Speed Dating (2 page)

Dylan nodded. He didn’t bother saying anything. Every one of the glum faces on the team reflected his own expression. Luck. They really needed some luck.

Preferably the good kind.

As usual, even though it was only a practice, loads of fans were out, a number of them gorgeous young women. Dylan didn’t quite know how the young women of America had suddenly decided stock car racing was sexy, but he wasn’t complaining. To Dylan, they made his job a lot more interesting.

There was at least a vanload of college girls crowding him now as he made his way to the garage, but he didn’t mind. They all had long hair and bare legs. Sure, the hair color was different, and some bared their legs with little bitty skirts, and some wore butt-hugging shorts, and unless he learned their names he’d have trouble telling them apart.

The blonde whose T-shirt read NASCAR CHICK told him her name was Tiffanny, with two
N
s. “Where y’all from, girls?” he asked as he obligingly autographed a ball cap with his number on it. Some women gave him a hard time for using terms like
girls,
but he wasn’t going to stop. Political correctness was so complicated he’d pretty much given up trying to figure it out. He believed to the depth of his being that women should get paid the same money for the same work as men, that they could pretty much do anything they pleased. However, he also believed it was his God-given responsibility as a man to treat women with a little special courtesy, and if a young woman in a miniskirt wanted his autograph, then she might have to put up with him opening a door or pulling out her chair for her or calling her a girl.

“California,” she said, all suntanned legs and long blond hair and not looking at all that offended he’d referred to her and her friends as girls.

“Long way from home.”

“We came specially to see you,” she said, as she’d no doubt say to any other driver she could stop. “Are you going to win on Sunday?”

“Honey,” he said, “I am going to do my very best.”

Then he posed for a photo with the bunch of them and took the next item shoved under his nose. As he signed a copy of today’s newspaper, he wondered idly how many dorm rooms had his picture tacked up on the wall and shrugged.

Who could figure celebrity?

He made sure all the kids in the vicinity got an autograph, and then with a final wave and a “thanks, folks,” he walked past the guards and back into the garage where his crew was already crawling over his car like ants over picnic leftovers.

“Hey, Dy,” Mike Nugent said. “Me and the crew are going for dinner and a couple beers tonight. You coming?”

“Can’t. I’m going to a wedding.”

“Who do you know getting married in Charlotte?” Mike asked.

“Ashlee.”

The older man blinked slowly. “You’re going to your ex-wife’s wedding?”

“It’s kind of a tradition. I’ve been to all of ’em.”

He and Mike had known each other for years. His crew chief regarded him with eyes that had worked on metal chassis so long they’d taken on the color of steel. “Make sure you don’t end up as the groom—again.”

Ashlee, his ex, had gone on TV twice now claiming he and she were getting back together. Both times it had come as a big surprise to Dylan. Probably a bigger surprise to the poor sap she was set to marry tonight.

“I’ve got it covered.”

“Why do you let her get away with this stuff?”

He thought about it. “Ashlee’s trying to find a way to be happy. I wasn’t much of a husband, so if she wants to have some fun at my expense once in a while, who am I to blame her?”

“Dy, buddy, she wants you back.”

“Not going to happen.”

K
ENDALL KNEW
her disastrous day had sunk another notch when she accidentally locked herself out of her hotel room.

In her underwear.

Unable to believe she could have been so easily bested by a fire door, she tried the knob, pushed her hip against the door, but it remained sullenly closed.

Kendall wasn’t the sort of person to walk out of a door without ensuring it stayed open for her safe return. Stress and shock, she discovered, could do strange things to a person. Added to the natural stress of being dumped by her fiancé on the very day she was to receive the greatest compliment of her career was the rising panic that she’d miss her moment of glory. She hadn’t come all the way to Charlotte to accept the Sharpened Pencil Award in her underwear.

Embarrassment prickled along her skin as she stood there for a moment wondering what on earth to do. She’d only stepped outside to see if her dress was back yet.

Breathe,
she told herself, determined not to panic. She was top-to-toe ready, so the minute the dress arrived—and she found someone to let her back into her hotel room—she’d grab her clutch purse and her neatly typed acceptance speech and go.

A minute ticked by. Two. The air felt overwarm and she heard the faint noises of a large building, but saw no sign of her dress. There was no hotel phone on her floor. Could she slide into the stairwell and creep downstairs, then somehow get a hotel employee’s attention?

Yes, she thought. That’s what she’d do. Tonight would be the culmination of her career and she couldn’t be late—especially since her ex and his recently outed love would be sure to think she was moping. Her chin went up at the thought. She might have a broken heart, but she was hanging on to her pride with every ounce of willpower.

At last, the sound she’d been waiting for—the whir of the elevator and then the
clunk, shhhh
as it stopped at her floor. She jogged forward, anxious for clothing. Ahead of her, a room door opened and a man came out, luckily without looking her way, at the exact moment the elevator doors opened. Horror of horrors, over the man’s solid shoulder she saw three of the regional managers from her company—including her own boss—step out.

Kendall didn’t stop to think. In one smooth gesture—and a surprisingly quick one, thanks to the panic-driven adrenaline suddenly coursing through her veins—she stuck her hand out and caught the door the stranger had exited from before it closed.

Then she slipped inside the unknown man’s room.

Even as she sagged in relief, having whisked herself out of sight before the trio of managers saw her, she knew what she was doing was wrong. Thankfully, this room door didn’t seem to be as efficiently quick at slamming behind a person as her own, but that was no
excuse for trespassing. Still, she only wanted to use his phone to call down to the front desk and get someone to track down her dress and another room key. And this time she wasn’t giving up until she was certain her request had been understood.

She walked down the short hallway past the bathroom and closet into the main part of the room, idly noting a black case on a luggage stand and a pair of dirty socks on the floor. She averted her eyes as though that would minimize her rude intrusion into another guest’s space.

Perhaps she should write the stranger a polite note explaining her behavior.…

Or would it, in fact, show better manners if she—

Her etiquette dilemma ended when she got to the main room and found a man there. It had never occurred to her that there could be someone else inside. Before she could open her mouth to apologize, he glanced at her and said, “You’re late. I’d about given up on you.”

Kendall blinked stupidly as she looked up at a man who seemed vaguely familiar. Not another actuary. Something about his air of danger told her he didn’t calculate risk for a living. He was only a couple of inches taller than she was in her heels, but muscled and hard-bodied. There was a scar on his cheek that seemed unnecessarily large—as though it was showing off what a tough guy he was.

“I’m so, so sorry,” she stammered. “I would never normally enter someone else’s hotel room—”

“No problem. I’m glad Mike let you in. I was waiting for you. Come on, let’s go.” He looked her up and down in a way that suddenly reminded her she was still in her underwear. “Nice dress.”

“It’s a slip.”

“Never can get the hang of ladies’ fashion terms. Looks good on you. Sexy.” He picked up a light gray suit jacket and pulled it on over matching slacks and a crisp white shirt, which clearly suggested somebody in this hotel got their clothes pressed in a timely manner. He wore no tie, but his black shoes shone.

Sexy? He thought she looked sexy? Some of her embarrassment at being caught in a slip faded. Okay, quite a bit.

He walked up to her and put an arm around her shoulders, turning her toward the door. At his touch she experienced the strangest sense of weakness. He had the kind of energy that could carry a person with it, whether she wanted to go or not.

When they got to the door, she realized she had to stop him or she’d be back where she started—out in that corridor with no clothes. She turned. “Um, just a second.”

He reached around her for the door handle. The door at her back and Mr. Muscle in front was the absolute definition of being stuck between a rock and a hard place. His jacket just brushed her arm and as he looked down at her she noted his eyes were a deep, mossy green with brown-and-gold flecks. “What’s your name?”

“Kendall Clarke,” she said and foolishly stuck out her hand.

“Kendall. Do you go by Ken? Kenny? K.C.?” He spoke with the syrupy drawl that suggested he was from around these parts.

She shuddered. “I most certainly do not. It’s Kendall.”

Solemnly, he shook her hand. “Pleased to make your
acquaintance.” He didn’t say ma’am, but the accent implied it. “You seem a little uptight there, Kendall. Everything all right?” The way he said her name, it sounded like Ken Doll.

“If I could use your phone?”

“No time. You can phone from my car. Come on.”

“Your car?” She put a hand to her head, partly to see if it was still attached to her body. Too much had happened today. The tug of familiarity when she looked at him didn’t help. “Who are you?” she finally asked.

Amusement flickered in his eyes, fascinating her. “I thought Bryce was going to fill you in. My name’s Dylan. My friends call me Dy.”

And thunk, it all fell into place like three cherries in a slot machine, although of course she’d never play a slot machine. You didn’t have to be an actuary to figure out that the odds were stacked against the player.

That’s why he’d seemed familiar. Dylan Hargreave was a NASCAR driver. And not just any driver. He’d caused the kind of sensation even a non sports buff like Kendall had noticed. “You’re ranked fifteenth so far this season.” It wasn’t that she followed sports, but rankings and number systems of every kind appealed to her and sort of stuck in her brain. There were a lot of numbers stuck in there.

“Wait till Sunday, honey. All that will change. This speedway’s my track.” She felt his intensity like an engine revving. “Bryce said you were a fan.”

“Bryce said that?” Whoever Bryce was.

“Sure. I promise tonight won’t be too boring. We’ll have dinner, make nice, and be on our way. We can catch up to Bryce after if you like.”

She felt as if she were in a dream; everything was a little misty around the edges and didn’t make any sense. “This is a date?”

His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes and made that scar turn from a wobbly
L
to a
C.
“You’re right. It’s not a date, exactly, more an acting job. I sure do appreciate you being able to make it.”

She’d always thought Southern men had more than their fair share of charm, but this guy was in a league all his own.

NASCAR driver, Actuary of the Year, acting job. It wasn’t adding up.

“Can you handle it?” This man regarded her from those mossy-green eyes as though she weren’t the brightest spark. How extraordinary. She supposed he had ample reason to doubt her intelligence, given that she’d stumbled into his room half-dressed and seemed to echo every statement he made. For a few luscious moments, she was experiencing what it might feel like to be a silly woman. Not silly, she reminded herself. Sexy.

The kind of woman a virile and exciting man like this might look at twice.

He stared right into her eyes a moment longer and she took that as a good excuse to stare back. Rough, tough and gorgeous. His hair was a tumble of dark brown with the kind of streaky gold that suggested he spent time in the sun. His skin was weathered, the mouth uncompromising, the jaw cleft. And that scar fascinated her.

“I don’t want to be rude, but do you really need Bryce to find you dinner dates?” The guy was great-looking, successful, rich. He didn’t look like the sort of man to need help getting female companionship.

He scratched a spot behind his ear. “Bryce was supposed to explain all this. I needed an actress. You just hang all over me, pretend we’re crazy in love. For a couple of hours at this wedding we’re going to, I want people thinking I have a girlfriend. That’s all.”

“I’m to appear as your girlfriend without actually being one?”

“That’s right. Can you handle it?”

She laughed at the bitter irony of her situation. “Oh, yes. I’ve had practice.”

He glanced at a watch that looked designed for a scuba diver rather than a race car driver. “We’d better get going.”

Not much of an explanation, but she really didn’t have time to get into this guy’s relationships with women.

Now was the time to tell him that Bryce hadn’t sent her, she was wearing a black silk slip from Victoria’s Secret and that no one was ever going to mistake her for a NASCAR driver’s girlfriend.

She was the kind of woman that the man she’d been dating for two years dumped on a business trip so he could sit at the actuary banquet with his pregnant girlfriend.

And suddenly the thought of slogging through dinner alone, while Marvin and Penelope canoodled in some dark corner, was simply too pathetic. Kendall had a secret romantic streak. She gobbled up novels and subscribed to a couple of movie channels including an oldies station. She loved the moment, especially in old films, when the enraged heroine slapped the out-of-line guy, when she stood up and said, “Nobody treats me this way.”

Maybe all that reading and viewing hadn’t been a waste of her time, as she’d sometimes thought. Maybe it was training for her moment to stand up and slap Marvin—metaphorically, of course.

A thought struck, so utterly blinding in its brilliance and daring, that her heart jumped unpleasantly.

The NASCAR driver standing in front of her at this very minute believed she could pass as his girlfriend. Why on earth couldn’t she see what that would be like?

On the heels of that thought came another, even more scintillating.

What if she showed up at her banquet with this walking shrine to testosterone? This man, she suddenly recalled, who’d been featured in
People
’s 50 Hottest Bachelors issue. Wouldn’t that show Marvin—and everyone? Not exciting enough, huh?

What if she talked Dylan Hargreave into dropping by her awards dinner? The voice of reason that had stopped her doing anything crazy, or even remotely interesting, for the thirty-one years of her life, said in a snide, evil-stepmother voice in her ear, “In your unmentionables?”

She ignored the little snide voice. Not giving herself time to think this through, since, if she did, she’d do the sensible thing, she said, “I have an event myself I need to attend here in the hotel later on. Could we be back here by, say, ten?”

She was scheduled to receive her award after the dinner and speeches. The agenda said ten-fifteen, and based on her knowledge of previous awards dinners, the award would be presented precisely at the time indicated.

“Sure. It gives us an excuse to leave. What’s your shindig?”

“I’m receiving an award,” Kendall said, not without pride.

“Cool. An acting award?”

She ought to get one for this performance. She did her best to look enigmatic. “I’ll explain later.”

What was she doing? she asked herself again as they walked down the hall toward the elevator. There was no answer forthcoming. All she knew was that she liked the feeling that she could pass for the date of the Sexiest NASCAR Driver Alive. She felt his energy and laugh-in-the-face-of-danger personality beside her. That personality was so big and so strong she felt it spilling over and imbuing her with craziness. She had no purse, no room key, nothing. Not so much as a tissue. She’d never done anything this wild in her life. Oh, it felt good.

The elevator doors opened on a couple kissing so passionately the mirrored walls had steamed up. The man had pale blond hair and wore a suit. The woman wore something black and low cut at the back. Even before the man lifted his head, Kendall was tugging Dylan’s big hand and turning for the stairs. She recognized that suit. She’d been with Marvin when he bought it in the January sales last year.

“Let’s give them some privacy,” she said in a low voice as she tugged.