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Hot-Wired

by Jennifer LaBrecque

&

Coming on Strong

by Tawny Weber

*

Letters from Home

by Rhonda Nelson

Every Breath You Take…

by Hope Tarr

HOT-WIRED

“You clean up nice, Ms Bridges.”

He leaned down and for one heart-stopping, pulse-pounding moment she was certain he was going to kiss her. There was a lambent sensuality in his eyes, in the way he bent his head. Her whole body tingled in anticipation. The air between them seemed to crackle.

He canted his head to the left, his dark hair teasing against her cheek, and sniffed delicately. She could almost feel the faint scrape of his five-o’clock shadow against her neck. She was on the verge of spontaneous combustion.

COMING ON STRONG

“I wasn’t the one who ran out on the wedding,” Mitch argued.

Belle frowned. “That’s your own damn fault,” she declared. “If you hadn’t put such an insane price on your body, we’d never have ended up in that mess.”

He was speechless. “My body?”

“I wanted sex,” Belle stated. “Simple, uncomplicated sex. But no, you had to turn it into something else. You ruined it.”

He clenched his jaw, struggling to find a response. In Belle, he thought he’d found the perfect woman. And she’d walked out on him. Well, he’d blown his chance once. He wasn’t stupid enough to blow it twice.

“You want sex?” he rasped, anger and lust deepening his voice. “Don’t worry, Belle. I’ll give you enough sex to last a lifetime…”

Hot-Wired

by

Jennifer LaBrecque
Coming on Strong

by

Tawny Weber

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Hot-Wired

by

Jennifer LaBrecque

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 had dubbed him earlier today when he’d blown off her call yet again.

She clutched her purse tighter against her side. There was almost a carnival atmosphere. An announcer “called” the race, giving statistics and tidbits about each driver over a loudspeaker. The cars themselves were beyond loud, spectators whooped and hollered, people zoomed around on four-wheelers and golf carts, and there was plenty of tailgating going on at the race trailers. It sort of reminded her of holidays at her parents’ house—chaos. Although, unlike at her folks’, there was at least some structure and method behind the madness here.

She passed a concession stand located behind the packed spectator bleachers and the smell of hamburgers and French fries wafting out set her mouth watering and her stomach growling, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. God, she’d kill for a greasy fry dredged in catsup right now—the ultimate comfort food. However, she was probably packing on another five pounds just from smelling them.

She walked away from the people lined up at the burger window. Directly across from the food concession, she noticed a T-shirt vendor displayed his, or her, wares. Natalie nearly laughed aloud at the one that proclaimed “Real Men Do It With 10.5 Inches.” She didn’t get the inside joke and it was rude and crude, but still kind of funny. And she had to smile at the “Damn Right It’s Fast, Stupid Ass” next to it.

She was so busy laughing at the T-shirts that catching her heel in a crack caught her totally unawares. Arms flailing, she pitched into a guy…carrying a hot dog and a plastic cup of beer.

“Damn, lady,” he yelled, “watch where you’re going.” He shot her a nasty look. “And that cost me my last eight bucks.”

Natalie righted herself, dug into her purse, pulled out a ten and shoved it in the man’s hand. “Sorry.”

Mollified by his two-dollar gain, he changed his tune. “No problem.” He looked down her chest and grimaced. “Napkins are over there.” He turned on his heel and returned to the concession counter.

She glanced down. Her favorite cream silk blouse with the lovely ruffle down the center clung to her in a beer bath. Bright yellow mustard and red catsup obscured the flowers on the left breast of her jacket. She wasn’t sure that blouse and jacket weren’t both ruined. She quelled the urge to laugh hysterically. Napkins. She needed napkins.

She started toward the round, bar-height table that held the napkins, along with the hamburger and hot dog fixings, and realized she’d wrenched the heel off her right pump when she’d stepped in the asphalt crack. She limped over to the table and grabbed a napkin.

A blonde with dark roots in jeans and a halter top gave her a sympathetic look. “The bathroom’s right around the corner.”

“Thanks.”

Five minutes later, she’d managed to work some of the mustard and catsup stain out of her jacket and she’d blotted at her beer-soaked blouse. She’d toyed with, and promptly dismissed, the notion that she’d be better off trading them for one of the graphic tees. No, that would make her look even more bedraggled than her stained clothing.

For the thousandth time, she silently cursed Beau Stillwell. This was all his fault. Maybe he wasn’t personally responsible for the asphalt crack she’d caught her heel in, but if he’d had the common courtesy to return just one of her phone calls or, at the very least, left a message for her with his secretary, Natalie wouldn’t have been reduced to chasing him all over Dahlia, Tennessee, and her heel wouldn’t have gotten stuck in the damn crack in the damn first place because she wouldn’t have been here.

She smiled grimly at herself in the chipped mirror and tucked her hair back into what was left of her chignon as best she could. She reapplied a coat of pale pink lipstick and rubbed her lips together. She didn’t care what they said on the Style Network—doing that funky top-lip-against-the-bottom-one smear smoothed out the color. Dropping the lipstick tube back in her purse, she stood up straight, squared her shoulders, and gave herself a pep talk.

Granted she fell a little short of the mark—she always aimed to project an elegant professionalism—but she didn’t really resemble the walking wounded, she reassured herself. And killing Beau Stillwell when she found him, or at least braining him with what was left of her right pump, was not in her best interest. Dead, or even slightly brained, would preclude her nailing him down as to the remodel schedule on Belle Terre, which was why she was standing in the shabby, smelly bathroom of the Dahlia drag strip reeking of beer, mustard and catsup rather than attending Nashville’s latest art gallery opening, where she was sure Shadwell Jackson III, the guy who had Prince Charming written all over him, was supposed to be.

Heck yeah, she believed in Prince Charmings and wanted one for herself. How could she be a wedding planner and not believe in happy-ever-after? She was detail-oriented and a devotee of true love—it was a career tailor-made for her.

She came from a long line of happy-ever-afters. She figured it was a genetic thing. No one in either her mother’s or her father’s families had ever gotten a divorce. And none of them were living in misery. Sure they had problems to work through, but all of them had sound marriages. Her parents were still absolutely in love after thirty-two years, raising Natalie and taking in foster kids on a regular basis.

She’d known for years what her Prince Charming would be like when he swept her off her feet. She’d always envisioned her Mr. Right as an urbane professional who donned a suit and tie every morning, refined, gallant. And instead of meeting Shad, an imminent candidate for that position, she was here, tracking down pain-in-her-ass Beau Stillwell.

She sucked in a deep, calming breath, which proved a mistake in a public toilet. Blech. She limped back outside where the scent of fast food underpinned the acrid smell of burning rubber. Beau Stillwell, did not know the measure of the woman he was dealing with. She could handle this. She would handle this.

Smoothing her hand over her skirt and tweaking her stained jacket into place over her stained blouse, she fixed her best smile on her face rather than a scowl and gimped forward on her broken heel toward the pit area for Stillwell Motors Racing.

She’d employ charm and tact and whip the elusive brother of the bride right into shape.

THE FOUR-WHEELER towed Beau and his ‘69 Camaro into their pit area beneath the two green pop-up tents next to the trailer. Before he’d even climbed out of the car, his motor guy Darnell and general crew member Tim were pulling the hood pins, eager to read the spark plugs and tweak the setup.

Beau tugged off his helmet and stripped off his neck brace and fireproof gloves. A grin split Scooter Lewis’s face as he walked over, waving Beau’s run results in his hand. “That was a helluva run. Even with your tires spinning a little off the line, you beat him off the tree and at the sixty-foot. He didn’t have a prayer of catching you.”

“It was sweet, wasn’t it?” Beau said, the adrenalin rush that came with rocketing down a quarter-mile track in less than four and a half seconds was beginning to subside. It was like a five-second orgasm with an unpredictable woman. From the instant the light went green, signaling him to go, he was never sure what would happen on the run, but it was guaranteed to be a rush. “If we run that again tomorrow, we should qualify first.”

“I’ll ramp it down some and that’ll take care of the spin,” Darnell said, glancing up and handing off the socket wrench to Tim.

Beau nodded. As crew chief, Scooter oversaw all the adjustments based on track and weather conditions, but Darnell was damn near a genius when it came to motor setups. “Who’ve we got to beat tomorrow? Mitchell or Taylor?”

“Mitchell. They dropped in a new motor but you’re still the better driver.”

And without arrogance, Beau knew it was true. Driving a race car was in his blood. He’d been born with a need for speed. It’s what the Stillwell men did. His father had raced, his grandfather had raced, and stories of his great-grandfather Theodore Stillwell outrunning prohibitionists in a Model T in his day was local legend around Dahlia, Tennessee. Before that, the Stillwell men were hell at the helm of a buggy. In fact, family rumor had it that Stillwells drove a mean chariot in the day. That, however, was totally unsubstantiated Stillwell family lore.

A couple of fans stopped by to check out the car. Beau recognized the guys as motorheads who showed up at every race. They were still looking over the engine and bending Darnell’s ear when a blonde and a brunette in matching jeans and what he’d guess to be double D’s in tube tops strolled into the pit area.

“Hi, I’m Sherree,” the blonde said, “and this is Tara. Would you take a picture with us?”

“Certainly, ladies.” He offered them his most charming smile.

Sherree shoved a camera at Scooter, and within seconds Beau was sandwiched between heavily perfumed feminine flesh, those matching double D’s pressing against his arms on each side of him.

“Say nitrous oxide,” Scooter instructed.

“I thought it was cheese—isn’t it cheese?” Tara asked.

On the other side of the camera, Scooter, ever the prankster, grinned.

“Cheese is fine,” Beau assured her. He wasn’t particularly surprised when one of them grabbed his ass a second later.

Scooter snapped the photo and returned the camera. Sherree murmured a thank-you and turned her attention back to Beau. “Want to party with us later?” she asked.

The invitation didn’t surprise him any more than her copping a feel. Women liked him. They always had. And he liked them, too. And no doubt Tara and Sherree had a good time in mind and it was sort of crazy because it’d been a while since he’d partied and they were hot, but he just wasn’t feeling it.

He shook his head. “Unfortunately, I’ve got a busy evening, ladies. No partying for me.”

Sherree offered a moue of disappointment and another rub of her bodacious silicone tatas against his bicep. “Then you’ll just have to call us for your celebration party when you win.” She tucked a piece of paper into his jeans pocket, sliding her fingers suggestively along the edge of his pants.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

They left, mouthing in unison “Call me” over their shoulders.

“Lucky bastard,” Scooter muttered. They both knew he was just talking. Scooter had lost his wife, Emma Jean, two years ago and had never mentioned another woman. Scooter didn’t say much, but Beau knew he missed her. Hell, they’d been married longer than the thirty-two years Beau had been alive.

A father and his young son, both wearing Stillwell Motors Racing T-shirts, came by for an autograph. They left and Beau and the crew spent a few minutes discussing setup adjustments for 10.5 qualifying the following day.

“You staying here tonight?” Scooter asked.

“Might as well.” His major sponsor had shelled out the money for a sweet setup at the end of last year’s winning season. They’d outfitted Stillwell Motors Racing with a toter home and race trailer that were both nicer than what he was living in now. But soon…

If he walked away with the 10.5 championship again this year, he’d have his money in place to build his house. Just as he’d promised his father before he died sixteen years ago, Beau had taken care of his mother and his sister. But it had been more than a deathbed promise.

Before he drank himself to death, Monroe Stillwell had bankrupted them and they’d lost everything—their home, cars, even their furniture. They’d been left with the clothes on their back, tattered pride and precious little else. As a teenager, Beau had vowed he’d never owe a red penny to anyone again. If he didn’t owe, no one could come in and take what he considered his.

Between racing and his construction business, he’d made enough money to build his mother a house and set her up with a dress shop in downtown Dahlia. He was damn proud that his mother had turned Beverly’s Closet into a thriving enterprise. He’d put Caitlyn through college and helped her find a job. Now it was his turn.

His cell phone buzzed at his side and he glanced at the caller ID—speaking of the devil. He let it go to voice mail. Scooter raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

“Caitlyn,” Beau said. “Between her and that wedding planner, they’re driving me bat-shit crazy.”

“Why don’t you just talk to the woman and get it over with?”

“She wants to know when I can start the remodel on Belle Terre. I haven’t had time to get out there.” Which suited him just fine. Everyone looked at Caitlyn’s fiancé, Cash Vickers, and saw Nashville’s newest rising star. Beau looked at Vickers and saw heartbreak for his sister.

He didn’t like Vickers. He didn’t think for a second the guy was good enough for his baby sister. To begin with, women were all over the guy, and he seemed to like them in return. Second, Beau had been most unimpressed when Cash had bought Belle Terre. It seemed like a extravagant, fiscally irresponsible move to him. Caitlyn had already been the victim of one financially irresponsible man—their father. She sure as hell didn’t need a husband who spent money like water. And forbidding Caitlyn to marry Vickers would simply push her in his direction all the harder. Not to mention that his sister was old enough to do whatever she wanted to do. But Beau figured if he dragged his feet long enough, time would prove his rope and Vickers would hang himself.

“And that wedding planner needs to get a life. She’s called me twice a day every day for two weeks.”

He’d been legitimately busy the first week, but her nagging calls had irritated him to the point that this past week it had become a game to try and drive her as bat-shit crazy by avoiding her calls as she was driving him.

Scooter shook his head. “You might as well surrender now. Women and weddings. You ain’t gonna know a minute’s peace until they trade I-do’s.” He should know. His daughter, Carlotta, had gotten married the year before Emma Jean died.

“You never surrender until you’ve put up the good fight.”

“I’m telling you, Beau, you might win a skirmish or two, but they’ll win the war.”

Beau grinned when he remembered the voice mail Ms. Natalie Bridges had left him earlier today. She’d been polite but he didn’t miss the terse impatience underlying her message. She was frustrated. That was good. Maybe she’d quit and Caitlyn would have to start all over with another wedding planner. All of which meant more time for Vickers to screw up and show Caitlyn his true colors.

“I’ve got a couple of good battles left in me. Let Nightmare Natalie bring it on.”

THERE IT WAS. Black toter home and trailer with Stillwell Motors Racing emblazoned on the side in purple and silver. Finally. Now that she’d rubbed a blister on her heel from hobbling along in a broken shoe.

Three men in uniforms that matched the black, silver and purple color scheme were under what should’ve been the hood of the car. Except the hood was sitting on a rack to the side. Whatever. She cleared her throat, interrupting.

“Excuse me. I’m looking for Beau Stillwell.” She glanced expectantly from one man to the other. A short guy with thinning red hair had the name Scooter embroidered on his shirt. Next to him stood a lanky fellow with a crew cut, whose shirt designated him as Tim. On the left side of the car was an African-American named Darnell.

The short man exchanged a quick, almost imperceptible glance with the other two and stepped forward. “Scooter Lewis,” he introduced himself. He grimaced and shook his head with a grin. “You’d probably rather not shake my hand right now.”

“No problem. I’m Natalie Bridges and I’m—”

Scooter—she was so sure his mother hadn’t given him that name at birth—interrupted with a nod and a quick grin. “You’re that wedding planner out of Nashville.”

Lanky Tim couldn’t contain a snicker, which earned him an elbow in the side from Darnell. “Hey, man, watch it.” Tim groused.

“Yes. I’m the wedding planner. It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Lewis.” She tilted her chin up a notch while keeping her smile firmly in place. She didn’t have to be the sharpest tool in the shed to figure out that if these three had heard of her it wasn’t because their boss had been singing her praises.

“Just call me Scooter. Everybody does. And this here’s Tim and Darnell.”

“Gentlemen.” She nodded and smiled a greeting while Tim shuffled his feet and blushed and Darnell bobbed his head in a quick acknowledgment. “I can see you’re busy and I apologize for interrupting. If someone could just tell me where I might find Mr. Stillwell…” If they told her he’d just left the track, she wasn’t so sure she wouldn’t just pitch a hissy fit right here, right now.

Scooter jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Beau’s in the toter. I’d go get him for you, but…” He held up greasy hands. “Just let yourself in.” Meltdown averted.

She skirted the car and gave a wide berth to a jack. She didn’t know squat about cars, but even she recognized that was one big motor, which probably accounted for why Beau was the points leader. The overloud announcer had mentioned it exhaustively during her trek.

She stood on the lower step of the door Scooter had indicated and raised her hand to knock. “Just go on in,” Scooter yelled, waving her on. “Don’t worry about knocking. Folks come and go at the track all the time.”

Okay. Far be it for her to screw up the way things were done at the track. She grabbed the silver latch on the door that reminded her of her grandparents’ camper and stepped into the motor home, clicking the door in place behind her. The similarities ended there. This certainly wasn’t her grandparents’ camper.

Instead of orange shag carpeting and yellowed Formica countertops, she was standing on hardwood flooring, looking at granite counter tops and a tiled backsplash. A baseball game, the sound muted, flickered on a flat-screen TV mounted over the opening to the cab’s cockpit to her right. Dark, blackout curtains were drawn over the windows in the front, affording privacy inside.

And still no Beau Stillwell. “Hello?” she called out.

The panel door to her left slid open. Oh. My. All the spit in her mouth evaporated. A whoosh of heat roared through her as she stood rooted to the spot.

Tall. Big. Heavily muscled arms, chest, and legs. Dark hair on his head…and his chest…and his legs. Wet and naked, save for the white towel held precariously low on his hips. But it was the mocking blue eyes fringed with sooty lashes in a rugged, square-jawed face that did her in.

“Can I help you?”

“Are you Beau Stillwell?”

He bowed at the waist, overwhelmingly masculine, overwhelmingly arrogant, overwhelmingly almost naked. “At your service.”

What she meant to say, what she fully planned to say fell in the category of offering her name by way of introduction. But, honest to Bob, she couldn’t even remember her name because just breathing the same air seemed to have annihilated all of her brain cells. Obviously. Because what came out of her mouth instead of a calm professional introduction was, “You can kiss my ass.”

Chapter 2

“THAT’S THE MOST interesting proposition I’ve heard all night,” Beau said in a deliberate drawl despite the adrenaline rush that slammed him. He felt as if he’d been turned upside down just looking into her light brown eyes, which had widened with surprise and then narrowed with temper. He hung on to his cool…by a thread…because this woman shook him up…and he was never shaken up. “But maybe you could hop in the shower first to lose the beer smell.” He moved the hand holding his towel in place, as if he were about to pass it to her. “You can borrow my towel.”

She whipped around, presenting him with her back, before he got the last word out of his mouth. “Keep the towel,” she snapped, staring straight ahead. Her rear view did nothing to settle him down. Beau liked his track straight and his women curvy, and she had nice curves from head to toe.

She drew a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry. We got off on the wrong foot and I apologize for barging in. Mr. Lewis told me to just come on in without knocking.”

“His idea of funny.”

And she was his idea of hot.

Was that a snort?

“I’ll step back out until you’re decent,” she said.

He itched to reach out and pull the pins from her hair and watch it tumble down around her shoulders. “No need to step outside. It’ll take me no time to dress, but there’s no guarantee I’ll be decent. Clothes don’t make the man.”

She wanted to tell him to kiss her ass again. It was there in the rigid set of her shoulders. Instead she said, “Fine. I’ll wait.”

“I’ll just be a minute,” he paused for effect, “sweet thing.” Beau slid the bathroom door closed and took two steps into the bedroom to “get decent.” He was pretty sure the sweet thing business had been over the top. He’d sounded like a bona fide asshole. But that was the point—to goad her into quitting to delay the whole wedding thing. He’d told her to wait in the toter home because she was obviously uncomfortable with him being undressed, and the more uncomfortable she was the better. It didn’t have a thing to do with some crazy-ass notion that now that he’d seen her he didn’t want her to leave.

He pulled on fresh underwear and a pair of worn jeans. Natalie Bridges, he recognized her voice, was a wreck. He’d seen guys barrel-roll cars and climb out afterwards in better shape. But insanely he found her hot and sexy in a way he hadn’t found the tube-top twins earlier.

Maybe it was the flash of anger in her brown eyes or the lush fullness of her pink lips or the semitumble of her hair. It was her mouth. There was something so damn sexy about the fact that with the rest of her obviously a mess—he was almost certain that was mustard on her left breast—her lipstick had been perfect. In fact, he was pretty damn sure she had the most perfect mouth he’d ever seen.

He tugged a black T-shirt over his head and tucked it into his jeans. She wasn’t at all what he’d expected. He realized he’d sketched her in his head as thin, angular, rigid—a paragon of cool efficiency. But this woman was all curves, and she’d just blown a gasket with him.

If he pushed just a little harder, he’d have her right where he wanted her, so frustrated she’d toss in the towel and Caitlyn would be forced to start all over.

He hung his own wet towel on the hook outside the shower and slid open the door. She was still standing with her back to the bathroom.

“I’m as decent as I’m going to get. Now, what can I do for you, sweet thing?” Damn, he sounded obnoxious.

She pivoted to face him. Even with her mouth tightened like that, her lips were lush and full. “I’m Natalie Bridges,” she said, extending her hand.

“Ah, Nightmare Natalie.” He’d never been rude to a woman before, but he was doing a damn good job now. He took her hand to shake it, and it was as if a sparkplug had fired inside him. Her brown eyes widened but he wasn’t sure whether it was because she felt the same surge or a reaction to the name he’d hung on her, or perhaps both.

She reclaimed her hand and totally threw him off track when she laughed, a husky, rich sound. “That’s flattering…coming from Beau the Bastard.”

He chuckled, thoroughly enjoying himself. “I’ve been called worse.”

“No doubt.” She smiled sweetly, and it had the same effect as when he hit the nitrous switch on his car and three G’s slammed him back against the seat.

A brief knock sounded and then the door opened. Scooter, wearing an unrepentant grin, stuck his head in. “We’re outta here.” He nodded toward Nightmare Natalie. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Bridges.”

“It was a pleasure, Mr. Lewis.”

Ha. All three knew Scooter had set her up to walk in on him in the shower.

Scooter laughed. “Yes, ma’am. See ya in the morning, boss.”

Scooter closed the door, once again shutting out the track noise and leaving them alone. She shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, and he realized it was all the more awkward because she was missing the heel on one shoe.

“Have a seat, Miss Bridges. Or is it Mrs. Bridges?”

“Thank you,” she said, perching primly on the edge of the couch. “And it’s Miss. I’m not married.”

“Here, let me help you out.” He squatted in front of her and grasped the back of her left calf in his hand. She gasped and her muscle flexed against his palm. Her skin was warm and soft and he quelled the urge to stroke his hand along that tantalizing expanse from knee to ankle. Instead, lifting her leg in one hand, he plucked her shoe, the one with the heel still attached, off her foot. Her toenails were painted a similar shade of pink as her lips. Sexy.

“What are you doing?”

He stood. He placed the long, narrow heel on the counter with the rest of the shoe facing down. Beau slammed his hand down on the back, rendering her former stiletto a ballet slipper. He handed it back to her. “Now they match.”

She quickly leaned forward and slipped the shoe back on, as if to preclude him from doing it. “Thank you…I think.”

“You’re welcome…I’m sure.” He dropped to the sofa, more the size of a love seat, beside her, angling toward her and stretching out his legs. Deliberately invading her space and crowding her should definitely up his asshole quota.

“So, you’re a wedding planner who’s never been married? It seems it might limit your qualifications.” He stretched his arm out along the back of the love seat. He was invading her space and conversely she was invading his. He was intensely aware those luscious lips of hers were ever so close, and all he had to do to release those hair pins was lean a bit to the right, raise his hand and pluck them out.

“Some professions don’t require firsthand experience, Mr. Stillwell.” He gave her points for standing her ground and not squirming closer to the kitchen counter. “Morticians. Brain surgeons. You know, that kind of thing. They manage just fine and so do I.” She pulled a day planner out of her purse and opened it. It was a schedule and a neat script had pretty much every space filled in. She was a busy woman. “Now if we can just nail down some dates, I’ll be more than happy to get out of your hair, Mr. Stillwell.”

She obviously wanted to be anywhere other than in his company. That she wanted to leave, in and of itself, was something of a novel experience, except he had gone out of his way to be a jerk. Most of the time women were eager for his company. And while he’d been looking forward to watching some test and tune runs of the other drivers, he was actually having a damn good time needling the unorthodox and intriguingly unpredictable Ms. Bridges.

“Why don’t we discuss it over dinner?”

“As appealing as that may be—” yet another kiss my ass “—I’m not particularly dressed for the occasion and as you so gallantly pointed out, I need a shower.”

“The offer still stands to use my towel.”

“Ever the gentleman, but I’ll wait until I get home.”

He’d been turned down. By Nightmare Natalie, no less.

“I JUST NEED a date when you’ll have the remodel complete.”

For God’s sake, just give me a date so I can get the hell out of here. She was desperate, or maybe all the stress was getting to her and Beau Stillwell had just pushed her over the edge because he was arrogant and infuriating and the reason that a several-hundred-dollar outfit, shoes included, was now ruined, but some crazy, totally irrational part of her had wanted to accept his dinner invitation.

She had the oddest sense he was deliberately goading her. It was possible he was just an obnoxious jerk who went around calling women “sweet thing” and then insulting them in the next breath. There were plenty of sexist men who operated that way, but there’d been a flash of something in his blue eyes…And Natalie’s foster-sister Shelby and Caitlyn Stillwell had roomed together in college. In all the time Natalie had known Caitlyn, which had been casually for almost five years, the younger woman might’ve been occasionally exasperated with her big brother, but there’d never been any doubt she respected him. It was difficult to imagine strong-minded Caitlyn respecting a jerk.

“How about a guesstimate,” she prompted.

He shrugged those impossibly broad shoulders. “I can’t give you a finish date until I get out to Belle Terre and see what has to be done.”

“That makes sense.” She nodded in agreement, trying to get along. “When are you available to do that?”

His eyes captured hers. Natalie found herself drowning in those blue depths. “When do you want to do it?”

A lazy, sensual spark in his eyes issued an invitation to wicked pleasure. A single, singeing look that tightened her nipples and dampened her panties.

She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. Every thump of her heart seemed to echo do it, do it, do it. “Do it?”

“Yeah. When are you available?” His dark lashes formed a spiky frame for his eyes. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t think, could barely breathe.

“Available for what?”

Mocking amusement replaced sensual promise. “Try to keep up here, honey. When do you want to go out to Belle Terre with me to go over the remodel?”

Embarrassment flooded her. She’d prefer a hot poker in her eye. Actually, she’d prefer a hot poker up his ass. “I don’t want to go out to Belle Terre with you. I don’t need to be there. I just need to know a date you’ll have it done.”

“It’ll go much faster if I have you there to explain exactly what Caitlyn wants done. And you can take notes for me.”

“I know you have a secretary, Mr. Stillwell. I’ve spoken to her so often she’s now on my Christmas-card list.”

“Ah, but I need her in the office…to answer the phone.”

Did he have any idea how busy she was? It was spring—high wedding season. Actually, the real question was did he care? And that answer was obviously no. “Fine. I’ll make myself available to accommodate your busy schedule.” Hopefully he wasn’t impervious to sarcasm.

“How about Sunday, after the race?”

“No problem. As it happens, I don’t have a wedding on schedule for Sunday. What time?”

“Probably around four. Just show up here and we’ll go when I get through.”

She managed not to gape at his total arrogance and disregard for her schedule. As if she had time to stand around cooling her heels at a racetrack while he indulged his testosterone-laden hobby. “I’ll give you my cell number and you can just call me and I’ll meet you out there.”

“I’ll try not to forget.”

“I’ll phone you to remind you.”

“Sure. You’ve got my number.” He all but smirked. They both knew how successful she’d been with him and the phone.

She gritted her teeth and mustered up a smile. If he was on some power trip and she had to kowtow to his schedule, then so be it. “I’ll just come here. That way you won’t forget.”

“It’s a date, then.”

She tried to steadfastly ignore the way his voice seemed to caress the word date, but she couldn’t stop her heart from beating faster.

“Yes. Four o’clock here on Sunday.” 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 actually laughed—in her ear.

“You try hauling a wedding dress or a wedding cake in anything smaller.”

“I guess that’s true enough. I’ll tell Scooter to look for a silver minivan.”

He disconnected the call before she had time to respond. She returned her cell phone to the center console. “Bite me,” she muttered as she turned the volume on he CD player back up.

She would not let him get to her today the way he had Friday night. She cringed inside every time she remembered telling him to kiss her ass. She’d suffered a severe case of temporary insanity due to extenuating circumstances but she’d make sure it wasn’t repeated.

Friday night had been weird all the way around. She’d seen men in bathing suits, underwear—she’d even seen a couple of them naked. So what was the big deal about Mr. Stillwell draped in a towel?

Maybe because he was ripped and gorgeous…if a woman found that combination of muscle, black hair, intense blue eyes, a slightly wicked grin and a faint scar across the perfection of his left cheek appealing. Her assistant, Cynthia, would do backflips over him. Because he was Cynthia’s type. He was not, however, Natalie’s type. Natalie preferred her men more polished and urbane. Therefore she put it down to the total weirdness of the night and that from the instant she’d laid eyes on Beau Stillwell’s near nakedness a minivolcano had sprung to life inside her. She’d felt hot, flushed, unsettled.

She turned left at a sign with an arrow indicating Dahlia Speedway. Even a shower and a small glass of chardonnay hadn’t settled her down on Friday night. Despite the fact that she’d gone to bed mentally reviewing her checklist for the Morris-Pitchford wedding the following day, the same as she always did the night before an event, he had plagued her in her dreams. Crazy dreams.

She was directing a rehearsal and then the dinner and somehow it became the wedding itself, and just when things were going smoothly, Beau Stillwell would appear with his mocking grin and Natalie would look down and discover she was only wearing a towel. She’d hurry and find her clothes and put herself back together, only to have Beelzebub Stillwell reappear, and once again she was appalled to find her clothes gone and a towel about her sarongwise.

She’d woken up tired and out of sorts, and she’d nearly left the last-minute sewing kit behind on her way out the door to the pre-wedding photo shoot. All his fault.

And this morning? She’d tried on at least five different outfits until she’d finally settled on a fitted cotton-spandex apricot T-shirt layered beneath a short green jacket with wide-legged jeans and wedge heels. Casual but still professional. This was, after all, work and not a social engagement. And then she’d dithered—might as well call it the way it was—over whether to pull her hair up in a ponytail, or her work chignon, or leave it down. The chignon seemed too fussy, the ponytail too girlish. In the end she’d left it hanging loose over her shoulders and down her back.

Natalie had no delusions about what she looked like. She wasn’t traffic-stopping beautiful and she needed to lose ten…okay, fifteen, maybe twenty…pounds. She was average. Average height. Average overweight. Run-of-the-mill brown eyes. But her one point of vanity was her hair. She’d been blessed with good hair. It was long and thick with just enough curl to give it body.

All told, it had taken her far too long to get ready but it was absolutely not because she was concerned about what Beau Stillwell thought of her appearance. No. She couldn’t give a fig whether he found her attractive or not. She was not trying to compensate for having given a general first impression of a walking, talking disaster.

She stopped at the gate and flashed the ticket she’d bought Friday evening. Before she’d put the minivan in Park in the far corner of the crowded lot—there were lots of people here today—Scooter pulled up in front of her van.

“Nice to see you again, Ms. Bridges. Climb on the back.” He grinned. “You’re just in time to see Beau open a can of whup-ass.”

“I can hardly wait.” Despite her sarcasm, she returned his grin.

He handed her a blue wrist band. “Put this on.”

Natalie complied but asked all the same, “What is it?”

“It shows you’re a pit crew member. C’mon, let’s go race.”

Whatever. She’d only shown up to make sure Mr. Stillwell didn’t conveniently “forget” their appointment. However, if being a pit crew member was what it took to drag his butt out to Belle Terre, then she was pit-crewing.

She shrugged and climbed up on the four-wheeler behind Scooter. Today she wasn’t riding sidesaddle, and instead of wrapping her arms around his waist, she merely held on to the rack that fanned out over the rear fenders. Hmm. In retrospect she could’ve held on to that rack on Friday night, too. Oh, well.

“You settled?” Scooter asked over his shoulder.

“Yes, sir.” Even though he’d sent her in the toter home the other night knowing good and well she’d probably find Beau in some state of undress, she liked Scooter Lewis. With his freckled face and dancing eyes, he reminded her of a mischievous elf.

They took off with a roar, but instead of going to the left in the direction of the pits, Scooter drove into an eight-lane asphalted area where cars, some still attached to tow ropes, were lined up one behind the other and drivers milled about. At the front, the cars converged into two openings and then rolled forward for their turn down the track.

“Staging lanes,” he yelled over his shoulder.

She nodded in return. Staging lanes. Okay. Whatever that exactly was, she wasn’t sure, but it was loud and noisy…and kind of exciting. Above the din of car engines and male voices, the announcer sounded like a circus barker. “Get ready for some driving, folks. It’s the event you’ve been waiting for—the bad boys of outlaw racing, 10.5’s Beau Stillwell and Jason Mitchell taking it head-to-head down the track. Nitrous versus turbo in the final round.”

Scooter pulled up next to the black and purple Camaro and she climbed off the four-wheeler. Every inch of her was aware of Beau Stillwell, but she deliberately looked at and spoke to his crew members, Darnell and Tim, first. A whoosh of red ran up Tim’s face at her hello. He was obviously one of those guys more at ease around a fan belt than a female.

Finally, she turned to face Beau Stillwell. He wore a half-cocked smile but it was the lazy sweep of those bright blue eyes framed in dark lashes down and back up her that sucked the breath from her and sent her mind skittering to naughty places. “You clean up nice, Ms. Bridges.” He leaned down and for one heart-stopping, pulse-pounding moment she was certain he was going to kiss her. There was a lambent sensuality in his eyes, in the way he bent his head. Her whole body tingled in anticipation. The air between them seemed to crackle.

He canted his head to the left, his dark hair teasing against her cheek, and sniffed delicately. She could almost feel the faint scrape of his five-o’clock shadow against her neck. She was on the verge of spontaneous combustion. He straightened. “You smell a whole lot better, too.”

He smirked and she wanted to do something awful to him. Instead she smiled sweetly. “You smell terrible.”

Okay. Not the wittiest comeback in the world, but good lord, he’d paralyzed over half her brain cells when he’d leaned in close that way. Her heart was still tap-dancing against her ribs. It was the best she could do on short notice and short-circuit.

“You’re not into eau de oil and sweat?”

“Afraid not.”

Tim, she could’ve kissed him, chose that moment to interrupt. “I brought the tires down to ten and quarter and heated the bottles to nine-hundred.” He handed Beau a jacket, which he shrugged into.

Beau zipped up the jacket. “Good deal.” He reached into the open door of the car and took out a black neck brace and snapped it into place. He pulled on a helmet, buckling the chinstrap, leaving the visor up. Unfairly, he was even more gorgeous in a helmet. Last was a pair of black, heavy gloves.

Natalie had never been much of a uniform woman. Cynthia, her assistant, got all hot and bothered by firefighters, cops and soldiers. She said the uniform did it for her. Icing on top of a male cupcake. Natalie had always favored a man in a suit and tie, but Beau was all suited up in racing gear and looked sexy and hot, and it was even more galling that he was the one who was flipping her switch.

He folded himself into the car, sliding between foam-covered bars that formed a cage inside. “Wish me luck,” he said with a flash of a smile.

While she’d wanted to do him bodily harm two minutes ago when he’d left her feeling like a fool, she quite suddenly realized that all that safety gear was in place for a reason. Even though he was annoying and infuriating and generally rubbed her the wrong way, she wanted the arrogant bastard to win safely. She was wearing his pit crew band, after all.

“Good luck.”

“When it’s a pretty woman doing the send-off, it’s customary to offer the driver a good-luck kiss.”

His gaze lingered on her mouth. That look in his eyes and the very thought of kissing him weakened her knees and sent a bolt of heat through her. “I’ll pass.”

“Too bad.” He winked at her and clicked his visor down into place.

Tim leaned in, fastened a heavy-gauged “net” over the window opening and slammed the driver door shut.

Darnell handed her what looked like an old-fashioned headset. “Put these on. They’re ear protection. It’s about to get loud.”

She put the headset on and she could still hear, but everything was muffled. The car roared to life and she was glad to have the protection, because even with it, the sound was loud enough to vibrate through her body.

Inside the car, Beau sat with his hands gripping the wheel, staring straight ahead.

“He’s going through the run in his head, visualizing it,” Darnell said, next to her.

She nodded to let him know she’d heard.

The rest happened fast. She and Darnell rode the four-wheeler up to an area closer to the starting line, on the other side of the low wall that separated the track from the stands. Spectators packed the stands. The crowd’s excitement was a nearly palpable thing. She knew how they felt. From the moment Tim had slammed the door and Beau had started the car, she’d been revved up inside.