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      Hot-Wired

      by

      After a varied career path that included barbecue-joint waitress, corporate numbers cruncher and bug-business maven, Jennifer LaBrecque has found her true calling writing contemporary romance. Named 2001 Notable New Author of the Year and 2002 winner of the prestigious Maggie Award for Excellence, she is also a two-time RITA® Award finalist. Jennifer lives in suburban Atlanta with one husband, one active daughter, one really bad cat, two precocious greyhounds and a chihuahua who runs the whole show.

      Thanks to Brenda Chin and Margaret Learn for helping me make this a better book.

      And to Alison Kent, Julie Miller and Lori Borrill, all top-notch writers. It was great fun creating the world of Dahlia, Tennessee. Wish we could go for a visit.

      And last but not least, to all the drag racers and their crews who devote endless hours to putting on a great show, especially the ORSCA folks.

       Chapter 1

      BEAU STILLWELL could kiss her ass. If she could ever find him, that was.

      Her temper beginning to fray at the edges, Natalie Bridges silently huffed and carefully picked her way through yet another row of big pickup trucks, trailers, motor homes and some of the loudest, gaudiest souped-up cars she’d ever had the misfortune to see. Welcome to Dahlia Speedway, where big boys and their toys hurtled down a quarter-mile track to see who could go the fastest. Quite frankly, she didn’t get it.

      What, or rather who, she needed to get, however, was Beauregard Stillwell. She’d called and left messages every day for two weeks with the secretary of Stillwell Construction. He’d summarily ignored them. She’d doggedly left messages on his cell and home phone. No call back.

      She jumped as a car cranked next to her with a near deafening roar. Was there another wedding planner in Nashville, Tennessee, who’d go to these lengths to get the job done? Maybe, maybe not, but she was bound and determined that Caitlyn Stillwell and Cash Vickers would have the wedding of their dreams—if she could ever get Caitlyn’s brother, Beau, to cooperate.

      Caitlyn and Cash had the most romantic story. Call it fate or destiny or karma, but fresh out of college with a degree in film and video, Caitlyn had lucked into shooting a music video for rising country music star Cash Vickers at an antebellum plantation outside Nashville. In a nutshell, they’d fallen in love with each other and the place during the filming. In a wildly romantic gesture, Cash had bought the plantation, Belle Terre, for him and Caitlyn. They both had their hearts set on getting married there. However, while a faintly neglected air worked for a video for “Homesick,” a song about finding where you belong and who you belonged there with, it didn’t work for a wedding. Caitlyn didn’t trust anyone with the renovations except her big brother, Beau.

      Which was all good and fine, if Natalie could just get him to talk to her about the renovation schedule. In the two-week span of being ignored, Natalie could’ve lined up another builder to handle the remodel, except this was a sticking point with Caitlyn. No Beau Stillwell, no remodel. No remodel, no wedding.

      And come hell or high water, in which hell might very well take the form of Beau Stillwell, Natalie was planning and executing this wedding. Cash was being touted as country music’s next big thing, and being in charge of his and Caitlyn’s wedding would set Natalie apart as Nashville’s premier wedding planner…but only if everything went off without a hitch. She’d either be ruined or all the rage. Ruined wasn’t a viable option.

      Hence, she’d finished up the rehearsal dinner for tomorrow’s wedding between Gina Morris and Tommy Pitchford, settled them and their families at the private banquet room at the upscale Giancarlo’s Ristorante, and left her assistant, Cynthia, to deal with any residual problems. Natalie had driven the thirty miles out of Nashville and parted with twenty dollars at the gate to gain entry to the one place she knew for sure she could find Mr. Stillwell on a Friday evening—the Dahlia drag strip.

      Dodging a low-slung orange car with skulls air-brushed on the front and side as it pulled down the “street” in the congested pit area, she thought better a drag strip than a strip joint. Although she had thought it was pretty interesting the one time she’d tracked down a recalcitrant groom and dragged him out of a strip club. Her seldom-seen, inner wild girl had thought she wouldn’t mind doing a pole dance for someone special in a private setting.

      Even though she was about five unreturned phone calls beyond annoyed, she had to admit the drag strip was an interesting place. Apparently drag racing pit areas were wherever the car’s trailer was parked. She tried to ignore the stares and titters that followed her. Maybe three-inch heels and a suit weren’t the dress code at the drag strip, but changing would have meant driving all the way back across Nashville when she’d had the girl genius idea of coming here to track down Beau the Bastard, as she and Cynthia