Cinda silently begged her tiny daughter not to judge her mother too harshly for lying to The Real Mrs. Cavanaugh, as everyone in this household referred to the imperious blue-blooded Ruth Heston Cavanaugh. The woman allowed no one to forget her graciousness in overlooking the fact that the late Richard the Second’s only child was female. Oh, the heartbreak of it all. Now there was no one to carry on the Cavanaugh name. As if they were royalty with their own country. Okay, so they owned most of this one. Big deal.
“Oh, I don’t believe we can come after the thing is over,” Cinda quickly answered the next demand. “Chelsi has a doctor’s appointment later this month. No. Nothing’s wrong. There isn’t. I’d tell you if there were. I promise. She’s fine.” If you don’t count the fact that she’s sprouted another head and gargoyle wings. It was what she wanted to say, Major Clovis style, but didn’t.
“Still, I thank you for inviting us. Yes, I’ll keep it in mind if anything changes here. No, I’m not moving back to New York. Because I like it here. I just do. My life is here now. I have friends, social clubs, volunteer work, all that right here. Besides, the weather is better for the baby’s health.” And my sanity. “So we’ll be staying here. I’m sorry you don’t like my decision, but there it is.”
Cinda took the receiver from her ear, gritted her teeth, and took a calming breath. Then smiling determinedly, she resettled the phone to her ear and said, “You give Papa Rick”—her father-in-law, she liked— “our love, okay? Yes, I know I sound ‘dreadfully Southern’ now. I like that, too. Okay. Talk to y’all later.”
Cinda pressed the off button and resisted the urge to toss the cordless phone across the room. Instead, she simply laid it beside her on the rug and smiled at Chelsi, whose blue eyes—so reminiscent of her father’s—were rounded as she gnawed at her drool-soaked fist. “Teething is the pits, isn’t it? You’re going to suck all the good out of that thing, honey. Here.”
Cinda leaned over to pluck a toy—a cloth-covered replica of a stock car—out of the mix of toys surrounding them. She held it out to Chelsi, who batted cheerfully and ineffectually—but better than any other child her age could have done, mind you—at the toy, finally succeeding in getting it in her clutches. Joyously, she instantly stuffed as much of it as she could into her mouth and warily eyed her mother above it, as if she expected the toy to be plucked from her at any second.
Chuckling softly, Cinda stretched out until she was lying on her stomach and supporting her weight on her elbows. She contentedly watched her daughter’s antics. “I know. It’s your favorite toy,” she said wistfully…knowing the baby didn’t have a favorite toy at this age but it was Cinda’s favorite one to give her. Because Trey Cooper had sent it for Chelsi months ago, along with his very platonic “Hope you’re doing well, Trey Cooper” best-wishes card.
“Well, I’m not doing well,” she whispered. “I miss you. You’re all I think about. And you’re home, Trey Cooper. I saw it in the papers.” Only recently had Cinda taken to poring over the sports section. “Why don’t you call me? Doesn’t your life ever need saving?”
ON THE OUTSKIRTS of Atlanta, out on a prime piece of land that served as Jude Barrett’s elite racing team’s headquarters, Trey Cooper was leafing through his mail and frowning. Bill. Bill. Junk mail. Bill. Letter from Mom. Sweepstakes notice. Finally. I’ve won ten million dollars. He tossed it unopened into the waste-basket at his feet.
Still wearing his grimy service overalls, he sat perched atop a wooden stool out in the hangar-like garage. Behind him, up on the lift, being put through a checklist of fine-tuning, was the moneymaker herself. The bright red, shiny, sponsor-decal-covered racing car. Serving as background music was the whine of electric tools, the blare of country music from someone’s radio, and the chatter and catcalls of the team members.
It was close to quitting time for the day. Trey’s work—including a meeting with the big boss man himself in the front office—was done. He’d cleaned up a bit, got some of the grease off his hands and face, and combed his hair. This was his first chance to check his mail since he’d grabbed up a week’s worth of it from his box at the post office earlier that morning. That’s how frenetic this time of year was—he only managed to get by the post office about once a week.
Team Leader Mark Mason was on the phone behind Trey. It was a personal call, and Trey tried not to listen. But Mark’s voice kept getting louder the longer he talked with his wife. It was a familiar refrain. All the married men here had fielded similar complaints from home. You’re never here. The kids hardly know you. I miss you. Your mother’s sick. The bills are overdue. On and on with some variation of that song. It was tough and divorces happened. A lot.
Trey felt for his friends and their families. The beefs at both ends were legitimate. But every time he heard them, Trey renewed his promise to himself not to have a family as long as he was on the race circuit. That didn’t mean he didn’t date and have relationships. He did. Well, he had. Although he hadn’t felt too much like making the effort in the past six months or so.
He told himself he was just tired and overworked and thirty years old. All of that was true. But he also couldn’t get a certain elegant blonde’s face out of his mind. Every other woman had paled in comparison to his few frantic hours with Cinda Cavanaugh. Okay, so he could still see those unique caramel-colored eyes of hers. And, yes, so he still had her phone number folded up and stored in his wallet. He kept meaning to throw it away, but kept forgetting to do it, that was all.
So, why should he call her? What could he offer her that she, a multimillionaire’s widow, couldn’t get for herself? And, besides, she was probably already surrounded by lots of rich guys anxious to play Papa. So the last thing she needed was someone like him—a high-school-graduate grease monkey. A man with dirt under his fingernails and not enough money in the bank.
At this point in Trey’s pity party, Mark hung up the phone…with force. Trey looked up from his stack of remaining mail to see his boss just standing there, his expression thunderous, his complexion red with anger…and worry.
“You okay, Mark?” Trey asked, knowing better but concerned nonetheless.
Mark ran a hand through his brown hair and shook his head. “Hell no. Diane’s on a tear, man. All I can say is I’m lucky our team’s days off are coming up next month. Everything at home seems to be hitting the fan, you know?”
He didn’t—he thought of his quiet bachelor’s apartment—but he could sympathize. “I hear ya, good buddy.” Then Trey took a chance. “Hey, let me ask you something, Mark. I’ve been thinking about this. Tell me if it’s none of my business. But…how do you do it? I mean the family, the hassles, the fights. The time away and the problems it causes. Here you’ve got a job you love that’s making it all bad at home where you have a wife and kids you love. How do you keep it all together?”
Mark shrugged. Then a slow grin came to his face, which was streaked with the grease and dirt of his job. “It’s like you said, man. Love. Pure love. Passion. For your wife. For your job. It’s got to be there—at home and at work. It’s like that for me and Diane. Yeah, we fuss about things, but we always work it out.” Mark picked up a rag and began wiping his hands as he turned a questioning glance on Trey. “So why you asking?”
Trey felt his face heat up. He swiped a hand under his nose and cleared his throat. “No reason. Just thinking, that’s all.”
Mark tossed the rag into a bin and crossed his arms. A knowing but friendly smirk lit his fair features. “So what’s her name?”
“She doesn’t have a name.” Not one he was going to give, anyway. “I mean there is no ‘she.’ No special ‘she.’ No one. Never mind.”
Mark grinned devilishly. “Lord above, Trey Cooper’s gonna take the bait and settle down. You’ve been bitten by the lovebug, haven’t you? That’s why you’ve been moping around since winter.”
Trey frowned.