FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
Dear Reader
Veronica Spencer’s fuchsia patent leather boots, useless in the New Hampshire soggy spring, stalled on the backlot pavement of her racetrack. The sound of mechanical whirring and the clang of metal tools came from behind the closed bay doors of a dark, unused garage at Spencer Speedway. This was her garage, she silently staked her claim. She had a plan for it, and it didn’t include a squatter.
The damp, cold, night wind matched her bitter mood and fluttered her signature rose pink silk scarf, also not an accessory for functionality—but in the case of her scarves, glamour wasn’t their purpose either. Mutilated scar tissue from a car fire at three years of age covered her neck and right arm. It was the arm she’d used to reach for her mother, who’d sat in the front passenger seat before the flames killed her. Roni’s burns reminded her of the memory daily. The scarves?
They helped her forget.
They also had a way of putting people at ease when they saw her coming. Gave them something pretty to look at instead.
Roni had no intentions of putting her intruder at ease.
She smiled the first smile since she left her uncle grumbling at his dining room table earlier that night.
Perhaps taking the scarf off to show this trespasser what ugly looked like would make him second-guess squatting on her track again for...what? Just what was he doing here this late at night when the track remained closed for the season? The sounds told her he was building a car. He probably planned to race it in the Icebreaker, the first spring race, next week.
Not a chance, buddy. Not on my track. And not anyone else’s after the sponsors heard what Roni Spencer had to say about him. He wouldn’t be the first man who underestimated her influence in the racing world.
The last one would never race again.
Her determined steps picked up, but at the door, deep, guttural voices filtered out and tripped her up again.
Someone gave an order like a drill sergeant breaking in new recruits, or more like threatening their lives. Her hand paused on the doorknob, and her gaze shot to the window a few feet to her left.
The square glass panes were covered with black paper. From afar it appeared dark and unused. Up close it all appeared...criminal. As much as she wanted to meet her trespasser face-to-face, perhaps barging in might not be the way to go. Her choice of weapon was her cutting tongue. Something told her she might not like theirs.
Always known for her uncanny ability to escape trouble, on and off the track, Roni grabbed her cell phone from the back pocket of her white jeans and backed away. Sometimes Reverse saved lives.
Her black Porsche Carrera beckoned at thirty feet where she’d parked it, and now with each retreating step she wished she’d pulled up closer. But that might have alerted the intruders to her presence if she had.
This wasn’t the first time the track had seen illegal activity. A few months back the main office had been ransacked, computers stolen, windows smashed. She loved her little town of Norcastle, but she knew it had fallen on hard times before; many were still struggling. It was only realistic that crime would follow. She wasn’t naive. She was an intelligent businesswoman—despite what her uncle implied and what her ex-fiancé denied.
She’d approached her uncle Clay again tonight about opening a racing school at the track. And again, he’d scoffed. “No man will ever want to learn how to race from a girl. Especially one so...pink,” he’d said. “Didn’t you learn your lesson with Jared? Your own fiancé didn’t want his peers knowing you were the brains behind his driving. Why would anyone else?”
Veronica punched in 911 with a vengeance. She’d handle this without calling Uncle Clay. She’d show him she could manage the run of the place without anyone else. He was free to leave his CEO position anytime. With her brother Wade retiring from the army and finally moving back to New Hampshire with his new wife, Lacey, Uncle Clay’s days of being in charge since the car crash twenty-eight years ago that took her parents and baby brother, Luke, away from her were coming to an end.
Her thumb moved to the call button. Her decision to do this alone meant so much more to her than making a phone call. It meant independence.
But just as her thumb pressed the button, the phone disappeared from her hand. Just like that. One moment she held it in her grasp, the next it flew out into the night. Before she could fathom the occurrence, a yank on her scarf jerked her head back in a sharp, quick, painful snap. Roni’s throat closed to life-giving air. She felt a body behind her, but the identity of her assailant took a backseat. In her struggle, her red hair whipped across her face like a red flag of warning that had come too late.
“You’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, chica. Too bad for you.” The harsh voice of the drill sergeant spoke close to her ear as his hand twisted the scarf tighter.
Gurgles escaped Roni’s mouth, her long nails breaking as she clawed at her neck. Useless, her mind blared. But it also didn’t give her any other ideas in its fog-laden, asphyxiating state. Her vision blurred even as she felt her eyes bulge with each painful twist of her scarf, tighter and tighter. Her only thought was when would the pain finally end? How long must she endure the torture? It was the same question she’d asked herself since she was three, when the agony of her burns consumed her, and then, when the sting of being marred for life set in. When would the pain end? The answer was always the same.
Never.
Was that the answer for her tonight?
Roni grappled with the material of her scarf. Her scars beneath would never go away. But Jared’s success on the track under her tutelage these past couple of years had given her an idea. A hope.
The Roni Spencer School of Racing.
Roni had something to offer. She knew it now, and it was why she’d come to the garage tonight. There would be no more putting it off.
And she would not allow her dream to fall by the wayside along with her dumped body!
Roni bent her knees to drop her weight in a faux fall. Judging by the way her scarf pulled down, her choke holder stood shorter than her nearly six feet in heels. She used her tall frame against him. He would have to lift her or risk falling forward himself. As his knees bent, she brought a foot up and kicked back at him, heel first. In the dark, she could only hope she hit her mark.
His hold loosened and both of them fell to the ground, apart. Stunned, she continued to claw at her neck as air rushed back in. Her lungs heaved and spots brightened in her eyes, but she pushed her
