I circle around the track where the drivers are testing before race day. I’m searching for a place to park, struggling because of the blocked streets due to the temporary street circuit set up for the St. Petersburg Indy-Car race.

I spot a space, but I have to slam on the brakes when a red car turns with a screech before me.

I frown, annoyed, and press the accelerator again toward one of two empty slots. The mustang in front of me swoops in and steals the first vacant slot and, panicked that someone will jump out of the blue and take the only remaining one right next to it, I gun it into the second slot. The car stops with a jolt.

Oh fuck!

I just crashed the guy.

“Ooops, my bad,” I say, putting the car in reverse and then back to drive, carefully parking it in place.

The door of the mustang swings open, and a guy clad in black exits the vehicle. I nervously hurry out of my car and head around to stand next to the guy.

He inspects the damage.

I inspect the damage.

“You need driving school,” he gruffs out in a very deep voice.

Aghast at the insult, I grit, “You need driving manners.” I raise my head to glare at him, and my breath stalls in my throat when I look into his face.

Because …

No one.

In this world.

Should own such a masculine.

Hot.

Terribly handsome face.

His eyes have a gleam that makes me feel as if he wants to devour me. They’re irresistible, raw, intense and challenging, completely animal and fiery. The rest of him is absolute beauty. That’s really the only way I can describe him. The floor under my feet tilts a little bit when he smiles, and one lone dimple appears. Oh god, I’m a sucker for dimples.

“Really?” the guy says, lips now curving in amusement as our eyes meet.

“Yes. Really. I’m not in the mood for this. You took my slot.” I feel a frown pinch my face as my anger over his driving manners mingles with my anger over his handsomeness, and his eyes begin to twinkle.

I try to suppress my reaction to that twinkling eye; but the truth is, I don’t think I’ve ever seen blue of this shade in real life or anywhere but in pictures of beautiful oceans somewhere far away like Fiji.

“I haven’t eaten in hours, or slept at all. I’m really not in the mood,” I say, and when he only glares down at me, something inside me starts to heat up under his intense gaze.

His eyes keep glued to me.

I don’t think anyone has ever stared at me so thoroughly.

Not just with annoyance, and interest, but almost … amusement along with … confusion?

Exactly the way I feel. Staring up at him.

There’s a slight darkening in his eyes as he keeps staring at me. I don’t know what that something is, but it’s something that makes parts of me tickle and squirm.

“Watch out next time,” he then says, after a long moment, his voice gentler, his eyes sort of sliding hungrily all over my body as he takes a step back, grabs a cap from inside the car, slams the door, and locks it with a little beeping sound.

I look at the scratch and tiny dent in it, realizing he’s just spared me by not insisting we call the insurance company. “I’m sorry,” I say belatedly.

He stares at me past his shoulder and clenches his jaw, comes back to tower over me, glaring. “What’s your name?”

“Um … Alana,” I lie. It’s close to Lana, but not exact. I’m too nervous.

“Alana. You crashed my car,” he growls, shooting a pointed look towards his gorgeous cherry-red mustang.

“I … I’m sorry? I just got out of a sixteen-hour flight and it’s been a never-ending day.”

He laughs to himself, as if he can’t believe my excuse.

He shoots me a pointed look, and I stare at his midnight-black hair as he leaves, resisting the urge to fan myself a little.

Whoa.

I stare at his backside in jeans, the black T-shirt hugging his chest, my irritation sort of falling away as a nearly overwhelming wave of lust hits me.

I discreetly brush my hands over my breasts to try to get my nipples to stand down.

Going out with guys with my four men in my life isn’t an easy option. Nobody is good enough for me, and all of the men I meet are drivers. The last thing I’ve wanted is get involved with a driver. When I was seventeen, I had a boyfriend. He died. David was everything to me. I would never want to date anyone who put his life on the line like car racers do. But boy, I really need to get laid.

Hurrying into the stands, I’m glad to find that because it’s testing day, not racing day, the stands are somewhat uncluttered.

At the far end of a set of stands, there’s a man in jeans and white shirt, his dark hair peppered with salt at the temples. I head over and take two seats before him when my heart stops as the man behind me calls, “Son!” and I watch the guy I crashed into head up the steps.

My heart starts beating so hard when I see him again that I duck my head, and yet even through the noises of car motors, I watch him through the corner of my eye as he takes the steps up to his father.

Clearing my throat, I pull out my list of drivers and my marker. I’ve got eight drivers on my list that I want to watch, but I’ve got the rest of the Indy drivers’ names on the bottom of the list too. Just in case.

“You weren’t at the gym today,” I hear the man behind me say.

“I don’t get off on getting my face rearranged. Jesus, Dad.”

There’s a low laugh from one of them, and once again the voice of the guy I crashed into. He’s got a very deep voice. “Where’s Iris?”

“Getting some water.”

A girl of about eighteen takes the steps up the stands to where they sit. Glancing back to see, my stomach tumbles when she hugs the moody hottie and the moody hottie hugs her back, and then she sits right next to him.

She looks tiny compared to him.

He’s all big and muscly, and too gorgeous to name.

Okay so he has a girlfriend. Big deal. He’s terribly beautiful, and so is she. Both of them dark-haired and model-looking. But so what? Good for them. I’m not here for romance. I’m here for work.

But suddenly the idea of having a fling before going back starts to appeal. Nothing serious. I don’t want anything like that. But maybe something … to get me relaxed. Get my mind back on racing and off the body-hunger things.

I can’t help but be curious about him, though. I can somehow feel his eyes on the back of my head, boring into my skull like lasers as I study my list.

Inhaling nervously, I steal a look past my shoulders.

The young man shoves his hands in his pockets as he locks eyes with me, his eyebrows raising, his lips curving as he catches me staring.

His dad is staring at him now too. Frowning.

He says something to his son, but his son doesn’t reply. He smirks at me.

I don’t smirk back; I can’t think straight.

The son stands and takes the steps down toward me.

Oh shit.

I turn back to my list. He comes over and leans behind me, his body warmth somehow suddenly too close to mine as he starts reading my list over my shoulder.

He smells like soap. Not cologne.

Just clean and soapy and male.

Something about that natural scent makes my mouth salivate and I swallow nervously.

“He’s too slow on the straight.” He taps the top name on my list. I try to shove the page under my bag but a part of it still peeks out from underneath.

“You know a lot about cars, do you.” I scowl and try to suppress the way my body warms under the effect of his smile as he comes over to sit beside me.

“Too bad you don’t have any driving manners,” I add.

He smiles wider as he settles down beside me, all lean and fluid, and he looks at my paper again. “Bucket list?”

Huh?

“No!” I laugh then. “It’s … no,” I say, realizing what he’s implying.

“Can I make a suggestion?”

“You can, but it doesn’t mean I’ll take it.”

He reaches for my list and slides it out from under my bag, and then he plucks the pen from my hand and scratches a line down the list of names. Then he sets the page on his jean-clad thigh, a very hard-looking thigh, and writes down one word. Racer.