Drew a slow breath, held it for a count of five and released it.
Took another sip of water and studied the cloudless blue sky beyond the tinted window before him.
The door to the private box crashed open. A gust of hot, petrol-tainted air rushed into the room, followed immediately by the heat of Sami Charlton’s ire.
“When you win?” she sputtered, repeating the words he’d had Dianne deliver to Rutledge in their earlier telephone conversation.
He didn’t rise from the chair as she stomped to where he sat.
Instead, he took another sip of water, ignoring her.
She stopped directly in front of him, hands balled on her slim hips, legs spread, eyes flashing bloody murder.
“You said ‘anything’, correct?” he asked, emphasizing his Southern drawl with deliberate intent. She’d once declared his accent “as sexy as all hell” during an interview. Of course, that was before he’d kissed her in Tennessee. Before the infamous are-males-better-than-females question.
Jaw bunching, Sami grabbed the arms of his chair and moved her face closer to his. So close he could feel her indignant pants on his lips.
His cock throbbed.
“Anything,” she snarled.
“Even this?” he asked, a second before he snared a fistful of the cropped mess of hair at the back of her head and yanked her mouth to his.
Chapter 2
“Anything,” Jay muttered, tossing Sami’s helmet to one of his crew. “Friggin’ anything.”
His crew, the best team of mechanics he’d ever worked with, stood back. He didn’t have a bad temper, but they knew when he needed to storm.
The garage space at Sydney Stadium—Team Charlton’s permanent base—was big enough to accommodate all of Sami’s bikes and gear, all of his equipment and, it seemed, his current pissed-off state.
“Anything,” he muttered, picking up a carburetor adjustment screwdriver from a nearby counter, only to glare at it and toss it back down.
“You okay, boss?”
Jay raked his hands through his hair—Christ, when had it gotten so shaggy?—and flung a disgruntled glance at the open garage door.
Anything.
He knew exactly what Eli would want if she lost the race.
What the hell had Sam been thinking?
You know what she’d been thinking. You saw it in her eyes. Every damn emotion and thought she ever has is telegraphed on her face. She was looking at you, and for the first time since you started working for her, you saw in her eyes…
Jay’s pulse quickened.
Desire. He’d seen desire.
Raw and hot and unexpected.
It had distracted her, as much as it had unarmed him.
His boss had been looking at him with open sexual interest, had been distracted by it enough to make that ridiculous bet, and then Swanson had called and no matter what Jay said, she’d agreed to go see him to discuss the challenge.
“Fuck,” he muttered, heading for the door.
“Boss?”