Free Thunderstruck by Roxanne St. Claire

note of admiration in his voice. “And to think I thought you might stand me up.”
    “You don’t know me very well,” she said as he dropped a bill on the bar and left his drink behind. “My word is good.”
    As the hostess led the way, he put a sure hand on her lower back, liking the way it dipped and fit in his palm.
    As he had requested, they were seated at an intimate table in the back, a raging fireplace on one side, a frosted window looking out over hills and city lights on the other.
    “So you avoided me all afternoon,” he said after the hostess gave them menus and a wine list.
    “I was busy.” She opened the leather folder and smiled. “And you were not exactly lonely. The entire Mick Churchill Fan Club was waiting in line to show you their specialty. Good heavens, you even have Kenny Holt enamored of your fame.”
    “You got a problem with that driver,” Mick said.
    She put her menu on the table and furrowed her brow. “Is it that obvious?”
    “I’m afraid so. He doesn’t really want to be driving for Thunder Racing, and the message is buried in the subtext of everything he says.”
    “He jokes a lot,” she said vaguely.
    But Mick shook his head. “Trust me on this. He’s not doing you any favors.”
    She let out a long sigh. “I know that. I’ve known it for a while. But Country Peanut Butter loves him and they’re the sponsor.”
    “You’re the team owner.”
    “We’re small enough that we can’t really command the best drivers in NASCAR. But,” she added brightly, “I’m very excited about Clayton Slater. You’ll meet him tomorrow. You’ll like him.”
    “I’m sure I will. I like all competitors.” At her quizzical look, he added, “I know you don’t believe me. I know you think your sport of racing is unique and unlike anything played in the world today. And in some sense it is. But once you understand the mind-set of an athlete in one sport, you can pretty much understand them all.”
    She looked down, straightening her place setting and thinking. “I don’t know if I buy that.”
    “Rocco the Reporter did and that’s all that matters.” When she looked up, he smiled. “I’ll convince you eventually.”
    The waiter came, and Mick ordered a bottle of Châteauneuf du Pape and listened to the specials. When they were alone again, he put both elbows on the table, balanced his chin on his knuckles and looked right into her eyes. “Can I ask you a very personal question?”
    She looked wary but lifted one shoulder. “I might not answer, but go ahead.”
    “Is that Winston Churchill quote really your motto?”
    She blinked at him, obviously expecting something more difficult to answer. “Never, never, never quit? Yes, it is. And it was my father’s. He didn’t know the meaning of give up and would rather slit his wrists than get a DNF.”
    “A DNF?”
    She laughed softly. “See? You didn’t learn everything about racing yet. It stands for Did Not Finish.”
    “I see.” He reached behind to his back pocket and pulled out his billfold. “I want to show you something.”
    He slid a worn yellow paper from its permanent home behind his Manchester United ID card. “Look.”
    She took the business card and held it to the light, sucking in a quick breath when she read it. “Winston Churchill?”
    “My father won that in a poker game. It’s real. Turn it over.”
    She did and read the words written in black script. The waiter came and opened the wine, and while he poured Shelby examined the card, reading the back. Mick knew the words by heart.
    Never, never, never give in.
    When they were alone, she handed him the card. “Who wrote that? Winston or your father?”
    “I did. But as I mentioned when we met, Winston said it first.”
    “Is it your personal motto?”
    “It’s my personal philosophy.”
    “And your father’s?”
    He managed a wry smile. “Hardly.” At her intrigued look, he took the confession one step further. A step, he realized, he hadn’t