Chapter 1
“It’s a miracle you’re alive. I caught the crash on the TV in a patient’s cubicle,” commented Dr. Dan Reems, the chief resident in the emergency room of Mercy Hospital, his long arms folded across his thin chest as he peered at Cameron over the silver wire frames of the eyeglasses perched on his nose.
Cameron agreed wholeheartedly. His car’s front end looked like crumpled paper, but thanks to the new safety regulations NASCAR had implemented in the Car of Tomorrow, he had walked away with minor bumps and bruises. “Yeah.”
“Will he be able to race tomorrow?” Hilliard asked, his teeth clamped on an unlit cigar. As owner, he had a lot riding on the answer. Sponsors wanted winners. Fans tended to patronize the advertisers on the cars that grabbed the checkered flag. Hilliard was very wealthy on his own after taking his money from a buyout of the computer firm he’d started, but it was nothing for one team’s expenses to run from 10 to 15 million dollars a year, and Hilliard had two teams.
Cameron had long ago gotten over the fact that the race, not the driver, came first. He was only a tool. But he was one of the best.
“I don’t see why not.” Dr. Reems shook his graying head of hair and peered at Cameron over his eye-glasses again. “The X-rays and EEG checked out. He’ll be sore as hell in the morning. He won’t be able to take the muscle relaxants and drive. It will depend on him.”
“I’m driving.” Cameron reached for his black T-shirt and pulled it over his head, wincing as sore muscles protested.
“I’ll give you a prescription for tonight.” The doctor went to the counter and quickly scribbled on a pad, tore the sheet off and returned. “An autograph for an autograph.”
“Sure.” Cameron exchanged the prescription for a pad and pen his publicist, Mike’s daughter, Hope Alvarado, held out.
The room was crowded with his pit crew chief, the engine specialist, and a couple of reps from his two biggest sponsors. The reps wanted to make sure their investment was protected and Cameron was still racing the next day.
From years of practice, Cameron quickly personalized the autograph, and signed his name with a flourish. “Thanks, Dr. Reems.”
“Thank you,” the middle-aged doctor said, proudly looking at the autograph with a wide grin.
A tall, attractive woman in a black double-breasted business suit and white silk blouse stepped forward, her right hand extended, her left hand wrapped around a leather folder pressed to her chest. “Mr. McBride, I’m Ms. Jessup, the hospital spokesperson. There are quite a few news media representatives outside waiting for you. We’ve set up a conference room just off the emergency room for you.”
“Thank you,” Cameron said, his grin slow and lazy. “I appreciate it.”
The woman blushed. “I’ll show you the way.”
Cameron eased off the exam table. Mike opened the door and they all piled out of the cubicle. Conversation in the various patient units scattered around the open area stopped for a full fifteen seconds. Since winning the Daytona 500 last week, he’d been thrust into the limelight more and more. Used to the stares, Cameron usually didn’t pay them any attention. But he was well aware that if things had gone differently, his life might have been dependent on the skill of the hospital’s staff.
The moment he walked through the double doors, cameras flashed, the waiting media surged forward. Questions were fired at him. Several off-duty policemen acting as security moved in front of the boisterous crowd.
“Please hold your questions and move aside. You’re obstructing the hallway,” the hospital spokesperson instructed.
The policemen pushed the crowd back to clear a path to the patient care area of the emergency cubicles. As they parted, a small group of people, apparently seeing a chance to get past the media, quickly came through the narrow opening.
Leading the charge were two men in white lab coats. Directly behind them was a young boy on a gurney being pushed by a woman in scrubs. His leg in a splint, he appeared to be in his mid-teens. On the far side of the gurney and away from Cameron was a woman carrying a small child. Her head was bent, her arms clasped securely around the boy, whose face was turned away.
There was something oddly familiar about the woman. She hadn’t glanced in his direction, but he’d seen her hunch over further as her hand clutched the child closer to her. Cameron slowed his steps, turning to watch the woman. In a matter of seconds, she had passed them.
He couldn’t say why he couldn’t take his gaze from her. No woman had ever come close to making him feel even a fraction of the all-consuming desire he’d had for Caitlin.
He was afraid no woman ever would.
Just before she would have rounded the corner, the woman paused, then glanced back. Their gazes met. The jolt to his nervous system was worse than hitting the wall.
Caitlin.
He had finally found her.
Her eyes rounded, her mouth opened, but no sound that he could hear emerged. Quickly turning away, she hurried around the corner and out of sight. His jaw clenched. Without thought, he started after her.
It had been more than five years and she was still running from him. Why? He’d asked himself that question too many times to count after she’d shamed him before his family and friends. In all this time, he hadn’t figured out the answer.
“Cameron,” Mike said, catching his arm. “Where’re you going?”
Anger rolled through him. “Let go of me,” Cameron hissed, not taking his gaze away from the spot where Caitlin had disappeared.
Frowning, Mike’s fingers uncurled. “Cameron, son. You all right? The doc miss something?”
The doctor, the nurse, and the spokesperson who had attached herself to them ten minutes after he’d arrived, converged on him. “Do you have a headache? Blurred vision? Are you in any pain?” Dr. Reems asked, his bushy brows furrowed.
Cameron’s head snapped back around. “Hurt” was a mild word for what he felt. He’d tried to dismiss her, forget her, hate her. He had been unable to do any of those things.
The media, sensing something was wrong, pushed closer. The two policemen were able to keep them back. If they sensed the woman who had made him a joke of the NASCAR circuit was nearby, they’d exploit it to the hilt.
He didn’t need that. Winning the Daytona, the NASCAR kickoff, last Sunday boded well for him for the rest of the season. He planned to win the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series championship for the second year in a row. Nothing was going to stand in his way.
Firmly, Cameron turned around. Now wasn’t the time. He didn’t want the media bringing up her jilting him every time they interviewed him this season. He’d had enough of that the season after Caitlin had wrecked his life. The media had had a field day at his expense. NASCAR SPRINT SERIES DRIVER LEFT AT THE ALTAR.
“Cameron, do we need to postpone this?” Hope asked. Even before she finished speaking, some in the media were protesting. Hope kept her eyes on Cameron. She wouldn’t be swayed by what the news-people wanted. Hilliard put winning first, Hope put her clients first. She had several NASCAR drivers as clients and had a reputation as a tough cookie. When pushed, she pushed back. Cameron liked her for that reason.
Copyright © 2009 by Francis Ray
