To the Limit (Nascar Library Collection)

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THE HELICOPTER JUST about landed on her head.

One minute Kristen McKenna was jogging along a sunny beachside path, waves crashing in the distance on her left, the next—blam.

"What the—?"

She stopped cold. Actually, what she did was cover her face with her arms, the sand kicked up by the helicopter's rotors pelting her face like a new age treatment at a health spa. Not that she'd ever been to a spa—no time for that.

Whump-whump-whump. "Hey," she cried, wishing immediately that she hadn't opened her mouth. Her teeth suffered next. She moved her elbows to her side and tried to spit the grit out, wincing against the gnatlike stings. At least her glasses shielded her eyes, although at this rate she wouldn't be able to see out of them thanks to the sandblasting.

Gradually, the thing passed, enough so she could drop her arms. She watched in shock as the aircraft, one she thought at first might be military, sank to the ground like excrement from a bird. A Bell Jet-Ranger, she noted—3200 pounds heavy, 1487 pounds of load capacity. Maximum cruise speed of 213 kilometers.

What the hell was it doing?

Crashing? she thought. Some of her hair had come out of her ponytail, the mouse-blond strands flicking her sweaty forehead where they stuck for a moment before being ripped away.

Whump-whump-whump.

No. Not crashing, she realized, pushing her glasses up her nose. Its loss of altitude was too controlled for a crash. Plus, by now it was hover-ing fifty feet away, still off the ground but turned in her direction, the pilot in his insectoid glasses waving.

Definitely not a crash.

But then it backed up, its tail end spinningaround so that she could see the side.

Knight Enterprises.

She straightened and absently rubbed her aching leg—it always hurt while she was jogging. Knight Enterprises.

Her employer. Actually, she worked for one of their small subsidiaries—a research-and-develop-ment facility that tried to figure out ways for Mr. Knight to make more money off his string of aircraft, usually by increasing fuel efficiency via aerodynamics.

Whump-whump-whump.

The helicopter dropped lower, the fronds of nearby palm trees cowering away. A half second later the pilot set down and cut the engines. That helped considerably. Slowly, the blades began to lose velocity and the turbine engine's whine became more pronounced. She watched the pilot turn and say something to a passenger. A second later the side door popped open and a man with burly shoul-ders and forearms the size of Thanksgiving turkey breasts dropped out, his black glasses reflecting the green lawn as he squatted beneath the blades. He had gray hair, oddly enough, that didn't move an inch.

"Are you okay?" Kristen called to the black-clad figure. "Do you need me to call nine-one-one?" she asked, patting the sides of her baggy blue jogging suit, the pants bulging on the left side.

Cell phone. Good. "Kristen McKenna?" he called out, straightening now that he was away from the rotor. He had an earring, she noticed, and an earpiece, too, a spoon-shaped mic hanging by his left cheek.

Kristen's arms dropped. "Are you Kristen McKenna?" he asked again, and when he drew a little nearer, she could see he was tall. And wide. Military looking, in a retired Navy SEAL sort of way. Short-sleeved black T-shirt and matching black pants. Scary looking, actually.

"Y-yes," she said. "That's me."

He pulled something from his pocket. A picture of her, she realized. Of her?

"Good," he said, after comparing her with the photo. "Come with me."

"Come with— What?" she asked, stepping back.

"Who are you?"

"Rob Sneed. Head of security for Mathew Knight." Mathew—

She blinked.

Mathew Knight?

The Mathew Knight? Her boss? The single rich-est man in the universe? She'd only ever seen him on the covers of magazines. Or on TV. Or in the newspaper—front page.

"Mathew Knight is looking for me?"

"Affirmative," he said, glancing at the picture again, and then his watch. Rolex Aviator. She'd coveted that watch since flight school.

"Well—" She blinked a few times, trying hard to focus her brain. "What about?"

"I'm afraid I'm not privy to that kind of infor-mation."

"Oh."

That made sense.

Wait a second. None of this made sense. "Mathew Knight wants to see me?" she asked again, the import of the words suddenly hitting her. Before he'd passed away, her dad had often said that for a genius, she could be awfully dense.

The big man in front of her nodded. "And he sent his helicopter for me?" "You weren't in the office." "No," she said. "I'm not." "We were told to find you."

And so they'd sent a helicopter after her? Kristen glanced down, noticing leaves and bits of debris stuck to the front of her jogging suit. "Look," she said, brushing at the stuff, tiny cumulus clouds of dust rising around her. "I appreciate the fact that Mr. Knight sent his helicopter for me, but I'm not so certain I should actually go with you." She glanced up, shooting him a nervous smile. "No offense. It's just that I have no idea if you are who you really say you are. I mean, obviously I'm pretty certain you're not some twisted sicko with a private helicopter, but still. I'd appreciate it if you'd tell Mr. Knight I'd be much more comfortable with a meeting at my office. His office, I mean."

He crossed his arms in front of him. "Negative." "Negative?" she echoed. "No time to meet you at the office." "But he has time to send his helicopter after me?"

She straightened suddenly. "Although, I do have to wonder how you found me."

"Our intel revealed you like to jog on your lunch hour."

"Intel?"

"Affirmative."

"I'm outta here."

A hand on her shoulder stopped her cold.

"Hey," she said.

"Ms. McKenna," he said, his grip tightening. "I think it would be best if you met with Mr. Knight right now."

"And I'm telling you, I don't think so."

"You don't really have a choice," he said, pulling her toward him.

All right. That did it. She kicked him. "Ouch," she instantly cried, drawing back and hopping around on her bad leg—never an easy thing to do. That had hurt. "What's your shin made of? Titanium?"

The human monolith didn't move. No. He stood there. Unflinching. Like one of those British soldiers outside of Buckingham palace.

"My, my, my," a masculine voice drawled.

"When they told me you were a handful, they weren't kidding, were they?"

Kristen turned.

The man with the slicked-back black hair and the dark suit was instantly recognizable: Mathew Knight. In the flesh.

"Oh, my, gosh."

MATHEW SAW HER MOUTH DROP open after she said

the words, eyes wide beneath her thick-framed black glasses, foot still held in her hands.

He doubted she realized it, but her face was covered with a fine sheen of grit.

"Why didn't you tell me he was in the helicopter?" she asked, glancing at Rob, leg slowly dropping.

"You didn't ask," his security manager said in his deep, deep voice.

Mathew smirked. Rob loved to play security spe-cialist to the hilt.

"You have something on your face," he said, wiping at his own cheeks in a way meant to suggest that she might want to wipe at hers.

She must not have heard him, or understood the silent gesture. "Look, Mr. Knight," she said. "While I'm sure the whole helicopter and special-agent thing might work well with some people, I'm afraid I'm still not comfortable with flying off with you. If you want to talk to me, I'd rather do it back at the office."

"Negative," Rob started to say, stepping forward. But Mathew slid in front of him, holding out a hand. "I really don't have time to meet with you at the office. Not anymore."

Ms. McKenna looked at Rob again. "Does he sit and stay, too?"

"You have something on your face," he said again, ignoring her question.

She lifted her own hand then, one swipe reveal-ing the full extent of the damage. "Holy—" She began to wipe at her cheeks furiously, using the edge of her jogging shirt. As the oversize jacket lifted he caught a glimpse of something, just a hint of flesh that was surprisingly tan and lithe, not the least bit lumpy, as her jogging suit had suggested.

"Rob," he said as she continued to wipe. "We can just do the meeting here." But her cleanup job hadn't helped much. She looked like a child who'd been playing with a box of chocolate.

Mathew gave up then, reaching into his suit jacket and pulling out a handkerchief. "You missed a spot," he said, handing her the handkerchief. Their fingers brushed.

He saw her chest cavity expand, and then still. She had an unusual face. Tiny chin. Thick lips. And—behind thick brown glasses—the world's largest eyes, he realized, suddenly meeting her gaze.

His hand dropped. "Uh, thanks," she said, her chest starting to move again. She used the cloth, handing it back to him when she was done—albeit with a sheepish grin.

"You want to walk down to the beach?" he asked.

She smoothed her hair off her face, her focus suddenly locked upon the ground. "I'm supposed to be in a meeting in a half hour."

"Rob can let them know you'll be late."

"It's a class of sixth-graders. They want to see the wind tunnel. I'd hate to keep them waiting."

"We'll keep it short," he said.

She nodded and stepped up next to him, her stride a little uneven. Must be the injured leg he'd heard about. Severely broken right after high school. Permanently misshapen, and a disability she'd overcome. He'd been filled in by Rob, who did background checks as a matter of routine.

Wonderful.