One Track Mind by Bethany Campbell Page B

as a cleanup man on Sundays, the big race day. He’d volunteered the day after he’d talked to Lori by the pool.
    He knew he looked screwy, with his scratched face and arms, his long hair, but he’d talked earnestly to Clyde, swearing he’d do any job, no matter how menial or dirty. He just wanted to be around racing, he’d said; he’d do anything, and he’d do it for nothing.
    Clyde must have seen that he meant it. And Kane worked hard; he made himself welcome, and Clyde finally appreciated him enough to pay him $3.85 an hour.
    Kane could have made the same money more easily by washing dishes or frying burgers. But he wanted to be at thespeedway, where from time to time he could look up at that center VIP suite, knowing that Lori was there.
    He’d heard that she had to be there; her parents insisted on it. She and her brother could bring all the friends they wanted, but Sunday race time was family time.
    So he’d pushed his broom, emptied the trash barrels and picked up the empties and other litter simply to be in her presence. He was certain she didn’t even know he was there.
    But that was all right. She would.
    The song about the gypsy kept running through his head all the time, an old, old song about a man winning the heart of a lady.
    That was precisely what Kane meant to do, impossible as it might seem—win the love of a lady.

CHAPTER FOUR

    L ORI COULD NOT BELIEVE this was happening. There were just a few cars parked on the west end of Main Street. But one of them was a black sports car.
    It could only belong to Kane. Two junior high school girls strolled past it, eyeing it as suspiciously as if it were a flying saucer. She didn’t blame them; it did seem utterly alien sitting in front of The Groove Café.
    Lori parked the sputtering Mustang three spaces behind the sports car. Clyde had confirmed her worst fear this afternoon; her car’s transmission was going out. She needed to replace it as soon as possible.
    She glanced in the rearview mirror. She’d washed her hair, so that it fell in bright, clean waves to her shoulders. But she hadn’t put on full makeup again. Let Kane see the freckles, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, the faint ones starting to bracket her mouth.
    Let him also see her green and white seersucker pants and matching blouse that were three years old and had been bought at the Value-Mart store in Asheville. Let him see her exactly as she was, and let him glory in how she’d changed.
    She told herself she didn’t care. Not a bit. But her heart still hammered as she walked up the three concrete stairs of the café and opened the door.
    She saw him sitting in the dark green leatherette booth, and her pulses accelerated even harder. He’d changed clothes. He wore a white NASCAR T-shirt with a picture of Kent Grosso on it. It was an old T-shirt, faded.
    He slid out of the booth and stood when she stepped inside. He was wearing jeans and canvas shoes. The jeans, too, were faded. The shoes looked expensive but well-worn, even a bit tattered.
    My God, she thought, her breath thickening in her throat. He looks almost the way he did twenty years ago—just a little older and not as thin. Suddenly it was as if he’d never left town. Somehow she’d blinked, two decades had passed and here he was.
    The cheekbones were just as high and aristocratic. The dark eyes still pierced her with their alertness and a sense of anything but aristocracy. In them was the gleam of a born rebel. His lips turned up slightly in a smile that both welcomed her and challenged her.
    He hadn’t gotten rid of his tattoos. Somehow, she found that embarrassing. He had enough money, obviously, why hadn’t he had the things taken off?
    “Ah, Ms. Garland,” Kane now said with false enthusiasm. “How nice to see you again.”
    He seized her hand, gave it a gentlemanly shake and then gestured for her to sit down. “Lovely weather we’re having,” he said. “So nice to be up in the mountains again.”
    He