“Why the fuck did you say I was here, Jesus,” he growls in complaint, picking up the phone. “Yeah?” He sounds exasperated.
“Racer?”
There’s a silence.
“Where are you?” he husks out.
“I … um …”
“Give me your room number,” he growls quietly into the receiver.
“No. If I give it to you, you’ll spend the night, and that can’t happen. I’ve had time to … collect myself.” I exhale.
Silence. Then, “It’ll take me one second to uncollect you, Lana.”
Oh god. This man will be the total explosion of my ovaries.
“That’s why I won’t tell you and even if you found out, I’m not opening the bolt so don’t even try,” I warn, still feeling hot inside and unable to quench the way my hormones respond to his voice on the other end of the line.
“I want to talk to you seriously,” I add. “There’s a … I’ve been in town before. I knew someone who lived here. Would you meet me at the museum of Seth Rothschild tomorrow morning?”
“I’ll be there,” he growls.
Lana
I tossed and flipped around in bed like a worm, unable to find sleep. I guzzle down two cups of coffee as I shower and dress the next morning, nervous about what I’m going to do.
Slipping into a pair of jeans and a navy-blue T-shirt, I pull my hair back in a ponytail and reach for my purse. There, beneath it, is my IndyCar drivers list. I pick it up and read the name he wrote on it.
Racer
Tate
I exhale, fold it in four, and tuck it into my bag.
Am I really doing this?
I march out of the room and take the elevator downstairs, keeping my eye out for his family. But they’re nowhere in sight.
Racer Tate may be a very hot, very male guy, but my personal crazy reactions for him don’t need to get in the way of business.
In fact I won’t let them.
My dad, his dream, comes above it all. It has for a long time, and the more time passes, the more important it becomes.
I drive with this new determination to the Seth Rothschild Hall. It’s a small museum that was made for one of our pilots. It sells F1 memorabilia, and offers coffee and “cars”—which means everyone can bring their cars into the parking lot on Saturdays for what feels like an adult show-and-tell.
There’s a gazillion cars parked there, but no red, banged-up mustang.
I’m hurrying inside and hoping to head to the ladies’ room to be sure I look my best when I spot a tall, dark-haired guy inside the main hall display. He’s looking at a trophy. The trophy Seth won for us, a long time ago.
He lifts his head towards me as if there’s some sort of built-in alarm inside of him to alert him that I’d arrived.
I’d arrived and was standing a few feet away, staring at him.
Our eyes meet—and his eyes slide from mine toward the wall behind the trophy, where a photograph of HW Racing Team hangs. Framed in black oak, my father, brothers, Seth, and I stand with his trophy. All of us smiling. I was about eighteen then … it was our first year racing, and the first smile I’d felt on my face since David died.
I watch the expression on Racer’s face as he seems to register what he’s seeing, and then one of his eyebrows starts to rise, ever so slowly, as his gaze slides to lock on mine.
I approach with a very fast-pounding heart, and all the nerves in the whole goddamned world.
“What is this?” he asks.
My flesh pebbles.
It’s his damn voice.
I can’t help it.
I feel myself tremble inside, when I start to wonder; what if he’s not interested? What if he’s not the one we need?
My fingers feel quivery as I point to the image, and then trophy case. My voice is surprisingly level, as firm as I can make it.
“That’s my dad, that’s our team, and that’s the last trophy we’ve ever won since we started racing. Third place in the last race of the season. My family’s dream is to win the Formula One championship, and you’re the only one who can help us achieve this.”
Racer leans back on his heels, crossing his arms and frowning as he listens. Today he’s wearing shorts which display his muscled legs and calves, a form-fitting Under Armour T-shirt on his muscular chest, and his hair looks extra messed-up and is standing up cutely on the top of his gorgeous head.
“I’m not going to lie. Our team is on its last legs, but this is my father’s dream, and so it’s mine too, and you’re the only guy that can get us this—make us win again.”
Racer is silent.
“Street cars and F1 are a whole other beast,” he gruffs out, looking slightly bemused.
“I know. But I’d love for you to test, and if it goes well …”
“When’s this test?” he cuts me off.
“Yesterday.” I grin. “Now. As soon as possible. The season starts in two days.”
He looks at me, then laughs softly as he pushes off the wall and we start walking again. “Fucking F1?”
“Yes.”
“You’re talking about F1.”
“Yes.” I laugh, feeling giddy because of the way his blue eyes start to glint.
His lips curve mischievously, and he drags a hand across his face before he turns sober. “When do we leave?”
Oh god. He said yes?
He looks thirsty for it; his gaze feral all of a sudden. Competitive.
“Tonight? Can you make it?”
“I’ll make it,” he assures.
I smile and reach out, embracing him. He wraps his arms around me too and I feel him inhale along the back of my ear before we step away—my heart beating fast.
He’s seriously god’s handiwork. The natural selection process of evolution couldn’t be enough to produce something like him. He’s illegal.
His only law is breaking the law, and a flicker of insecurity slithers inside me. Do I have the ability to control a guy like him?
Drake, Clay, and Adrian … all three of my brothers together plotting in some way or another against me have never made me as nervous as this guy on his own.
The last thing I want is get involved with a driver. I cannot keep feeling like this around him.
“It won’t be a problem with your family—”
“I’ll handle my family.” He chuckles over my worry and reaches out and grabs my face, smiling down at me. “You’re too gorgeous for your own good.” He brushes my mouth with his, causing my whole body to awaken and to tingle, his eyes twinkling, and he walks away. “Send me the flight information and I’ll meet you at the airport.”
“Good but if we can keep this professional I’d be really—grateful.”
He stops walking and turns, looking at me.
I close the distance between us, breathless. “Last night we almost went too far.”
“I’m not letting you get away.” He looks uncompromising. Determined.
I wring my hands. “This is more complicated than I thought.”
He looks at my face, and I lick my lips, lean over, and kiss his cheek. I found him. He’s the one driver I’ve chosen to believe in, to bring into our fold and try out, and this cannot happen, especially with my family around.
I ease back, but it’s like something unleashes, and he growls, takes my hands and pulls me up, pinning me against him.
“Are we in agreement …” he says, his eyes starting to twinkle as his lips curve mischievously.
“Agreement of what?” I breathe.
He’s got a big ego, I can tell.
“I’m the best driver in the world.”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“You don’t want to fix my car, that’s the only reason you won’t admit it.”
“No. I’m not in agreement. I haven’t seen much.”
He’s breathing hard, smells freshly showered and feels so warm as I try to pry myself free and we head outside, walking side by side.
“What do you get when you win your street races.”
“I get laid.”
“Oh. You got laid.”
He shakes his head. “My prize walked away on me last night.”