Sarah Stanton felt someone watching her, and not in the
semi-interested way that her undergraduate students
sometimes did. This was intense, startlingly so. She glanced
around the crowd milling under the festive white tent but
couldn't spot the watcher. After a moment she decided that
she'd probably imagined the sensation. She was jet-lagged
and as far out of her usual academic element as she could
imagine. The only thing a private NASCAR prerace party held
in common with a college lecture hall was Sarah, herself.
The things a professor must do in the name of
research…
Sarah smiled as she took in the activity around her. Last
night Dean and Patsy Grosso, owners of Cargill-Grosso
Racing, had flown her with them in their private jet from
North Carolina to California's Sonoma Valley. In a little
while she would witness her first NASCAR race. Just in time,
too, since this fall she would be moving from Larchmont
College's general business faculty into its motorsports
management program. The Grossos were donors to that program
and also active participants, inviting interns to work at
Cargill-Grosso Racing. And now they'd agreed to take her on
as their summer project, bringing her to races so that she
could get up to speed—so to speak—before classes
started.
Like many residents of the Charlotte area, Sarah appreciated
what NASCAR had brought to her hometown. She hadn't been an
active fan, though. Between her classes and the writing she
did to stay on the tenure track, her outside amusements were
few—some biking and tennis, a bit of casual dating and
weekly gatherings with her colleagues.
The prickly feeling on the back of Sarah's neck had fully
subsided. Amen to that, too. She rather liked her personal
life below the radar. Standing at the podium while teaching
was attention enough these days.
She looked to her right, where the Grossos had been detained
by representatives of Smoothtone Music, hosts of this
gathering, and more important, sponsor of their son Kent's
car. Sarah was content to be standing at a tall café
table on the outskirts of the crowd. Here she could enjoy
the warm June breeze that slipped off the surrounding dusty
brown hills and type notes into her PDA. The Grossos had
already introduced her to so many potential program contacts
that if she didn't get the information down now, it would
slip away in the haze of excitement.
Suddenly that tingly feeling crept over her…and
stronger this time, too. Sarah looked up from her phone's
small screen, and her gaze locked with a man's. Not any man,
either. Small wonder she'd tingled. He was one of the most
drop-dead gorgeous males she'd ever seen. He wasn't the
glossy, overgroomed sort, but more of an "I've lived and
loved every minute of it" guy.
Sarah couldn't bring herself to look away. She'd bet that
she wasn't the first woman to be so drawn, either. He
appeared to be a handful of years—or maybe a few
more—beyond her own forty-two, but he wore those years
well. Very, very well.
Lucky man.
Her watcher's dark blond hair was a bit long for him to be
the corporate type, and his tan spoke of a man who spent a
great deal of time outdoors. A smile played about his mouth
as he inclined his head in a gesture of curiosity and
something more. If she were the sort to flatter
herself—which, generally, she wasn't—she'd call
it admiration.
"Earth to Sarah," she muttered to herself, forcing
her attention away from Sonoma's answer to a Greek god. She
focused on her phone, but didn't yet have the mental
wherewithal to actually read what was on the screen. Until
her brain reengaged, however, she would fake it, since
gawking at a stranger wasn't her usual gig. In the midst of
her faux note-taking, she allowed herself another glance at
the handsome stranger. He gave her a full-out grin.
The unwelcome heat of color rose on her face. Honestly, she
couldn't recall the last time she'd blushed. Suffice it to
say that it must have been a few decades ago. And as a
mature, independent woman, she knew she couldn't slip from
this tent and hide, as impulse dictated. She could, however,
search for her composure on the way to the wine-tasting table.
Quelling the urge to take one last look at the man, she
instead pocketed her PDA, slipped into the crowd and joined
a group sampling small pours of wine. Sarah selected a
Chardonnay from the offerings. The wine was smooth and rich
against her tongue, its taste bringing to mind both citrus
and a sweet whisper of her mother's peach pie. She let her
eyes slip closed as she savored the mix of flavors and the
calming moment.
"There you are, Sarah," Patsy Grosso said from
beside her. "I thought for a moment that we'd lost you."
Sarah smiled. "It was more a matter of my finding the
wine bar."
"You're a wine lover?" Patsy asked.
Though they had met casually at a number of college
fund-raising events and chatted more intimately on the
cross-country flight to Sonoma, they were still in the
"getting to know you" phase of friendship. And what
Sarah had seen of Patsy thus far, she liked.
"Wine within my budget, without a doubt," she said
to Patsy.
"All the more reason you need to meet Steve."
"Steve?"
"He's a very dear friend of the family. I think you'll
enjoy him. Come on over and say hello."
"Sounds wonderful." Sarah took another sip of her
Chardonnay, then fell in next to Patsy, who was already
threading through the gathering.
"Quite the party, isn't it?" Patsy commented as they
paused to let a couple pass the other way. "Hang on,
though. Dean and Steve are right ahead… just the
other side of the sweets table," she added with a quick
flick of her prettily manicured nails.
Sarah let her gaze roll past the chocolate fountain—
never an easy task—to the two men Patsy had gestured at.
In this crowd, what were the odds? Apparently one
hundred percent in favor of meeting Mr. Perfect…who
was giving her yet another resistance-melting smile.
If Patsy hadn't been right next to her, she probably would
have played coward and turned heel. As it was, she must have
slowed enough to get Patsy's attention.
"Is everything okay?" Patsy asked.
"I'm fine," Sarah fibbed.
Patsy gave Sarah a perceptive look. "Steve has a way of
slowing women a step. He is easy on the eyes, isn't he?"
"Not painful at all," Sarah agreed. Actually, there
was something vaguely familiar about him, and not just
because they'd been checking each other out. But she had no
time to try to place him, because here they were.
Patsy made the introductions. "Sarah, this is Steve
Clayton. Steve, this is Sarah Stanton, a new friend of
ours."
He offered his hand, and after switching her wineglass into
her left hand, she took it. His grip was warm and firm.
While her brain prompted her to be businesslike, every other
cell of her body relished the moment.
"Hello, Sarah. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."
"Finally?" Patsy asked, but all Steve gave her in
response was a crooked smile and a shrug. And Sarah couldn't
seem to pull her attention from Steve. What would she have
said, anyway? "We've been staring at each other like two
teenagers" didn't seem a very dignified response.
"Enjoying the Chardonnay?" he asked Sarah, then
released her palm.
"Very much."
"Good. It's mine."
"Yours?" For one endless instant, she
wondered if she'd somehow ended up with his glass. Then she
managed to put his words into context. "Wait… you
own the vineyard?"
"I do."
"Wow! How wonderful! That must be an amazing job."
Now that she had some more information, she wracked her
brain for where she'd seen him before. Maybe she'd seen his
picture in one of her wine or food magazines?
"It's a challenge," he said. "And there's
nothing better than a good challenge." The glint in his
blue eyes let her know that she wasn't mistaken in reading
another level of meaning into his words.
She took a final sip of the small tasting pour of wine she'd
received. "Very true."
"You'll have to visit Pebble Valley while you're out
here," he said. "Our new tasting room opened this
past spring. I think you'd enjoy it."
"I'd love to, but this is a quick trip for me," she
said.
"We're introducing Sarah to the world of NASCAR,"
Patsy said.
"For work or pleasure?" he asked Sarah.
"I think life is best when both combine, don't you?"
she replied.
His smile grew. "Absolutely. I've lived my life doing
just that."
"This is work for me, in a way. In the fall I'm joining
the motorsports management faculty at the college where I
teach. I'd feel a fraud teaching racing management without
first getting out here and seeing it in the real world."
"Sarah's at Larchmont College," Dean told Steve.
"That's how we met her."
Steve nodded with obvious recognition, which surprised her.
Larchmont was well respected by those on the east coast, but
it wasn't much heard of out here.
"Steve's knows the Charlotte area well," Dean said.
"He retired from racing just a few years before me."
Sarah finally made the connection. If she hadn't been so
distracted by whatever this strange current was that ran
between them, she would have recognized his name immediately.
"Oh, of course," she said. "I've heard about
your racing accomplishments, Steve."
He smiled. "And now I'm working to be known for my
vineyard's accomplishments. So tell me…how do you
feel about our NASCAR world so far?"
"Interesting…surprisingly complex…."
She smiled as a parallel occurred to her, and then she
raised her glass in salute. "Very much like your wine."
"And very much like you, too, I think," he replied.
Sarah didn't believe in all of that romantic nonsense, like
the crowds melting away until there were only two people
left in the world, but this moment seemed to be coming
darned close. She wasn't sure how long they stood there
simply smiling at each other, but however long, she could
have gone longer.
Dean cleared his throat, then nudged his friend. "Hey,
we'd better get down to pit road if you want a chance to see
your godson before the race."
"Right," Steve said absently, then repeated the word
in a firmer voice. "Patsy, will you and Sarah be coming
down to Kent's pit stall, or did you have other plans?"
Sarah glanced at Patsy. She'd told Sarah on the flight to
Sonoma that watching her son race wasn't something she did
particularly well.
"We don't have to," Sarah began to say, but Patsy
cut her off by telling Steve and Dean that they would be
down directly, and the men should go on ahead.
"Really, we don't have to do this," Sarah said.
"If you'd prefer to be in a suite, I have some track
management folks I need to chat with. We can just head on up
and watch from there."
"Oh, no, it wasn't my little issue with watching,"
Patsy said. "I'm trying to get better about that for my
daughter-in-law's sake. I just wanted to know without the
men here to eavesdrop… what was that all
about?" She tilted her head in the direction that Dean
and Steve had taken.
"I have no idea," Sarah replied with absolute
honesty. She'd been in love twice in her life, and neither
of those men had ever looked at her with such focus and intent.
Of course, she didn't recall being so immediately transfixed
by them, either.
"That was some chemistry you two had humming along,"
Patsy said.
"It was that obvious?"
Patsy laughed. "Beyond obvious."
A warm tingle danced its way once again to Sarah's fingertips.
Chemistry. It just might be addictive.
Steve had one question for himself, and damned if he could
answer it. Specifically, what was it about Sarah Stanton
that had captured his attention?
She had to be a good fifteen years older than the women he
dated. At fifty, he could—and did—date
twentysomething-year-old lingerie models and actresses. He
liked them for their general lack of desire for commitment
and their uncomplicated natures. Steve had been married
twice and would sooner gnaw off his right arm than marry again.
Sarah dressed more like a nun than a catalogue model, yet he
could tell from the way she'd sampled her wine—in
fact, even the way in which they'd earlier watched each
other—that she was one innately sensual woman. The
contrast intrigued him, even if she wasn't at all his type.
Except that when he should have been meeting and greeting
and talking up his wine in the Smoothtone Music tent, he'd
spent most of his time speculating on how buttoned-up and
hair-tied-down Sarah had landed in the middle of that more
glamorous crowd… and then speculating what she'd look
like with her hair loose and one or two buttons—or
more—undone on her white, short-sleeved blouse.
Steve laughed aloud at just how fully and instantaneously
he'd become wrapped up in this woman. Clearly, everything
about her had caught his attention. And she'd sure kept it
once he'd had the opportunity to talk to her.
"Want to share the joke?" Dean asked him as they
walked toward the pits.
"No."
"Good enough," Dean said.
And that was the great part of being a guy. Steve knew that
single question would be the end of any interrogation from
Dean. But the bottom line remained the same. There was
something quirkily attractive about Sarah Stanton beyond her
subtle good looks, and that was all Steve needed to know in
order to determine his next move. He'd made a fortune in
racing based on his immediate reaction, and he'd carried
that awareness into the rest of his life. Instinct was good.
Overthinking could really mess with a guy.
"We'd better move it along if we're going to catch
Kent," he said to Dean, who nodded and picked up the pace.
By the time they'd made it to the No. 414 car's hauler area
and pit stall, they barely had time to get with the team for
the opening prayer and the National Anthem.