TURN TWO

  Nancy Warren

  This book is dedicated to two wonderful writing friends,

  Kathleen Shandley and Bobby Hutchinson.

  Thanks for everything.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  TAYLOR ROBINSON HAD envisioned countless scenarios that could ruin her first day on the job as the public relations manager for a rookie NASCAR driver. She had extra panty hose in her bag, an EpiPen in case some new and hitherto-unknown allergic reaction should try to fell her on her first day; she had her makeup bag, a few hair products, a tiny sewing kit, even extra shoes in case she should snap a heel.

  But not her worst nightmare—and she was an imaginative woman—could have prepared her for running into the one man she’d planned never to see again.

  Her ex-husband.

  The day started out promisingly enough.

  She entered Winfield Racing headquarters near Charlotte, North Carolina, and was immediately greeted by Reena Boscoff, account manager for Winfield Racing and an old family friend who had tracked Taylor down in Australia to offer her the PR job.

  After a rib-bruising hug, Reena said, “Okay, I’m swamped. We’ll catch up later. Here’s Hank Mission’s schedule.”

  Taylor blinked back the jet lag and focused on the computer printout. “Is this event this afternoon?”

  Reena put on her reading glasses and peered at the printout. “Yep. Rookie of the Year event. Three o’clock today.” She let her glasses slip back so they hung from a gold chain around her neck. “Good thing I had your business cards printed in advance. Come on. I’ll introduce you to your driver.”

  And poof, any thoughts of easing into her new job were gone.

  Six hours later Taylor walked into one of the big kickoff events for the upcoming season. She realized she’d forgotten one important item in her emergency pack. Beta-blockers. After thirteen months on surfing beaches, she wasn’t sure she could handle this much stress in one day.

  The usual noises of a social event in full swing hit Taylor as she entered the hotel ballroom with Hank Mission, Winfield’s rookie driver, and Dylan Hargreave, Winfield’s senior driver.

  A country band was playing, a lot of people talking and laughing, probably seeing one another for the first time in months. At one end a stage area was set up for the media event, but for now the atmosphere had more in common with a cocktail party than a press conference.

  She recognized a couple of famous racing faces, but most of the people present were strangers.

  They walked deeper into the crowded room, and Dylan was soon swapping greetings in a casual, practiced manner as they made their way forward. Hank tended to hang back a little and obviously didn’t know many more people here than she did.

  Hank was twenty-five years old and hailed from a small town in South Carolina, and he had the accent to prove it. He was medium height with a flop of brown hair and a crooked grin. He came across as shy, but there was a certain expression in his eyes that hinted at devilry. She liked him immediately, which was a good thing considering that looking after him was going to be her full-time job.

  She shook hands when introduced, made a point of handing out the new business cards and felt her old reporter’s instincts resurface.

  Taylor wasn’t one to let the grass grow. Maybe she’d only been back in the country three days, still felt like she had sand between her toes and a persistent case of jet lag, but she planned to raise the profile of her driver starting today.

  “Jeff,” she said to Dylan’s PR manager, figuring he’d be an expert on the subject, “who are the media people I really need to know?”

  Checking first to see that his driver was happily chatting to Hank and one of the event organizers, Jeff pointed out a bubbly young blond woman who worked for an online publication and then a spotlessly groomed broadcaster, telling her a bit about each. She wished she could pull out a reporter’s notebook and write it all down. Instead she concentrated, trying to memorize everything Jeff told her.

  “And over there is the man whose racing column has become the single most significant source of racing news.”

  Her gaze followed Jeff’s.

  And then snagged on a most unwelcome sight.

  Her breath caught.

  “Mike Lundquist,” she blurted in the tone she might have used if Freddy Krueger was eyeing her from across the room.

  “That’s right,” Jeff said, as though she’d answered a skill-testing question correctly. “Somebody’s been doing their homework.”

  Mike Lundquist was the man she’d been married to for three years. The man she’d gone halfway around the world to forget.

  His hair was the color of dark chocolate, his eyes even darker. He had round cheeks, weighed ten pounds more than he should, and had a humorous grin that was, as she knew too well, a chick magnet. He wasn’t movie-star handsome, yet he drew people to him with a combination of charm and easy humor.

  The sight of him across a crowded, noisy ballroom had her churning with a mixture of emotions so confused she couldn’t begin to separate them.

  “A year ago nobody’d heard of the guy, now his is the most trusted voice in racing.”

  “Mike Lundquist is the most trusted voice in NASCAR?” This could not be happening. He was supposed to be in Seattle, far, far away from here.

  “Yep. He’s got a syndicated racing column that everybody reads. If you can get on his good side, Hank’s halfway to fame and glory.”

  She felt like there wasn’t enough air in the ballroom. Heck, in all of North Carolina. If Jeff was to be believed, her ex-husband was the one man she most needed to impress if she wanted to succeed at her job.

  She wished, quite fervently, that she hadn’t signed that six-month lease on her apartment, because it looked like she’d be moving on again faster than you can say “Irreconcilable differences.”

  Mike was leaning over a table, talking to a woman. He was describing something with his hands. It was so familiar to watch those hands emphasizing his words that her stomach jolted. She’d known she didn’t want to see him again, but she’d had no idea how badly. The worst part was that he still looked the same. He wore his dark brown hair longer than she remembered, but otherwise he was unchanged.

  He wore a brown corduroy jacket and a plaid shirt, and she knew without looking that he wore jeans and loafers.

  It had been so long since she’d seen him that she couldn’t seem to stop staring. The woman he was telling the story to was obviously enjoying it. Even from here Taylor could see her leaning forward to catch every word, laughing and nodding.

  Then an odd thing happened. His hands stopped moving and he raised his head, slowly, like the Terminator when he senses his prey is near. It couldn’t be possible that her ex-husband would sense her presence, but she saw his gaze begin to sweep the room.

  Naturally, she did the sensible, mature thing.

  She dove out of sight behind the first body she could find.

  CHAPTER TWO

  TAYLOR HAD ALMOST REGAINED her equilibrium—if an accelerated heart rate, adrenaline rushing like Niagara Falls and a flight response on overdrive could be called equilibrium—and had rejoined Dylan and Hank when Dylan gestured over her head, a grin splitting his face. She was about to turn when an odd shiver of premonition rolled up her spine.

  “Hey,” Dylan said, “Perfect timing. Taylor, right here is the guy you most need to impress in racing.” He put a hand on the brown corduroy shoulder passing by and Taylor had half a second to prepare before her ex-husband said, “Hey, Dy. How’s it going?”

  Oh, God. Even his voice was the same. So exactly, frighteningly, the same.

  “Good. Come meet Hank’s new PR manager. Taylor Robinson.”

  Mike turned so sharply the beer in his glass sloshed over the rim. Their gazes met. She saw in that instant that he hadn’t expected to see her any more than she’d expected to see him.

  Light sprang into his eyes, and for a second everything fell away and she expected him to drag her into his arms and kiss her breathless. Her body leaned forward toward him and she felt a little dizzy.

  His eyes were so dark. She’d always loved them. There was something serious and mysterious underneath the laughter that always seemed to sparkle on the surface.

  Then the moment passed and all the stuff that was between them reared up as thick and prickly as a prison wall topped with barbed wire.

  She felt hot and cold—and wanted this moment over so badly she couldn’t breathe.

  After a pause that seemed endless, but was probably less than two seconds, he spoke.

  “Taylor.” He extended his hand. “Good to meet you.”

  He was offering to shake her hand?

  Another second or so passed.

  In a slow-motion nightmare she saw her own hand reach out and shake that of her ex-husband. As though they hadn’t shared a house, a bed and a car for three y
ears. She’d imagined having grandchildren with this man. Now they were shaking hands like strangers. His touch was warm, so warm.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” she said, amazed at how normal she sounded.

  His gaze stayed on hers even as his hand released her. “Taylor. That’s an interesting name for a woman. Is it a family name?”

  Oh, like he didn’t know. “Yes.” She smiled even though her lips felt stiff. “My mother’s family name.”

  “And Robinson. Is that your maiden name? Or are you married?” He put a lazy emphasis on the word maiden.

  “I’m not married,” she snapped.

  “You from Charlotte? I don’t remember seeing you around before.”

  “No. I’m from out west.” She narrowed her gaze at him slightly. And don’t push it, she warned him silently.

  “Taylor’s been traveling,” Hank said. “She was in Australia. Surfing.”

  “That would explain why your nose is peeling,” Mike said, then turned to Dylan and asked him some technical question about spoilers that quickly went beyond Taylor’s rudimentary understanding. Not that she could take in much of anything. She still felt stunned.

  The conversation stayed on racing and she and Hank both stood silent. Dylan and Mike obviously had an easy, congenial relationship, one she hoped Hank would develop. Which would happen more easily if he had a different PR manager.

  After five minutes or so, Mike turned to Hank. “Are you taking Taylor to Florida?”

  What was she? A spare tire? An extra lug nut? They talked about her as if she could be transported in the hauler along with the engine parts.

  “Naturally, I’ll be traveling with the team,” she said before Hank had a chance.

  “Guess I’ll see you in Daytona, then.”

  This bad cocktail party got worse and worse. “You travel the racing circuit?”

  “It’s easier to write a NASCAR column if I actually watch the races,” he said, as though she weren’t the brightest bulb in the package. Not that she could blame him. His presence had thrown her so she’d acted as inane as she had it in her to be.

  Dylan waved, breaking into a huge grin, and an attractive, intelligent-looking woman with wide-spaced green eyes and a friendly smile walked up to join them. She wore a lightweight business suit in a coral color, and when she got close enough, Dylan caught her to him and kissed her, much the way Mike used to kiss Taylor when they were first married.

  “Taylor, I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Kendall,” Dylan said, interrupting her thoughts. “She’s an actuary for an insurance company downtown. She walked over from her office.”

  “Part-time actuary,” the woman corrected. “I travel to as many races as I can.”

  “Great to meet you,” Taylor said, shaking hands. “And congratulations.” She glanced automatically at Kendall’s ring finger and was surprised to find it empty of any engagement ring. Maybe Kendall was a feminist. Taylor liked to think she was a feminist, too, but she didn’t think she could turn down a couple of carats of sparkle to protest a patriarchal institution like marriage. “When’s the wedding?”

  “We haven’t decided yet,” Dylan said, fast, before Kendall could speak.

  His fiancée sent him a glance of indulgent fondness. Taylor got the feeling that this woman knew exactly how her man ticked. “You make it sound like you don’t want to marry me,” she said to him. Although, from the way they looked at each other, anyone could see there was no hesitation going on there.

  “Honey, you know that’s not true,” he said, sounding almost fierce.

  Kendall turned back to Taylor. “We don’t dare breathe a word about being engaged to anyone outside our close circle.” Taylor had the odd experience of being suddenly an insider because of her position with Winfield Racing and Hank. “We want a low-key wedding and his mother and father want to make the Trump weddings look stingy.”

  Taylor blinked. “Could anyone do that?”

  Kendall and Dylan shared a glance. “Dy’s parents could.”

  “That must be kind of awkward,” Taylor said.

  “It will be fine. We just have to figure out a way to keep things secret so the wedding-planning troops can’t be mobilized.”

  Taylor wondered how on earth a super successful NASCAR driver and one of People’s sexiest bachelors thought he was going to keep his wedding a secret. Unless he and Kendall eloped.

  “You should elope,” Mike said from beside her. She was sipping her cola and nearly choked. “A lot of couples do it.” She wouldn’t look at him. She wouldn’t. She’d kick him if she could get a good one in without anyone seeing.

  “That’s what Dylan says. He keeps trying to get me to elope to avoid the whole mess,” Kendall said, “but this is the only wedding I plan to have, and I am going to enjoy it.”

  Taylor felt a blush warming her face. She knew without looking that Mike was gazing at her and his expression would be cynical.

  “Good for you,” she said, keeping her focus on the bride-to-be and ignoring as best she could the groom-that-was. Looking at the quiet, confident woman, Taylor had no doubt she’d get her wedding her way.

  Seeing how Dylan’s gaze lingered on Kendall’s face as she spoke, Taylor imagined he knew it, too. He took her hand in his and they stood there, linked, a poster couple for true love, happily ever after and all that other stuff Taylor no longer believed in.

  “Are you married, Taylor?” the other woman asked.

  A pain, sharp and swift, twisted her heart. “No. No, I’m not.”

  “I never knew it could be this complicated.”

  You should try divorce, Taylor thought. The mean and tiny part of her adding, And, statistically, there’s a good chance you will. No force on earth could stop her from glancing at her ex as the thought crossed her mind and she found his gaze on hers and knew how neatly he’d read her mind.

  “Enough wedding talk. I swear I’m getting hives just thinking about it,” Dylan said. “Mike, Hank here is looking great for the season.” He chuckled as yet another gorgeous man joined their circle. “And here is the man who helped get him his ride. How’s it going, Carl?”

  “Great.” Some women might get a thrill out of meeting Hugh Jackman or Dr. McDreamy. Taylor’s knees went weak over NASCAR drivers, especially Carl Edwards, driver of the Number 99 car, who was her idea of Driver McDreamy with his sparkling blue eyes, strong chin and toothy grin, which he beamed her way when Dylan introduced them.

  “Great to meet you, Taylor,” he said.

  “You, too,” she managed to reply, hoping she sounded a lot cooler than she felt. For she’d made the shocking discovery that he was even better-looking in real life than he was on TV.

  “You ready for this thing?” Carl asked Hank.

  The Rookie of the Year event was a way of celebrating the new blood coming into the sport. Along with Hank, there were two other rookies in this year’s race for the NASCAR NEXTEL Cup.

  As a former Rookie of the Year himself, Carl, like Dylan, was here to say a few words to the new drivers.

  “I hear there’s a connection between you two,” Mike said. He put his beer down on the table behind him and pulled out a reporter’s notebook from his pocket.

  Hank rocked back on his heels. “Yeah, there is. Carl’s helped me out a lot.”

  “Walk me through it from the beginning, Hank. How’d you get started in racing?”

  Mike would already know this stuff, of course. He followed the truck races, the Busch series and the NASCAR NEXTEL Cup Series, but he’d want to get Hank comfortable and maybe the young driver would say some things in his own words that would make good quotes.

  She’d learned a lot about reporting from Mike when they’d worked together. Taylor had given up a promising career at the Seattle Post Intelligencer when, in the space of a few months, she lost her dad, her first pregnancy ended in a late miscarriage and her marriage disintegrated.

  After running halfway around to world to escape her memories, it was almost too painful to watch her ex-husband working at what he did best.