Hard and Fast(15)

And Imogen surprised him yet again by making a face and saying, "Well,  duh ." Alright, then. He laughed. "I like you, too, Emma Jean."

"I suspected, but I appreciate your confirmation."







There was his prim-and-proper Imogen again. "So what are we going to do about it?"

"We're not going to do anything about it at the moment. We're going to  be friends and get to know each other. You're going to help me learn  about stock car racing, and steer me in the direction of who I might  interview for my research. I'm going to focus on my thesis, and then  when all that is done, we can reassess our relationship."

He wasn't liking the sound of any of that. "You're telling me I'm just  supposed to sit back and pretend I don't want you naked all while I'm  watching you hit on my coworkers?"

"I had to watch you with Nikki on several occasions," she pointed out.  "Hardly my idea of a good time." Ouch. "Fair enough. But I didn't really  know you then and I really didn't know you were interested in me. This  is going to mess with my head."

"I'm sure you'll manage. Look, what does a month matter? If we're still  interested in each other, then we'll only have the added benefit of  having gotten to know each other better. It's a win-win situation." Not  for his dick.

"Maybe you can live that logically but I can't. You've already figured  out I'm stubborn and irrational and determined. I am not hanging with  this." He wasn't. It was stupid and he wasn't doing it.

Her dark eyes blinked up at him behind her glasses and if he wasn't  mistaken, her bottom lip jutted out slightly. "Please? I really, really  need your help, Ty. Teach me about racing." Shit. All those goddamn girl  tricks weren't fair. Soft voice, big eyes, pouty lip . . . he couldn't  resist them.

"Fine," he growled. "Get out of the car and into the garage before I say  something I will seriously regret." Or before he hauled her into his  backseat and showed her that sometimes logic had no business between a  man and a woman, but that pleasure always did.

CHAPTER SEVEN





NOT sure exactly what they had established between them, other than the  fact that they wanted to have sex, which they already knew, Imogen  climbed out of Ty's car warily. This had all the makings of a bad idea.  "So where are we exactly?"

"This is the garage and offices of Hinder Motors, the team I race for."

"What does driving for a team mean?" She was really struggling to understand the ins and outs of racing.

Ty gestured for her to follow him across the parking lot. "It's too  expensive for individual drivers to have their own car and crew. A car  and engine alone can cost a hundred and fifty grand, so there is a car  owner who handles all the expenses associated with racing, including  securing sponsors. The driver benefits from all that money and the  expertise of quality staff, and he gives a piece of his purse to the  team in exchange for them paying all his expenses. A lot of car owners  have multiple cars today, and that's why we call it a team. The Monroe  brothers and Ryder and I all race for Hinder Motors, so it's to our  advantage to help each other even as we compete with each other. If the  team is doing well, the corporate sponsor dollars coming in to Hinder  Motors on the whole will be better." What amazed Imogen was that Ty  berated his personal intelligence. He sounded pretty damn savvy to her.  "Wow. I knew it was complex, but I had no idea."

"It's really not, once you understand it. And having multiple cars on  one team gives us the ability to info share on pre-race tests at tracks.  Each car is only allowed four single-day test sessions of your car, but  if you have four cars racing, you can share any data you learn from all  those runs with each other." Imogen was wishing she had brought a  notepad to jot things down on. "But doesn't that make you all sort of  even when you start a race?"

"Cars are close to even. It's the skill of the driver and how the lady in black treats you that day that determines the winner."                       
       
           



       

"The lady in black? Who is she?" Imogen frowned up at Ty as he flashed his ID for a security guard and





they entered the building. If there was another Nikki in Ty's life, she was going to be profoundly irritated.

Ty grinned at her. "The track, sweetheart. The lady in black is the  track." He strode down the hallway, but he shot her an indecipherable  look over his shoulder. "And did your dating manual tell you that you  should be prepared to share the man you snag with the lady in black? No  point in getting jealous because drivers are in love with her and she's a  huge part of our lives." She had read the entire book, and there was  nothing that Imogen would classify as a warning or a word of caution. It  was all full steam ahead until you had achieved your goal of marriage  to a driver and lived happily ever after. But she could see Ty's point.  Any woman looking to live with a race car driver had to accept that his  career consumed a large majority of his time. You either had to accept  it or be miserable, and jealousy and unhappiness over it could destroy  your relationship.

Truthfully, she didn't know how she would feel about that herself. She  didn't think she was needy, and her own aspirations consumed a lot of  time, but maybe the inflexibility of it would eventually wear on her.

Ty pushed open a door and Imogen followed him into a garage. There were  several cars in various stages of construction, some just raw frames,  others looking ready to roll onto the track with all their decals in  place. The room was cool and smelled like tires, and Imogen was  surprised to see that while there weren't a lot of people working, it  wasn't empty either. One car was a flurry of activity with at least  eight men moving around it, talking, drilling, or screwing, or whatever  it was they did to prep cars.

"Whose car is that?" she asked. "What are they doing to it?"

"The fifty-six car is Elec Monroe's."

Of course, she should have known that. Tamara had her husband's car  number tattooed on the interior of her wrist, in a gesture that had  impressed Imogen. She wasn't sure she could handle being jabbed  repeatedly with a needle and permanently discolor her skin to prove her  love. Needles made her light-headed and she'd probably faint during the  procedure, knocking the tattoo artist over and winding up with an  indistinguishable blob.

But Tamara seemed happy with hers.

"Why are they working on it so late?"

"There must be something they're tweaking. That car should already be on  the hauler ready to go to Martinsville in the morning. The rest of our  cars for this weekend are already loaded."

"Then what are all these cars I'm looking at?"

"Cars for Texas, two weeks out."

"You don't drive the same car every week?"

"No. Have you seen a race, babe? We beat the hell out of them. They need some work done after a race."

That was true, but she had never thought about the implication of such abuse.

"And every driver needs an immediate backup car, in case his is wrecked in pre-race testing or qualifying."

"Where is your car?"

"The sixty car, over there. Looks like they finished the paint job. I  got saddled with green this year, which is just about my least favorite  color. But for a ten-million-per-week sponsorship deal, I'll suck up the  fact that I'm driving around looking like a moving golf course." Ty  started walking toward his car, so Imogen followed him, drinking in the  sight of all the cars in various stages of construction around her. It  looked so intricate, so complex.

A few guys waved and greeted Ty from their industrious labors over Elec's car. One even asked,

"Who's your girl there, McCordle?"

"This is Emma Jean," Ty told them. "She's a research student at the  university." Despite the fact that he refused to use her real name,  Imogen was pleased by his description. He could have easily dubbed her  the lunatic who wanted to have sex with him, but only after she  conducted research on a thesis that was rapidly turning into the  educational equivalent of quicksand.

"Whatcha researchin'?" a young guy in his early twenties asked curiously.

"I'm getting my doctorate in sociology." Unlike a doctorate of dick  tease, as someone had rudely phrased it. "I'm studying the dating and  mating techniques of stock car drivers."





The young gawky guy's eyebrows shot up and he looked overwhelmed by the  very thought. Another man, older and rounder, glanced up from the tire  he was fussing over and snorted. "That makes it sounds like one of them  animal shows on Discovery Channel. I'm guessing that's about the right  of it, though.