Page 48 of Kiss & Collide (Racing Hearts #2)

A s a rule, Chase wasn’t prone to superstition, but from the moment he woke up Sunday morning, he could feel something tingling through his bloodstream.

Not quite anticipation, not really nerves.

It had to be the weather that was putting him on edge.

It was that weird changeable Florida weather, hot and humid, but with thunderstorms threatening at any moment.

The track had already been soaked down once this morning and spot thunderstorms were anticipated through the afternoon as well. The Formula Three race was currently underway and three cars had already crashed out because of the wet conditions.

He cast a glance up at the sky overhead, then turned his attention back to Emil, who was going over race strategy with him.

“… there might be a chance to jump ahead of Schlosser and Bang on the start. They’ve both been struggling to launch. So keep on top of that—”

“Emil, the track is soaking wet. I can make all the plans I want, but you and I both know it’s all going to go to shit the first time somebody’s tires lock up.”

Emil smiled and shrugged. “Then our only plan is ‘don’t crash.’”

“That’s always the plan.”

Rabia had been checking over a bunch of stats with Leon on the bank of monitors in the garage, but now she came over to join him and Emil. She looked up at the sky just outside the garage.

“I don’t like this. It feels weird.”

“It’s Florida,” Chase replied. “It’s always weird.”

Luckily, he’d spent a lot of time driving in the wet conditions.

Back in his karting days, when rain chased most of the kids off the track, he usually stayed out, because it was the only time he’d had the track to himself and could open it up and see what he was capable of.

In the rain, he’d found out what kind of driver he really was. He wasn’t afraid of the rain.

“Not that you’re going to be able to pay attention to anything other than not dying today, but I tweaked the steering again. Conditions might make it hard to evaluate, but see if you notice a difference.”

“Will do, boss. You seen Violet?” He smiled when he said her name. Fuck, he had it so bad for her.

“She’s up in the VIP lounge with Carter Hammond.”

He glanced up at her in surprise. “Carter Hammond’s here?”

Carter Hammond wasn’t the least bit interested in racing. Or his son. If he was here, it was important.

“Ah … yeah.”

Rabia’s poker face was terrible. He could tell in an instant that she was up to something. And that something probably had a whole lot to do with Violet.

“Rabia, what are you two up to?”

“Ask her yourself.” Rabia nodded her chin toward the crowd out in the paddock.

Violet was weaving her way quickly through the crowds.

Chase took a minute to appreciate the view, the long legs in her fitted poison-green suit, the swing of her glossy black hair as she walked …

He felt almost weak in the knees from it.

“How’s it going in VIP?” Rabia looked at her over the rim of her glasses.

Violet nodded briskly. “Good so far. I managed to get some celebrities here for this one. His wife, Corrine, is having an absolute blast. She took a selfie with a Kardashian, so well done there. Carter was surprised to see so many business execs here. I explained how many movers and shakers follow Formula One, and he seemed intrigued by the idea of doing deals in the VIP stands instead of on the golf course.”

“What about Junior?”

“Imogen corralled him with the sponsor rep from ILM and a bottle of bourbon. Hopefully that keeps him out of the way until after the race.”

“Are we up?” Rabia asked quietly.

Violet nodded.

Chase looked from Violet to Rabia and back again. “I know that look in your eyes, Violet. What are you plotting?”

She leaned in close and murmured in his ear. “Rabia and I are going to try to convince him to keep the team.”

“How are you going to do that?”

She ran a finger up his chest then tapped his chin with it. “By showing him how amazing Pinnacle is, and how amazing you are, and how much he’d be missing if he let us go.”

“I’m slightly afraid. But if anybody can do it, it’s you.” He reached up and touched his fingertip to her bottom lip, where he’d kiss her if they were alone.

She smiled, a new sort of smile he hadn’t seen from her before. It was soft and intimate, like it was meant just for him. “Wish me luck.”

He could feel himself smiling back, impossible to contain. “You don’t need luck, Violet. You make your own magic.”

She reached out and snagged his hand. He glanced down at their entwined fingers and smiled. “Really? Right here in the garage? What is everybody going to think?”

She stepped closer. “I guess they’re going to think you’re my boyfriend.”

His smile exploded into a grin, still only half as big as this emotion swelling up in his chest. “Damn right, I am.”

She sobered slightly. “Be careful out there.”

“I’ll be fine. You know I’m hard to keep down.”

The corner of her mouth tugged up. “I do know that. Have a good race.”

He looked into her eyes. “You, too.”

Because Violet was definitely running her own race today, one that everyone’s futures were riding on.

VIOLET SURVEYED THE Pinnacle VIP hospitality room, checking in on all the major players.

She’d had to do the tap dance of her life to get Carter Hammond down here. In the end, she’d hit up his administrative assistant, who she’d discovered was also personal friends with Corrine Hammond, his wife.

Corrine Hammond, a statuesque woman in her sixties in a stunning ivory suit, with impeccably styled blond hair, was currently chatting with Dean Morley, a mid-list movie actor and racing fan Violet had invited to the box.

Corrine, she’d been told, loved a good party and a chance to rub elbows with celebrities.

Carter himself was talking to both the CEO and CFO of Rally Fuel, one of their sponsors.

Rabia slipped into the VIP box and stood beside her. “Is it time?”

Rabia looked as nervous as she felt.

“It’s now or never.”

“Do you really think we have a shot at this?” Rabia asked.

Violet shrugged. “Probably not? But look at it this way, if we fail, we’re no worse off than we already are.” And Violet felt weirdly … hopeful, after everything with Chase.

Rabia drew in a deep breath. “Right. I’ve updated my CV. Just in case.”

Violet barked a laugh. “Good plan. Wait here. I’ll see if I can get him.”

She summoned every ounce of her confidence—earned and aspirational—and strode toward Carter’s group. She was going to need all of it to pull this off.

Carter Hammond was tall, over six feet, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. His hair had gone completely white, but it didn’t age him.

She knew he was nearly seventy, but he carried himself like a man two decades younger.

There were hints of Reece in his face, but where Reece was soft and flushed, Carter was lean and as chiseled as granite.

He turned to face her as she approached.

“Mr. Hammond, I have a few things I’d like to discuss with you. Could we steal you for a few minutes?”

He gave one brisk nod of his chin. “Gentlemen, business calls. Lead the way, Ms. Harper.”

She ignored the butterflies in her stomach as she led Carter down a hallway to a small conference room at the back of the hospitality suite.

Usually, it was where department heads met when they needed to work through lunch or dinner, or if a sponsor had a pitch to make.

Today it was carefully set up for a very different sort of presentation.

“Can I get you a drink?” she asked Carter. Behind him, Rabia nervously stuffed her hands into her pockets, then pulled them back out and smoothed down the front of her gray Pinnacle button-down shirt.

“Whiskey, please.”

Violet licked her lips, trying to dispel her nerves as she poured him a hefty glass of thirty-year Laphroaig. Might as well grease the wheels with the good stuff.

She handed him his glass and motioned to Rabia. “You’ve met Rabia Dar, Pinnacle’s chief technical officer.”

“Briefly. Replaced Davies after that ugliness came to light, right?”

“Rabia’s been with Pinnacle for ten years. She’s instrumental to our success so far this season.”

“Not much of that, is there? Pinnacle’s what … last?”

“The team is currently ranked ninth, actually, but Dieter Gruber is ranked seventeenth and Chase Navarro is currently twelfth, which is remarkable, considering how new he is to the team.”

Carter chuckled. “Okay, Ms. Harper, let’s have it.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“I know the windup to a pitch when I hear it. What are you here to propose?”

Violet glanced to Rabia, who nodded tightly.

“Why don’t we sit down, Mr. Hammond?” Rabia said, motioning to the glossy mahogany conference table behind them. “We have some information we’d like to go over with you.”

Forty minutes later, the conference table was littered with printouts, and the wide-screen TVs mounted around the room, which usually just aired the race live stream, were populated with spreadsheets and design specs cast from Rabia’s iPad.

Despite not knowing a single thing about auto racing, Carter Hammond had kept up with the dense flood of information admirably. Violet had to concede, he’d earned his place in the business world with his brains. Nothing got by him.

“I will admit, Ms. Dar, that the designs you’ve shown me for next year’s car do look intriguing, to the extent I understand them. That’s some pretty sophisticated engineering.”

“You’ve picked up a lot more than most newbies do.”

“And you don’t really need to understand the mechanics of it to appreciate the data coming out of the simulator sessions.” Violet slid the spreadsheet of sim times back in front of him. “Compared to this year’s times, you can see the remarkable improvement.”

“But as I understand it, this car”—he tapped the paper—“is still theoretical?”

“We’ve started manufacture,” Rabia explained. “But it won’t hit the track in physical form until next March, in Bahrain. But we’re very optimistic.”

Carter slid an artist’s rendering of next year’s car, complete with livery, closer and sighed. “Always was a sucker for muscle cars when I was young.”

Violet and Rabia exchanged a brief hopeful look. Formula One was a business, but it was powered by a sheer, irrational passion for cars.

“But the budget you’ve shown me … forgive me, but this sport seems like a money pit. What you want me to do … keep ownership of the team … what’s in it for Hammond Holdings? Where does the profitability come from?”

Violet jumped in with her promotional spread.

“The team is basically a dedicated promotional space for Hammond Holdings. Between live races, broadcasting, and online and social media coverage, any brand sponsoring Pinnacle Motorsports or one of its drivers has unprecedented ad reach. Formula One is one of the most popular sports in the world. I’ve looked at the companies in Hammond Holdings.

Their presence is strong in America, but you haven’t made much headway with overseas consumers. This is how you can do that.”

Carter nodded, conceding the point. “I can see the international reach, and it’s appealing. But for the kind of visibility you’re pitching, Ms. Harper, a team needs results. Nobody talks about the guys in last place. Can you promise that kind of attention?”

“Nothing’s a guarantee,” Rabia said. “But with this new design and our current team, on and off the track, I feel more confident than I have in my ten years at Pinnacle. We’re doing something special here.”

“I appreciate the confidence you both bring to the table. But what I’d like to see is a measurable result. Something that gets the media talking about Pinnacle’s potential, beyond just Chase Navarro.”

“And if we do that?” Violet asked, lacing her fingers together so tightly they hurt.

Carter smiled. “Well, let’s see how the race goes, shall we? We’ll talk after.” He pushed back from the table and stood.

Violet stood up, too. “We appreciate you taking the time to listen to us.”

He headed toward the door, but paused and turned back. “Good luck today. I do mean that. I’m a businessman, and I respond to results. But regardless of what I ultimately decide, you’ve both impressed me.”

Once Carter was gone, Violet turned to face Rabia. “That wasn’t a no?” she said, as brightly as she could manage. Some of Chase’s ridiculous optimism must have infected her.

“It wasn’t a yes, either,” Rabia groused. “He wants a result. Today . How do we pull that off?”

“We tell Dieter and Chase to drive for their lives. And beyond that …”

“Yeah?”

“We pray for a miracle.”