Home At Last Chance (Last Chance #2)(15)
Author: Hope Ramsay

He pulled out three hundred-dollar bills and handed them to Lori. “Dinner’s on me. It’s the least I can do, considering how lousy I drove on Sunday. Now, if ya’ll don’t mind, my back is still killing me. That turn-two wall was kind of hard when I smacked it on Sunday.”

He gave a little farewell wave to the crew, then turned and walked out the door, giving Sarah a great view of his Wrangler-clad behind.

Chapter 7

Deidre Montgomery lined up several documents on her desk. At the far right was the memo Sarah had sent a few days ago about Racer Rabbit and Tulane Rhodes’s marketing appeal. Beside it stood a pile of research reports also authored by Sarah.

Next to that pile stood the famous Cuppa Java memo bearing Steve Phelps’s name. Steve had used this memo to catch the attention of the chairman of the Board. Its brilliant plan for marketing a new line of gourmet coffeemakers had contributed significantly to National Brands’ first-quarter results. And that, in turn, had made Steve Phelps a danger to Deidre’s career.

At the end of the line of memos sat the famous pink car memo, also bearing Steve Phelps’s name. Deidre had found this memo on her desk last January. It outlined a silly plan for putting a bunny on the hood of a NASCAR Sprint Cup car.

Deidre turned to Sheila Dvorak, the senior director of marketing and her right-hand assistant and enforcer. “So, what’s your take?”

Sheila smiled. “My take is that every single one of these memos was written by the same person. So the main question is: How the hell did someone with Sarah’s talent end up in research?”

“Beats me. But I’ll take the rap,” Deidre said. “I guess I was too preoccupied with Steve Phelps’s little games to actually notice Sarah. She has a way of fading into the background.”

Sheila nodded, but her helmet of frosted and sprayed hair stayed stationary. “Now I understand why the staff is whining about Sarah being detailed to Ferguson Racing. You think she’s been writing everyone’s memos?”

“No,” Deidre said, leaning back and steepling her fingers. “I think she’s been helping people, which is her job. But Steve went one step further—he put his name on the Cuppa Java memo, but Sarah wrote it. I’d stake my life on it. But why would she write a memo for Steve when she hasn’t done that for anyone else?”

Sheila rolled her eyes. “You don’t really want me to answer that question. It was rhetorical, right? I’ll bet the guy saw it on her desk and stole it. That would be consistent with his usual mode of operation.”

Deidre leaned forward and picked up the original pink car memo bearing Steve’s name. “So this was supposed to be her revenge?”

Sheila smiled like a fox. “Yeah, it’s pretty pathetic. But this is sweet little Sarah we’re talking about. And besides, you took the bait. Her revenge might have worked, too, but Steve sent Sarah to South Carolina and you got talked into letting her stay there. That, and the fact that Tulane Rhodes looks adorable in pink.”

“Well, it’s all working out all right, though,” Deidre said as she picked up Sarah’s newest memo. It suggested that National Brands keep Tulane in the pink car for the entirety of this racing season, while the company negotiated a licensing deal with Penny Farthing Productions, the owners of the Racer Rabbit cartoon character. Sarah had outlined all the parameters of an acceptable deal, as well as the organizational structure for a car seat safety program. Her theory on keeping Tulane in the pink car was pretty simple—a good ol’ boy in a pink car was news, and Tulane was sexy enough to make the rounds of nonsports talk shows, promoting Cottontail Disposable Diapers as he went.

Deidre had specifically told her not to write these memos, but now, studying them and realizing their competence, Deidre was happy Sarah had decided not to follow the rules.

She wasn’t going to underestimate Sarah again.

Deidre waved the new memo around. “I’m going to bury Steve Phelps with this.”

Sheila stared down her long nose. “Deidre, that’s not entirely fair to Sarah, is it?”

Deidre shrugged. “Sarah’s a big girl. It’s obvious she knows how to play dirty, even though she looks like an angel. Besides, I’m thinking she wants my help in getting rid of Steve. That’s why she put the first memo on my desk and sent me this one, even though I told her not to write any more memos.”

Deidre leaned forward. “I want you to get the media people on this right away. I want Tulane Rhodes on any talk shows you can book for the next couple of weeks. Get the art department to start working up concepts for a new paint job—tell them to watch Racer Rabbit for ideas.”

“Are you certain Tulane Rhodes is the right man for this Racer Rabbit thing? I mean, we still don’t know why he’s hot to trot on car seats. That bio of his is bogus, and in case you’ve forgotten, Sarah hasn’t provided the dossier you asked for. It’s almost like she’s dodging you.”

“You think she’s covering for him?”

“Maybe. I just have this feeling she’s up to something,” Sheila said.

“Well, we’ve got some time. We can’t make any driver changes until next racing season. In the meantime, Sarah’s got a point about Rhodes’s sex appeal. Putting a bad boy with a reputation in a pink bunny suit is news, Sheila. And it’s selling diapers like mad.”

Sheila nodded and chuckled. “Who would have thought?”

“You know, it’s a rare thing when you get to do well by doing good.”

“If you count stealing Sarah’s ideas as doing good.”

Deidre shrugged. “Can’t be helped. We need Sarah where she is, out of the way in the boonies of South Carolina.”

Tulane dropped the green flag and the contestants hopped to it, changing their babies like a pack of demented fools. He was standing under another big tent at another Value Mart shopping center somewhere in South Carolina. He had lost track of where, exactly. The last few weeks had started to blur in his mind.

Having a sponsor liaison had not fixed much in Tulane’s life. In fact, National Brands was driving him crazy. They had arranged for him to appear on a half-dozen talk shows. He’d had to talk about how it felt to be riding around in a pink car wearing a pink driver’s suit.

Right, like National Brands wanted him to say one of the words the FCC had banned on national television.

The attention was embarrassing. It was bad enough being a thirty-year-old rookie, when all the other new drivers were in their teens or twenties. But to have guys snicker behind his back just steamed him.

Jim told him to be patient. But Jim didn’t have to put on a pink bunny suit week in and week out. It wouldn’t be so bad if his team were winning races. But they weren’t. Heck, they weren’t even finishing races. Morale was lower than low. And the whole sponsor thing had become one huge, never-ending distraction.

Of course, Sarah was a distraction that Tulane didn’t mind all that much. He was having a good laugh teaching the little Pilgrim stuff she didn’t know about. Take poker, for instance. Sarah wasn’t good at it, but she had this uncanny ability to bluff that had more to do with her not knowing that a pair of deuces was a bad hand than with any ability to lie, cheat, or deceive.

He had been thinking that it was time to casually raise the stakes by suggesting they gamble for pieces of clothing instead of pennies or matches.

Naw, he couldn’t do a thing like that. Getting Sarah nak*d would be a stupid and dangerous thing to do, even if it would be a lot of fun. Besides, she had unsnarled a lot of complications in his life, even if she hadn’t gotten him out of a pink suit. She’d gone through all the sponsorship crap that had come his way and had made a number of shrewd and lucrative suggestions.

Sarah put a Sharpie in his hand, and he started signing stuff.

Another half-hour of this and he could relax in the limousine and continue his poker lessons with Sarah. It was the only bright spot in his otherwise crappy day.

After coordinating twenty-five of these horrible events, Sarah had learned not to wear black. Today, she had donned a Cottontail logo shirt and a pair of khakis. The outfit wasn’t precisely flattering—her backside should bear a sign across it saying “Wide Load”—but the natural fabric had the benefit of being better suited to the ruthless heat and humidity of the South. And besides, khakis and golf shirts were the uniform around Ferguson Racing.

The heat percolated up from the blacktop right into the soles of her loafers as she headed across the parking lot at the Charleston Value Mart with some bottled water for Tulane. The poor man had been standing out there in the heat for almost an hour, showing a great deal of patience, given the circumstances.

“Excuse me, ma’am, do you work for Tulane?”

The voice came from behind her and was spoken in a deep drawl that had the same soft quality as Tulane’s.

She turned to find a large man bearing down on her. He wore a black T-shirt, faded Wranglers, and a buff-colored Stetson. He was huge—taller than Tulane and broader across the shoulders.

She stared up into a shadowed face that sported a trimmed goatee and a pair of gray eyes. A dark gem, probably a sapphire, winked at her from his left earlobe.

He tipped his hat, briefly exposing dark brown hair pulled back into a long ponytail. He probably had a Harley stashed somewhere because he resembled a wicked bad biker boy in the flesh, precisely the kind who sometimes showed up and caused trouble. Biker boys seemed to think that stock car drivers should eschew the color pink.

“Ma’am?” he said, tipping his hat.

Sarah went immediately on guard and scanned the parking lot over his shoulder, searching for the Value Mart security.

“Can I help you with something?”

His mouth softened just a little, and déjà vu hit her. The guy reminded her of someone, probably some country-and-western singer like Trace Adkins or Tim McGraw.

“I need to talk with Tulane privately,” he said.

Yup, he was trouble with a capital T that stood for way too much testosterone.

“Um, I’m afraid speaking with Tulane right now isn’t possible. If you’d like—”

“Just tell him I’m here. He’ll see me. I’ll be waiting in the shade over yonder.” He pointed toward the storefront, which cast a shadow across the parking lot.

The man certainly talked in short sentences, didn’t he? She watched him saunter off in the direction of the store with a loose-jointed walk that was part swagger.

She turned back and crossed the blistering blacktop. The line of autograph seekers had diminished. She checked her watch. They were right on schedule. Five minutes and she could get Tulane into an air-conditioned limo and they could practice playing poker on the way back to the Ferguson Racing complex.

She was lousy at poker, but playing it with Tulane was fun because the stakes were low and Tulane didn’t care about winning. That was odd, because when it came to racing cars, Tulane was all about winning. And when he didn’t win—which was pretty much every Sunday—it put him in a really bad mood.