“When I got to the end of Thrill of the Chase, I wanted more. I wasn’t ready to let go of Sarah and her world.” - The Book Vixen

“There is some great racing action and great character-development on the part of the three main characters. It was really a joy to watch develop.” - Crystal, My Reading Room

“Thrill of the Chase is a high octane ride that will throw you for a loop.” – J. Thomas, The Long and the Short Of It Reviews

“Let me tell you now that the fun is in the Thrill of the Chase.” - Lil,  Love Romances and More

Sarah’s a whiz at tuning engines and winning races. Winning Craig, the local drag race hero, proves more difficult. He only has eyes for gorgeous women who are hot in the sack, not grubby tomboys. Sarah’s world gets an overhaul when her father hires Gordon Devine. Soon she’s torn not only between two men she wants, but between the drag race winner she is and the woman she feels pressured to become.

Chapter One

Powering up through the gears, Sarah felt all the muscles in her body tighten with readiness and excitement before the two turns. She gripped her Mustang’s custom wood-lacquered shift knob with one hand, the thick steering wheel with the other. Though the late morning traffic was light, she checked her side mirrors twice and carefully scanned from left to right through her windshield, alert for any movement. There were no cars nearby. And, of course, no pedestrians. Nobody walked in Huntington Beach’s industrial-zoned “automotive alley.”

Jerking the steering wheel to the right then pulling it smoothly left, simultaneously heel-toeing the clutch and brake pedals with the edge of her running shoe, she felt her car’s tires break free from the pavement’s friction. The car slid sideways.

Maintaining the throttle pressure to keep her wheels spinning, she steered into the same direction she slid. She spotted the large, faded red letters of Big Red’s Auto Performance Shop’s sign out of the corner of her eye.

Right on target.

The four-wheel drift positioned her to race up the exact middle of the entrance to the shop’s parking lot.

With a satisfying screech of tires, she floored the gas to gather more speed, then whipped her car into the second and final turn.

Another four-wheel drift, pressing her back into the firm, curved racing seats she’d installed. She grinned as she piloted the sideways-hurtling car with an instinctive touch, lifting off the gas pedal and feathering the brakes to bleed off her speed.

The yellow Mustang slid to a halt. It was positioned perfectly in the middle of her parking space.

“Yes!” Energized, she leapt out of the car. Another day’s commute concluded.

Sarah pushed the building’s tinted front door open, humming. She jogged through the shop’s retail area, neither seeing nor expecting to see anyone manning the front desk. Matt was probably in the back again, complaining to the technicians. He pretended to be a gearhead, but she knew they saw through it. What he should be doing was unpacking and stocking those magazine shipments she saw lining the front wall in boxes, or cleaning the grimy glass display case. He should be sitting on that padded stool answering the ringing phone. Her dad hadn’t hired him to hang out.

She shrugged. Matt didn’t know a 9/16th from a hole in the ground, but he wasn’t her main problem.

Still, his absence added a new bounce to her gait. How nice that he wasn’t lounging in the short hallway staring at her workout bra-flattened chest as she returned from her Friday morning routine. As she trotted into the back, a gust of motor oil-scented air cooled her forehead. She wiped at it absently.

It was perfectly acceptable for the techs to sneak a peek—surreptitiously, of course—but Matt didn’t even try to be subtle. She rolled her eyes at the memory of his creepy peeping as he’d challenged her to arm-wrestle him. As if the scrawny weasel would win. Since she’d started working out she had arms of steel, powerful as any man’s. Useful for lifting transmissions into place, and carrying flywheels without having to always ask assistance from the guys in the back.

“The ‘ho is on the flo’,” she announced, trotting past the small group of men gathered around the engine stand gazing at a shiny small-block motor.

“Don’t I wish,” the taller mustached blond answered. He winked at her as she passed, but his attention remained firmly fixed on the small block. The shiny chrome seemed to have them mesmerized. “Shake some ass already. We wouldn’t mind a little help.”

Flipping Will off even as she began to veer toward the object of attention, at the last moment she kept moving towards her own locker area, the converted women’s restroom. She was late again, but first she had to swap out her damp gym t-shirt. While she had no problem assaulting the guys with her version of ladies’ perspiration, her white shirt was miraculously unstained by grease. Best to keep it that way. Remembering with chagrin the last time she’d worn a shop shirt on the weight machines—she’d left black grease smudges on three of them before the trainers threw her out—she was already beginning to pull it off as the bathroom door hushed shut.

Yanking on her jeans along with a faded shop-shirt, she spared just enough time to splash cold water onto her face, pull her disarranged hair back into a neater ponytail, and run a strawberry-flavored Chapstick over her lips before rejoining the guys. “Is this a new engine build or a refresh job?” she asked no one in particular.

“Refresh,” Lee answered, fingering the pen behind his ear. He edged his small body to one side, making room for her next to the parts-covered workbench. He smiled shyly at her, the bright chrome flashing in his eyes.

She clapped him on the back, but softly so as not to frighten him. Then, looking around: “Where’s Matt?”

It became very quiet.

“What? Did he forget to show up?” No, that wasn’t it. As she peered at the familiar faces around her, she knew. “The weasel pissed Dad off.” She said it with some awe. Her father was not easy to rile. Which was his best quality, in her opinion. Easygoing Red Mattel had a reputation in the industry for fair, laid-back evenhandedness when dealing with his customers and technicians alike. It was a major element of his performance shop’s survival in a city where lesser mechanic garages went belly-up after only a year or two in business.

“What did he do?” All four guys looked pointedly away from her. Lee actually blushed. “What, damn it?” Now she was really curious.

Will finally answered her. He spoke quickly, looking at the ceiling. “This morning Red was showing the new guy around storage, when—”

“What new guy?” Sarah demanded.

“Patience, patience,” Will said, teasing her. “All things, ah, come to those who wait.”

At the inside joke, the guys guffawed, then fell into embarrassed silence.

“Tell me what the hell happened with Matt or I’ll start beating on you,” she threatened, laying her hand on a long, lumpy camshaft. Then she watched, mystified, as all four of them broke into gales of laughter.

“Beating. Oh man,” Will gasped, his face flushed from laughter.

“No. No way.” Sarah snatched her hand away from the part. She was beginning to get the picture. “He didn’t.”

“He sure did. With a wad of shop rags and a pile of American Rodder’s Mechanic of the Month fold-outs. And guess whose picture was on top?”

“Please no,” Sarah said. She knew. It was just like the little weasel to do something so gross right in her own shop. Nearly her own shop, she reminded herself again. “You shouldn’t have snapped that stupid picture of me cleaning the transmission spill. I looked like a bimbo in a wet t-shirt contest.”

“Just Craig’s type. What will your Romeo have to say about all this?” Will asked, shaking his head. His eyes twinkled with humor.

She suddenly felt restless and irritable as she thought about Craig. “Probably nothing. He doesn’t have a jealous bone in his body where I’m concerned.”

“Guess not. Anyway, your dad and the new guy—Gordon—were so unimpressed by Matt’s taste in t-shirted, smudge-faced ladies that Matt was kindly asked to accompany them up to Red’s office for his last paycheck. Last I saw, Matt was trying to cling to that pull-out poster of you like it was a treasure, but Red relieved him of it before booting him out the door.”

“Flattering,” she said, picking up the work order and scanning the specs for the refresh job. “Well, at least we’ll have someone decent to handle the front. The glass needs cleaning.”

Will cleared his throat. “Didn’t get the impression that’s what the new guy’ll be doing.” When she looked at him quizzically, he plucked the work order from her fingers. “Red said to tell you to go on up when you get in. That was about an hour ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me!” she growled, punching him in the arm as she passed him. She pulled the blow at the last moment. She didn’t want to damage her people. And she liked Will. She liked them all. Except Matt. And now he was gone.

She nearly danced up the stairs to her dad’s office.

Sitting across the desk from Red, Gordon felt the tingling in his veins that he always got with a good idea, but magnified. This one was it.

He gazed at the big man who’d just made his business instincts snap to attention. Like his name implied, Red had the requisite strawberry-blond mop of hair sitting atop a head that pushed up past Gordon’s own six-foot height by at least a few inches. The man who filled his swiveling cloth chair to capacity, dwarfing it, seemed to be offering Gordon a shortcut to his dreams.

“You’re offering something different from what we discussed on the phone.” Gordon spoke plainly. “Why?” He interlaced his well-manicured fingers together over his pressed slacks. The business suit gave him a sense of security that boosted his confidence, though the clothes seemed desperately out of place in this shop. Even Red, the owner, wore jeans. But then again, Red had openly admitted that he had no experience in taking his shop to the next level.

Gordon did.

Red answered him with matching directness, but with a slow drawl. “You’re overqualified for the tech position, which I think you know.”

“I am, but the job is important.” Working here was more important than he’d wanted Red to know during the phone interviews. After slaving his butt off and now going to night school to earn his advanced business degree, this was the next step. And if he played his cards right, Big Red’s Auto Performance Shop would be the answer to his business dreams.

“I like your attitude, Gordon. That’s why I’m offering the supervisor position, and if that goes well …”

Gordon leaned back in his chair, hoping to look nonchalant. “I’m listening.”

“I need someone with your business acumen to run things after I leave.”

“What about your daughter? I understood that this was a family company.”

“It is. And she’s sharp as a tack, but she’s not interested in anything that doesn’t have four wheels attached to it.”

Gordon envisioned a tomboy in grimy overalls. From his experience in the automotive industry, chances were good she answered that phone he’d seen up front. Women—even tomboys—generally weren’t natural additions to the rougher circle of mechanics who did the real work. “I understand completely, sir.”

“Don’t get me wrong. She knows her way around the shop better than anyone, and Lord knows I pay her enough, but all she wants to do is race.” Red’s expression when he looked at Gordon was mostly inscrutable, but Gordon thought he detected a certain resignation. “She’s close, so close, to being what this shop needs. But close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, am I right?” He waved his hand as if dismissing the topic. “I believe that’s her I hear pounding up the stairs as we speak.”

Expecting to see an overweight tomboy in the predicted grimy overalls from the clomping sound of the footsteps, Gordon couldn’t help being surprised at the sight of the slim young lady who pushed open the doors to Red’s large office without so much as a polite knock. She was the same t-shirted woman as the one in the glossy photo pullout he’d first seen down in the storage room, and which was now curled into Red’s trashcan. That was his daughter? No wonder Red had looked like he’d been ready to punch the guy.

But evidently Gordon had surprised her too. Her easy grin segued into a confused stare as she took in his suit. Gordon rather enjoyed the frank scrutiny. Her wide, pale lips and her pulled-back hair couldn’t disguise an earthy femininity, and her clear eyes when they rose to meet his questioningly were a striking shade of emerald that he’d never seen before.

“Sarah, dear,” Red said, rising. “This is our newest member of the company, Gordon Devine.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Sarah said, immediately crossing the floor and extending her hand to him before he could get to his feet. The scent of orange hand cleaner wafted up as she gripped his hand firmly.

Then, so quickly that he could only watch, she turned her back and strode toward Red. “Just got here. Last night’s race ran late, so I slept in. Will sent me up.” When she saw Red darting nervous glances at Gordon, she turned toward him again with curiosity.

Somewhat at a loss for words, and marveling at the rare sensation of being caught off guard, Gordon belatedly rose to his feet. “It is indeed a pleasure to meet Red’s capable daughter. He tells me that you’re a valuable asset to the shop.” He watched her tilt her head up to him, her wheat-colored ponytail glinting even in the office’s florescent light.

She was slightly older than the sixteen or seventeen he’d first assumed. Her lack of makeup and jewelry lent her an unsophisticated air. Quite unlike the women he preferred to date.

“I try,” she said dryly. Her lips twitched, as if she were suppressing a grin. She nodded at his suit and raised a pale eyebrow at his leather-bound briefcase leaning against the chair. “You look too polished for this shop. Are you sure you don’t mind getting dirty?”

“Sarah, dear. Be nice.”

Red’s mild chastising had no visible effect on the girl.

“No, Red, it’s okay.” Gordon gazed down at Red’s spoiled little daughter—for that’s certainly what she was, spoiled rotten—and spoke with precise enunciation, as if to a slow child. He smiled warmly. “We all have our uses.” He made sure her eyes followed his as he looked pointedly at Red’s trashcan and what lay within.

Her blush was lovely to behold. He wasn’t sure until that moment that she knew exactly how her image had been utilized.

The flush of pink that suffused her cheeks had another effect on him, as well. The hint of color transformed her from being merely pretty, to being beautiful. Gordon stared, astonished. A little makeup, some high heels, she’d be a knockout. He supposed that her receptionist duties might include some work that got her “dirty,” as she put it, hence the grubby clothes she had on. Not sufficiently professional. A dress code was clearly needed.

He hoped he’d embarrassed her into silence. Beginning to turn his back on her and continue his business with Red, he was stopped by her voice.

“Dad, where’s that spray window cleaner you brought up here?”

“Over on the windowsill.” Red spoke to her with clear fondness. Probably never saw a reason to be anything other than indulgent with her. Doubtless allowed her anything her little heart desired from the time she was old enough to ask. Gordon felt the old resentment shift and turn inside him as he compared her easy upbringing to his own lifelong struggle to raise himself up by his bootstraps. He’d had to help support his family, then pay for his own night-school education as he worked during the day. He’d gone even farther and invented a few high-performance parts for hot rods, and actually managed to sell a prototype to a big aftermarket company.

Now, finally, he was nearly ready to take his place among the automotive industry’s business elite.

Gordon squelched his brief resentment. It was Red’s business whether he chose to spoil his daughter. As long as she answered the phone politely and didn’t drain the company coffers more than was reasonable.

He watched her cross the office with her confident, almost masculine swagger. He noticed her short unpainted nails that showed traces of old dirt still embedded beneath them. He was still wearing his polite smile as she crossed back toward him carrying the blue cleaner. “Well, Sarah, it’s been nice meeting—what is this?”

The spray bottle leaked onto his fingers where she’d thrust it into his hand.

She smiled at him, a little pityingly. “It’s a bit of a dirty job, but you know what they say: ‘any job worth doing is worth doing well.’ Please do the glass counter. It’s really grungy. Welcome to my company.”

Sarah sailed out, her footsteps a confident staccato on the stairs as she raced down them.

Gordon stood with the smell of ammonia wafting up, at a complete loss for words.

Red looked at him, his pitying expression a mirror of his daughter’s. “Um, she’s actually right about your clothes. Business casual or even jeans would probably be better.”

Gordon slowly set the cleaner down onto Red’s desk with what he thought was admirable self-control. “Red, I would hope that this supervisor position doesn’t include taking direction from the receptionist.”

Red blustered. “No, of course not. Well, I suppose I might take the occasional suggestion under consideration. But, you know, Sarah’s not the receptionist. She’s more of a technician. The, um, head technician.” Red managed, with all his bulk, to look sheepish. “Matt was the front man who answered the phone and worked the store. When he felt like it. But now of course, he’s gone.” He gazed at Gordon.

“You don’t expect me …”

“No, of course not! In fact, I’d like to work with you about the reorganization of the company. Business management is your area.”

“You haven’t told Sarah that I’ll be the new supervisor, have you?” Gordon shook his head, not needing an answer. He flicked his fingers, ridding them of liquid. “Okay Red, you asked for it. First thing Monday, let’s you and I have a meeting. The day after, we’ll hand out the new positions. This should be interesting.”

His hand was already itching to shove the ammonia bottle back into Sarah’s face. It would be his pleasure to tell Daddy’s little tomboy not to miss a spot.

What will Craig think?

Sarah watched a small crease appear in Craig’s forehead. He waved a rubber dog toy at the shadows under the kitchen table. “You’re kidding. Matt was caught red-handed? Huh.” The crease faded, then disappeared as he shrugged. “At least he’s gone now.”

She could feel her mouth twist into a cynical quirk. So much for jealousy.

She peered at the man who was the longest-running crush of her entire life. He appeared to be absorbed with dancing the dog toy back and forth like a puppet. Was he at least mildly bothered? Bothered would be nice. But she had to admit that he didn’t look it. He looked like he’d forgotten about it already.

Even Gordon had alluded to Matt’s indiscretion with some scorn. She had to remember the source, though. Gordon seemed awfully conservative. When was the last time she’d seen anyone wear pressed pants at the shop? She couldn’t remember. Dad should clue him in about the perils of wearing a business suit in a garage. Though she had to admit he’d looked okay in it. In an uptight sort of way.

He was so not her type. Not in a million years.

Craig, on the other hand . . .

She let a savoring gaze rest on his attractive male physique.

Craig tossed the toy across her living room, away from the table. “Your dog hates me.” A growl sounded from the shadows as if in agreement.

“Ricky Racer doesn’t hate you. Please don’t give up. He’ll come around.”

He’ll come around. It was what she told herself every time thoughts of Craig entered her head, which was every few minutes. Sometimes she even believed it. Other times, when she was more honest with herself, she admitted she’d fallen for him precisely because he was out of reach. Since her very first crush in grade school—a completely unattainable, painfully good-looking boy who was also a gymnast-in-training for the Olympics—she’d been hit with case after case of hopeless yearning.

Craig was, by far, the longest-lasting case.

His attention had turned to their favorite subject. “So, did you notice that mid-track wobble on my second pass yesterday? It was pretty early in the evening, so you might not have gotten there yet . . .”

“I saw it,” she said. “I always get there early when you’re racing. All the better to practice so I can finally whup that cute little behind of yours.”

“Dream on.” But he gave her a slow grin, his blue eyes like summer lightening as he clearly appreciated her double compliment. Her heart did flip-flops. She couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t had the power to make her thoughts jam in her head, just as they had in high school when he’d first offered up that heartbreaker grin. She supposed it had something to do with his blond-haired, blue-eyed, Greek-god good looks. And his easy attitude. And his remarkable skill behind the wheel. His passion for racing—a car-guy speed mania that he carried with infinite coolness—made everything he did look effortless.

But she knew better than to think his accomplishments actually were without effort. She could personally measure the work it took him, down to the ounces of sweat and blood, to create a fast racecar. She’d built one for herself, after all.

She also knew better than to hope her obsession with him would ever be anything other than one-way. And yet, she couldn’t help hoping. Which wasn’t his fault. He treated her like a buddy, teased her like a sister, and confided too many unflattering details about himself for her to think he cared for her that way. Craig prided himself on being honest. He was certainly honest enough to tell her, in so many different ways, that she wasn’t his type.

Not yet anyway. When she schooled him on the track, he’d look at her differently. With surprise. With startled admiration. She let her eyes drift closed, daydreaming.

Sarah, I never knew you had it in you. I hadn’t noticed . . . His voice would catch and his demeanor would finally show a little uncertainty. The sensation of such overpowering emotion would make him humble. Why didn’t I see it before? You’re my soulmate . . . Sarah frowned in the middle of her daydream. No, Craig would never utter the word “soulmate.” For that matter, neither would she. Sarah smiled contentedly, appreciating everything about him, from the way he tipped his beer to the way he stretched his muscles with the unselfconscious grace of a cat.

He extended a bare, muscular forearm and looked at his watch. “I’ve got a ton of computer help documentation to write by early tomorrow. Kill me now? No? Then I’d better get going.” He stood, carrying one empty beer bottle, and strode to the kitchen and directly to the trash cabinet. He opened, tossed, and closed with the smooth movements of one long accustomed to a home’s layout.

Picking up the black leather jacket draped over the recliner, he paused. He gazed at her with more seriousness than usual. “That thing about Matt. If it bothers you, I could make him wish he’d picked a different fold-out.”

A thrilling rush of gratitude pulsed through her. She had to remind herself he meant nothing boy-friendly by his offer. It was the protectiveness of a brother for a sister.

It still made her cheeks heat and her blood pound.

“Nah, I’m good.” He would never know how hard she worked to keep her voice level and her expression bored and just a little amused. Or maybe he would. He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t insensitive. In fact, she couldn’t think of a single flaw he had, not with his eyes on her like that.

And then she remembered.

“You better get going. You’ll devastate your cheering squad at the track if you don’t show up tomorrow.” The tracksluts had bewitched him. She thought of them that way: tracksluts, all one word. They were the lacquered and scantily clad groupies who preyed on the guys who comprised most of the elite racers. As the handsome, hard-charging local champion, Craig was prime trackslut-bait. A magazine cover shot was their goal, a date with a racer their Holy Grail. They were damnably attractive women, good only for posing, pawing, and getting in the way. And corrupting racers like Craig.

Although, to be fair, he’d resisted their siren song at first. They’d noticed him years ago, of course, when he’d won his first Friday night competition. They’d looked at him with stars in their eyes, he’d told her later. He admitted he’d been easy pickings for one especially attractive trackslut, who took him home and . . . but Sarah didn’t like to think about the details, even the few that Craig had provided. What was more interesting to her was what had happened afterward.

Craig hadn’t known the trackslut agenda. He found out the hard way, on their second date. After listening to his attractive companion talk about herself—her modeling career, mostly—he’d reciprocated with information about himself. But she’d been disillusioned about his dull day job. She was bored by his Midwestern background. Blatantly fishing for magazine contacts and modeling jobs (“You have such a nice car. Has it ever been featured in American Rodder?”), she became cold when she found out he had no contacts for her to use. When he’d asked her out on another date, thinking that he’d give the desirable woman another chance—after all, he’d slept with her—she’d turned him down. Explaining with brutal candor that she preferred more of a challenge, more of a mystery than he was, she’d laughed at his astonished, hurt reaction.

The affair had affected him deeply, Sarah remembered. Stung, Craig had decided to alter all future interactions with the tracksluts. They wanted mysterious and challenging? He’d be so mysterious and challenging that even the nicest-seeming tracksluts couldn’t wiggle their long fingernails underneath his armor. He’d use the tracksluts the way they wanted to use him.

They didn’t seem to mind.

Trouble was, Craig didn’t seem to mind either. His buddies made him into their hero for scoring so effortlessly. His own talent made him the hero of everyone else at the local track. But Sarah wished the tracksluts had never laid their claws on him. She’d had to witness his natural emotional awkwardness expand into full-on emotional avoidance.

Throw in Craig’s divorced parents, whom he didn’t want to emulate, and he was exactly the kind of romantic long shot she’d pine for until her heart gave out, she thought with uncharacteristic gloom.

Sensing her mood, Craig tried to cheer her up.

He acknowledged her cheerleader comment with a shrug, letting his jacket dangle from two fingers as he looked hard at her. “You going to race too? It’s not the same without you there. And you’re really picking up your time lately. Gonna share your secret?”

“You know all my secrets.”

“Not quite all of them, Sarah.”

Her heart stopped. It should be illegal for him to do that to her.

He wouldn’t kick her out of bed, she knew. Sarah grimaced. He was a guy, after all. He would put his technical writing responsibilities on hold to sleep with her.

It would be fantastic.

All she had to say was “yes.”

“Pass on that.”

One lapse and he’d see her as just another conquest, a body interchangeable with all the others she knew he sampled.

She couldn’t let that happen.

Retreating into humor, she forced a chuckle and glanced down at herself. Clean All-Star sneakers, broken-in straight-leg jeans, and a plain pale green T-shirt. No makeup, as usual. She felt the scrunchie pulling back her straight, wheat-blond hair. “I’ve got to wash my hair this week. Maybe next week.”

“Next week works for me.” He opened the front door. His lips quirked up on one side in the irresistible way he had. “Thanks for the beer and the dirty thoughts. See you tomorrow?” He waited until she nodded before closing the door.

When the door shut, Ricky Racer immediately trotted out to her from the dark corner where he’d been watching them both. She scooped him up, nuzzling the long brown dachshund. “Who’s my favorite hot dog? Who is? You is!”

He yapped happily.

She held the squirming dog and nuzzled his nose.

“Craig wants a piece of me. Doesn’t he? Doesn’t he? But he can’t have just a piece.” Ricky yapped with orgiastic bliss. Sarah giggled, then put him down after one last nuzzle.

Through the door she heard the throaty rumble of Craig’s beefed-up Mustang exiting the parking lot, and her tense muscles finally loosened. She gave a big sigh.

“He’s a tough one. But when I beat him, he’ll see the light. A girlfriend worthy of respect. It’ll be a new concept for him. We’ll be the perfectly matched couple.”

Ricky just gazed back at her patiently. She knew he’d heard it all before. Many times.

“You’re far more interested in a walk than listening to me go on and on about Craig, aren’t you? Aren’t you?” Ricky became the incredible bouncing hot dog at the prospect of a walk.

Sarah attached his leash and followed him outside. “But then again, you’d be more interested in a rotting dead housefly than in Craig. There’s no accounting for taste.”

 

Chapter Two

“I’d like to begin this meeting by officially introducing the newest member of our team: Gordon Devine.”

Sarah felt her eyes open lazily. So it was official. She peered at her dad, who’d called them all into the unusual Tuesday-morning meeting. The last tech had been rounded up and seated. Her dad just winked down at her when he saw her watching him. He leaned against a cabinet, towering above all of them. He’d given up his chair to the new guy.

Sarah lounged in her own chair by the door, having thrust her legs up to rest her feet on the edge of a cabinet shelf. Her dad would know she was bored. Time could be spent so much more productively—and interestingly—down in the shop.

She watched Gordon give a little nod from Red’s extra-large chair to the small half-circle of employees gathered in the office. At least he’d changed from his business suit into slacks and a polo shirt. Still way too starched and ironed, of course, but a step in the right direction. She’d bet good money that those tan pants would be grease-stained by noon. He was working in a speed shop, not a . . . She wracked her brain, trying to think of where a guy like him would work. A law firm. Or a bank. The man belonged in a tasteful, soundproofed high-rise with beige cubicles the same color as his pants, and lots of large, glass-doored conference rooms. Not like this impromptu gathering in her dad’s office with too few chairs. She raised her eyes from his slacks and met his coolly amused hazel gaze.

Red continued. “Now. You all know by now that Matt has been let go. Gordon here won’t be taking his place.”

Sarah sat up, her feet hitting the floor. She looked at her father questioningly.

“In fact, Gordon’s position is new. I’ve decided that we could use a supervisor—hang on, Sarah, I’ll get to questions in a minute—to oversee things and help take the shop to the next level. Gordon has the background and qualifications to do this. I want all of us to cooperate with him, take his suggestions, and implement his ideas. Okay. Gordon, do you want to say a few words about yourself before we go on?” Red pinned Sarah with a warning look, and she shut her mouth.

Gordon rose smoothly. “Thank you, Red. First of all, I’d like to say thank you for welcoming me, and that I look forward to working with you all. Red has founded and built up a successful speed shop that has one of the best reputations in Southern California among automotive enthusiasts. I don’t want to change that. I do want to expand its industry presence and grow its existing success in new directions. So. A little bit about me . . .” He smiled confidently, but with just the right amount of good-natured modesty. “Briefly, I grew up eating and breathing cars in a little town outside of Sacramento, California. First I worked on them, then I managed to invent a performance part and started my own company based around that for a short time before selling the interest in that company. Very shortly I will earn my advanced business degree, but in the meantime I’ve been looking for a company with good potential. I believe I’ve found it.”

“What was the performance part you invented?” Sarah challenged.

Gordon turned to her with an easy smile. “It’s a long-life roller lifter. Bought by Holley. You may have heard of Holley?”

Sarah sat, stunned. Holley had bought something from him? That was a serious vote of confidence. Holley was a big company in the automotive aftermarket.

Gordon didn’t wait for her to gather her thoughts. He summed up, then addressed everyone. “I’m sure we’ll make a productive team together, and thanks again for welcoming me. Red?”

“Yeah. Good. Since Gordon has some ideas for where we should go, I think we should listen to him. Okay then . . . Sarah.”

Still feeling a little bowled over by Gordon’s credentials, she shook her head. “I don’t have any questions, for now.”

“Good. As the head tech, it’s your job to give him the run-down on how things have been done, who does what, the works. Give him a tour, too. The one I tried to give him was interrupted last week.”

Muffled snickers greeted this. Sarah blushed. But everyone was pushing back their chairs, meeting adjourned, so she couldn’t reply. She wasn’t sure what she’d say to that, anyway. “No problem,” she stated, for her own sake. Everything was under control.

No, she didn’t completely believe that. The techs trickled out of the office without asking any questions about this new order of business, as if everything was the same. But all kinds of new difficulties had walked in the door along with Mr. College-Educated sitting there in his pressed pants. She’d heard of so-called management experts like him coming in and then changing everything around. What had Dad been thinking?

Gordon’s supposed background as a mechanic, likely just supervising work on upscale European cars, and that Holley sale—she grudgingly gave him full credit for that coup, if it were true—none of it mattered when five engines needed an overhaul in a hurry. Gordon was clearly too . . . too clean. Too lofty for real work. One clothes encounter with transmission fluid and he’d be off like a shot, updating his resume.

Dad wouldn’t have hired him just to supervise. Would he? Apprehension fluttered inside her. She waited, watching Gordon speaking in low tones with her father. They were almost the same height, though Gordon didn’t have Dad’s horizontal bulk. He was more lean, and his brown hair far richer and thicker than Dad’s graying corn-wisps. Seeing them side-by-side, she realized how old Dad was getting. He looked tired, the bags under his eyes pronounced, his face dotted with faint bruise-colored sunspots that she’d never noticed before. Old? It seemed impossible. His indomitable spirit, his encouragement and unflagging energy, had been what inspired her to be motivated and self-sufficient her whole life. It had been a powerful force to push against sometimes too—like when she’d made the decision to drop out of college and work at the shop. But mostly he supported anything she wanted to do. He’d been setting a strong example ever since Mom had died. That was so long ago that the warm, matronly figure in her memory might just as easily have been the babysitter.

If Dad was slowing down, then what would that mean for him? And for her? Was it the reason why he’d brought on extra managerial help?

Shaken, Sarah almost didn’t notice when Red left and Gordon stood over her, waiting. She suddenly realized that he watched her, and that the office was completely empty except for the two of them.

In the stillness, she could hear the tick-tick of his expensive-looking watch. Possibly because of her observing him while he’d spoken with Dad, she was very aware of Gordon’s height next to her. His broad shoulders filled out the material of his white sport-shirt to a mannequinlike perfection. He managed to exude a very professional attentiveness, enhanced by his manner of dressing.

She stared at him, disliking him for no good reason. But she kept the thought from showing on her face. She was a professional, too—just not the yuppie kind. “So I guess you won’t be cleaning the glass counters anytime soon,” she joked. Might as well address their earlier clash head-on. Break the ice.

“No.”

She waited, but he said nothing else.

So much for breaking the ice. “Okay. A tour de jour, then. What have you seen so far?” She could have bit her tongue in exasperation. She knew what he’d seen—far too much in the storage room. She willfully determined not to blush as she tilted her chin up and waited for him to use the ammo she’d just handed to him.

“Not much. Why don’t you show me around?” Gordon smiled at her, his hazel eyes taking on a pointed glint.

“Fine. Observe Red Mattel’s office. One walnut desk. Too many file cabinets with one actually blocking the only window looking down into the main shop area. Bookcases galore sagging under the weight of publications like Hemmings Motor News, reference books, subscription magazines, catalogs sent by manufacturers, and one cable TV. The TV’s good for watching videos of installation procedures. It helped walk me through a complicated transmission rebuild last week . . .” He wouldn’t be interested in that. “Plus Dad watches the FAST channel sometimes. But hey, he’s the boss.”

“Why don’t you show me around downstairs.”

“C’mon then. This way,” she said, feeling like a waitress escorting a customer to a table. She scowled. She’d start with the engine bay, walk him by a couple of works-in-progress. If she were lucky he’d smudge his shirt and run off to the dry cleaner’s.

Her head pounded, and she suddenly detoured by the coffee machine to fill a Styrofoam cup, trusting that he’d follow. She heard the soft whisk of his pants behind her and gritted her teeth, pouring the industrial brew and stirring in two packets of sugar with brisk, stabbing movements. What was it about him that rubbed her so much the wrong way? He was attractive, she had to admit. Extremely so, in a just-stepped-out-of-a-clothes-catalog kind of way. Something else made her hackles rise. It was his confidence. His was too confident, she decided. His attitude was irritating.

Almost as irritating as her dad dropping this bombshell on her along with the rest of the guys—as if she were just another employee, not entitled to any special heads-up.

Trying not to glower as she continued around a ’34 woody being transformed into a street rod—one of her father’s pet projects—she paralleled the long steel workbench lining the side of the shop. She stopped a dozen feet from where Will was running the grinder, the plastic shield down and his goggles on. As he pressed a piece of metal against the spinning wheel, yellow sparks showered him. “This is the fab area. The fabrication area,” she elaborated, not sure what he already knew. “Fabrication means—”

“Making or modifying parts. I know.”

She pressed her lips together to prevent her first response from emerging. She said instead, “Moving right along . . . over here is the assembly area. Each engine has its own bench, its own area, to avoid mixing up any parts and slowing down the projects. We don’t see too many import or sport compact engines here, but the few we get are kept in their own area with dedicated tools. Lee usually works on ’em. How’s it going?” Sarah waved to Lee, who nodded shyly back, both of his hands occupied positioning a micrometer for precise measurement.

At the back wall of the shop, she opened a door that led to a large room filled with gray-primered cars and guys wearing dust masks. The unmistakable odor of an active bodyshop—a chalky, stale-Playdoh scent—wafted out to fill their nostrils. She moved aside to let him see past her. “This is our body and paint shop. It makes us rare among other speed shops that we can do everything under one roof. Hardly anyone else does bodywork and paint, in addition to engines and suspensions.” She gave a tug and the door closed behind her, cutting off Gordon’s view.

“Okay, what else . . .” Sarah looked around, taking in the whole of the brightly lit garage from the high ceiling with its exposed beams and dark gray sprinkler-system pipes down to the smooth expanse of custom rubberized flooring. Clean, busy, and well organized. The layout was standard. She wasn’t going to give him the rundown on every single air tool, band saw, and hydraulic hoist. Besides the shop, what did Dad want her to show Gordon? Were they supposed to inventory the supplies? Run down the workflow? That was her job, and she did it quite well. No need to duplicate effort.

“That’s about it. I’ll show you where your locker is,” she said, beginning to lead him toward the back of the shop where the guys kept their things. The bottoms of her canvas sneakers squeaked against the floor. She could drop him off there and be away from his condescending attitude before he turned the combination of his lock. Her dad could get Gordon situated up front. Dad was the one who’d made the mistake of hiring him.

“Not necessary. I’ll be in the upstairs office.”

Sarah stopped so quickly that her sneakers made a squealing sound against the floor. “You what?”

“Office. Upstairs.” He raised one eyebrow at her. “Actually, why don’t we go there now? I’d like to discuss the scope of your job responsibilities with you.”

“Of my . . . ?” He had to be joking. No, she could see that even though he was amused to put her at an awkward loss for words, he was not joking. “Gordon. That is your name? I’m not sure what you think you’re going to accomplish here, but one thing you’re not going to do is waste any more of my time. I have work to do.”

Her response was more than a little rude, but as she strode away she decided that the white-collared dude had needed the reality check. The nerve of him to . . .

“Sarah Mattel.” Her name spoken with that deeply resonant voice echoed up and off the ceiling, the storage rows, and all the far corners of the shop. She froze as if she’d been caught stealing. She turned around, expecting to see a thunderous expression or barely restrained violence, something dramatic to match that voice of doom.

He was smiling politely. “Thank you for the tour. Not very thorough, but enlightening.”

She was the one left watching him stride away, easy in his new environment, his matte leather loafers making not a peep against the rubberized floor. “Enlightening,” she muttered as she turned around again, wishing she’d just ignored him and kept walking. He seemed to have a knack for getting under her skin in all sorts of unpleasant ways. Why had she stopped on his command, anyway? “And what the hell does he mean by ‘enlightening’? And why do I care? And who says it matters?”

“And why are you talking to yourself?” Will mimicked, goosing her, laughing at her surprised shriek. “You’re losin’ it, babe. All that racing’s shook your marbles out of order.” He danced out of range of her flying fists.

When she took off after him, threatening vile punishments, she almost managed to put Gordon out of her mind. He wasn’t relevant to her lifestyle. She’d been at the shop long before him, and her own dad owned it. There wasn’t a thing he could do to her.

By the Tuesday night drags, Sarah had all but forgotten Gordon, who’d sequestered himself all day in the upstairs office with Red. She revved her engine an extra couple of times as she eased her hot-rodded Mustang into the head of the staging lanes. She was next up for her pass down the track. As always, anticipation made her pulse thrum with excitement.

Drag racing was so mind-clearing. To launch quickly, drive fast, and get there exactly as quick as the elapsed time shoe-polished on her window; that was her idea of mental therapy. Never mind the expensive shrinks other women paid to make their vacuous lives more palatable. Give her 1,320 feet of straight road and a fast car.

She glanced again at the white shoe polish declaring her time, reading the mirror-image ET number with a thrill of pride. Her car had gotten quicker in the last year, thanks to a lot of time spent working on it at the shop swapping for a bigger camshaft, and adding a less restrictive exhaust system. In the last month she’d improved on her consistency and reaction times, allowing her to move up to a more competitive bracket class. The same class Craig raced in. Her time was more consistent than the other guys she went up against on the Tuesday/Thursday rounds. Even at the more formal Friday Night Eliminations at Carlsdale she managed to hold her own more often than not.

Still, for all her improvement, Craig had her beat. She looked with some envy at him sitting in his car a few slots behind her, farther back in the crowded lanes. His dial-in was 10.50, a full second quicker than hers, and he somehow managed to run exactly on his dial-in, or just a few thousandths of a second under it, on nearly every pass. His consistency was admirable. It was desirable. In fact, sometimes she wasn’t sure if she wanted him, or wanted to be him.

In the rearview mirror she saw bright colors and exposed flesh slinking against the hood of his blue ’94 Mustang. The tracksluts surely wanted him.

Her race harness pressed against her shoulders as Sarah shrugged. Guys loved the skin-flaunting creatures. Couldn’t take their eyes off ’em. Craig certainly didn’t seem to have the tiniest problem with the newest batch of hood ornaments he’d acquired. His popularity with the tracksluts increased in direct proportion to his reputation as a player and a winner. She’d be lucky if he even noticed her pass down the track.

Sarah peered in her rearview mirror again. Long legs everywhere, glossily fluffed hair, lipstick and cleavage stuck in his face, painted talons tracing his fender. The women moved sinuously, then froze in strategic poses. It was as if they were metal filings, and his car intermittently magnetized.

She tore her eyes from the spectacle. She would never sink to the level of flaunting her body to get attention from a guy. Not even Craig. Especially not Craig.

No matter how tempting he was.

Between their changing into fresh T-shirts at the track and the familiarity of seeing each other in the near-nude every summer, Sarah and Craig both could guess to within the millimeter exactly what lay beneath their respective bits of clothing. She felt her cheeks heat at the memory of Craig whipping off his shirt in one smooth arc and flaunting his tight tummy. He never looked away when they changed, always grinning that devastating slow grin at her in her athletic bra. He was a walking, talking tease, effortlessly seductive, unashamed in his casual approach to sex.

She couldn’t bring herself to match such casualness.

Trying to get her mind in the proper zone to race, she forced thoughts of Craig from her mind. She’d think of something sobering. Work. Engine rebuilds.

Gordon.

She suddenly felt her teeth grind together. That did it. Good, clean clarity, courtesy of Gordon. It had been so much fun to hand him the glass cleaner and watch that supercilious expression of his vanish. Her only victory so far. Who did he think he was to pull rank on her? He’d treated her like a lackey . . . like a nobody. She, Sarah Mattel, the head technician. She should be his boss.

Maybe she was his boss.

Sarah smiled as she pulled around the shallow depression of dirty water and then backed onto the thin film of moisture before spinning her rear tires in a burnout to heat them, and therefore increase her traction, barely thinking about what she did. Wouldn’t it be nice if she outranked him? She’d have to ask Dad.

She resolved to also ask him what on earth had made him hire a white-collar. What use could Gordon possibly be in their shop? They were doing just fine without his kind.

It was probably just one of Dad’s recent weird experiments, she guessed, like when he’d decided the shop needed Matt as a full-time phone-call fielder and receptionist—“Desk Man,” as Matt had ludicrously preferred to be called. Gordon would work out no better.

Come to think of it, why was Dad suddenly trying so hard to make the shop more efficient, after years of doing things at his own pace? At his age he should be going to car shows on Saturdays and swap meets on Sundays instead of staying in the shop to catch up on work. He should be meeting women in cafes, or at piano bars or something, not wasting half the night poring over accounts payable.

The first yellow staging light of the Christmas tree dead ahead flashed on. She kept one eye on it as she crept forward, pulsing the brake until the second light went on to show her that she was in the proper launch position.

She held her left foot firmly on the brake and revved the engine with her right foot, bringing the rpm up to a preset point on her tachometer. Her mind became even more focused and clear as it returned fully to the action at hand. The high growl of her engine vibrated against the load as she held it steady, ready, watching the tree. The revving thrilled her to her bones. Thoughts of work couldn’t stand up against the bone-quivering noise.

They tried, though. Energy shifted inside her, feeding the competitiveness in her nature that seemed most alive at the dragstrip. So Gordon thought that he could waltz in and order things to suit him, did he?

Just because he’d gone to business school and possessed more than his fair share of confidence, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t still be easy meat for someone of her vast experience dealing with men. Her best friends were men. She knew the species better than her own.

And that man simply didn’t belong in her performance shop. His wide, chiseled mouth had looked to her as if it was all ready to shape strings of clever insults, possibly in other languages.

It was sort of sad. She almost felt sorry for him. Her father had brought him into a work environment where he clearly did not have the home-field advantage.

Poor Gordon. He was going down.

The tree flashed: yellow-yellow-yellow-green.

As soon as she saw the last yellow light, she lifted her foot off the brake, simultaneously flooring the gas. Her car leapt forward as if shot out of a cannon, the tires squealing momentarily from the power of her engine. Her opponent’s time was a little slower, so he got his green light first, forcing her to chase him to the finish line. Sarah shifted, her lips pulled back in a grimace as she gained on the slower Camaro in the other lane. She needed to catch and pass the other car, but not go so fast that she ran quicker than her 11.70-second dial-in. In bracket racing that was called “breaking out,” and she’d lose, even though she got to the finish line first. It was a strange rule, one that had taken her a while to get used to, but now it seemed almost natural to aim for a declared time rather than the finish line. Which wasn’t to say that she didn’t long for heads-up racing. One day she’d have the horsepower and the sponsors to step up to the brutally competitive, finish-line-first kind of racing. She would.

Around three hundred feet before the finish line, running nearly 120 mph, she caught and passed the Camaro. A split second afterward, she lifted off the gas a little to avoid running too quickly, but not so much that the Camaro could get past her. When she saw the win light in her lane she knew it was a good pass, probably very close to her dial-in. She curved off the track eagerly, hurrying only to wait for the kid in the ET shack to give her the timeslip. When he did, she stared at it, realizing that she’d nailed her dial-in right on the money. She’d run an 11.700-second pass.

Perfect!

Exuberant, she pulled into the pit area next to Craig’s truck and his currently empty enclosed trailer. She had no trailer of her own, just access to the open one at the shop when she needed it. Craig was still ahead of her in the equipment arena.

For the moment.

She shut off her car. Instead of trailering her race vehicle the way Craig did his when he competed, she simply drove to and from the track. Riskier and harder on the car, but easier on her, as she had no need to load things up at the end of the night. Plus it was fun to drive fast on the freeways, and she could park wherever she wanted rather than being limited to the track’s more distant trailers-only lot.

But if she started running the big-money brackets, or better, achieving her dream lifestyle of professional heads-up racing, then she’d definitely have to invest in her own enclosed trailer, to protect her investment. If one wanted to race with the big dogs, one had to spring for such things.

A lot would have to change if she made it to that level.

Craig dazzled by the sight of her kicking ass and taking names. That would be a nice change. Craig bowled over by the realization that his chick-racer best buddy would make a better girlfriend. An even nicer change.

As if summoned by her desire for his company, Craig pulled his Mustang in next to hers close enough for his passenger-side door to ding hers if someone opened it. No one would, of course. Craig allowed nobody to ride in his racecar, not even tracksluts.

He pulled off his helmet and aimed a gently chiding expression at her through his open window. He managed to look both rueful and reproachful as he scolded her. “You didn’t watch my pass.”

How did he manage to stay charming while giving her a hard time for not hanging on his every move? Sarah didn’t know, but she could feel her heart responding to him as if it was an engine, his charm a foot on an accelerator. Sarah climbed out of her car and circled around his, trying to ignore the sudden rapid tattoo of her pulse. She made her voice flippant. “Did you watch mine?”

He shrugged, grinning. “My view was blocked.”

I’ll bet it was.

But he hadn’t watched her pass, which meant she was off the hook for not watching his. She smiled. “Never mind that.” She waved her victorious timeslip in front of him like a flag. “Lookee, lookee, lookee who’s not a rookie! I hit it exactly.”

Craig reached one casual arm out and enclosed her wrist, immobilizing it. He didn’t seem to notice her sudden indrawn breath as he examined the numbers. “Impressive. Very impressive. Your reaction time is good too.”

You have no idea.

Sarah resisted the urge to fan herself with the paper when he released her. Her reaction-time number wasn’t bad, but the achievement of hitting her dial-in should have gotten more recognition than a simple “impressive.” Why hadn’t it made more of an impact on him?

She found out as Craig continued, a look of disappointment darkening his light blue eyes to a compelling sapphire. “I broke out.”

“Really?” Sarah fingered her timeslip, unsure of how to show her commiseration. Cuddling him to her breast and stroking his hair, her first impulse, wasn’t appropriate. Unfortunately. “Bummer, dude.” Poor Craig. Breaking out would be shameful, especially in front of the trackslut brigade. She tried to be supportive. “That hardly ever happens to you anymore.”

“Yeah.” Craig gave her timeslip another glance. He managed an encouraging smile. “But you, though. You’re hittin’ it. Should lower your dial-in. Want to go for beers, celebrate?”

If only he were asking her out on a date. But she knew better. And she knew he only offered out of friendship, that his heart wasn’t in it at all. Even as she watched, his gaze slid past her into the distance, toward the track. He obviously remembered his own, less-successful pass. Racing meant as much to him as it did to her.

She hated to see him moping. “Nothing much to celebrate. My car’s still a slug next to yours,” she complained, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

He glanced at the white shoe polish on her window that showed her slower time. His eyebrows rose and she was glad to see his usual cocky smile reappear. “Not for long at the rate you’re going. And I’m gonna tell everyone I taught you everything you know.” Grinning, he stepped out of his car. She didn’t think it was completely an accident that when he pushed his door shut behind him he propelled his body half against hers for a moment. Of course, she was standing closer than strictly necessary. “Uh, sorry.” He reached a chivalrous hand out to steady her, and she made a small noise in her throat.

“Hey Sarah.” His voice was warm, his despondency over his pass gone. “Thanks. You always cheer me up. Sure you don’t want a beer? I’ll drive.” He gestured to his Mustang, making her gasp. He’d let her ride in his racecar? Her heart beat wildly, and she couldn’t catch her breath for a moment. He had to be joking. His position on passengers was firm: the racecar was for racing, period. He was superstitious about it, as if having someone else in a designated racecar would spoil its competitiveness. Was he making an exception for her? Maybe he’d meant he’d drive her car.

She waited too long.

Craig gazed at her thoughtfully. “Not right now, huh? Okay then.” He gazed over her shoulder. Suddenly his eyes glinted with mischief. “Maybe next time.”

A second later, she found out why. The tracksluts swarmed. “Oooh, Craig, you were so fast out there!” “Can I have a ride?” “No, can I?” “Can he come out to play?” This last was delivered to Sarah by an especially bold trackslut.

Sarah shrugged, wearing a bored expression that she hoped conveyed nothing of her emotions. Especially not jealousy. Taking a page from her memory of Gordon, she tried to duplicate the nuances of his condescending smile. She achieved the noncommittal tone. “Be my guest.” She stalked back to her car, trying to keep her eyes off the spectacle.

Sarah could barely see Craig’s blond head surrounded by the multicolored costumed girls touching him. They were positively drooling over him.

She could grab him out of their clutches, take him home, keep him, at least for a while. She could win. He’d choose her. All she had to do was drape herself on him and coo endearing things. All she had to do was wear painted-on clothes. All she had to do was give him the green light.

It was tempting, as always.

She grasped her timeslip more tightly and shook her head. “Be strong, be patient, and no matter what, don’t look at him right now.” Craig had to figure out she was worthy of a better kind of love. Didn’t he know that bona-fide romance was hard to find? “Don’t look, don’t look . . . damn it.”

He had his arm around a slender black-haired trackslut and was strolling away. She knew he knew she watched. He swaggered slightly as the pair bumped hips. Then he reached around her curvaceous form to wave to Sarah surreptitiously behind the girl’s tightly miniskirted butt: Bye-bye.

Damn him. Well, at least they walked. If he’d let one of those women ride in his car, she’d blow a gasket. As it was, she only felt slightly homicidal.

She pinched her timeslip so tightly that her fingertips turned as white as the fragile paper.

A belated wave of lust washed over her at the memory of his body nudging against hers. How she wanted him. How she admired him. The attraction was his looks, of course, and his superior racing ability, and even his king-like popularity. He was a man who brought out a kind of crazy eagerness in women.

She laughed, a tight, baffled sound. She and the tracksluts actually had something in common.

Starting her car, she welcomed the familiar, centering sound of its powerful engine. Its rhythmic, throaty rumble seem to growl with frustration at the thought that repeated in her head as she steered into the staging lanes: How on earth was she supposed to win Craig’s love, when all he wanted was the easy conquests?

 

Gordon handed off the work requisitions without a flicker of anything remotely warm in his eyes, just as he had all week. Sarah took them without comment, just as she had all week, setting them down on the workbench next to the carb cleaner, but a gust of wind blew the top one off the stack. It sailed past him, leaf-like, and Gordon immediately lunged to retrieve it.

She couldn’t help noticing his firm butt as he bent, then came up. The light brown khakis fit him as if they were tailored for him specifically, and his taut form was showcased to its masculine ultimate in the Olympian position that he momentarily sustained. She looked away from him as he turned toward her once more, this time placing the requisition on the stack himself. He grabbed the can of carb cleaner and stabbed it down on top of the papers. Without a word, he left.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you had a thing for him,” Will said, torquing down the head bolts of the engine they were all assembling.

“My friend, you have a screw loose.” She huddled over the engine’s partially disassembled four-barrel on the shop bench with a screwdriver in one hand, and began assembling the jets and metering plates to get it ready to install on the engine. “I much prefer a certain blond-haired racer.”

“Of course you do. But . . . why?”

Sarah felt her eyebrows lift of their own volition. It was an odd question, coming from Will. Usually the guys limited themselves to just teasing her about having the hots for Craig. Asking tough questions wasn’t their style.

And it was a tough question. If Craig’s good looks and amiability didn’t satisfy them for an answer, she wasn’t sure what would. Why did she want Craig? Wasn’t it obvious?

Sarah shrugged, flipping the bowl over to check the float level. “You know.”

Lee just smiled blamelessly and went back to assembling the valvetrain on his side of the engine, but Will stopped, and then yanked the socket off his torque wrench. He set it down on the workbench with a certain precision. “No, I don’t know. What is it about him, exactly, that gets you all goo-goo eyed? He’s nice enough, but he’s a player, Sarah.” He said that last with the same tone he’d use to say, “The Phillips-head screwdriver goes with the Phillips screw.”

“What’s not to like?” Sarah quipped, ignoring his dig. She finished screwing the metering plate and float bowl to the carburetor body, marveling at the straightforward function of the intricate unit. Using vacuum created by the engine’s pistons, the carburetor simply emitted measured squirts of gasoline. She’d just finished building the equivalent of a high-tech Windex bottle. Though much more durable, and far more useful, of course.

“Earth to Sarah? What’s not to like about him? You mean aside from how he chases sluts?”

“He doesn’t chase them, the sluts chase him.” Everything else about Craig was relationship material. He loved racing. He was sexy, protective, fun.

He was completely out of her reach, just like all her crushes.

But he accepted her for who she was, at least. He wasn’t like all the more common guys who looked uncomfortable when she talked shop. Typical men had contempt for her racing habit. Garden-variety guys didn’t know quite what to make of her, a woman who not only didn’t desire the ordinary suburban life, but actively avoided any trappings that smacked of it. Craig was comfortable with her appearance, her skills.

Maybe too comfortable.

Metal clinked on metal as Will rudely tapped the handle of his torque wrench against the metal cabinet near the engine and grinned when she jumped. “Did I break your train of thought? Sorry about that,” he said, not sounding the least bit sorry. Sarah could only give him a ferocious scowl. She remembered Will’s question. She repeated, “Craig doesn’t chase sluts. They chase him.”

“Sure, they force him to submit. They carry him off against his will to do unspeakable things to his helpless body. No matter how much he begs, these sexy vixens—all leggy model types with high heels and tits out to here—don’t let go of him. Hmm.” Will stopped working as a slow smile spread across his face.

Sarah rolled her eyes. “You guys are so predictable.”

“Four or five horny co-eds who just won’t take ‘no’ for an answer . . .”

“At least finish that engine while you have your walking wet dream.”

“Whoa, sounds like I missed out on a good conversation,” Craig said, rounding the corner. He’d slipped into the shop quietly. The flexibility of his freelance hours allowed him the freedom to race more often than she could. Sometimes he also visited the shop. She liked to think he came to see her.

Sarah leaned on one palm, her arm crooked. She wasn’t about to tell him what kind of conversation he’d missed. “Hey, cutie.”

He raised his eyebrows at her billowing sweat-and-grease-stained T-shirt. But he smiled. His eyes flirted. “Hey.” Invisible cords of his charisma seemed to wrap around her with his voice, deep and resonant. Her knees loosened and she felt a pleasant fluttering in her belly.

The sensation made her wish, for a moment, that she didn’t have oil streaks across her face. Her fingernails probably showed the dark half-moons they often collected by the end of the day too. She shrugged it off. She wasn’t superficial, and she refused to care about how she looked. “So what brings you into this fine shop o’ mine?”

“My favorite grease monkey, of course.” His teasing threatened to turn her into a melted puddle. Fortunately he toned it down before she embarrassed herself with the incoherence that struck her when he turned on the charm. “Also, there’s a new project. If you and your guys are available.”

Sarah mentally counted the dozens of projects that were ahead of Craig’s. “I think we might be able to work something out,” she replied, keeping her voice as noncommittal as she could. She realized she still held the Phillips. Twirling it between her fingers, she smiled at Craig. “You know how busy we are. Do you need it right away? Thought so. If you stayed to help out nights, maybe we could make something happen.” She heard Will’s snigger, cringed inside. She hadn’t meant for her words to come out sounding quite so provocative. She almost missed Craig’s appreciative grin.

“I’d be happy to help you out nights anytime,” Craig said, the rich timbre of his voice purposefully seductive.

Sarah could feel her cheeks heat. She would love for him to help her out nights, and every man in the room knew it.

Every man except one.

“Is there any trouble here?” Gordon appeared as if by magic, clearly holding all of his six-foot frame poised and ready for action. Across from Craig, he seemed a darker, neater version of him. Sarah was struck by the attractiveness of both. One an easygoing, unkempt blond with heavy-lidded blue eyes and a lingering smile. The other a more serious, brown-haired businessman. With a scowl. She appreciated their profiles—both intensely masculine, both strong-shouldered as they sized each other up. “Can I help you . . . sir?”

“It’s just Craig,” she explained.

“Just Craig? I am a paying customer,” Craig said, mock-reproving.

“So try paying full price sometime,” she retorted, but then regretted it instantly. Gordon might make a stink about their financial arrangement.

“You aren’t in the habit of paying full price? Is there a special discount that you’re using? Or is this something you’ve arranged with Red?” Gordon watched the look that passed between Craig and Sarah. “I see.”

Will tried to help Sarah. “Craig’s been bringing his rides to us for years.”

Craig agreed. “Years and years of patronage. I don’t recall seeing you here before though . . .” Then he noticed the expression on Gordon’s face. He shrugged amiably. “Yeah. Well, why don’t I come back later?” He tapped Sarah’s hand before he left. “Call me.”

Gordon looked disgusted. He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost time to go. Will, would you mind closing up down here? I’ve got to speak to Sarah about something. Sarah, my office. ”

“Uh-oh,” Will sing-songed after Gordon departed. “Boss-man’s gonna give you a spanking.”

“He’s not my boss, and . . . damn it, Will, why is he messing with my system?”

“Your work system? Or your reproductive system?”

“Get your head out of the gutter.”

“My big head, or my bigger—”

“Out! Out!” She snorted, then grinned as Will trotted to the maintenance closet. He would be the one sweeping and mopping tonight.

Her smile faded as she looked up at the new yellow lamp. Gordon had moved one of the bookshelves from the window so he could spy on everyone downstairs. That was one of the alterations he’d made to his half of Dad’s office. She didn’t think of it as Gordon’s office. She wouldn’t. He’d only been there a week.

She evened out the work orders, wondering what Gordon had to tell her that he could only say upstairs.

He’d kept his mouth shut about how she ran things, so far. And to be fair, he’d already suggested some clever marketing strategies to position the shop that she’d heard about from Dad. Which reminded her, she really needed to corner him about his choice of Gordon.

That man just wasn’t a team player. He didn’t belong on her crew.

She saw a shadow cross in front of the lamp, and realized that she was simply standing there, staring up at the office.

Irritated with herself for stalling, she narrowed her eyes and headed toward the stairs.

 

Chapter Three