Full Throttle

CHAPTER THREE

RHETT leaned against the closed door of Shawn’s office and drank in the sight of her. She had the same impact she’d had on him Saturday night. There was something just inherently sexy about her. It was the way she tilted her head slightly when she spoke. It was in the careless tumbled look of her soft, shiny hair, currently pulled atop her head in one of those weird twist buns that women did when they didn’t want to deal with it. Tendrils curled over her graceful neck, and her face was free of makeup, her lush lips naturally a deep pink. She didn’t seem aware of her looks. She didn’t carry herself with that in-your-face sexuality that some cleavage-baring, fake-eyelash-wearing women did. Nor was she sweet and shy and demure, unable to meet a man’s eye.

Maybe it was that she seemed to know exactly who she was and was completely comfortable in her own skin, which he found very hot. Even now, coming face-to-face with a man she had briefly met in a fetish club, she didn’t look particularly uneasy. She stood up and stuck her hand out, clearly in her element in her own office.

“Maybe we should formally meet, even though you clearly know who I am.”

He moved forward and took the offered hand, keeping it longer than was strictly appropriate. “Rhett Ford.”

“Shawn Hamby. Sorry I didn’t believe your name was Rhett. I thought you were being coy.”

“I’m not cheesy by intention. Just cheesy by birth.” He finally let her hand go when she gave it a pointed look. “My mom was living out some fantasy, and I pay the price every day.”

“I bet it makes you lucky with the ladies.”

Oh, that was just too good of an opening. “Not yet today. But there’s still time.”

She rolled her eyes. “So is it true? You’re driving a Monroe car in the Modifieds this season?”

“Yes. I believe I am on your schedule here at Hamby Speedway.” Rhett gestured for her to sit down, himself taking the seat in front of her desk. “Ironic, isn’t it? That we would meet where we did.”

“I suppose it is.” She tightened the bun on top of her head, making it lopsided. “I am looking forward to the season. I’m planning a big media blitz, and if you’re interested, I’d love for you to play a big part in that. I think your story will get a fair amount of attention.”

“My story?” He wasn’t aware that he had a story, nor did he really want to talk about one. He was there to ask her out, not talk racing.

“Yes. Your decision to leave one Monroe crew to join another, and to start racing yourself. That’s all a bit nuts in the world of racing, you know.”

He knew that. He’d heard it from just about everyone he knew in the business. “Yeah, well, I don’t see any point in staying somewhere I’m not completely happy. Guys compete for those pit crew positions and it wasn’t fair for me to be taking it.”

“You didn’t like it? Yet you’re not leaving being on a crew.”

Rhett noted the way she moved constantly, fidgeting in her seat, her hands always fluttering, running over papers on her desk, up to her necklace, on to her hair. The more still he was in his chair, the more she seemed to move. “I guess I like things a little more down and dirty, a little more real. Without the big money and the engineers.”

It was true. He liked the grit of dirt track racing. The money sucked, which was why he was still running a crew for Eve Monroe. But it wasn’t about the money, it was about besting himself out there. The pure competitiveness. It was like fencing versus ultimate fighting. Both required major skill, but he preferred it raw.

No shocker there.

“I wouldn’t mind a little money either,” she said, laughing nervously. “But I get what you mean. I like the passion of dirt track myself. You have to love it to be in it.” Then she tilted her head. “I mean, of course, those in the cup series love it, too, I don’t mean that. And I don’t mean that they, or me, are moneygrubbing or anything. It’s just that money is necessary when you’re dealing with such expensive tracks and cars and marketing. But it’s not like they don’t deserve it. Or that dirt track drivers and owners don’t deserve it, too. It’s just a different thing, but both have their place and no one is better than the other.”

Rhett let her babble on, waiting until she petered out. She was cute when she was trying not to offend. “You don’t need to be politically correct with me, Shawn. There’s enough of that bullshit in this world. I knew what you meant.”

“Oh.” She cleared her throat. Her cheeks bloomed with color. “So, uh, how can I help you?”

He gave her a slow smile, enjoying more and more the reaction she was giving him. He made her nervous, not because he thought she was an anxious person, but because she was attracted to him the way he was to her. It gave him clear encouragement to tell her exactly why he was there.

“I came to ask you out. Dinner or a drink, or both, your call. Eve said you didn’t say yes, but you didn’t say no, so I figured the door was open enough for me to wedge a boot into it and plead my case.”

“I don’t think I should,” she said immediately. “I mean, you’re Eve’s brother-in-law, and I own the track, which is potentially a conflict of interest, and you’re younger than me. It’s just not a good idea. At all. It’s a very bad idea, actually.”

“Then we won’t call it a date. We’ll just call it two people having a drink. Come on, let’s go.” Rhett stood up.

“What, like right now?” she asked in astonishment. “But . . .”

“But what? It’s almost seven o’clock. You can’t still be working. If you are, you shouldn’t be.” He liked that she looked confused and disarmed. It would work to his advantage. She wouldn’t be able to formulate an excuse fast enough.

“I’ve had a really terrible day,” she said, hand going up to pat the back of her bun nervously.

“Even more reason to get out of here.” Rhett came around the desk, amused when she backed her rolling chair up so quickly it hit the wall. He reached out and took her hand into his. “Beer or wine?”

“Beer,” she said without hesitation.

It didn’t surprise him. And it pleased him. Both that she had understood what he was asking, and that she was the kind of woman who preferred a bottle to a glass.

“I probably shouldn’t, but you know what? I don’t give a shit,” Shawn said, standing up. “Today was like ass on an ass cracker, and I deserve a drink.”

He wasn’t really sure what an ass cracker was, but it didn’t sound like anything he wanted to be served.

“That’s the spirit.” Whereas Shawn would have dropped his hand immediately, Rhett held it firmly in his so she couldn’t break contact. “I’m sorry you had a lousy day. Care to talk about it?”

“Not yet. Maybe after a few beers.” Shawn shook her head at him and smiled. “You may find yourself sorry you asked me that question. In fact, you may be sorry you walked in this door.”

She gave another tug on her hand as she grabbed her coat and they moved out of her office into the cold dark hall. But when Rhett refused to relinquish his grip, she seemed to accept it. He had to admit, it turned him on. He liked that she had opinions, that she protested, but then gave in to him. It made the moment of capitulation all that more intriguing to him, all that much more arousing. He didn’t know her well enough to guess how any of this would translate to the bedroom, but he was definitely interested in finding out. His gut told him he had met the woman who could keep up with him and give him exactly what he wanted.

“I sincerely doubt I’ll be sorry,” he told her, studying her lips, wishing his mouth was on hers right now, teeth sinking into her tender flesh.

As they pushed through the doors and into the parking lot, Shawn stopping to lock the building behind them, she yanked her hand away from his and shook her head as she inserted the key into the lock on the glass door. “Let’s get one thing clear, Rhett. I may have been in the club the other night, but I am not submissive. It’s just not my nature.” She straightened and turned to face him, eyes slightly narrowed. “I am used to being a girl in a man’s world, and if anything, I’m aggressive, not the other way around. So don’t think that I’m the type of chick to lick your boots, because I won’t do it.”

“Who said anything about bootlicking? There is humiliation and then there is submission. They’re two different things.” Rhett actually suspected a woman like Shawn might enjoy not having to be a woman in a man’s world for a change. But he didn’t know that any more than she did, apparently. What he did know was that he was curious enough to explore the possibility, and clearly she was, too, or she wouldn’t have bothered to mention it. She would have just turned him down flat and had herself a beer at home, solo. “But I thought we were just grabbing a beer and venting about a bad day.”

Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and anger. “Oh, really? So that’s all you want? To just sit on a bar stool next to me for an hour and have a Bud? Okay, we can do that.”

“That’s not all I want,” he told her, hands in his front pockets as he watched her tugging the two sides of her coat closed over her chest. “But I don’t want to scare you.” The dark thoughts that were crowding his mind—of tying her up in his bed and cracking the palm of his hand on her bottom until it reddened—were not something you mentioned on a first date. Or a first not-even-date yet.

“I don’t scare easily.” She brushed the tendril of hair the wind had whipped across her face out of the way. “Especially not when it comes to men young enough to be my . . . younger brother.”

Rhett couldn’t help it. He laughed. She looked so indignant and fiery. “I’m sure you don’t scare easily. But if I told you the thoughts I’m having, they might not scare you, but they would definitely sound rude considering the short length of our acquaintance. So let’s just leave it at that for now, okay?”

“Fine. But you’re a terrible flirt,” she told him, brushing past him.

“I can’t disagree with that.” He was. His mother had even picked up on it. He didn’t have the easy charm of his brother Nolan. His thoughts were too intense, his expressions too serious, his manner too straightforward. It unnerved women, and while he wished it didn’t, he had given up on trying to change himself. Forcing himself to smile and joke when he didn’t feel it, just made him look weird, like an escapee from a state psychiatric ward. Like he could potentially kill his dates and eat their organs, and really, that wasn’t the vibe a guy looking to get laid wants to give off. So he’d decided while him in his natural state wasn’t exactly going to charm the ladies, it was better than creeping them the hell out, which was what faking it did.

It was what it was.

She could either take it or leave it.

It seemed Shawn was going to take it. She gave him a brief smile. “Well, I appreciate your honesty.”

“It’s my best asset,” he assured her. It was. Along with something else he wasn’t going to mention.

Shawn’s smile spread into a grin. “Well, an honest man would certainly be a first, but it’s too freezing cold out here to discuss that any further. And because I’m feeling generous, I’ll let you drive. We can go to Milt’s place across the road. Beer is cheaper than water there.”

She was putting a power struggle into play. He wasn’t sure if she was aware exactly of what she was doing, if she knew she was baiting him. But either way, it was making him hard.

Shawn let Rhett take her hand again and lead her to his truck. What the hell was she doing? She was engaging in some kind of verbal sparring with a man she absolutely could not date. Not only was he way too young, he was a driver, her friend’s brother-in-law, and he was the type of guy she didn’t even understand. She had always gone for the big talkers, the loud, friendly, work-a-crowd guys who never met a stranger and could work any angle, whether it was in a boardroom or on the golf course.

Rhett was . . . intense. He didn’t say a lot, and he smiled infrequently, yet somehow she felt like when she was with him, she was his only focus. That his stare could set her on fire, which was frankly annoying. Unnerving. She felt off-kilter with him and that was the last thing in the world she needed to be feeling given that she was about to lose everything.

But maybe that was why it was so easy to let Rhett steal her attention—if she was distracted by him, she didn’t have to contemplate life after Hamby Speedway. Because that reality was something she didn’t even want to consider, yet she had no choice.

Unless she got married.

It was insane.

So really, the last way she should be spending her evening was with a man who made her nervous, yet here she was.

“Sounds like a plan,” he told her, pulling his keys out of his pocket. “This is my truck here.”

Of course he drove a truck. He was essentially comprised of testosterone, so nothing else would be acceptable. But he was also a gentleman. He opened the door for her and helped her into the truck, which while not necessary was certainly helpful, because while she was no shorty, there was some serious air between the ground and the seat.

“At the risk of sounding like your father,” Rhett said as he got in and started up his truck, “you know you really shouldn’t be hanging out in the track offices by yourself in the dark at night. I just walked right in, and if I could do it, anyone could.”

Shawn wasn’t offended by his concern. He had a valid point, and most of the time she was more careful. “I’m not usually there alone. I have a couple of employees who leave at the same time as I do. If I am there alone, I try to keep the door locked, but today my lawyer had just been in to see me so the door was open.”

“Hence the bad day?”

“Oh, yeah.” She fiddled with her seat belt and debated how much she could or should tell Rhett Ford. She was dying to blurt it out to someone—to have them sympathize with how appalling the whole situation was, and maybe let her bounce some ideas off them on how to increase her profits this season. Yet at the same time, she really didn’t think it was a good idea to have more than a couple of people know the reality of the situation. One, because she didn’t want anyone to think less of her grandfather. Two, because she didn’t want anyone to think they could swoop in and try to buy the track from her at a rock-bottom price. Three, because if she decided to fake a marriage, the less who knew the truth, the better.

Not that she was planning to fake a marriage, because how would she do that? But it seemed best to proceed with caution. She may not know what the hell she was doing when it came to men, but she knew her way around the business world, thank you very much, despite what, apparently, her grandfather thought.

That, she had to admit, was at the crux of her dismay and shell shock. She’d thought her grandfather trusted her with the business—to find out he didn’t was salt in the wound of her grief.

“How was your day?” she asked Rhett inanely, suddenly realizing she didn’t want to talk about Clinton’s visit, because then she would have to say out loud that she was going to lose the track because her grandfather hadn’t trusted her.

“It was a day like any other,” he said, shifting gears and gunning it across the four-lane road to the opposite parking lot. He handled his truck like a driver, and she was attracted to that, to the way his hand rested lightly on the gearshift, fully in control, forcing the truck to bend to his will. “Running some trials on Eve’s car. It’s running loose, but she has a great mechanic in Sheppard. He’ll tighten it up, no problem.”

It was an addiction, this sport, this career, this lifestyle. She knew that, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

She couldn’t walk away without trying. She just couldn’t. There was no way. It was in her blood.

A crazy idea popped into her head. A very insane, she couldn’t be serious, idea. Yet she couldn’t help but follow the thought through.

She quickly calculated some figures based on the insurance information Clinton had given her. Rhett Ford was hard up for money, he had told her that. He also understood the love of racing. He was attracted to her, he was single, he was clearly a man who did what he wanted, with no regard for anyone’s opinion about it. He was a risk taker.

But was he desperate enough for cash to marry her?

And could she go through with it?

It was ludicrous, the very concept.

But once the idea had taken hold, Shawn couldn’t shake it. She could save her livelihood, the last connection to her grandfather, a sport that she loved. If Hamby Speedway closed, there wouldn’t be a regional dirt track in the area, and that would be a crying shame.

To do that, she needed to get married.

Why not Rhett?

As he parked and came around and opened her car door, then the door to Milt’s, when he pulled out her bar stool, and took her coat from her and hung it on the back of her chair, she debated with herself, her heart pounding at twice its normal rate as she contemplated blurting out such a bizarre business proposition to him.

“What kind of beer would you like?” he asked her.

“I’ll take a Guinness.”

“That’ll grow hair on your chest. I’m impressed,” he said with a close-lipped smile, his eyes assessing her.

She laughed, a sound of pure relief that she hadn’t screamed out a marriage proposal. Yet. “That hasn’t been the result for me, thank God. I like dark ales. When I’m feeling really sassy, I like a good Irish Car Bomb. Jameson dropped into Guinness is a taste like no other.”

“Now I’m really impressed.” Rhett put his keys on the scratched-up bar top and said, “I’ll do one if you do.”

Uh-oh. “Are you daring me?” How could he have figured out already that was her weakness?

“I’m definitely daring you. In fact, I double-dog dare you.”

Damn it. He was either psychic or Eve had been telling tales.

Shawn slapped her purse on the bar and said, “I’m in.” No matter that she hadn’t eaten dinner and, on an empty stomach, was very likely to get snookered from whiskey at the end of such a stressful day. She could not turn down a dare.

Rhett grinned and flagged down the bartender. “How competitive are you? Think you can drink it faster than me?”

“Oh, I know I can.” Hell, she had paid half her living expenses in college from bets on how fast she could shoot a beer. “It’s all about opening up the throat to take it all down,” she told him confidently.

His eyebrows shot up. “Now that’s a mighty fine talent to have.”

Oops. That did sound a little sexual. Shawn felt her cheeks heat. “Don’t be rude.”

“What? I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

“Thinking what?”

Damn it. He was good at this. He wasn’t going to say it, that they were both thinking about her giving him a blow job. Neither was she going to say it. “Just take your drink.”

He gave her a slow grin as the bartender set the glasses with the Guinness down on the bar in front of them, three-quarters full. A shot of Jameson was next to each glass, waiting for them to drop the shot glass down inside the Guinness. “On the count of three.”

Shawn picked up her shot of whiskey and let it hover over the Guinness, which she held in her right hand. From experience she knew to throw back with her dominant hand. Her coordination was better. She eyed Rhett as he counted, making sure he wasn’t going to cheat.

“One,” he said, and for some reason she shivered.

There was something about the way he stared at her. It was like he could give her an orgasm with the sheer force of his will, just from the intensity of his gaze. She shifted uncomfortably.

“Two.”

Shawn licked her lips, her hand shaking slightly. She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. She was trapped by his eyes, which were such a deep green they were almost emerald. He was . . . arresting. That was the word for him. It threw her off her game and she felt her wrist slacken a little, her girl insides warming in arousal.

“Three.”

Shit. He had gained an advantage by being sexy. Shawn dropped, lifted, drank, the sting of the whiskey masked by the smooth maltiness of the ale. She opened the back of the throat, let it all flow down, and slapped her empty glass back on the table while she finished swallowing.

Rhett was a few seconds behind her.

“Ha! I was first!” Not that she was one to gloat or anything. Much.

“Wow,” was the bartender’s opinion. “I’ve never seen a woman drink a car bomb that fast.” The bartender was big and brawny, covered in tattoos, his beard enveloping the bottom half of his face in bushy salt-and-pepper hair. Shawn took it as a serious compliment.

“Thanks.” She beamed a little.

“That was impressive,” Rhett agreed.

“Well, you were no slouch yourself,” she said, wanting to soothe his ego a little. “But I might have forgotten to mention that I supplemented my income in college from bets over how fast I could down a car bomb.”

Rhett’s eyebrows rose. The bartender laughed.

“You’ve got to appreciate a woman who can shoot whiskey.”

“Well, my grandfather’s name was Jameson. It seems disrespectful not to be able to handle his namesake, you know what I mean?” Shawn suddenly felt melancholy. God, she missed Pops.

The bartender fist-bumped Rhett. “You’re a lucky man, brother.”

“Not yet, but I’m hoping,” Rhett told him.

“Ah. Well, good luck.” The bartender winked at Shawn. “Make him work for it, hon.”

Except the truth was, she needed Rhett Ford more than he needed her, so she wasn’t going to be forcing him to dance on a string. If anything, it was about to be the other way around. Or more like her crawling on the floor for him with a gag ball in her mouth.

Oh, God. There were going to have to be some ground rules on this fake marriage thing. Which she really needed to discuss with him. Her palms started to sweat, the liquor heating up her extremities. In her mind, one way or another, it was already a foregone conclusion. That’s how she was. She made a decision, and everyone else needed to fall in with it. Somehow she didn’t think Rhett Ford was the falling-in type.

Not having any idea how to reply to the bartender, she cleared her throat, wishing she were like Eve, who was never at a shortage for words.

“Where did you go to college?” Rhett asked her as the bartender moved on to other customers.

Not that Milt’s was jumping. There were only a couple of guys in their fifties at the end of the bar. Good. Fewer witnesses when she asked Rhett to marry her and he started laughing.

“I went to the University of South Carolina.” Then, because it would be expected, and because she already had a slight buzz from the whiskey she added, “Go Cocks.”

She expected Rhett to laugh or make a crack in return. It’s what people did whenever she referenced USC’s mascot, the gamecocks. It was funny. Juvenile humor, yes, but funny. It was the only legitimate way to say “Go Cocks” in a conversation in public ever.

But Rhett didn’t laugh. In fact, his eyes darkened. “Say that again,” he told her. It wasn’t a request, it was a demand.

Shawn felt her face and chest burn, from the alcohol, from desire. “What?” she asked him, bewildered. “What do you mean?”

“Say ‘cock.’ I want to hear you say it.”

It could have been a creepy request. But somehow it wasn’t. It was just a complete and total turn-on. It was the oddest thing to her, that all Rhett had to do was look at her, his gaze trained on her and only her, and he commanded her full attention. Commanded her.

“Cock,” she whispered, licking her lips nervously.

“Louder.”

“Cock,” she said more confidently, aware of how he subtly shifted toward her, his body firm and masculine, his knee brushing hers.

He made a sound, in the back of his throat, that told her what she’d just said was as effective as if she’d gripped his cock itself with her hand. Her nipples beaded, and she realized that he might be younger than her by more than a couple of years, but he was fully mature and in control of himself and his desires. Possibly more so than she was.

It was so sexy, so hot, that she did exactly what she had been hoping she wouldn’t. She blurted. Instead of approaching him with a business proposition, the words just spilled out of her mouth like ice water on a flame.

“Will you marry me?”