Hot-Wired / Coming on Strong

“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?