In the parking lot of the Kent Grosso NASCAR team garage,
Olivia Eason shook the hand of the six-foot, dark haired,
green eyed mechanic "I take it you drew the short
straw?"
She knew Caleb Gentry had been assigned to introduce
her to the rest of the racing team and show her around
the garage. She also knew the they considered her an
annoyance. But she had team owner Dean Grosso's permission.
And she could only hope the other team members might
one day appreciate the value of her psychology study.
In the hot sunlight, Caleb's large hand covered her
smaller one. "I prefer to think of it as winning
the lottery." Any hint sarcasm was carefully camouflaged
in his deep, smooth drawl.
"You don't have to pretend with me." Over
the next few weeks, she was going to get to know the
entire team very well. The sooner they learned they
could be honest with her, the better.
"I don't pretend with anybody," he countered.
Okay, she tended believe that.
The man oozed power and confidence. He was tall, fit,
broad shouldered and ruggedly attractive. Sexy, she
noted. Not that it bore any relevance to her research
on the dynamics of teamwork. Still, he hit all the anthropological
notes the average female subconsciously sought in a
mate.
She had to prompt herself to release his hand. "Well,
I appreciate your assistance."
"Not a problem." If he was annoyed about
helping her, he had an excellent poker face. He turned
on his heel.
When she didn't immediately follow, he glanced over
his shoulder. "This way, Professor Eason."
She hop-skipped on her high heels to catch up. She
was prepared for the next few weeks to be challenging.
She was definitely more at home in a lecture hall than
an automotive shop. But the Dean of her Department at
Harvard, her boss, thought that NASCAR would be the
perfect subject for her research paper on teamwork.
Originally, it had been her friend Claire Sablan's
idea. Claire's boyfriend Derek Garner had contacts in
the Grosso team and had put Olivia in touch with owner
Dean.
"You don't have to use my title," she told
Caleb, as she came alongside him.
"I assumed you'd be proud of it."
Okay, now there was an edge to his voice.
"Are you being sarcastic?" she asked him.
"I'm being deferential."
Before she could respond, they crossed into the noise
and activity of the garage. A wrench clanged to the
concrete floor. Then the blast of an impact gun battered
her eardrums.
It was Monday afternoon, and the team would be preparing
for next Sunday's race at Daytona.
Olivia had done her homework, including watching the
New Hampshire race last weekend on a cable sports channel.
So she had a general idea of what was going on.
Men shouted instructions to each other. One tugged
open the drawer of a tool box, while another, wrench
in hand, ducked under a blue and white racecar suspended
on a hoist six feet in the air. Their callused hands
and muscular forearms were streaked with grease. Most
wore plexi-glass goggles. Backward baseball caps covered
their heads, and hearing protection dangled around their
necks.
"Firing her up," a male voice shouted from
the depths of the shop.
Caleb whirled.
Before Olivia knew what was happening, a thunderous
roar cracked the air. The shockwaves of a powerful racecar
engine thumped through her body.
Her palms smacked to her ears, while Caleb grabbed
the headphones from around his neck and clapped them
over her ears. The noise was instantly muffled, and
she gave her brain a shake to make sure everything was
still functioning.
Before she could thank him, he strode away, retrieving
a set of headphones for himself. Not that he'd have
heard her thank-you anyway. The sound waves from the
engine echoed through every corner of the garage, pulsing
to her very bones.
Abruptly, the sound stopped.
Olivia took a shaky step forward, adjusting the oversized
leather bag on her shoulder. Then Caleb was beside her
again, leading her to a high, padded, swivel chair.
There, he surprised her by clasping his hands around
her hips to effortlessly lift her and plunk her in the
seat. He motioned for her to stay put and keep the headphones
in place.
No problem. She wasn't going to get caught off guard
again.
The floor and walls were painted bright white. A long
metal workbench stretched out to her left. To her right
stood banks of red tool boxes. Fluorescent lights were
suspended from the grid work of a high ceiling, while
the concrete floor was amazingly clean for an automotive
shop. Computerized equipment dotted the room, with cords
and hoses dangling down from the rafters.
In a corner booth, beyond the hoisted car, a mechanic
was welding a wide strip of metal. The bright flashes
of blue and white light caught Olivia's attention, and
she squinted to watch. The man wore bulky gloves, a
dark face mask and a protective apron dotted with soot.
Good thing, since a shower of sparks rained around him
as he moved the torch along a seam.
She watched in fascination until Caleb appeared again,
blocking her view, trapping her in place with a hand
on either arm of the chair. He fixed her with a look
of impatience.
"What?" Her own voice echoed inside her head,
and she snapped off the headphones.
"What?" she repeated.
"This isn't going to work?"
"What isn't going to work?"
"You can't watch somebody weld."
"Okay." She'd obviously broken an etiquette
rule. No problem. She wouldn't do that again.
"You'll burn your eyes."
She blinked hard, testing for discomfort. "Are
you serious?"
"You think I'd joke about that?"
"I don't know."
Something flared in the depths of his eyes. "Well,
I wouldn't. It's my job to keep you safe."
"I won't look again," she promised.
"You're darn right, you won't."
She compressed her lips. There was no call for him
to get testy. All he had to do was warn her. She'd be
most people on the planet didn't know the finer details
of welding.
He drew an exasperated breath and straightened. "Okay,
we need to fix this."
She quirked a brow.
"Don't look at anything," he commanded. "Don't
touch anything. We're leaving, and we're taking Shop
Safety 101 before I bring you anywhere near this place
again."
She slipped out of the chair, high heel sandals coming
down on the hard concrete. "Could you be any more
patronizing?"
"Probably," he answered, as they headed for
the exit. "If I tried real hard."
"You're enjoying this."
He cracked a smile. "Looks like there were a few
things they didn't teach you in professor school."
"You mean Harvard?"
He pushed open the door. "Is this the part where
I get intimidated?"
"I don't know. Is this the part where I apologize
for having a brain?"
His smile was full on this time. "You don't have
a brain, Doc. You have an attitude."
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