Thunderstruck by Roxanne St. Claire

through the fab shop and into paint and body. Just beyond that, a weight room and a small basketball court the crew used for blowing off steam. She’d follow them right into the locker room if she had to.
    She approached the weight room door at a light jog just the instant that it opened and went—“Oh!”—smack into a half-naked man. She drew back, but powerful hands caught her shoulders.
    She’d seen half-naked men before—but not anything quite like this.
    “Didn’t see you flying at me, Shelby.”
    From her vantage point, all she could absorb was…skin. Muscle. Planes and angles and rips and a dusting of golden hair. An endless, cut, sinful torso with stomach muscles that gave a whole new meaning to a V-8, and it had nothing to do with engines or juice. And if that was what testosterone smelled like, bottle it.
    She backed up and looked at Mick’s face, fighting the impulse to brush a sweat-dampened lock from his face. “Are you meeting with Kenny?”
    “We’re done.” Mick still held her by the shoulders. “What are you doing here?”
    She mustered up indignation. No small feat in the face of that chest. “I work here, Mick. I own the place.”
    He glanced over his shoulder to the weight room behind him. “I want to talk to you privately. Where Holt won’t see us.”
    “Where is he?”
    “He went into the locker room.” Mick nodded toward the shop as he pulled a balled-up T-shirt out of a nylon bag and yanked it over his head to cover his chest. Too bad. She hated to see it go. “Let’s go somewhere we can talk.”
    He nudged her toward an exit to a back parking lot. The light snowfall of the night before had melted in the sun, leaving everything crisp and clean and glittery.
    “What is traction control?” he asked when the door closed firmly behind them.
    “Cheating.”
    “Do you allow it?”
    She had no trouble mustering indignation now. “Absolutely not. In testing, yes. But in a race?” She sighed with frustration. “A fine for that could knock us out for the season. Why? Did he mention it?”
    “Among other things. Offset bolts. Lead pellets in the rear bumper.”
    “Screwing up a qualifying car so you have to run a tricked-out backup in the race. He’s always wanted to push the envelope, and Whit just ignores it. He’d need help to run a traction-control device. He could hide it—it’s no bigger than my palm. But someone in the pits or on the crew or maybe in the stands would have to be an accomplice.” She shook her head. “Is that what you two were discussing in this so-called meeting? How to break rules?”
    “I was letting him talk, Shelby. You find out a lot about people that way. What about the inspection process?”
    “Very closely regulated. NASCAR has zero tolerance, and most of what you hear is folklore or the occasional slipup. No one races for very long at this level if they repeatedly bend the rules.”
    “He says, ‘That’s racin’.’”
    “I say, ‘That’s cheatin’.’ And, I swear to God, this is the last season with Kenny Holt in my car.”
    “That’s what I told him.”
    She drew back. “Excuse me? You are not the co-owner of this team. Did you give him the impression you were?”
    “Relax. I gave him the impression that if I were, he’d be history.”
    A threat that carried a lot of weight, she’d bet, when delivered by someone who could probably make good on it. Mick could attract sponsors, and they could attract bigger drivers. But, damn, she wanted another solution.
    She’d lose all control of this team with him around. Maybe they would get the money that would get the drivers who could get the fans…but would they be Thunder Racing anymore? Is that what her father wanted?
    She just shook her head. This must be how it felt to be in the forty-third car at the back of a wreck. Nothing but smoke and steel and flying rubber dead ahead.
    “Come on,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t we have a meeting with a sponsor in a