Hot-Wired / Coming on Strong. Tawny Weber
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Good. She had what she’d come for. An image of him still shower-damp and clad only in a towel flashed through her mind. Okay, she’d gotten more than she came for.
She jotted the time and notation in her day planner and stood. She hated to admit it, but it was much more comfortable with both the heels ripped off her poor shoes. “I’ll see you then.”
He stood, as well, dwarfing her in the close confines of the motor home. “Where’d you park?”
“The lot on the other side of the three-story building.”
“Spectator parking. I’m heading up to the tower—” she assumed that was the three-story building “—to check on tomorrow’s ladder. You can ride with me. It’s a hike from here to spectator parking.”
She wanted to turn him down but she was well aware of just how damn far it was. “Thank you. That’d be nice.”
They both moved toward the door. “I’m a nice guy.”
And she was Mary Poppins. “I’ll take your word for it.”
He reached past her to open the door, his shoulder brushing hers, his clean scent enveloping her. Her legs weren’t quite steady as she walked down the two steps. Night had descended, but the racing continued. Cars were still being towed behind four-wheelers and golf carts. Across the pit “street,” a crew was frantically working on a car under the glare of big floodlights mounted on stands.
He cupped his hand beneath her elbow and his touch sizzled right through her. “Okay, on you go. You might want to ride sidesaddle.”
She looked from him to the four-wheeler he’d stopped beside and back to him. “You’re going to take me on this?”
“Yeah. It’s the best way to get around the track. Do you have an issue with four-wheelers?”
“No issue, I’ve just never been on one before.” There’d never been money in her family for anything like a four-wheeler. And she’d never dated a guy with a four-wheeler—they weren’t her type.
She caught a flash of his teeth. No doubt a mocking smile. “Ah. Your first time. I’ll make sure you like it.”
Did he have to make it sound like a seductive promise? Did her body, even knowing he was arrogant and manipulative and toying with her, have to respond with instant heat?
Make that a yes on both counts.
She stepped onto an open-grid platform and slid her butt to the back of the seat, keeping both her legs on one side and her knees pressed together. It wasn’t so bad.
He climbed on in front of her, straddling the seat, presenting her with a solid wall of masculinity. He spoke over his shoulder, “You comfortable?”
Comfortable? With his absolute maleness crowding her space? With his hip and leg pressed against hers? With her entire body humming at the proximity?
“Absolutely. Never more comfortable.”
He cranked it. Not only was the engine loud, but she felt its vibration through her seat, which was strange, inappropriately erotic under the circumstances.
“You’ll want to hold on,” he said as he rolled to the edge of the pit road and looked both ways to see if the coast was clear. She lightly put one hand at his waist. The less body contact, the better.
One minute they were sitting there idling, the next they were off like a bat out of hell. She instantly, automatically wrapped both arms around him, hanging on for dear life.
“Woo!”
She heard his yell above the din and the rush of blood in her ears. Once she realized they weren’t going to die, she had to admit she rather liked it—the rush of wind past them, the thrill of going fast. And, heaven help her, the feel of him.
Her right cheek and breast pressed against his back. She felt the play of muscles beneath the cotton T-shirt as he drove. Likewise, there was no mistaking the six-pack ripple of his belly beneath her clasped hands. He felt even better than he’d looked wearing that towel—and that was saying something.
She had the craziest, hormone-fueled desire to nuzzle the muscled expanse of his back, to slide her hands beneath the edge of his T-shirt and explore the hard ridges of his belly…and lower. Natalie’s bad-girl side had the urge to experience skin on skin with Beau the Bastard.
He made a quick left, ground to a stop and killed the engine. He climbed off. He’d parked in the area chock-full of other four-wheelers and golf carts between the bleacher entrance and the tower. The starting line was right ahead of them, on the other side of the fence.
He reached for her and his hand engulfed hers as he helped her off. Much as she’d have liked to shrug off his assistance, her legs felt like rubber.
“Do you always drive like a maniac?” She tugged her hand free of his, determined to regain her equilibrium, which had seemed to fly out the window during the ride. It had to be his driving and not the fact that she’d been reduced to jelly legs from being wrapped around him. From wanting to stay wrapped around him. Dangerous ground, that.
He laughed. “A maniac?” He shook his head in pretend consternation, his blue eyes glittering. “Now that’s disappointing. Since it was your first time, I gave you the slow ride. I’ll try harder next time to make it better for you. By the way…” He reached out and casually brushed a hank of hair out of her eyes—her chignon was seriously destroyed at this point—as if he were a lover with every right to do so. His fingers barely grazed her skin but his touch echoed through her. “Two suggestions for Sunday. You might want to dress down a bit and you might want to lay off the beer.”
He pivoted on his heel and strolled away, leaving her standing there.
She hated Beau Stillwell.
Chapter 3
ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON, once she left Nashville behind on her way out to Dahlia, Natalie powered down her windows and let the wind blow through the van as she drove the twisting, turning back roads through the Tennessee hills. She could’ve taken the expressway route she’d opted for on Friday night but this was so much nicer. It reminded her of the drive out to her parents’ farm. How could anyone be alive and not love springtime here?
She cranked the CD player, singing along with Seal to “Kiss from a Rose,” when her cell phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number but she turned down the volume and answered. Being available came with the job.
“Natalie Bridges.”
“Are you coming?”
No salutation, no identification, no nothing, just that husky-voiced question in her ear. Beau Stillwell. She didn’t even have to close her eyes—which was a good thing, considering she was driving—to imagine that voice in her ear asking that very question in very intimate circumstances. It was that kind of voice and he was that kind of man.
“I’m almost there.” Dear God, what was wrong with her? She’d answered him on a matching husky note that implied intimacy when she’d meant to use her normal, efficient, brisk tone.
There was a long pause and her skin felt too warm even with the breeze blowing through the windows. He finally spoke. “Good. We’re about to go to the finals. I’ll send Scooter to pick you up on the four-wheeler. What are you driving?”
She cringed. She didn’t want to tell him. Most of the time she didn’t care. Sure, she’d like a sexy little European sportscar—she practically drooled every time she saw an Audi roadster—but that wasn’t practical in her business. Practical had been buying the family vehicle from her folks at a deep discount. It was nice enough, but this was a man who was all about fast cars, and hers was anything but. She patted the steering wheel by way of silent apology to her mobile workhorse.
“It’s a silver minivan.”
He laughed—the son of a bitch