Home At Last Chance (Last Chance #2)(27)
Author: Hope Ramsay

The ladies were going to consult a lawyer about the legal requirements but were already planning a group cookbook and a press release.

“Well,” Ruby said as she closed the door behind the last of the committee members, “that went well, don’t you think?” The hairdresser turned and gave Sarah a big smile. “Thank you so much for coming. Now, in return, I’d like to do something for you.”

Ruby advanced, a surprisingly wicked gleam in her green eyes.

“Oh, it’s not—”

“Oh, yes, it is, sugar. It’s completely necessary. Now you just relax, you hear, and let me take care of it.”

“Take care of what?”

“That awful hairdo.”

“But—”

Her protest was cut short when Ruby seized her by the upper arm and gently guided her toward the hair-washing station at the back of the Cut ’n Curl.

“You are a beautiful woman, Sarah, but sometimes I get the feeling you’re trying to hide all that beauty under a bushel basket.” Ruby gently pressed Sarah into the seat and then pried the banana clip loose from her hair.

“You know, these things can be handy, but they shouldn’t ever be a crutch.” Ruby tossed the offending item into a trash basket. “And besides, pulling all that glorious red hair back like that makes you look like a librarian.”

“It does?”

“Yes, sugar, it surely does. And if you want my advice, you aren’t going to catch any interesting men wearing your hair that way. Now just lie back and let me fix it.”

Sarah decided not to fight it. Her hair did need fixing. And so did her wardrobe. Two hours later, Sarah emerged from Ruby’s care buffed, waxed, made up, trimmed, painted, and detailed. Surely this was what the boys down in the shop meant when they talked about a full body-off frame-up restoration.

She looked fabulous, but she was still worried. After all, even a full body-off restoration didn’t change the underlying automobile. Sarah doubted that anyone could fix what was really wrong with her.

And that was simple. She exuded some kind of reverse pheromone. Men took one look at her and ran for cover every time.

“I still look like the girl next door,” Sarah said as she stared at Ruby’s handiwork in the mirror.

“Of course you do. That’s your charm.”

“But I don’t want to be the girl next door.”

Ruby laughed aloud. “What are you talking about? Every man on the face of the planet wants the girl next door. You can trust me on this.”

“But—”

Ruby held up her hand. “They do. But here’s the secret. They want you to be the girl next door, just not necessarily look the part.”

“But that’s the point. I look like the girl next door. I can’t do a thing about it either. Even with a new haircut and makeup and everything. I still look like the redheaded, freckle-faced girl next door.”

“There isn’t anything wrong with your freckles or red hair. That just makes you adorable. I declare, Sarah, you have a cute curvy body. You need to quit hiding it in baggy chinos and man-tailored suits. All you need are a couple of pairs of tight blue jeans, and a few tank tops that show off your assets.”

Ruby cocked her head and studied Sarah in the mirror for a long moment. Then she pulled her cell phone out of her smock and speed-dialed a number.

“Elbert, honey,” Ruby said into the phone, “I’m not going to be home for supper.”

She paused and listened. “No, it’s not a dire emergency, but something extremely important has come up, and I have to go shopping.”

She listened again. “Uh-huh, it’s a beauty disaster. So you tell Stone to take the girls out for dinner tonight. And you can eat the leftover ham and butter beans. Clay and Jane are up in Columbia tonight with the band. I’ll be home no later than ten.”

She folded the phone closed.

“All right, sugar, you and I are going shopping together over to Florence. I’m just itching to dress you up in some green. And pink, of course.” She laughed at that.

“No doubt because pink is such a power color.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “I don’t want to wear pink any more than Tulane does.”

“Sarah, you would look good enough to eat in pink. You just need the right formfitting tank top. And a pair of bad-girl high-heel boots, of course.”

“Bad-girl high-heel boots?” she asked. The idea titillated her, even though it was suggested by Tulane’s mother.

A grin touched Ruby’s lips. “I’d recommend strappy little sandals, sugar, it being the summertime, but they have rules about open-toed footwear in the garages. But boots are allowed. And I’m thinking really naughty boots.”

“Wow. I’ve never owned shoes like that. I’ve always been so practical in my footwear choices.”

“Yes, I’ve figured that out about you. And I surely do appreciate your practicality. It will come in handy in the future. But for now, we need to play up the bad girl. If you want to look naughty, you have to kiss ‘practical’ good-bye. Now, mind, wearing boots like that will kill your feet, but I guarantee you they will get noticed down on pit row.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

“Well, okay, then,” Sarah said with a nod. “Bring on the high-heel boots.”

Chapter 12

Tulane lengthened his stride, pushing himself into a full-out run as he started another lap around the dirt harness track at Dover Downs. The horse track sat right inside Dover International Speedway. In a few hours, the Monster Mile would come alive with almost four dozen screaming machines, all trying to qualify for the next NASCAR Sprint Cup race. But for now, it was just a peaceful, slightly hazy Friday morning.

He concentrated on the slap of his running shoes against the earth, the burn in his thighs, and the pounding of his pulse. He wanted to find the zone where the endorphins kicked in. The zone where he could leave his head and live in his body.

He’d made several laps already—almost his five-mile quota—and he still hadn’t managed to empty his mind of anything. He counted all the things that were distracting him from his job.

Sarah came first. Ever since Pete’s funeral, the woman had been the last thing he thought about when his head hit the pillow and the first thing he thought about when he awoke. He wanted that woman, but having her would be a big honking mistake. If he wanted to be responsible and mature, he had to treat her professionally. Somehow, being responsible and mature wasn’t all that much fun.

Then there was the whole what-to-do-about-Pete’s-letter thing. The entire family was squabbling over this issue, and he just wanted to run away. Why had Pete made him responsible for this? It wasn’t fair.

He also couldn’t ignore the pile of business issues and offers that had suddenly materialized because of his interviews on nonsports television. Apparently a guy in a pink bunny suit was news. Ford Motor Company needed him to think about doing a bunch of television commercials. Half a dozen minor sponsors wanted him to think about die-cast cars and branded apparel.

It was totally insane. Why did anyone give a durn about a driver whose best finish was twenty-ninth out of a field of forty-three? He didn’t want fame. He wanted to drive fast and win races and make Pete proud of him.

Shoot. All this thinking was driving him crazy. Especially the part of his brain that only wanted to think about Sarah.

Sarah had e-mailed him a few times since his boneheaded decision back at the river. Her e-mails were professional and kept to topics like the upcoming schedule, which involved a VIP dinner with the governor tomorrow night. Sarah seemed to have everything under control. The whole skinny-dipping-in-the-Edisto thing didn’t seem to be bothering her at all.

A sign of true maturity on her part.

Tulane finished the lap, sweat pouring off him and his lungs working overtime. He continued to walk briskly toward the infield motor-home lot that was his temporary home away from home. The next complication to his life greeted him the minute he got back.

Lacy DuBois, an assistant to an assistant NASCAR assistant, sat draped over a folding lawn-chair like so much tarnished Christmas tinsel. Despite her job title, her appearance at this hour of the morning was strictly unofficial.

“Hey, good-looking,” Lacy said in a lazy Louisiana drawl. “Have a nice run?” She unfolded all 5 feet 10 inches of her body from the lawn chair and tossed her Farrah Fawcett do for effect. The woman was built straight up and down, like a boy, except for her artificially enhanced br**sts. She resembled Trailer Trash Barbie in her tight lime-green jeans and the cropped Daisy Duke top that showed both her belly-button ring and a prodigious amount of silicone cl**vage.

The boys down in the garages thought Lacy was about as hot as a Shelby Ford Mustang. Tulane found her singularly unappealing.

Lacy was a fabled pit lizard with an agenda as long as there were drivers and owners. It was a lead-pipe cinch that her appearance today meant Tulane had moved up from last to first on her to-do list.

Lacy sashayed across the infield grass and stopped just inches from him. “My, my, but aren’t you impressive, all sweaty and hot,” she said, reaching out and running a red-nailed finger down his cheek before he could flinch away. She made a great show of popping the sweat-dampened finger into her mouth.

“Yummy,” she said in a husky voice. “I do like the taste of salty man.”

He leaned in. “Lacy,” he said softly.

She gazed at him out of a pair of brown eyes fringed in fake lashes and about three pounds of mascara. “What, honey?”

“Get lost.”

She startled but didn’t retreat. “Now, is that any way to treat a lady who is willing to make you a very good offer?”

She had to be kidding. Did she use that line with everyone? Good grief, that didn’t say much about the boys of professional stock car racing, did it? He leaned in a little closer and was on the point of whispering into her ear that she was no lady and that her offer was pretty tawdry. Only he never got the words out, because Sarah Murray pulled up in a golf cart.

At the sound of approaching tires, he stepped away from Lacy and turned, hoping that whoever had just arrived wouldn’t get the wrong idea. But Sarah had gotten the wrong idea.

His day took a simultaneous turn for the better and the worse. Sarah had let her hair down, and she wore a pair of jeans and pink T-shirt that hugged her h*ps and her waist and her curvy boobs, where a little golden crucifix nestled.

The sight of that little religious symbol should have cooled his ardor, but instead he reacted just like a horny teenager. She was the spitting image of the proverbial nice girl, right down to her adorable freckles.

Sarah was like some unearthly combination of virgin and harlot. Tulane wanted her deeply, and now. He didn’t actually have to think about this reaction. This reaction had nothing to do with his brain.

Boy, he had really missed her these last few days. He wanted to walk over there and say something outrageous and kind of immature—something that would make her blush a deep red.

But the expression on her face—lips pursed, hazel eyes fiery—told him he was never going to get another chance with her, which was probably the right thing all the way around.