked him square in the eye. “What would you have done, if you were me?”

  The question took him by surprise, but he didn’t hesitate. “If I’d guessed Will was drunk, I’d never have put him on TV.”

  “Despite the fact you’d put everything into setting up that show? Despite knowing that in one day you’d blow the reputation it took years to earn for delivering on your promises?”

  He let the raise of an eyebrow point out that today’s fiasco could do as much damage to her reputation as pulling Will from the show might have. She bit her lip, but didn’t look away.

  “As much or more time and effort goes into every NASCAR Sprint Cup Series race,” Taney said, “but I wouldn’t let my driver get into a race car drunk.”

  She caught her breath. “It would have been all right if it was Will,” she said, more to herself than him. “The problem was Bart.”

  He couldn’t believe she still thought there’d been anything smart about her decision. “You don’t even know your client well enough to recognize him.”

  “They’re identical,” she snapped. “If they’d been side by side I might have been able to—”

  “Sandra—” he’d like to do this more graciously, but if she couldn’t see reason “—you’re fired.”

  He felt like a certain reality TV show host, only with way better hair. And, it seemed, less authority. Sandra didn’t react the way people did on the show—there was no stunned acceptance of her fate.

  She let out a little hiss, then, as if she couldn’t bear to be so close to him, she unclipped her seat belt and stood, brushing the empty donut bag to the floor. She took a couple of steps backward. “You can fire me if you want—”

  “I just did.” See, this was the trouble with her, she never understood who was boss. He didn’t need her permission to fire her.

  “But you need to admit that at least half the blame is yours,” she continued.

  Outrage almost winded Taney. “Did anyone tell you it’s unprofessional to blame others for your mistakes?”

  “No.” She sat in the seat on the other side of the coffee table, facing him. “But I have a feeling you’re about to give me a textbook example.”

  Taney folded his arms, stared her down. “I’m not the one who let a drunk race car driver, impersonating her client go on a major TV show.” It had all the tacky splendor of a tabloid headline, and if anyone else ever found out the truth about today, that’s exactly where the story would end up.

  She came back, blue eyes blazing, her anger shrinking the physical distance between them to nothing. “No, you’re not,” she raged. “You’re the arrogant, close-mouthed jerk who would rather let his whole team suffer an agony of indecision than share details of what he’s doing to save it. You’re the man who runs his race team like a feudal absentee dictator, never bothering to show up unless it’s to punish us for our incompetence. You’re the—”

  “You’ve said enough,” Taney roared, and some small part of him was aware this was what he’d wanted all along, an argument with someone who wasn’t so intimidated that he had to worry about wounding her, someone who gave back as good as she got. He’d been resentful and annoyed for so long—not with her, not even with the team, but with life—but he was so used to keeping his distance from people that he never got the chance to vent.

  “Then you have the nerve to fire me—” to his maddened delight, she continued as if he hadn’t spoken “—when if you’d shown one scrap of interest in Will Branch’s performance this season, he’d never have gone out to a party last night, never have ended up with food poisoning.”

  “I’ve made the rules about driver behavior quite clear,” he thundered.

  “Ooh, the rules,” she said with mock awe. “You mean those decrees that come down from on high, relayed through your lackey Kemp because you can’t be bothered showing up at the team headquarters more than once a month?”

  Actually, it had been once every couple of months recently, but Taney wasn’t about to admit that. “What you may not understand, Ms. Jacobs,” he said icily, “given your lack of experience in running multimillion-dollar enterprises, is the art of delegation.”

  “I understand that you washed your hands of this team months ago,” she retorted. “If you think you’ll get the best out of your people when it’s obvious you’ve lost interest, then you don’t know the first thing about leadership.”

  “What the—? I’m a born leader, dammit, and if you want proof, take a look at my business. Put it alongside yours, and tell me who’s the leader here.” Blood rushed to Taney’s temples; his heart thudded hard and fast. No one challenged him like this, not in years. He hadn’t felt this exhilarated since those early days with the team, when every start, every finish in a NASCAR race, had been a heart-stopping battle.

  He glared at Sandra, but she didn’t give an inch. Her bosom heaved in a way that drew his attention, reminded him of her incredible figure. Taney clamped a hand to his brow. This was crazy, she was insulting him and he was thinking about her body! Her breath came fast, like his, and suddenly the atmosphere seemed charged with a sensuous awareness that expanded and filled the airplane.

  “Face it, Taney,” she taunted, “you’re not the right kind of guy to own a NASCAR team.”

  Anything sensuous vanished, leaving good old-fashioned anger in its place. “I won the Sprint Cup four years ago,” he bellowed. “And I won the NASCAR Nationwide Series the year after.”

  “Notice how you said you won?” she asked, her voice quiet, in a way that Taney guessed was calculated to make him feel as if he was ranting. Which he was, but he was having a surprisingly good time and he wasn’t ready to stop. “A good team owner would say we won.” She squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye. “You’re not a team player.”

  How had this got to be about him, when she was the one being fired?

  “I own a team,” Taney snarled. “Of course I’m a team player.”

  She shook her head, lifted her chin, as if she was trying to make herself as tall as he. He wondered where the top of her head would come to, if they were standing, if he took her shoes off. Of course, the way her eyes were spitting, she’d kick him if he tried.

  “That you’re firing me now, after one mistake, proves my point,” she said.

  Dammit, he was in the right, he knew he was, but she’d somehow seized the moral high ground. He had to forcibly remind himself he had nothing to prove. Unclipping his seat belt, he stood, strode to the bar fridge and pulled out a cola.

  “Do you talk like this to Latimer?” he demanded. Richard Latimer was Bart’s team owner. Of course, Latimer hadn’t fired Sandra, so chances were she curbed her temper with him.

  “Richard is not only a gentleman, he’s a good communicator,” Sandra said superciliously. “He’s been open about his talks with EZ-Plus Software about Bart, and I’ve given him some input that will hopefully help him make a deal.” Her foot tapped the carpet. “Are you going to offer me a drin
k?”

  “You mean, like a gentleman would?”

  She came over and grabbed her own soda. She looked him in the eye, unwavering, uncowed. He was taller than she was, but not as much as he was used to. He’d always used his size to his advantage; now he realized she did, too. This close, the heat between them was a palpable contrast to the ice-cold can he held.

  “You, on the other hand—” she ignored his dig “—have consistently refused to say who you’re talking to about Will. If I’d known about Her Fitness, I might have been able to help you convince them to sign sooner, before today’s show. Will could have helped, too—for all his faults he does have a personality that appeals to sponsors.”

  “I’m not running the Will Branch fan club.” He took an impatient swig of his cola. “This team is a business, and right now I have an urgent need to find a sponsor, which, believe me, is all about money, not personality.”

  “Good luck with that.” Her tone suggested she wished him the opposite. “I’m very forgiving, so call me when you get tough questions about quantifying a sponsor’s return on investment.” She jabbed a finger in his direction. “Because that’s not just about money—” jab “—it’s about brand image and a whole lot of intangible stuff that happens to be my field of expertise.” Jab. “Maybe, if you’d tapped in to that, this wouldn’t be taking you so long.”

  Annoyed, Taney grabbed her finger mid-jab. “Enough with the Finger of Doom.”

  Her hand felt both strong and fine in his. He uncurled her fingers and their softness distracted him from the point he planned to make, namely that he’d had a great sponsor lined up until she’d blown it this morning.

  He could also justifiably claim that he was running a megamillion-dollar sports equipment business at the same time as he was hunting for Will’s sponsor, so it was no wonder his focus was diluted.

  In fact, whichever way he looked at it, he was running out of time. If he didn’t find a sponsor for Will soon, it would ruin all his plans.