Take me for a ride. You know you want to. Heat imploded inside her. He’d said those same words ten months ago after rolling on his back and dragging her on top of him.
That night she’d ridden him until her thighs burned. And then, sated and drained, she’d melted over him like ice cream on hot apple pie.
She could not think about him and sex and still drive. She picked up his hand, returned it to his side of the console and put the car in gear. Her foot slipped on the clutch and the tires squealed. She flinched.
“Now you’re talking. Let’s see what this baby will do.” He patted the dash.
She shot a worried glance at the salesman who’d given them the tour of the production facility and then the car keys. The man smiled and bowed as she left the parking lot, acting as if people drove away with six-hundred-thousand-dollar cars they hadn’t paid for every day. Maybe the rich did. But she wasn’t rich, and driving a vehicle that cost as much as a McMansion parked her heart in her throat and made her palms sweat on the leather-encased steering wheel.
Toby read the driving directions the salesman had provided, and all too soon Monaco faded from her rearview mirror and they merged onto A8. The car handled like a dream, and within minutes she got over her initial panic and relaxed. She felt a little like a butterfly breaking free of her cocoon. While she drank in the scenery of southern France, Toby focused on the dials and gauges and asked a steady stream of questions about how the car handled.
“Give her some juice,” he prompted after they passed the exit to Nice. “Get a feel for her and then I want you to push her to the edge.”
Amelia’s heart stuttered. “The edge of what?”
“Control. I want to see what she’s made of.”
Something in his voice drew her attention. She glanced at him and saw a yearning in his eyes before he turned away. “You really miss this, don’t you?”
He wiped a hand down his face. “Yeah. And it’s killing me not to put her through her paces. But I wouldn’t risk you, me or the other drivers on the road by getting behind the wheel before I’m cleared.”
That didn’t sound like an adrenaline junkie who never considered the costs of his actions or like a man who’d had to be forced out of the country to keep him off the racetrack.
Stealing quick peeks at him, she nibbled her lip and accelerated. Had she misjudged him? No. His career said it all. Drivers died at racetracks. And the NASCAR fans she knew watched for the excitement of the wrecks.
Car racing was a dangerous sport. Look at Vincent. He’d be scarred for life as a result of a racing mishap—and he’d been an innocent bystander. Toby had chosen a dangerous profession and he didn’t even have the benefit of saving lives as her father had had to offset that risk.
They rode in silence past town names she could barely pronounce, and then she asked the question that had been nagging at her since she’d found out about his injury. “Have you considered what you’ll do if you can’t drive again?”
“No need to think about it. Doc says I’ll be ready for qualifying in four weeks.”
But the idea had occurred to him. She could see the concern furrowing his brow and tightening his mouth.
“Cars are like women,” he said. “Some are loose. Some are tight.”
And the playboy rides in again with a change of subject. This time she instantly recognized the defense mechanism for what it was, but she let him get away with it because maybe he wasn’t ready to face the idea that his career could be over. In all likelihood, his concussion would resolve itself. But head injuries were tricky. There was a chance he wouldn’t improve or that he wouldn’t heal as quickly as he hoped.
Patients often had trouble coming to terms with learning that sometimes no amount of medical intervention or wishful thinking could return things to the way they used to be. Her father had fought for years before admitting he’d never walk again.
“Explain your sexist comment.”
Toby chuckled. She wished he wouldn’t. That low rumbling sound made it difficult to concentrate on anything but the man beside her.
“Racing lingo. Loose means her rear end wiggles. She slides out from under you on the curves. Tight means she won’t go where you steer her. She’s unresponsive. And like a woman, you need to read her every move and adjust your approach to get the most pleasure and performance out of her.”
A disgusted noise climbed her throat. “Must you make every conversation about sex?”
“Sugar, I’m talking about the car. If you’re thinking about sex, it’s because you’re fixated on that night. Same as me.”
Gulp. Guilty. “Maybe you’re giving yourself too much credit.”
“Nah. You want me.” Cocky. Confident. Correct.
She could lie and deny it, but what was the point when they both knew the truth? But this time she wouldn’t let her wants make her forget the possible consequences.
She followed the signs to Boulevard de la Croisette and followed Toby’s directions past palm trees and parks, luxury hotels, galleries and designer boutiques. According to her guidebook, this is where the stars shopped—and for a moment, riding in her borrowed carriage, she felt almost as if she fit in.
She found a parking space near the restaurant, pulled in and turned in her seat. “Wanting you is irrelevant. I told you—I’m looking for a husband and I refuse to marry someone with an occupation even more dangerous than my father’s.”
Toby’s gaze held hers. “Nobody but you mentioned marriage. Amelia, you’re hot, the hottest woman I’ve been with in a long time, but I’m not ever going to get married. A racing career’s hell on a marriage. Drivers spend more time on the road than at home. Even if it weren’t so tough, I don’t exactly have a great example to follow. That doesn’t mean we can’t have a good time in Monaco. You can look for Mr. Picket Fence when you get home.”
She should be offended. Seriously offended. He’d just admitted all he wanted from her was sex. Most guys at least tried to fake interest in more. Other than Toby, she’d always been one of those women who had to care deeply for a man before she slept with him, which meant—whether they faked it or not—there hadn’t been many men in her bed.
But now that she suspected Toby used tired lines and clichéd come-ons to keep his distance, she couldn’t seem to muster outrage. Instead the temptation to do exactly as he suggested and dive into an affair tugged at her.
How totally unlike her pragmatic self.
She wouldn’t consider his suggestion.
No. She wouldn’t. Not even for a minute.
So why did the idea bedevil her like a bad case of poison ivy?
Amelia would have whiplash before she finished her dessert, Toby concluded.
Framed photographs of celebrities lined the restaurant walls. Movie and TV stars. Musicians. World leaders. Royalty.
An American sitcom star and his babe du jour occupied a table a few yards away, and in the back corner of the crowded beachfront restaurant an aging rock star was putting the moves on a woman young enough to be his granddaughter. Amelia’s eyes were wide and awed as she tried to gawk without being obvious.
So why did these people rate the star treatment when she had no problem shooting him down? He could use a little of that hero worship if it meant getting her back into the sack.
On second thought, it was because she didn’t brownnose and she hadn’t slept with him because of who he was that he liked Amelia Lambert. Not that there weren’t plenty of other reasons to be attracted. Such as her killer long legs, her sexpot mouth and her cute little butt.
Movement drew Toby’s gaze away from the woman causing his blood to drain from his brain, and he spotted the restaurateur—the car salesman’s brother—approaching with a camera.
Being a NASCAR driver meant being accessible to the fans no matter what you were doing or which continent you were on. The only place Toby had guaranteed privacy was inside his locked and gated estate. He pushed his empty plate aside and switched into promo gear.
“Monsieur Haynes, could I beg you for a picture and an autograph?”
“Happy to, Henri.” And he meant it. Every fan, every autograph request rewarded him for years of hard work and sacrifice.
The man glanced at Amelia. “You and mademoiselle?”
“No, I’m not his girlfriend,” Amelia answered too quickly for Toby’s liking.
He dragged out his trademark grin. The camera flash temporarily blinded him. Even before the spots faded he accepted a black marker, signed the autograph-covered menu the manager put in front of him and then passed it back. He looked back at Amelia in time to see granddaddy rock star’s hand descend on her shoulder. She stiffened and so did Toby. Her wide-eyed gaze bounced from Toby to the long-haired, big-lipped guy and back.
Toby’s gut clenched and his lunch turned to battery acid in his belly.
“Great to see you, Toby,” the musician said without bothering to introduce himself. “Nasty crash. You had me worried when you didn’t drop the net and climb from the car. Glad to see you up and about. Used some of your footage in my last video.”
“Right. I saw that. Good CD. We play it in the shop.” But he’d take a sledgehammer to the disk if the guy didn’t get his veiny, age-spotted paw off Amelia. She was his—for now—and he wasn’t sharing.
“When will you be back on the track?”
“Chicagoland. I’m taking some personal time till then.”
“I can see why you would.” The guy’s fingers squeezed Amelia’s pale flesh and his lecherous gaze looked down her top.
Toby wanted to slug him.
What? Are you jealous?
Hell no. But he didn’t like the guy looking at Amelia as if she were some groupie who could be had.
“I’ll be watching the race. My money’s on you.” The guy returned to his jailbait chickadee.
“You know him?” Amelia whispered, her hand covering the area where the guy’s had been. In adulation? Or was she wiping away the creep’s touch?
“Never met him.”
“But he seems to know you.”
“That’s the way it is in the public eye. People read about you and think they know you.”
She bit her lip, lowered her hand and her gaze.
He remembered her fascination with entertainment rags and wanted his bitter words back. But he couldn’t erase what he’d said, so he tossed a handful of bills on the table and stood. “If you want to see the handprints before we head back, we have to get moving.”
The TV guy waved. Toby nodded but kept walking toward the exit. Several other patrons’ heads turned as if they were trying to figure out who he was. Or maybe they were looking to see who his woman du jour was.
God knows he’d had his share of flashy, willing females on his arm, but he didn’t like the idea of anyone shoving Amelia into that category and he didn’t want the tabloids printing her picture or exposing her to that kind of talk. Most of the women he escorted wanted the exposure. He’d bet HRI Amelia wouldn’t enjoy the attention.