“Natalie,” he said between clenched teeth, then forced himself to relax. It wasn’t Mike’s fault he had a weakness for stuck-up city girls.
“She was hot but not too friendly. Didn’t like racing neither,” he added and looked up at the Porsche. Clearly, anyone who didn’t like racing was not worth discussing in Mike’s book.
Cole tried to imagine Sarah at a racetrack, surrounded by beer-swigging rednecks and big-haired biker chicks. He snorted. Yeah, right. Natalie had loved the money racing brought in, but looked down her nose at racing fans and even the drivers themselves. So what if most of them had never gone to college? Not everyone needed a piece of paper to prove they were good at something.
His sister didn’t. She’d worked damned hard to compete in a man’s sport, but had Natalie appreciated that? His almost-fiancée had claimed to be a feminist, but her values had only extended to women in office buildings and courtrooms, not those “playing with grease monkeys and toy cars”. He’d never forget the look on Carrie’s face when Natalie said that. He shook his head. How could he have been so blind, letting his dick guide him instead of his head?
He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
A few hours ago Sarah had been zipping along in her Porsche on her way to The Spa at Westwood for a little doctor-prescribed R and R. Now she was aching with need, her breasts tight and her body on fire after practically begging a stranger to kiss her. A small-town mechanic, no less! What was wrong with her?
On the other hand, the logical side of her brain chimed in, with a house like this the man was clearly more than “just” a mechanic. So what was he?
And what the hell kind of game was he playing? She knew he was interested—she hadn’t imagined the almost-kiss in the living room. But when the horn had blown, he’d pulled back as if nothing had happened. Thanks to Mike’s lousy timing, nothing had happened, but they seemed to be getting somewhere. Or so she thought. So why was he teasing her, leading her on? That was not the behavior she was used to from the men she pursued. It made her edgy. Restless. Off-balance. And insanely aroused. Damn him.
Muffled bangs and bumps came from the hall that Cole had disappeared down. He’d be busy with her car for a while. That left her free to regroup and turn to what she really wanted to do—explore the abode of the mystery man who had gotten her so unexpectedly hot. Uncover some clues that might help explain his unusual appeal.
She returned to the foyer. Above the table where Cole had tossed his keys hung a large framed photo of Cole in stained coveralls with his arm around the shoulders of a tall blond guy in a racing jumpsuit. The two men stood grinning from ear-to-ear before a red racecar festooned with logos and the number 72 painted on the door. Words were scrawled across the bottom of the image: Thanks, buddy—couldn’t have done it without you! A signature was written beneath the words, but Sarah couldn’t make out the name. On the opposite wall, another photo showed a driver on the hood of a banged-up racecar, one fist raised in a victory salute. Although the helmet obscured her face, the snug racing suit revealed that the driver was a woman. We did it! was written across it in big letters.
Sarah turned to take in the living room. The signed photos were only two of many racing-related pictures scattered about the large space. There were photos of Cole with different cars and drivers, one with him waving from the driver’s seat of a car and many of cars speeding down racetracks. Scattered among these was racing paraphernalia, including pendants, framed racing posters and a couple of checked flags. Issues of Car and Driver sat on a wooden coffee table before a large leather couch. A flat-screen TV dominated the opposite wall. The whole space was done in cool shades of blue and green with touches of wood throughout. Masculine without being overpowering. Tasteful and classy. And not a woman’s touch in sight.
Sarah spotted a collection of photos on the large mantle and headed that way. She could learn a lot about a person from their personal photos. Like whether there was a Mrs. Cassidy.
No wedding photos graced the stone surface, but front-and-center was a picture of Cole with his arm around a gorgeous black-haired woman. The two of them stood smiling behind a good-looking older couple. Sarah’s stomach clenched until she noticed that both Cole and the younger woman shared their blue eyes with the older man and their black hair with the woman. Unless she was mistaken, this was a picture of Cole, his sister and their parents. So far so good. She glanced at the other photos. A younger Cole horsing around with a bunch of guys in a boat. Raising a toast with a large group in a bar. A cluster of boys wearing football uniforms and mud surrounded by cheerleaders. In all of them Cole was happy, relaxed. The people around him smiled. While there were women in many of the photos, there was no one whose body language said “significant other”. She released the breath she hadn’t been aware of holding. While she might be willing to stretch her rules to include sex with a mechanic—okay, at this point she was eager to do so—doing it with a man already spoken for was out of the question.