Книга - Hot-Wired / Coming on Strong: Hot-Wired

Hot-Wired / Coming on Strong: Hot-Wired
Tawny Weber

JENNIFER LABRECQUE


Sassy heroines and irresistible heroes embark on sizzling sexual adventures as they play the game of modern love and lust. Expect fast paced reads with plenty of steamy encounters.Hot Wired Jennifer LaBrecqueBad boy Beau has a need for speed. The racing driver’s always been irresistible to women – yet feisty wedding planner Natalie is the only one who can keep up with him! But does she have the power to tame this reckless rebel for good?Coming on Strong Tawny WeberEvent planner Belle needs gorgeous tycoon Mitch’s help, even though she left him at the altar six years ago. With her father’s business in ruins, Mitch is the only man for the job. Yet the jet-setter has other plans in mind – a sizzling-hot seduction of revenge!









Available in June 2010 from Mills & Boon


Blaze





BLAZE 2-IN-1

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 (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)





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.

Tim was out between the two cars with a video camera but Darnell stayed with her on the four-wheeler and explained what was happening as Beau “smoked” the tires in the burnout box, which was essentially standing on the brake and the gas at the same time. This created a cloud of choking tire dust but heated up the slick tires so they’d stick to the asphalt track. Scooter then stood in front of the car, giving hand signals, directing Beau left or right, lining the car up “in the groove,” where the tires would have the best chance of gripping.

A final tap on the hood by Scooter, a sharp nod of acknowledgment from Beau and he rolled the car forward until the yellow bulb on “the tree”—the staging sequence of red, yellow, green bulbs in the middle of the starting line between the two cars—lit up. Then the roar really became deafening as both drivers revved their engines. The lights changed and they were off. Fast. Furious. For a second it looked as if the driver racing in the other lane was going to swerve into Beau’s lane and Natalie thought her heart might very well stop.

And then it was over. Darnell pumped his hand in the air and yelled, pointing at the signs flanking the end of the track. The sign on Beau’s side had a lit bulb over the top, designating him the winner, and below it a display of 4.192, 184.92.

Even she could figure it out. 185 miles per hour in 4.40 seconds.

Damn right that was fast, stupid ass.



BEAU TOSSED the wet towel onto the bathroom floor. Tim would clean the toter home up when Scooter got it back to his place. Such was the lot of the gofer on a crew. Such had been Beau’s lot when he’d first started out in racing many moons ago, when he was the gofer and his dad was the one climbing behind the wheel of a race car.

He retreated to the bedroom and took his own sweet time dressing. He pushed aside a twinge of remorse. He’d been wasting Natalie’s time for a full hour and a half now. After the tow back to the pits, the Horsepower TV reporter had conducted a quick interview and then fellow racers and fans alike had swarmed them. The racers offered congratulations. Most of the fans wanted autographs and a picture with Beau and the car.

Natalie had stood by quietly, out of the way, but those big brown eyes of hers hadn’t missed a thing. The tube-top duo from Friday night, Sherree and Tara, had shown up again with a celebration offer. Ms. Bridges had merely quirked an amused eyebrow in his direction and a faint look of disdain, as if they were all somewhat distasteful.

And the whole time he’d been thinking about the way she’d smelled when he’d leaned into her neck before the race. The tickle of her hair against his cheek. The curve of her sexy, sexy mouth. And the crazy, out-of-control feeling she stirred in him.

He squashed any guilt at wasting her time. Given a choice between wasting her time or sitting by while his sister made a mistake marrying Cash Vickers…Well, there was really no question which was more important.

All told, he thought his plan was working okay. He just needed to watch himself, because in the staging lanes, for a second, when he was teasing her, deliberately letting her think he was about to kiss her, he damn near had. She had the most luscious, inviting mouth, with a full lower lip and a cute bow for the top one.

He sauntered back outside and found the enemy consorting with his troops in the small lounge in the front of the race trailer. She was laughing at something Scooter had said, some crazy bullshit no doubt, and his body tightened as the musical notes seemed to dance through the air. Her smile stiffened when she noticed him in the doorway. Good. That was what he wanted, wasn’t it?

“Ready?”

She nodded, her chestnut-brown hair moving over her shoulders in a gut-clenching sensual slide. “I just need a ride back to my car.”

“Leave your car and we’ll pick it up on the way back. We’ve got to come this way anyway.”

Tim spoke up. “You can ride up front with Scooter, if’n you want to,” he offered, a flush of red whooshing from his neck to the top of his crew cut before he even finished the sentence. Scooter always drove the rig and the passenger seat was a place of honor, sort of a gimme, for Tim, who mostly handled the grunt work. And now the grunt was willingly giving up that honor. Tim seemed to have developed a crush.

A small frown furrowed her brow as she glanced from Tim to Beau, obviously confused, and equally reluctant to hurt Tim’s feelings by turning down his offer. “Ride with Scooter? We’re all going to Belle Terre?”

“No, ma’am,” Darnell said. “We’re all going to Headlights.”

“Headlights? What is Headlights and what happened to Belle Terre?”

“Headlights is the ice house and local watering hole between here and Dahlia.” Darnell shot Beau a chastising look. “We usually stop off for dinner at the end of a race weekend.”

Another chastising look—this one from her. “You didn’t mention dinner.”

All part of his plan. Beau shrugged. “I forgot. We’ll head on out to Belle Terre after we eat.”

Scooter snorted. “C’mon and ride with me. And dinner’s on us.”

She deliberately turned her back to Beau, presenting him with a view of her well-rounded bottom, and beamed a smile at the other three. “Charming companions and a free meal. How can I turn down that offer?”

A quarter hour later, they were seated at the number nine picnic table, the number painted on each end in fluorescent orange, after much backslapping and high fives as they made their way across the peanut-hull-littered concrete floor in the noisy din that was Headlights after a race. No matter how crowded it was, however, Jeb Worth always held the number nine for the Stillwell crew. It was a long-standing tradition. Beau wound up sitting next to the Nightmare.

“What do you think of Headlights?” he asked. She didn’t strike him as an ice house kind of gal.

“So far, so good. The music’s loud.” She said it as if it were a bonus. “If the beer’s cold and the fries are greasy, we’re in business.”

Sandy Larabie, her tongue as acid as her heart was big, showed up to take their order, a doe-eyed girl in tow. “This is Gina. She’s in training, so you behave.” Sandy shot Scooter a steely-eyed glare. Scooter lived to aggravate Sandy. Actually, Scooter lived for mischief in general. “A root beer for Junior,” Sandy told Gina, jerking her head in Tim’s direction. Sandy referred to anyone under legal drinking age as Junior. “And a pitcher of what for the rest of you?”

“Bud Light. We won.” Scooter smirked.

“Three or four mugs?” She eyed Natalie in question.

“Four.” Natalie didn’t hesitate.

“I would’ve pegged you for a white wine drinker,” Beau said.

“I would’ve pegged you for a mullet.” Ha. He’d never gone in for the longer-in-the-back hairstyle. “I guess we were both wrong.”

“What exactly happened to you the other night?” Scooter asked.

She laughed, shaking her head, and it struck Beau as ball-tightening sexy. He had no problem imagining her on top of him, shaking her head just that way. “I got distracted by the T-shirt display about the same time my heel wedged in a crack in the asphalt, which led to an accident with a guy and his beer and hot dog.”

Scooter made a sympathetic clicking sound. “Did it ruin everything?”

“Pretty much. The skirt made it through.”

“You know Caitlyn and Beau’s ma, Beverly, has a right nice shop there in the square in Dahlia. Drop in sometime and let her fix you up. We’ll cover the bill.”

Had Scooter lost his mind? “The hell you say,” Beau said.

Scooter fixed him with an unyielding eye. “She wouldn’t have been at the track if she hadn’t been looking for you.”

The Nightmare couldn’t contain a little smirk in Beau’s direction.

“It’s not my fault she’s clumsy,” he said, deliberately goading her. There was a tantalizing sway to her hips when she walked, but it damn sure couldn’t be classified as clumsy.

She narrowed her brown eyes. “I am not clumsy.”

The trainee delivered the beer and Tim’s root beer. Darnell poured and they all hoisted their mugs in a toast. “To another win…and many more to come,” Scooter said.

The wash of beer was bust-your-kneecaps cold going down. Beau settled his mug on the table. He’d nurse the rest of it through dinner. He knew he wasn’t the man his father had been, but Beau always held himself to a one-drink limit.

Tim unfolded his lanky length from the picnic table, muttered an excuse-me and headed to the jukebox. Scooter groaned and Darnell rolled his eyes. The Nightmare looked at Beau, a question in her brown eyes. “Prepare yourself for a Kenny Chesney miniconcert.”

She laughed, her mouth curving in an easy smile and for a second he felt damn near light-headed. He shook his head slightly. Maybe he’d just skip the rest of his beer.

“I like Kenny Chesney.”

“So did we…the first hundred times we heard him,” Darnell said in a mournful drawl.

“Could be worse,” Scooter said. “Could be Cash Vickers we was listening to. Ain’t that right, Beau?”

Beau shrugged and he felt the woman next to him eyeing him in inquiry. He deliberately didn’t look her way. Not that it was a state secret, but damn it’d be nice if Scooter could just hold his tongue and not stir shit up.

“You’re not a Cash Vickers fan?”

Caitlyn hadn’t known Cash nearly long enough. And Beau wasn’t certain that Cash was good enough for his baby sister.

“Not particularly, no,” Beau said. Let her make what she wanted to of that.

Sandy and Gina showed up bearing five red, paper-lined baskets loaded with burgers and fries. “Y’all need anything else?”

“We’re good.”

Beau tucked into his burger. Lunch had been a long time ago.

“Would you pass the catsup, Mr. Stillwell?”

“Sure thing, Ms. Bridges.”

Scooter shook his head. “You can’t sit down and have burgers and beers and still be Mr. Stillwell and Ms. Bridges. Nat’lie, meet Beau. Beau, this here’s Nat’lie.”

Beau passed the tomato-emblazoned bottle. “There you are, Natalie.”

“Thank you, Beau.”

Damn, that sent a little shiver through him.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Scooter said.

“Almost painless,” the little smart-ass shot back, upending half the bottle in a corner of her basket.

Alex Morgan and “Black Jack” Riley stopped at the edge of their table, Jack’s arm slung around Alex’s shoulder, staking his claim.

“Nice finish today,” Alex said, with a quick nod of her blond head, “You must’ve changed your setup.”

“Yeah, we changed the heads this week,” Darnell said. “It’s the best sixty-foot we’ve had.”

Darnell was talking but there was no disguising Alex’s frank curiosity about Natalie. And Beau had been deliberately obnoxious but he couldn’t totally abandon the manners his mother had drilled into him.

“Natalie, meet Alex Morgan and Jack Riley. Alex is one of the best mechanics in Dahlia. She owns the garage out at the track and another one in town with her dad. They’re partners. Jack’s from your neck of the woods. He’s a DEA agent out of Nashville.” He looked at the couple. “Natalie’s a wedding planner. She’s working with Caitlyn on the big event.”

The pleased-to-meet-you’s went around, and from Alex’s look she clearly speculated why his baby sister’s wedding planner was kicking back post-race with him and his crew. In fact, she rather pointedly glanced from Natalie to Beau and back again, silently asking if they were an item.

Sharp-eyed Natalie didn’t miss the unspoken question. She wrinkled her elegant little nose, almost as if she’d caught a whiff of a bad smell. “Uh, no. Certainly not that.” Hmph. That she’d be so damn lucky. He could name half a dozen women, round that up to an even dozen, who’d like to be sitting right where she was parked now. She didn’t need to look as if he were something scraped from the bottom of the barrel. “Mr. Stillwell…I mean, Beau, is a hard man to get in touch with. My job title is wedding planner but sometimes that involves being a tracker—”

“Stalker,” he interjected under his breath, garnering a laugh from everyone except the accused, who slanted him the evil eye.

“—and a babysitter.”

“Warden,” he corrected. “We’re heading out to Belle Terre after this to figure out the remodel schedule for the wedding.”

Jack squeezed Alex’s shoulders. “You might want to hook up with her,” he said to the petite blonde, and then looked at Natalie. “I’m trying to talk her into getting married before the end of the year, but she says she doesn’t have time to get it together. I’m thinking you could help make this happen.”

“Absolutely.” Quicker than the staging lights rundown she had two business cards in her hand and was passing them across the table, one to Jack and one to Alex. “I can handle as much or as little as you want me to. Give me a call or send me an e-mail and we’ll talk about what you want.”

“We’ll let y’all get back to your supper, and I don’t want to hold you up from getting out to Belle Terre. Just wanted to say congrats on the win.” Alex tucked the card into the top pocket of her denim overalls. “I’ll give you a call next week.”

Natalie beamed a megawatt smile at her potential client. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

Alex and Black Jack were barely out of earshot when Scooter started filling Natalie in on Jack posing as a driver to uncover a drug ring and the whole mess that followed. Even Darnell chimed in with the skinny on Alex growing up a motherless tomboy. Beau knew it was all over when Tim screwed up his courage to relate how Jack and Alex had fallen in love.

What was wrong with this damn picture? He’d dragged her out to the track and along to dinner to tie up her time and frustrate her. He’d figured she’d hate the raucousness of Headlights. The whole plan was to push her buttons until she tossed in the wedding planner towel and quit on Caitlyn. Instead, she was swilling beer and chowing down on burgers, holding court with his guys and charming her way into picking up new clients.

This was just damn wrong on so many levels. It was definitely time to step things up a notch.




Chapter 4


NATALIE WALKED OUT of Headlights into the relative quiet of the crowded parking lot, surrounded by her new friends, Scooter, Darnell and Tim. They were all sweetie pies. The thorn in her side had stopped to talk to the restaurant owner—she thought he’d introduced him as Jeb—on the way out.

“Looks like y’all are gonna run out of daylight,” Scooter said.

True enough, the day had begun to soften around the edges, making way for a Tennessee spring evening. Already, a sliver of a moon was showing itself in the sky. That was okay. Afternoon, evening or night, it didn’t matter. She was determined they’d get this done.

“It’ll be fine.” She patted her purse, “I brought my flashlight.”

“Smart thinking,” Darnell said in his quiet, reflective way as they crossed the gravel lot to where the big outfit took up several parking spots. Of course, Stillwell Motors Racing wasn’t alone. Half a dozen race trailers commandeered spots.

Natalie checked her watch. Nearly seven o’clock. “We’ll definitely need a flashlight at this rate. Does he have any concept of time?” Was it her imagination or did Scooter and Darnell exchange a look? “What?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Darnell said.

“I didn’t say nuthin’, neither,” Scooter seconded.

While Darnell and Scooter looked guilty, Tim appeared confused. “Beau’s always on time, for everything.”

“Really?”

“Yes, ma’am. He’s amazing. I keep the log book on all of our runs but I don’t really need to. He can tell you what the track temperature was and our setup from three races ago. Beats anything I’ve ever seen.”

“Wow. That is pretty amazing.” Uh-huh. And he didn’t like Cash Vickers. This was getting more and more interesting. “Sounds like he has a heck of a memory, too.”

Tim nodded, reminding her of one of those bobble-head dolls. “I keep telling him he oughta go on one of those game shows. He’d win, for sure.”

“Tim, whyn’t you go check the tire pressure on the trailer tires?” Scooter suggested. “It’d be bad to have a blowout on the way home.”

“Yes, sir.” He ambled off to the rear of the trailer.

Scooter lowered his voice. “You can’t pay Tim no never mind. His daddy went to county jail last year and since then Beau’s really taken him under his wing. Tim sorta idolizes him.”

She refused to feel all warm and gooey inside because Beau had mentored a kid. She absolutely was not going to add a gold star to the top of the heap of attraction that was simmering inside her. Sitting next to him at dinner…“That’s sad.”

“Which part?” Darnell asked. As far as she could tell, Darnell didn’t miss much.

“Both.”

Beau, the man of many faces, crossed the parking lot, his long legs eating up the distance. Her pulse began to race as he closed the gap. “I’m ready if you are. We’re burning daylight.”

He made it sound as if he’d been standing around waiting on her. She ground her teeth and resisted the urge to thwack him upside his too-handsome head with her purse. “I’ve been ready.” Generally speaking, for the last two weeks. Specific to today, since four o’clock.

She bid the other guys goodbye and this time headed toward Beau’s truck. Funny, but she thought he’d hesitated for a second before walking around to his side, as if he was going to open her door for her and reconsidered at the last minute. She was finding herself more and more intrigued with exactly who and what Beau Stillwell was.

She climbed into the truck, settled against the tweed upholstered seat and buckled up. The floorboard was a utilitarian, uncarpeted vinyl. A worn aluminum clipboard sat in the center of the bench seat along with an orange measuring tape. While it was neat and clean, the truck obviously had both miles and years on it. “I’d have put you in a Corvette, Camaro or Mustang,” she said.

“Have you ever tried hauling two-by-fours in one of those?” He turned the key and started the truck.

“Guess that wouldn’t work out too well,” she said. “Why does your engine sound funny?”

He hung a left out of the parking lot onto the highway. “It’s a diesel.” He patted the dashboard, “She’s a workhorse.”

They rolled along and silence filled the space between them. She noted his hands on the steering wheel. He had broad, square hands with a smattering of dark hair on them. His nails were short and clean. They were the capable, masculine hands of a working man and they suited the hard-muscled rest of him that she’d seen. A warm flush spread through her. She could almost guarantee they’d be callused and rasp against a woman’s skin—more specifically, her skin.

Natalie was abruptly achingly aware that only about a foot separated them. How was it that he always seemed to invade her space when she was around him?

And what in the heck was wrong with her? She’d spent two weeks tracking him down to sit idly by and contemplate his hands? Not hardly.

She opened her day planner and flipped to her notes detailing the particulars of the Stillwell-Vickers wedding. “Caitlyn’s discussed with you what she wants done at Belle Terre?”

“As my granddaddy used to say, is the backside of a pig pork?” He slanted a sideways glance her direction. “If you know my baby sister at all, you’ll know she has no problem telling someone what she wants and when she wants it.” Evident affection underscored his wry exasperation.

Natalie chuckled. The few times Natalie had been around the pretty little blonde, when her sister, Shelby, had roomed with her at the Watkins College of Art and Design, Caitlyn had always been forthcoming and occasionally demanding. However, she didn’t strike Natalie as spoiled so much as indulged—a subtle, yet important difference. “Yeah. I guess that’s true.”

“Right. You’ve worked with her on the wedding.”

“And I met her a couple of times when she and Shelby were roomies. Have you ever met Shelby?” Her baby sister had mentioned Caitlyn’s older brother occasionally. She mostly just groused that he was more of a father than a brother and complained about him being overprotective.

“No. I’ve heard plenty about her from Caitlyn but I’ve never met her. I keep a busy schedule.” A flick of his blue eyes in her direction set her heart beating a little faster. “Is she as pretty as you are?”

All her breath lodged in her chest. He thought she was pretty? She’d always been the practical one, the smart one, the organized one, but out of a long-running list of foster sisters, she’d never been described as the pretty one. She curled her fingers into her palm.

And this wasn’t about her. He’d asked about Shelby, even if it had been in context with Natalie. Shelby and Beau Stillwell? Over her dead body. Beau Stillwell had heartbreaker written all over him. “She’s too young for you.”

“How old do you think I am?”

She’d guess early thirties. Chronologically he wasn’t so far out of bounds. Experiencewise, however…And it wasn’t simply because Natalie felt as if she’d been caught in a deep current of desire and was being swept along that every part of her rebelled at the thought of her foster sister dating him.

She was her parents’ only biological child, but she maintained the role of oldest child rather than only child because her parents had started fostering children when Natalie was five. Even as a child she’d been the one to try to bring some semblance of organization to their household. Her hippies-at-heart parents had never figured out that having structure was liberating rather than confining.

All her big sister instincts rose to the surface. She didn’t think Beau was actually interested in Shelby but just in case…“Too old for my little sister.”

He offered a challenging smile that sizzled through her nonetheless. “You don’t like me, do you, Natalie?”

No. Like wasn’t a word she associated with him. It was as if he bypassed every reasonable, rational, functional aspect of her and tapped into her elemental core. When she was around him, she felt everything with a new intensity. It was as if she were supercharged. She’d never been so aware of herself as a woman and him as a man. But did she like him? Did she particularly like feeling this way? No. But then again, it was a rhetorical question. “That’s really immaterial, isn’t it?”

“I don’t see it that way. We’re going to be working closely together on the remodel.”

Working closely with him on anything struck her as a lousy idea. He turned everything in her world topsy-turvy and Natalie didn’t like topsy-turvy. “Once we get the dates down, it really doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

“That’s not the way Caitlyn sees it.” He looked altogether too smug. “She said that’s what she was paying you for.” His voice dropped and slid over her like the play of velvet against naked flesh. “She assured me you’d be at my beck and call.”

Her. Him.

Naked. Needy.

Wet. Hot.

Beck and call.

The very idea sent a shiver down her spine and a rush of slick heat between her thighs.

“Within reason,” she managed to say.

“Reason’s not part of the deal.”

WHAT THE HELL? He liked women. He liked spending time with women, but he never got caught up in them. But that’s exactly how he felt about Natalie Bridges. Caught up. Tangled. Intrigued.

Interested…aroused, even…was fine, but that wasn’t what all of this was about, he reminded himself. Caitlyn was going to make a big mistake and it was up to him to make sure she didn’t, by whatever means possible.

Beau rounded the last curve beneath the arch of overhanging oaks and Belle Terre spread before him. Son of a bitch. Cash Vickers would have to show up with a harem and light a crack pipe to get his baby sister to walk away from this.

Set on prime rolling Tennessee hills, even with its vague air of neglect reflected in sagging and missing shutters, Belle Terre was spectacular. The house itself boasted an imposing front of soaring columns and two stories of floor-to-ceiling windows with a second-story balcony overlooking the front door.

“That’s a helluva tax write-off, wouldn’t you say?” he said.

Natalie pushed her hair back over her shoulder. Thick and shiny, it was the kind of hair that left a man itching to run his fingers through it—or hungry to feel it teasing against his bare chest, his belly and finally his thighs as it followed the trail blazed by her lush mouth over his body. She quirked an eyebrow in inquiry. “You haven’t seen Belle Terre before? Not even the video?”

He pushed aside a ripple of guilt. Videographer was Caityln’s professional calling, but it wasn’t his deal. “Nope. I don’t spend a lot of time watching music videos.” Apparently the video—Caitlyn’s project and her intro to Cash Vickers—that went with his hit song “Homesick” had been shot at Belle Terre. According to Caitlyn, Vickers had bought the place because she’d fallen in love with it. “First I heard of it was when he gave her Belle Terre and a ring. I’ve been meaning to get out here but I’ve been busy.”

He glanced over at her. The dying sunlight slanting in through her window picked out red threads in her hair.

“You know, Caitlyn has her heart set on having the wedding here,” she said.

He had the oddest feeling that they could have been discussing their own child, years from now. It was the first time he’d ever felt someone really understood the level of responsibility he felt for Caitlyn. “I caught that.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’re sequencing out the remodel today. It’s a bit of a tight timeline.”

Yeah, if they were actually looking at an August wedding. And he caught on right away that she was taking him to task. He was quick that way.

He parked in the circular driveway that fronted the stately columned home. “My sister is obsessed with Gone with the Wind.” He didn’t need a psychology degree to figure out that she’d identified with Scarlett O’Hara losing everything. He’d figured her latching on to an iconoclastic heroine was better than developing a drug addiction or identifying with some goth singer who looked like the Grim Reaper and wore makeup. His sister, however, was amazingly well-adjusted considering her childhood. “It’s a wonder she hasn’t tried to change the name of the place to Tara.”

A spontaneous smile—as opposed to her usual I-have-to-be-nice-to-this-asshole smile—curved her lips and lit her eyes. “She did.” It left Beau with the oddest feeling that he and Natalie shared a bond. “Cash put his foot down on that. He said they had to respect the history of the place.”

He nodded. Much as he didn’t want to, he felt a measure of grudging respect for Vickers on that. Beau knew from experience that telling Caitlyn no wasn’t easy. He also gave Vickers points on standing behind Belle Terre’s history.

“Beautiful Land is certainly a fitting name.” The house sat on a knoll with gently rolling green hills beyond it. The Miscanauga Creek lay at the foot of the slope to the right rear of the house.

“It is, isn’t it?” She pressed the button to release her seat belt. “Shall we start with the outside since we seem to be losing daylight?”

“Sure, sugar pie.” That ought to grit her teeth and kill the camaraderie he felt squeezing in with the sexual tension that was thick enough to cut. Sexual tension he could deal with—revel in, in fact. Camaraderie was outside his realm of experience. “You’ve got something to take notes on?”

Her smile tightened around the edges but she kept it in place. She held up a notebook. “Right here, sugar pie.” Touché. “Just let me know when you’re ready.” She tugged at her seat belt, a frown blooming between her delicately arched brows. “It’s stuck.”

He very seldom had passengers but he recalled that belt had wanted to stick the last time Scooter rode with him to the parts store. “Come to think of it, it’s been kind of temperamental lately.”

“Temperamental?”

“Yeah. You know, a little stubborn. Difficult. Let me see what I can do.” He grinned. “It just needs the right touch.”

“Oh, and you have it?” Something hot and sexual and exciting danced between them.

“It’s worth a try since you’re not doing such a hot job releasing yourself.” His voice came out all warm and gravelly because he’d just painted a picture in his mind of her stretched out on his bed, her head thrown back, that mane of thick hair hanging over the side of his mattress as her fingers delved between her spread thighs, stroking, her brown eyes hot and sultry, her breath coming in short, quick pants as she sought gratification.

He reached across the expanse separating them and his fingers encountered hers. She jerked her hand away, as if she felt the same rush he did. “There’s a button…” he said, the backs of his fingers pressing against the curve of her hip. “You have to touch it just right—not too hard.” She turned her head and her delectable mouth was right there. His jeans seemed to shrink, growing tighter across his crotch.

He pressed the button. Nothing happened. He pressed again. He shifted. “Got to find the sweet spot.” The tip of her tongue peeked between her lips and left a moist glistening trail between the plump pinkness of her lips. Did she know she was slowly killing him? He was pretty sure she didn’t. Still stuck. “C’mon, baby, let go,” he coaxed.

The seat belt, if anything, pulled tighter against her chest, throwing her breasts into distracting relief.

“Can you, uh, see what you’re doing?” She sounded breathless.

He was damn glad to hear it. Breathing was an increasing challenge on his end.

“I don’t have to see. It’s all in the touch.”

“Well, obviously you don’t have it any more than I do.”

“Let me try from another angle.” He got out and walked around to the passenger side. He opened the door and leaned in, across her. Her breath gusted warm against his neck even as her scent slipped around him. His arm brushed against her right breast as he leaned in. Totally an accident, but the result was the same. Her indrawn breath seemed to echo the tightening and clenching low in his belly.

He pressed the button and tugged, but it didn’t budge. “I can’t get it out.”

A breeze blew through the open truck doors and a few strands of her hair danced along his jaw.

“Maybe you should try lubricating it.”

“I’ve got just the thing.” He stepped to the toolbox in the back and quickly returned. She was still sitting there strapped in. There was no way he could’ve deliberately jammed the seat belt but this was perfect. Well, kind of perfect because she didn’t look nearly as pissed off as some women would’ve been. Actually, she didn’t look pissed off at all as she tried to release the jammed mechanism.

Why hadn’t he ever noticed before how sexy a woman could look with a seat belt bisecting her chest? He’d have to be a dead man to not see the way it showcased her breasts, tugging her shirt tight over them, her nipples outlined in taut ball-tightening relief. He wasn’t anywhere close to dead.

“WD-40,” he said.

He reached between her and the seat belt to spread a clean work rag over her thigh and hip. “Scooter’s already got me paying for one outfit. I don’t want to buy another. By the way, are you always getting into jams?”

She sputtered…actually sputtered, but her brown eyes sparkled with laughter and desire. “You…I…Ohhh.”

“Hmm. Should I take that as a yes or a no?”

“You should take that as a you are a bad luck omen. I never had these kinds of problems before.” But there was no real ire in her voice, and her eyes had darkened.

“You’re debunking all kinds of myths for me. I expected a wedding planner to be more even-tempered.”

“You seem to bring out the best in me.”

“Ah, am I tapping into your inner bad girl?”

She shook her head, sending her thick fall of hair on that sinuous slide over her shoulders that he found so hot. “I don’t have an inner bad girl.”

He didn’t believe it for a minute. “How disappointing.” The flash of heat in her eyes told a different story. “I think you’ve got plenty of bad girl just waiting to be released.”

“You are so wrong.”

“Am I?” He abandoned the seat belt and reached up to wrap a thick curl around his finger. “Are you sure? There aren’t any wicked bad-girl thoughts running through your head right now?”

“Maybe one…or two.”

She parted her luscious lips and tilted her chin in a classic invitation to a kiss.

“Ah, Natalie has a naughty side…”



HEAVEN HELP HER but she wanted to kiss Beau Stillwell. Ever since she’d walked in and seen him nearly naked, she’d wanted this. It was as if he were some dark angel sent to torture her. And if she hadn’t wanted him before, his gravel-filled “Naughty Natalie” did the trick.

Beau released her hair to trace the line of her jaw with one finger. He angled his head and her breath quickened in anticipation. She slid her hand around the back of his neck, her fingers testing his corded muscles.

He brushed his mouth over hers. Sampling. Coaxing. Teasing. Nice. She kissed him back. A civil exchange.

Totally unexpected, he swept his tongue against her lower lip and then dragged it into his mouth between his own lips—a delicious faint scrape of teeth and then a sucking.

“You have the most delectable, decadent mouth,” he murmured and then proceeded to make delectable, decadent love to her mouth. She strained into him. Restricted by the seat belt, she pulled him closer.

They nipped, licked and then segued into hot, hungry, openmouthed kisses. She moaned in the back of her throat, a wordless entreaty. His big hands found her breasts, and nothing had ever felt as good as his mouth on hers and his hands cupping her through her clothing, his palms rubbing against her erect points. She arched her back, pushing her nipples harder into his hands. Hungry. So hungry.

He released her mouth and unleashed a tormenting torrent of kisses down her neck, his tongue dipping and delving along her collarbone. It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. She tugged his head further down and then his mouth was on her breast, mouthing her through her cotton spandex T-shirt and her bra. He caught her tip in his teeth, and the light abrasion sent her into the stratosphere. Her eyes fluttered closed when he drew her into his wet mouth, suckling her through the cloth.

Where or when it would’ve ended she’d never know, because in the very dim recesses of her still-functioning mind, she registered the sound of an approaching vehicle.

She pushed against his shoulders, her breathing frantic gasps. “Someone’s coming.”

A little more time and it could’ve been her. What, what, what had she been thinking?

His blue eyes glittered when he raised his head and looked beyond her shoulder through the back window. He shook his head slightly, as if clearing it. “Tilson Dobbs. He’s a retired Marine who’s handling security for the place. I’ll go check in with him.” She was still trapped by the seat belt. He glanced down her chest to the wet, puckered material. “You might want to button your jacket.”




Chapter 5


HE MIGHT JUST HAVE TO kick Tilson’s ass. They’d spent an hour and a half now going over the exterior and the downstairs, listing the necessary repairs and remodel required for the wedding and reception. Natalie actually had a good eye and an equally good grasp of what Caitlyn wanted done. But for the last hour and a friggin’ half, Tilson had stuck to them like glue.

When Tilson had driven up, Beau had explained he was checking out the house and Tilson had been all set to ride his Mule, the all-terrain vehicle he drove over the property, off into the sunset to “secure the perimeter.” And then Natalie had emerged from the cab of the truck. She’d resourcefully loosened the seat belt straps by pulling them and then climbed out.

Tilson had taken one look at her tousled hair and kiss-swollen lips and decided the perimeter didn’t need securing nearly as much as he needed to check out the new female on the Dahlia horizon. Beau was pretty damn tired of Tilson trotting along with them and he didn’t care for the way he kept eyeing Natalie. Sort of like a dog circling a juicy bone.

The guy was a persistent son of a bitch, Beau thought as Tilson followed them out of the house, into the now-dark night. They were finished making their list so Tilson could vamoose. Beau flicked on his flashlight and Natalie pulled out a pink one.

“Y’all want to grab some dinner now that you’ve wrapped things up out here?” Tilson asked as they covered the distance to the truck.

Beau cut him off at the pass. “We ate at Headlights on the way out here.”

“How about grabbing a cup of coffee and a piece of pie at the Waffle House, then?” Tilson didn’t even pretend to include Beau in that invite. “I can give you a ride to your car afterwards.”

Once again, Beau didn’t give Natalie a chance to answer. He opened the truck door for her, light from the dome spilling out into the dark, and said to Tilson, “We’ve got to discuss scheduling on the way back to her car. Got to use that time wisely.”

Hell no, he wasn’t feeling proprietary at the thought of Tilson nibbling at the fullness of her lower lip or mouthing her tightly budded nipple through her T-shirt the way he himself had earlier. Not a whit, because Beau didn’t do proprietary with women. They were fun, a good time was had by all, and he moved on. Nope. It was simply that Natalie taking off with Tilson didn’t fit in with his plan. That was all. Nothing more.

Natalie shot Beau a look that promised more to say on the matter later. However, she said to Tilson as she slid into the cab, “Thanks, but we do need to wrap up the business.”

Beau closed her door. “See ya, Tilson,” he said as he rounded the truck to his side. Tilson looked decidedly unhappy but that wasn’t Beau’s problem, now was it?

Natalie sat buckled in the middle. She gestured to the mess next to her. “That seat belt is done for. I can’t get the buckle loose and the belts won’t retract.”

He grinned and slid in next to her. “I’m not complaining.” He buckled up and they headed back to the drag strip.

They weren’t touching but he felt her body heat with mere inches separating her hips, thighs and shoulder from his. He caught an occasional whiff of her perfume, or maybe it was just her shampoo and the smell of her skin, but he liked it. He was more than ready to take up where they’d left off when Tilson had arrived.

“Just to set the record straight. I’m a big girl and fully capable of answering for myself.”

What? Like he was just going to sit back while Tilson moved in and screwed up his plans? Not likely. Plus, she didn’t have any business getting involved with the former Marine.

“Tilson’s wife left him while he was on his last tour of duty in Iraq. He has issues.” There. Issues was one of those girly buzzwords he heard his mother and sister and their friends use. He’d give her something to relate to and reveal his softer, feminine side.

“So, that’s why you acted like such a jerk.”

Obviously his softer, feminine side hadn’t come through. “Don’t you think jerk’s a little harsh?”

“Harsh? I gave you the benefit of the doubt.”

“I was being thoughtful. Gallant, even. I only had your best interest at heart.”

She snorted. “And there I was thinking you were simply being manipulative and high-handed. Regardless, I’m fully capable of making my own decisions. And just for the record, Tilson’s not my cup of tea.”

He knew a moment of smug satisfaction. He nodded. “What is your type?”

“Suit and tie. Professional.”

That was no real surprise. “Ah, a sissy boy with soft hands. Someone who doesn’t break a sweat to do his job.”

“I prefer to think of it as brains rather than brawn.”

Maybe. And she could go on about brains and a suit and tie all day long, but he’d bet his racecar her panties had been wet earlier. “I’d say someone easily managed, who asks how high when you say jump. I think you have control issues.”

She sputtered, actually, honest to God sputtered. “I…you…you…” And then she laughed, more with incredulity than amusement. “You think I have control issues? Okay.”

He could tell there was so much more she wanted to say, except she was working for his sister. He bit back a chuckle. He’d like to hear what she wasn’t saying.

“So, do you have one of those sissy boys on a string back in Nashville? I’m just asking because I’m not so sure he’d approve of the way you kissed me earlier.”

“Wait a minute! You’re seriously confused if you think I kissed you. You kissed me.”

He hazarded a glance her way in the dashboard glow. Was that a flash of devilment in her brown eyes?

“No confusion here. And I can tell you now, sugar, if you were mine, I wouldn’t want you kissing someone else that way.”

He sensed—no, felt—the shift in her before she ever took action or opened her mouth. He’d pushed her to her limit. “Really? And if I were yours, be still my beating heart, how would you want me to kiss someone else?”

She released her seat belt. and before he could draw a breath she had twisted and curled one leg beneath her, levering herself up and bracing one hand on his shoulder, her warm breath teasing against his neck. “Like this?” She nuzzled beneath his ear and then nipped the tip of his lobe.

Holy hell. The sensation shot straight to his dick. She caught the recently nipped spot between her lips and sucked. His balls tightened as surely as if she’d cupped them in her hot little hands and gently squeezed.

He acknowledged the contest of wills. “No, baby, definitely not like that.”

“Then what about this? Would this be acceptable?” She trailed hot, open mouthed kisses down the column of his neck and he was damn glad to see the drag strip entrance to his left because at this point he was DUI—driving under the influence of her distracting mouth.

He pulled into the spot next to her minivan in the nearly deserted lot and threw his truck into Park. “Definitely not acceptable.”

He released his seat belt, turned and reached for her. She intercepted him, pushing him until his back was against the door, and leaned up on her knees. “Then maybe this?” Her mouth skated over his and she delivered light, flirty kisses that had his heart thumping out of control. Her hair tickled against his neck and he spanned her waist with his hands.

“Or this,” she murmured against his mouth and then moved on to deep, soulful kisses. She captured his tongue and sucked and stroked it with hers. Stroke, suck, stroke, suck. It was a mind-numbing, cock-hardening, ball-tightening rhythm. If she could do that to his tongue he’d love to have her work that magic on his cock. He groaned into her mouth.

She pulled back and started to slide across the seat. “Did you find that acceptable?”



FIRE. She was playing with fire. She was on fire. While it was true that Beau had provoked her, she’d wanted to kiss him again. She needed to get out of here while she could still think about something other than how good he felt and tasted and the achy, hot need coiling tighter and tighter inside her.

Before she could move any further, he reached out, wrapped his big hands around her arms and hauled her back to the solid hardness of his body. “I’m still trying to decide if that’s acceptable. I think I need a replay.”

Her heart hammered against her ribs and a rush of wet heat surged between her thighs. If she had an ounce of sense, she’d skedaddle. He’d sort of manhandled her into his lap but she didn’t feel threatened. If she insisted, he’d let her go. Deep inside, she knew he was one of the good guys. But apparently her last ounce of sense had abandoned her because she didn’t want to leave. Instead, she wanted to flirt and tease and kiss him some more.

“You should pay closer attention the first time around,” she said. She ended on a tiny gasp as he bent his head and nuzzled at her neck, and then she felt the faint scrape of his teeth followed by the velvet stroke of his tongue. That felt so good. She moaned and closed her eyes.

“Maybe I just wanted seconds…” he said in a husky murmur as he worked his way up her neck, “…or thirds.”

She laughed softly and wound her arms around him. She’d only thought she was on fire before. His mouth found hers and she was drowning in the magic of his kiss. She molded the ridges of his muscular shoulders. He slid his hands beneath the edge of her T-shirt and spanned her waist. He stroked upward until his big hands cupped her breasts. She pushed harder against his fingers and he dipped them into her bra, finding the hardened tip. His fingers…his mouth…she pulled away and drew a ragged, gasping breath.

Severe tactical error on her part. She was about one kiss away from being in way over her head.

She tugged her shirt back down and slid across the seat to the passenger side. He let her go, but there was no mistaking the glint in his eyes.

“If you were mine,” he said, “I’d have to vote for you not kissing anyone else at all, in any way at all.”

She snatched up her purse and opened the passenger door. “Then I guess it’s a good thing I’m not yours.”

She slammed the door behind her.



MONDAY MORNING, Natalie looked up from her day planner on her Queen Anne desk in the back corner of the bridal shop as the bell jangled over the front door.

“It’s just me,” Cynthia called out.

Natalie was doubly glad to see her assistant. Not only did she genuinely like Cynthia, she was more than ready for a distraction. She desperately needed to think about something, someone other than Beau Stillwell. Living above her shop was convenient on several fronts. She didn’t have a commute. She saved on rent.

The downside was she’d never really had a space all her own. Growing up, from as early as she could remember, she’d shared her room, and clothes and toys with foster siblings. And now she shared her home space with her business. One day, she wanted a house of her own. But, for now, she’d take advantage of no commute and always being in the office, ready for the day, by seven-thirty. This morning, however, Natalie had hit the office at six-thirty, ready to lose herself in work, details, planning—anything but thinking about Beau.

Although she was tired last night, nothing had satisfied her. She’d run a bubble bath when she got home, dumping a generous portion of lavender bath salts in. Between the warm water and aromatherapy she should’ve been out like a light. Nope. She’d tried reading a book. Not interested. Nothing on television. She’d popped in Pride and Prejudice—A&E’s Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy, thank you very much—but not even P&P struck a chord for her.

She’d finally admitted to herself that she was sexually keyed up and taken matters into her own hands. It was a rather sad fact, but the truth of the matter was that not all orgasms were created equal. She’d had her orgasm but she’d still felt all empty and achy and needy inside.

Masturbation simply didn’t mimic the nuzzle of Beau’s mouth on her neck or the delicious pressure of his hand and mouth on her breast. And the very thought of his mouth between her wet thighs…Yeah, that had been the fantasy that sent her right on over the edge to hollow satisfaction. Kissing him had been analogous to playing with fire. She hadn’t gotten burned, but she was definitely singed. How could a man so wrong, so different from what she wanted in a man, turn her on so thoroughly, so completely?

And it didn’t matter. This, too, would pass. She’d finally gotten him out to Belle Terre. Now all she needed was the schedule from him, which she could most likely go through his secretary for, and she was done with Beau Stillwell until she had to see him again at the rehearsal dinner. Months. Woohoo.

“How was your Sunday?” Natalie asked as Cynthia put away her purse and beelined for the hot water in the back. Natalie wandered into the stockroom behind her and leaned against the doorjamb.

“I spent most of the day parked on the sofa reading a romance novel, just to remind myself there are decent men out there, and eating popcorn. But I didn’t cry. Not even once.” Cynthia measured out loose English breakfast tea leaves into the stainless steel ball.

Natalie would’ve hugged her, except Cynthia wasn’t the hugging type. The last couple of months had been tough for her assistant. Cynthia had been expecting a proposal from her live-in boyfriend, Josh, after two years together. Instead, she’d gotten the news that Josh was going to be a daddy—the sticking point being that Cynthia wasn’t the mommy. And he’d even robbed her of the pleasure of kicking him to the curb. He’d moved out and sent her a text message breaking both pieces of news while Natalie and Cynthia had been in the middle of directing a rehearsal. Bastard.

“Good,” Natalie said. “That’s real progress. Double good because he’s so not worth it.”

Tears shimmered in Cynthia’s eyes but she squared her shoulders and raised her chin. “But enough about me. Did you get the remodel schedule down? What was the race like?” She cocked her head to one side and assessed Natalie, her lips pursed. “And what’s different about you this morning? You definitely look different.”

“We got the remodel list made. We didn’t get as far as the schedule. The race was, believe it or not, kind of exciting. And I suppose this is what I look like when I’m losing my mind.”

Cynthia dropped the tea ball into the hot water. “Why do I get the feeling we’re not talking about your standard garden-variety lose-your-mind?”

Natalie brought her up to speed on most of the day while Cynthia opened a Pop-Tart and dropped it into the toaster. “His pieces aren’t quite fitting together. His crew member tells me the guy can remember stats from two races ago but I have to schlep along behind him like a hired hand, taking notes. That doesn’t add up.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I don’t know. See, that’s the problem. I can’t think straight.” There. She’d admitted it. He was messing with her head.

“So, call Shelby up and grill her about this guy. That girl loves to talk.”

It was true. Her younger foster sister was a motormouth, which was great considering the quiet, withdrawn kid she’d been when she’d shown up as a thirteen-year old. Natalie was adaptable and she got along well with almost all the kids her parents took in, but she and Shelby had really bonded. “She’s never met him.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Cynthia said, stirring a spoonful of sugar into her tea. “There’s no way Caitlyn didn’t talk about her home life, about him. Find out what Shelby knows.”

Shelby had had plenty to say about how overprotective Caitlyn’s big brother could be, but that was simply from overhearing conversations and Caitlyn’s complaints.

“I don’t want her to think I’m…” Natalie hesitated.

“You’re what?”

Natalie crossed her arms over her chest. “You know…interested.” She gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Personally or anything.”

Cynthia’s spoon clanged against the side of the cup and her mouth dropped open. “Oh my God, you are, aren’t you?”

“Definitely not. So not my type. And he’s obnoxious. And he wastes my time. And I made out with him.” She buried her face in her hand.

“Sheep shit on a stick. You made out with him? Define ‘made out.’”

“You know, he kissed me. Then later I kissed him.” She left out the part about masturbating to the thought of him going down on her. Some things were just better left unsaid.

“I’m totally confused. I thought you said he’s obnoxious.”

“He is.”

They left the stockroom.

“And you were kissing him, why?”

“To prove a point…and he is obnoxious…in a hot way. I mean, not hot according to my standards but hot according to a lot of other standards.” Natalie dropped back into the chair at her desk and Cynthia perched on one of the two chairs on the other side.

“Right. That just clears everything up…not. Exactly what point were you proving by making out with him?”

It had made sense at the time. “It’s complicated.”

“Apparently. I can’t wait to meet him. He’s the first man I’ve ever seen get you all discombobulated.”

“I am not discombobulated. Okay, well, maybe a little.” And she didn’t want to think about him anymore. She’d already thought about him half the night. Make that three-quarters of the night. She was now desperately trying to adhere to out of sight, out of mind before she got to just plain old out of her mind. “Sara Gastoneau is coming in this morning—”

Natalie’s cell phone interrupted with the instantly recognizable Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Her clients loved that ring tone and so did she. The traditional recessional signaled yet another wedding completed and the start of a new life together as husband and wife. Caller ID flashed Caitlyn Stillwell’s name.

“Natalie! You are such a doll.”

“Hi, Caitlyn,” Natalie said with a smile. Caitlyn Stillwell possessed an infectious enthusiasm. “How’s life on the road and why am I a doll?”

Caitlyn offered a dreamy sigh at the other end. “Life on the road is wonderful…mostly because I’m with Cash. But we’re getting some great video footage.” That had been a biggie among many challenges in planning their wedding. Not only was it on short notice, but the bride-to-be was touring the country by bus with her fiancé and shooting video footage for what they hoped would be a reality show or documentary. Natalie had never planned a wedding before with the bride out of town. “And you’re a doll because I just got off of the phone with Beau. You are the best.”

Why did that have an ominous ring? “I’m glad you think so but I’m not sure I’m following you here.”

“He told me about you helping him out at Belle Terre.”

“No problem.” Sometimes her business called for a little white lie. “I was more than happy to help.” He’d wasted several hours of her time. And sometimes it was a whopping white lie.

“I bet no other wedding planner would do what you’re doing. Even Cash is impressed.”

Yay! This was exactly the response she wanted, exactly what she wanted Caitlyn to put out to the public. Once Caitlyn and Cash were married, Caitlyn would be Nashville royalty.

“That’s why I’m here. I don’t want you stressing about the wedding. I just want you to have fun and look forward to it.”

Caitlyn laughed on the other end. “I’ll admit I was stressing a little over the renovations, but now that you’re personally assisting Beau with the remodel and building…”

What the hell? She wasn’t personally assisting him with anything now that they’d made that list. “He swears he’d never be able to get the project done in time for the wedding if you weren’t willing to come out and help him with the project,” Caitlyn steamed on. “Cash and I think you’re the best.”

She’d already said that once. Natalie forced a smile into her voice, “Well, I’m not sure how much—”

Caitlyn interrupted. “Don’t be modest. Beau said not many professionals would be willing to go that extra mile of meeting him at Belle Terre at six-thirty in the morning and then again in the evenings to work around your other projects. He was impressed with your flexibility.”

“Coming from him that means a lot.” She couldn’t help her dark sarcasm. And it was better than screaming. What was he up to? Because he was definitely up to something. They’d no more discussed her squeezing renovation help into her already packed schedule than she had monkeys flying out her tush. Hel-lo. It was high wedding season. She was busy. But she couldn’t say that to Caitlyn. He’d pretty much manipulated Natalie into a tight spot.

“Hey, can you hold on a minute, Natalie?” On the other end, someone was talking to Caitlyn. “Yeah…Okay…Right…I’m just wrapping up here. Hey, I’m back but I’ve gotta go. Call me if anything else comes up. Otherwise, I’ll talk to you later.”

The phone clicked in Natalie’s ear. She turned to Cynthia, who’d eavesdropped unabashedly. Not that she blamed her for that.

“I guess it would be counterproductive,” Natalie said, “to kill him before the renovation is done and he’s walked her down the aisle, huh?”

It was sheer annoyance at his blatant manipulation that had Natalie’s heart pounding and not the thought of being in close proximity to his wickedly distracting mouth and hands and his big, hard body.

No, that particular thought was responsible for her now-damp panties.




Chapter 6


BEAU WHISTLED UNDER his breath as he made his way back to his truck, satisfied his roofing crew was set on the new subdivision job he’d contracted between Nashville and Dahlia. Urban sprawl was both a bane and a blessing, but right now it was a damn fine morning in Dahlia. The sun was shining, he had jobs lined up in a less-than-stellar economy and he had Natalie Bridges right where he wanted her.

He leaned against the cab of his truck and checked his wristwatch. He’d finished up the conversation with his sister about forty-five minutes ago. He figured he’d get a call anytime now. Actually, depending on how long Caitlyn kept Natalie on the phone, it could be another couple of minutes.

Natalie. Her sweet, hot mouth…her velvet tongue…Classy. Sexy. Fiery. True enough, he’d started out with the intent to shut this wedding down and that remained his primary goal, but he’d discovered two things in the last day. One, he realized he’d never had to chase a woman before. From the earliest time he could remember women just seemed to like him. But Natalie brought out the hunter in him. Two, he wanted her. She’d told him yesterday in no uncertain terms he wasn’t her type. Bullshit. She wouldn’t…couldn’t…kiss him that way if she didn’t want him.

He scrolled through his cell-phone options. Natalie deserved her own ringtone and he deserved to be forewarned when she called. He downloaded and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long. His phone trilled the opening chords of AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell.”

“I just spoke to Caitlyn,” she said without preamble.

A fly buzzed past him and the sounds of the guys hauling up shingle bundles and recounting weekend exploits filled the background. “Great. I’m sure it’s important to stay in close contact when you’re planning her wedding.”

He climbed in the cab of the truck, cutting off the background noise. He could’ve sworn on the drive from his office to the work site that he’d caught the occasional whiff of her scent from last night.

“You know, press-ganged servitude is out of vogue these days. Of course, I have only myself to blame.” She paused and sighed heavily on the other end. “I should’ve never kissed you.”

What angle was she working? Women never regretted kissing him. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“I’ll have to say you’ve lost me there, sweet thing.” He picked up the take-out coffee cup from the dash cup holder. Empty.

“Obviously I drove you beyond the point of desperate when I kissed you,” she announced on a smug note. “It goes without saying I’d never go out with you, so you’ve resorted to manipulating me into indentured servitude.”

She’d never go out with him, as if he were some substandard species? The hell, she said. The hunt was definitely on. He chuckled.

“Indentured servitude?” Well, hell, that just brought a whole bunch of things to mind. Her on her knees in front of him, her mouth on his…a little light bondage with silken cords…“Does that mean you want me to tie you up?”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Well, well, well. She sounded far more breathless than outraged. Just what was going on in her pretty little head? “And can you say sexual harassment?”

No. And neither could she. “Am I writing your paycheck, baby? Do I have the authority to fire or promote you? Think again. If you find yourself all tied up, it’s strictly because that’s what you want.”

“I think you have a pretty accurate idea of what I want right now and it’s not that.” No man with a brain would trust that sweet note.

“I’m certain I know what you want, you just need to decide how you want it.”

“Since you seem to be calling all the shots at this point, you tell me. When do you want to start?”

“I’m sitting on ready. You’re the one with the rushed time schedule. Let’s start this evening.”

“What time?”

“Six.” That ought to have her sitting through Nashville rush hour. The idea, after all, was to push her to her limits.

“Perfect.”

Perfect? Ha. She was probably ready to gnaw on wood. And just to thoroughly piss her off…“And don’t be late. I’d hate for us to get behind schedule because you’re not punctual.”

He could all but feel her kiss-my-ass radiating over the phone line. Perversely, he was looking forward to 6:00 p.m.



AT PRECISELY four-thirty, Natalie pulled into a parking spot on Dahlia’s picturesque town square. There was no way she was going to sit through rush-hour traffic heading out of the city. Plus, she’d seen Beau’s face when Scooter told her to replace her outfit at Stillwell Motors Racing’s expense. Two could play his game, and she was more than willing to hit below the belt…at least, that’s where she assumed he kept his wallet.

She slung her purse over her shoulder and locked the minivan. Was it her imagination or did the air smell sweeter, fresher here? With its refurbished store fronts around a parklike square anchored by a Confederate soldier monument, Dahlia was a refreshing step back in time—especially after the urban sprawl that had become Nashville.

She’d driven through with Caitlyn once before on their way out to Belle Terre and Caitlyn had pointed out the green and white striped awning that marked Beverly’s Closet, but they hadn’t stopped. Now Natalie strolled along the sidewalk, enchanted.

Early on, she and Caitlyn had discussed whether to use local businesses in the wedding or Natalie’s tried-and-true Nashville contacts. Now that Caitlyn had made up her mind, Natalie needed to set up appointments to meet with the business owners. True, she could just drop in, but that seemed disrespectful of their time—and thank you, Beau Stillwell, she knew all about how it felt to have someone disregard your time.

Plus, she wouldn’t mind an opportunity to “window-shop” anonymously. One of her concerns was whether the small hometown businesses in Dahlia could deliver and pull off an event like Caitlyn and Cash’s wedding. Not that she didn’t want every wedding to be perfect, but the way this one would be covered by the media, Natalie’s already narrow margin of error had narrowed even further. This, the career catalyst that had been handed to her like a gift, had to be as close to perfect as possible.

She’d noted the bakery’s location on the outskirts of town, a pink cinder block building with white lace curtains gracing the display windows of Pammy’s Petals. She paused now in front of Christa’s Florals and breathed a small sigh of relief. Several elegant floral arrangements on a velvet runner filled the front window. Whew! It was always a bad sign when a florist presented funeral wreaths and cemetery flowers as their primary offering.

She passed a small gallery showing several stainedglass pieces, lace and beadwork and a lovely wedding-knot quilt in shades of lavender, yellow and pink that sent a wave of nostalgia washing over her. She could almost smell the signature scent of gardenia her grandmother had favored and feel her warmth as they’d shared a similar quilt on Memaw’s front porch swing when Natalie had been a young girl. She blinked. It would be beyond crazy to burst into tears on the Dahlia sidewalk because some exquisitely crafted artwork had pulled an emotional rug out from under her feet.

She walked on. Dahlia Hair and Nails. Hmm. Hard to tell, but selling Caitlyn on another stylist would be a real challenge. Apparently the owner, Lila, was Caitlyn’s mother’s best friend.

She paused on the sidewalk outside Beverly’s Closet, ostensibly admiring the ivy topiaries and spring-mix flowers in oversized planters flanking the glass door. She realized she was nervous. As the mother of the bride, Beverly had been part of the preplanning with Natalie and Caitlyn, and Natalie liked the older woman, but she was suddenly self-consciously aware that Beverly was also the mother of Natalie’s new object of full-blown lust.

And like it or not, Beau hadn’t just slipped into that spot, he’d commandeered it. Dear god, even when he was being manipulative and arrogant and every other unpleasant adjective she could throw his way, damn him to hell, he tripped her trigger.

And that was highly, impossibly problematic. He was everything she didn’t want in a man, wasn’t he? Relationships weren’t supposed to shake you up and make you feel unsettled and as if you were too much for your own skin. And that was an equally crazy thought. What she and Beau had wasn’t even close to a relationship. It was a…she didn’t even know what it was. Wanting to strip a man naked and work her way up, or down, his body didn’t qualify as a relationship.

As if that wasn’t the craziest thing. She shrugged away the silly thought and stepped into Beverly’s Closet.

At the tinkle of the bell, Beverly looked up from where she was plumping a cushion in an armchair upholstered in apple-green velvet. “Can I help you…” Recognition kicked in. “Natalie, it’s so good to see you again. Come on in, sugar.” Beverly’s genuine smile encompassed her. Somewhere in her midfifties, with porcelain skin, moss-green eyes and shoulder-length hair dyed a soft, flattering shade of blond, Caitlyn’s mother struck Natalie as the quintessential middle-aged Southern beauty.

Beverly hugged her, engulfing her in a cloud of perfume. “What a nice surprise. Well, not a total surprise because Milton called and explained the ruined outfit.” A delicate blush tinged Beverly’s porcelain cheeks.

“Milton?” Natalie didn’t know anyone named Milton.

“Milton Lewis.”

Lewis? That sounded familiar but it wouldn’t click into place. And obviously she still looked perplexed.

“Beau’s crew chief.”

Right. “Oh. That Mr. Lewis.” Natalie laughed. She’d really liked Scooter, née Milton, Lewis. “I didn’t think his mother named him Scooter.”

Beverly rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Isn’t that the most ridiculous thing you ever heard to call a grown man? He picked up that name in high school when he and my late husband started tinkering with cars. Since Milton was the shortest, he’d scoot underneath the car to work on it.”

Natalie personally preferred Scooter to Milton, but she kept her own counsel. She’d quickly learned in this business when to hold her tongue. Well, most of the time. When she was around Beau, however, she didn’t manage nearly as well. “Hmm.” She, however, found Beverly’s blush sweet. “So, Mr. Lewis called you?”

Color rose in the older woman’s cheeks again. “To tell me you might come by.”

“Uh-huh,” Natalie responded with a knowing smile. Beverly was a beautiful woman and, well, bottom line, Scooter or Milton or whatever they called him was a man.

Another delicate stain of pink blossomed. “We talked for a while. I think he’s lonely since Emma Jean died.”

“And I think you’re a beautiful woman.”

“Well…why…thank you. That’s what he said, too,” Beverly told her in a sudden rush. She buried her hands in her face momentarily and then looked up, equal measures of excitement and mortification in her green eyes. “Oh, Lord, he asked me to go to dinner.”

Natalie had the distinct impression she’d just wandered into something intensely personal but was enough of a stranger to qualify as a confidante. And for whatever reason, people seemed to confide in her. “What did you say?”

“I said I’d let him know.”

Absence of a flat-out no meant yes. “Do you want to go?”

Beverly fluttered her hand nervously along her hairline. “I don’t know…it’s been so long…What if he tries to kiss me when he brings me home?”

Natalie pushed aside the memory of Beau’s mouth on her lips and breast that seemed seared into her brain. This wasn’t about her and this woman’s son. Regardless, her entire body went on red alert and her nipples stood at attention. She was pretty damn sure she was wearing her own blush now. “Do you want him to?”

Straightening a row of hangers that didn’t need straightening, Beverly avoided eye contact. “It’s not that. I haven’t…It’s been…Monroe, Beau and Caitlyn’s daddy, died sixteen years ago and I haven’t seen—” she glanced up meaningfully “—anyone since then.”

Seen? Natalie’s curiosity and confusion must have shone in her face.

“My children needed me and I was all torn up inside, and then when Caitlyn was older, I thought it was still best not to date and it’s just gotten to be a habit. What if I don’t remember how to kiss? And what will my children think? What would you think if your mother was about to start dating?”

She’d never thought about it. She took a second to consider, unwilling to throw out a glib response to something that was obviously so important to Beverly. “I think if my dad died I wouldn’t want my mother to be lonely. I think your kids will feel the same. Maybe not at first…but they’ll come around. Well, I think Caitlyn’s so wrapped up in the engagement and wedding and love in general that she’ll be right onboard.”

Beverly nodded. “I think you’re right. I’m more worried about Beau. He stepped right in as man of the family when Monroe passed.” The tension in the set of Beverly’s shoulders eased. Apparently she was more comfortable discussing her son and the past, even if it was a difficult time, than a future date and potential kiss with Scooter. “Lord, he was only sixteen but he finished school and worked in the evenings and on the weekends and we made ends meet. I cleaned houses to keep our heads above water but Beau’s the reason I have this business and the house I’m in now.” There was no denying the admiration and mother’s pride shining in her eyes. “That boy has worked his tail off to provide a home and this business for me and he’s made sure Caitlyn never wanted for anything she truly needed. He became a man at sixteen.”

Something warm and dangerous flip-flopped inside Natalie. In retrospect, she supposed she’d heard bits and pieces of this story from her sister, Shelby, but had not really paid much attention. She didn’t want to think of Beau as a man who mentored Tim, his now-fatherless pit-crew member, or busted his young butt to keep a roof over his mother’s and sister’s heads. That all ran counter to dismissing him as just another hot, albeit arrogant, guy. She realized, rather lamely, that a somewhat expectant silence had stretched between them.

“I can see why you’re proud of him. Hopefully he’ll be okay with you going out with Scoot—I mean, Milton.”

Beverly beamed, as if a tremendous weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “He’ll just have to be, won’t he?”

“And don’t worry that you won’t remember how to kiss. It’s probably been a while for him, as well. Y’all can remember together.”

Another blush, but somehow this looked more like a blush of expectation than embarrassment. She nodded, her eyes sparkling. “So, we need to outfit you because that son of mine was hard to track down.” She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I know he’s busy but I taught him better manners than that. Exactly what got ruined?”

“Just a blouse and a jacket. That should cover it.”

“Did the jacket go with a suit?” Beverly quirked a salon-arched brow.

“Well, yes.”

She shook her head, clearly annoyed with the son she’d just venerated. “He knows better.” Her eyes gleamed as she nodded. “An entire suit and blouse. I raised him better than that.”

Natalie almost felt sorry for Beau Stillwell. And then she thought about him dragging her out to Belle Terre as if she didn’t have anything better to do than his bidding on a construction project and offered Beverly her brightest smile.




Chapter 7


NATALIE PULLED INTO the circular drive fronting Belle Terre and parked her minivan next to Beau’s truck. She drew a deep, steadying breath. She was being ridiculous. It was just his lousy truck—granted, she’d had a heck of a good time in that front seat as recently as last night—and her heart was galloping in her chest. She couldn’t seem to stop herself from a quick glimpse in the rearview mirror to check hair and makeup. No mascara smears, no oily spots on her face—blotting papers were a beautiful thing—and her lip gloss was fine. She smoothed down a spot where her hair was sticking up. Good to go.

She climbed out of the car and approached the house. It was imposing and, if she was totally honest, a little scary. While beautiful, there was an air of melancholy about it, but then again, how many generations had loved, lived, cried and died here? How could a place that had once held people in captivity as slaves to a master know anything but melancholy, despite the laughter that must have spilled from the shuttered windows that opened to the soaring, columned porch?

Beau opened the front door—apparently waiting on her to show up, she noted—and all philosophical and esoteric thought fled in light of her purely physical response to six foot plus of dark-haired, blue-eyed, well-muscled man in jeans, T-shirt and work boots. What had happened to her penchant for suits and ties? Gone. System bypassed in favor of hot and rugged standing with splayed legs in the doorway. Sweet, hot, immediate desire flooded her.

“You’re here,” he said, his dark-lashed eyes sweeping her, touching her in a way that left her breathless.

She marched past him into the foyer. “I am.” She strove to bring some semblance of detachment to the situation. She turned to face him, opting for the direct approach. “Now why don’t you tell me why I’m really here? You could have a high-school kid help you and they’d be more adept at this than me.”

Those eyes flickered over her again and it was a replay of the scene in The Libertine when just one look from Johnny Depp and she was ready to crawl naked across the floor for him. “But you’re the one with the insight into what Caitlyn wants done,” he went on. “And after you—how was it exactly—oh, right, drove me beyond the point of desperate with those kisses…you really didn’t leave me any choice, did you?”

She knew the moment that came out of her mouth she’d regret saying it. And she could only blame her lack of self-control on him. He was the culprit. There was something about him. He got under her skin. Wanting to crawl naked across a floor for him was a perfect case in point. She was good with crawling naked across the floor but not for him. She scrambled for some measure of sanity.

“I shouldn’t have said that. Occasionally, my mouth runs away with me. And about the other, I’ve been thinking—”

He interrupted. “The other?”

She was altogether too, too aware that it was her and him alone in an empty house and to stand about throwing the word kiss or kissing around seemed dangerous territory. Couldn’t they address the issue in a nice civilized roundabout manner? “You know what I mean.”

He closed the front door with a final, resounding click. He approached her with a measured, intent tread, and her pulse hammered. “You’ve got to speak clearly and slowly for us he-man types who are more brawn than brains, sugar.” He held out broad, masculine hands, palms up, as if for her inspection, approval. “These hands have calluses.”

In less than a second, she was imagining the erotic scrape of those calluses against her sensitive nipples, down her body, between her legs. Pathetically, that sent a shiver through her and a rush of liquid warmth between her thighs.

“Kissing.” Brief and to the point, and still the mere mention with him right in front of her left her tingling and aroused because her mind had taken her far, far beyond a mere merging of lips and tongues.

“Oh. That other.” He grinned, an evil, wicked, I’d-like-to-seduce-you-right-out-of-your-panties grin that set her heart knocking against her ribs. He dropped his gaze to her mouth. “I’m all for it.”

Good lord, she’d like to back him up against that door and eat him alive—especially when he looked at her like that. She grasped at the last few threads of sanity, reminding herself she was here to move this wedding forward and not to make out with Caitlyn’s big sexy brother. “Well, I’m not.”

His slow smile slid devastatingly up and down her spine. “Now you’re making me feel inadequate as a man.” Uh-huh. And there really was a Santa Claus. “I could’ve sworn you liked it.”

If ever a man needed taking down a peg or two, she was looking at his wicked sexy self. “It was…” She tilted her head to one side and pretended to search for a description. She deliberately brightened, as if suddenly enlightened. “Adequate.” She was dancing close to the flames again but she couldn’t seem to help it.

“Oh, hell no.” He shook his head. “I have standards and adequate isn’t one of them.” He took a step toward her and his slow, sexy smile spread a sweet heat of anticipation through her. “We’re gonna have to work on this until we’ve passed adequate.”

No, no and no. Kissing him had been like setting a blowtorch to a marshmallow inside her. She’d never been one to hop in bed with a guy, but Beau seemed to knock every aspect of her off course. She had a sinking feeling that a little more kissing, she’d be hard-pressed to keep her legs together and her panties on. And that was an understatement. She was about two seconds from she wasn’t exactly sure what, but it was dangerous.

She stepped back.

“You’ll have to practice with someone else. I’m sure you won’t have any problem locating a partner—” or two or ten, she thought, recalling the two women who’d stopped by post-race “—but it’s not me. No more kissing.”

He frowned in mock consternation, a wicked gleam in his bedroom-blue eyes. “Now that puts me in a downright awkward position, baby girl.”

God, she was certifiably losing her mind because she found his baby girl incredibly sexy. “How is that awkward? Awkward is carrying on when we’re supposed to be working.”

He reached out and tilted her chin up with his fingertip. One touch—just his fingertip against her skin rendered her breathless. “I suppose I need clarification…Surprised you with that fancy word, didn’t I? Do I go with this or do I kiss you when you ask me to?”

She pushed his hand away. “That’s easy to answer…because I won’t be asking.”

“Right. You do like to take matters into your own hands.” For one moment she was mortified that he knew he’d inspired her to fire up her vibrator last night. Then she realized he was referring to her showing up at the racetrack on Friday evening. “Then, for clarity’s sake, just so I don’t get into trouble—when you kiss me again, is it okay to kiss you back?”

She didn’t miss his when rather than if. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Let me spell it out for you. No kissing. None. You’re not kissing me. I’m not kissing you. I’m not asking. I’m not doing. Nada.” Good. She’d sounded resolute. Strong. No hint there that she desperately wanted to taste him, touch him, and likewise feel his hands and his mouth on various and sundry parts of her.

Another one of those looks that tightened every cell in her body into acute, aching awareness that she was a woman. “That’s too bad. Just kissed is a good look on you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Breathe. She needed to remember to breathe…and not kiss him…or take her clothes off. Work. Renovation. The matter at hand. “Now, to borrow one of your phrases, we’re burning daylight. What do you need for me to do?”

“Since you just told me it’s off-limits—” his glance zeroed in and lingered on her mouth, and the wanton fire inside her flamed a little hotter, higher, brighter “—I guess we’ll skip to the second item on the list.” A tsunami of turn-on assaulted her. One look. One moment of innuendo and she was wet, her nipples were hard and her clit ached.

“I need you to get on your knees…” He paused deliberately, and it was a small wonder she didn’t spontaneously combust at the implication of her on her knees, his fly undone, his dick in her mouth. At this point he could probably talk her through an orgasm…which had never happened before but seemed totally one hundred percent plausible right here and now.

“…to scrape paint off the baseboards.”

So much for her orgasm.



HE WAS HOISTED on his own petard, as his Grandpa Stillwell had been fond of saying. Beau had deliberately saddled Natalie with the most menial, uncomfortable task at hand. However, he hadn’t counted on the effect of her on her knees, bending over, her tight, round ass thrust in the air.

“You know, if you make your stroke a little longer and smoother, it’ll be better for you. Slow it down a little, baby girl, or you’re going to wear yourself out before you even get started.”

She looked back over her shoulder at him and he’d asked for it, he’d taken it there, but it was such a sexual look it slammed him in the gut.

Her cell phone went off in her purse, shattering the moment. She scrambled to get up off the floor, and he automatically scooped up her purse and handed it to her.

“Thanks,” she said, her fingers glancing against his ever so briefly, but still rousing.

“You’re welcome.” Dammit to hell, every time they touched it was as if someone had yanked a rug out from under his feet.

She pulled out the phone and answered. “Hi, Mom…No, it’s fine…I’m just working…I know…Right…Maybe sometime next week…No, I don’t want Miguel to think I don’t love him…No, I know it’s important that he knows he’s important to me.”

Who in the hell was Miguel? And why’d her mother have to remind her that he needed to know he was important and that she loved him? He’d assumed, based on their conversation and the way she’d kissed him, there was no boyfriend in the picture.

“I’m just busy,” she said.

Ignoring Beau, Natalie knelt down again and started scraping, propping the phone between her ear and her shoulder. Beau heard her mother’s voice faintly over the line. He couldn’t hear her words but he picked up on the gently remonstrative tone. He had no difficulty in discerning a Southern mama guilt trip, having been on the receiving end several times, most of the time for good reason.

“Look, Mom, I hate to cut this short but I see my appointment parking their car up front and I don’t want to be on the phone when they walk in.” The next part came out in a rush. “I’ll see you next week. Love you.”

She ended the call and shot Beau a look where he stood propped against the staircase. “Don’t say anything,” she dared. “I know it was a lie, but you don’t know my mother. Once she starts…”

Beau grinned. “You’ve met my mother? I totally understand.” For a moment they both shared a laugh, her expression unguarded. The laughter died and he found himself looking into her motor oil-brown eyes and wanting…more. More than a kiss, more than her naked beneath him—although that would be damn nice. He had a hankering to know Natalie Bridges. What did she do when she wasn’t busy aiding and abetting the attachment of ball and chain? And who the hell was Miguel?

“Who’s Miguel?”

She went back to scraping, following his directive with a slow, smooth rhythm that put him in mind of her hand on his…Hell, who was he kidding? Her simply breathing seemed to put him in mind of her hand—or some equally stimulating body part—on his cock.

“My newest ‘brother.’ My parents foster kids. Miguel arrived last week and I haven’t gotten out to meet him yet. I know. My parents are great, but they’re…different.”

Yeah, he’d be in much better shape to think about her parents than the slide of her smooth, soft hand against his hard…“Where do they live?”

“West of Nashville. They’ve got a farm with a big garden, chickens, ponies, a rambling farm house, and it’s just crazy there.” She shook her head, a sweet smile lifting the corners of her delicious mouth. “Always crazy. I can’t tell you how many times I’d go to bed at night only to wake up and find a new sister in my room the next morning.”

“It sounds—”

She rocked back on her heels, scraper in hand. “Chaotic. Total chaos. I lived for the times I could go to my grandparents’ house. Memaw and I would sit on the porch swing at night and she’d tell me stories.” She radiated a sweetly vulnerable nostalgia that tugged at him. He had an instant image of her as a pigtailed little girl curled up beside her grandmother. “The other kids would go over in twos or threes, but Memaw always insisted that when it was my turn, I was the only one allowed over. She knew I needed that alone time. And it made me feel special.”

He nodded, sharing an understanding from his own childhood. “Nana, my dad’s mother, and my mother got along about like oil and water, but Nana always made banana pudding when I came over. It’s my favorite. She’d make a separate dish just for me and add extra bananas and vanilla wafers to it.” He hadn’t thought about Nana’s pudding in years. He shook his head. “So is Shelby your biological sister or your foster sister?”

She set about scraping again, her hair falling forward in a wavy curtain of brown and red. “Foster.” She pushed her hair aside and slanted a glance his way. “And the answer to the next question that inevitably comes is, I don’t have any biological siblings but I have twenty, well, twenty-one now with Miguel, siblings. And, no, they didn’t all live there at once. The house is usually at full capacity with ten. But most of us come back for holidays and special occasions.” She looked back down. “And they are all great, and I do feel guilty that I haven’t met Miguel yet. You can’t imagine Thanksgiving and Christmas. You’d have to see it to believe it.” Both tenderness and exasperation marked her tone.

Paint flecks peppered her hair. “Are you trying to take me home to meet your mother already?”

Teasing her was too much fun. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity.

She made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. “My mother would like you.” Beau preened. “She likes anyone and everyone…regardless of how annoying they are.”

Beau guffawed, his laughter coming from deep in his belly. “Smart-ass.”

She grinned and he felt the same knock-you-on-your-ass sensation he did when he kicked it off the starting line in a race. “I was just saying…”

He wanted her with an intensity that was foreign to him, given he was always the one in control. The mood between them shifted, intensified, thickened. Her eyes widened.

Beau moved toward her, slowly, deliberately. “Do you always mean what you say?”

Had she really meant no more kissing? They both knew what he was asking.

She steadied herself with one hand on the floor and ran the tip of her tongue along the bow of her upper lip. There was no mistaking the flicker of heat in her eyes. “Not…always.”

Green light. He reached down and dragged her up his body and into his arms. Her scent, the feel of her soft curves against his hard angles, the almost imperceptible hitch of her breath…Yes, he’d wanted this all last night, all day today. “Speak now, baby girl, or forever hold your peace if you meant what you said earlier.”

The scraper clattered to the floor and she placed her open palms against his chest, tilting her head back to gaze up at him. “What if Tilson shows up? He did last night.”

He slid his hand up her arm to trace the fine line of her jaw. Her skin felt like velvet against his fingertips. “Tilson won’t show up. Trust me.”

Her eyes darkened and her fingers curled against his chest, sending his inner temperature spiking off the charts. “How do you know?”

The fall of her hair teased against the back of his hand. “Tilson won’t show up because I told him you were off-limits.”

She went rigid. “You what?”

“Off-limits. I told him you were mine.” He plied his thumb along the fullness of her lower lip and pulled her closer still with his other arm. “Natalie, baby girl, consider my claim staked.”




Chapter 8


I TOLD HIM you were mine. Natalie, baby girl, consider my claim staked.

He’d told Tilson she was his?

That was so…arrogant.

So heavy-handed.

So hot.

“Staking claims goes both ways.” She looped her arms around his neck, bringing them into intimate full-body contact. God, this was such a very, very bad idea, but he felt so very, very good against her. “We have something in common because I don’t like to share, either.” She’d seen the women at the racetrack swarm him.

“Done.” One step forward and he pinned her to the wall. He bent his head. His cheek nearly touched hers, his hair tickled against her skin as he commanded softly in her ear, his breath warm against her skin, “Now, say it.”

She could barely think with the hard wall behind her and the hard wall of man in front of her. “Say what?”

Beau sifted one hand through her hair. “I told you you’d ask me to kiss you.” He traced the line from her ear to her jaw with the bridge of his nose, his breath deliciously hot against her neck. He was slowly, well, maybe not so slowly, driving her out of her mind. “So, ask for it.”





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