Like his eyes, he had a really great mouth, his lips not too full, not too narrow, but just right. And the way he moved it, curving it into one of those cocky smiles that made her heart rev and her blood pressure leap to dangerous heights. Or tilting it just so in a grin that warmed her blood as much as it irritated her.
“Kissing,” she said again, fixing her attention on her lesson plan. “A kiss is so potent because it sets off a chemical rush in the body that speeds the pulse, blots out stress, increases blood flow and body temperature.” Her gaze lifted to meet his.
“Sounds pretty powerful to me.”
“Kissing also packs a powerful whammy because taste and touch are directly intertwined. When we kiss, it’s not only an exploration of touch, but a thorough dissecting of our lover’s scent. During a kiss, neurons in our brain sort through odors and pick out pheromones—the body’s individual perfume—and carry this information to the brain. It’s this information that triggers the chemical cocktail and gives something as small as a kiss the power of an atomic emotional bomb.”
“You really know your stuff.” His gaze drilled into her and she felt her body warm again.
“It’s my business.”
“Since you know so much, you probably have to be pretty good at the actual act itself.” She’d heard the comment so many times from so many different men.
But coming from this man, it didn’t stir her anger. Instead, she thought of all the things she wanted to do with him, to him, and her own body temperature rose several degrees. “I, um,” she cleared her throat and the Tic Tac slid to the back and took a nosedive down.
The mint lodged itself in her throat before she could take a breath and she coughed, her eyes watering. “Could you excuse me for just a second?” she croaked. Before he could reply, she bolted from the sofa and made a beeline down his hall into the kitchen.
A few vicious coughs and the Tic Tac rearranged itself and slid down the right pipe. She sucked in a deep breath, her throat burning as she leaned against the counter.
“Are you okay?” His voice carried down the hall. “Fine,” she called out. “I’m just getting a glass of water.” She turned on the faucet and let the water run, but she didn’t take a drink. Instead, she fished the second pack of mints from her pocket and popped several onto her tongue.
They did little, however, because the problem had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with hunger. The nipple-tingling, weak-in-the-knees kind of hunger that made her want to lean into him and taste his lips with her own.
“Hey.” His voice sounded from the doorway and she whirled. He stared expectantly at her. “Where’s your glass?”
“What?”
“You said you were getting water.” He glanced at the flowing faucet. “Are you planning on ducking your head under?”
“I . . .” Her lips tingled and she licked them. A bad move when her mouth was already sensitive and wanting and—
Talking.
She needed to talk, to do something with her mouth other than what she wanted to do at the moment. Since sucking wasn’t doing the trick, maybe talking would.
Talking about a totally neutral subject, of course, that had nothing to do with plundering mouths or trailing tongues or getting naked and sweaty and hot.
“Don’t you think your fans deserve an actual autographed picture instead of those pre-printed things?”
“What?” He stepped closer. The heat from his body drew her. His scent filled her nostrils.
“Your publicity shots.” She darted past him and headed down the hallway back to the den. “They’re pre-printed.”
“No, they’re not,” he said as he followed right behind her. So close that if she were to stop they would collide.
“They most certainly are.” She reached the safety of the den and walked around the coffee table. Her gaze went to the wall where a framed version stared back at them. “See?”
“That isn’t printed. It’s an actual signature.”
“That’s printed. You don’t actually sign each picture. Don’t you think you’re cheating your fans by not signing it yourself?”
“Cheating? I’m not cheating anyone. I give these away to anyone who wants one. Most drivers I know sell them. They don’t foot the bill for the picture themselves the way I do. That’s not cheating. It’s caring.”
“It’s cocky. You’re assuming the fan wants your picture in the first place.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a little cockiness every now and then.”
“And smug.”
“I’ve got a lot to be smug about. I’ve worked damned hard to get where I am.”
“And narcissistic.” When he just glared at her, she went on. “Why focus on your own picture? Why, you could give away matchbooks imprinted with your name or car posters or autographed cans of Big Tex motor oil. I bet your sponsor would love that.”
“Fans want pictures.”
“So you assume. Maybe they just want a memento.” “They’re always asking to take my picture.”
He had her on that one and her mind raced for a comeback. “Pictures are too easy,” she finally blurted. “Thoughtless. Especially when they’re signed by someone else. And this isn’t even a full signature. It’s just your initials.”
“Initials are fast and easy.”
“What do you care? You’re not the one signing them in the first place. They’re printed. P-R-I-N-T-E-D.” She knew she sounded juvenile, but from the dark, thunderous look on his face, she was pressing his buttons and that was good. Anger was good. Then he wouldn’t look at her like he wanted to lap her up.
No, he would look at her like he was this close to wringing her neck.
Like now.
“Who the hell cares?”
“You should.”
“I do,” he growled.
“So why not use the full name?”
“Because that’s what I used to sign in the beginning when I did them myself. Initials are my trademark.”
“Because you’re such a busy man. Much too busy to waste your time on a fan who’s just one of millions. A fan you’ll probably never see again. One who worships you—”
“Initials are all I could do,” he cut in.
“What are you talking about?”
“I started signing my initials because I had to.” His voice softened as he shrugged. “I can’t write very well.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Actually, I can write okay, just not very fast.” His gaze met hers. “I have dyslexia.”
“But you designed and built your own race car.” “Dyslexia is a learning disability. I have trouble learning. It doesn’t mean I’m not smart.”
“I know that.”
“Some dyslexics tend to be very mechanical. Where they lack in book smarts, they make up for it in other areas. This is my area.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s not a big deal. I had trouble signing autographs after the races in my early days, so I started doing just the initials. As my fan base grew, so did the media attention and the number of autographs, and so I came up with the complementary autographed picture promo instead. My fans were happy with it. They would much rather have me hand them a picture than stand for hours in line to shell out a few bucks only to stand in line even longer to get me to sign it.”
“I never would have thought about it that way.” “Because you’re not dyslexic. I know it seems impersonal, but it’s not. I care about my fans. They’re everything to me. I even remember the very first time someone asked me for an autograph. His name was Dillon and he was eight years old. I’d just won my first race ever and he stared up at me with this huge smile on his face and his eyes twinkling. Like I was really somebody instead of some dumb-as-dirt special ed kid who’d always been on the outside looking in. I wasn’t outside when he looked at me. I was actually in.” His eyes glittered at the memory and her chest tightened.
“I know how you feel. I was the only gir
l in the first grade who didn’t get invited to Tracey Burg’s slumber party,” she blurted. “There were twenty girls in the class, including Shauna Summers who still wet the bed, and I was the only one sitting home on Friday night with my grandmother and my two sisters. My mom was off at one of her seminars and my dad was spending the year in Arizona researching a paper he was writing. So, my sisters and I were stationed at our grandmother’s in Georgetown, as usual.”
“Nice little town. I’ve passed through a couple of times.”
Skye shrugged. “It’s a typical small, close-knit college town. Population 1,042. Tolerance level—zero, at least when it came to me and my sisters. To all the non-intellectuals, we were the outcasts because we didn’t come from a traditional family. Not that we would have been any more accepted had my mom and dad been home twenty-four-seven. They were free-spirited activists more interested in raising awareness than raising cattle like most everybody else in Georgetown.”
“What does all this have to do with dyslexia?” Nothing. It was on an entirely different plane. Except for the way it had made her feel. She’d been ostracized herself. She knew what it felt like to be on the outside always looking in.
“You shared something personal with me, and so I thought I would share with you. To, um, make a point. Real pleasure is all about give and take.”
“Really?” He stepped toward her.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m giving you a kiss. Or taking a kiss. Depends on how you look at it I guess.”
And then his lips touched hers.
“Where the hell are they?” Skye stared at the kitchen table where she’d set the box of graham crackers leftover from her very first football lesson. They were several days old now, but it didn’t matter. She needed a fix in the worst way, and while it was nowhere near a full-fledged cookie, it was at least close in the processed food chain.
Gone.
She glanced around the kitchen before spotting the mangled box on the floor near the pantry. She walked over and picked up what was left. There was no mistaking the soggy uneven edges where tiny doggie teeth had ripped through the cardboard.
Something brown caught the corner of her eye and she turned and spotted a piece of brown wrapper. A few inches away sat another shred. With what was left of the box in hand, she followed the trail across the kitchen, down the hall and into her bedroom, a sneaking suspicion growing in her mind.
She reached the doorway and spotted Skipper hovering over the last of the package of graham crackers.
The dog glanced up. Her whiskers, guilty with crumbs, twitched at the thought of gobbling up the last goodie.
“Don’t even think it,” Skye warned as she stepped into the room.
Skipper eyed her before placing her paw on the edge of the graham cracker and pulling it close.
“Skipper,” Skye said, her voice a tad softer. “Please. I need it.”
Skipper seemed to think for a moment before her whiskers twitched a second time and she leaned down, this close to gobbling up Skye’s last chance at salvation.
“Skipper!” Skye warned, her voice as deep and commanding as the obedience trainer who’d given Skipper her potty lessons.
Skipper stopped hovering and leaned up to look at Skye. “Skipper is the best girl in the entire world and her mommy loves her. Speaking of which, I bet Skipper loves her mommy, too, doesn’t she?” A tail wag answered the question. “That’s right. Skipper loves her mommy and so Skipper would want to help her mommy. Mommy is not herself right now. She needs a fix.” Skye eased down to her knees and crawled a careful inch toward the dog. “I know you’re hungry, but I’ve got an entire box of dog biscuits in the cabinet. The real biscuits. They taste much better than those old graham crackers.”
Skye crawled the last few inches and carefully reached forward. “Good girl. That’s my—” The words stumbled into one another as Skipper gave another bark and wolfed the graham cracker down.
“I hate you,” Skye grumbled, snatching up the dog and the empty wrapper. “Okay, so I don’t actually hate you,“ she said when the dog licked her cheek. The smell of dog breath mingled with graham crackers filled Skye’s nostrils. “But I don’t like you. You’re a bad girl. Now what am I supposed to do?” She walked back to the kitchen and opened the pantry. Her gaze hooked on the gourmet dog biscuits she’d bought for Skipper.
Okay, she was hungry, but not that hungry.
Not after one kiss. Albeit one really great, hot, wet, thorough kiss that had made her knees go weak and her insides melt. While she’d kissed many men in her past, nothing had quite prepared her for the feel of Clint MacAllister’s lips on hers.
He’d pressed and plundered and swept his tongue along the seam of her mouth and coaxed her to open up to him. She had. She’d parted her lips and caught her breath as his tongue had swept inside to deepen the kiss.
It was the best kiss of her life, and the worst. Because it had left Skye wanting more.
The thought stirred an image of Skye draped across the front of Clint’s #62 Chevy. Naked. Naked and panting and ready for the man leaning over her. This time he didn’t just kiss her. He kissed and touched and licked and sucked and ...
She slammed the pantry door and marched to retrieve the Tic Tacs from her purse. Five mints later, she sank down onto her bed and chomped away as she reached for her day planner. If she sucked long and hard enough, surely...
Ugh. Long and hard were not words to be thinking of at the moment.
Then again, why not? She was a grown woman with needs. She could think what she wanted and she could get worked up and she could indulge herself if she wanted. She didn’t need a man. All she needed was her imagination and one of the various hand techniques she’d perfected in between boyfriends.
She closed her eyes and counted five deep, easy breaths before she touched her left breast. Just a small caress that soon grew to an insistent rub that made her skin tingle and her nipples pebble and her thighs ache.
She trailed her touch lower, but in her mind’s eye she didn’t see Tarzan or George Clooney or Troy, the better-looking half from Montgomery Gentry.
Instead, she saw Clint MacAllister. She smelled him. She felt him.
But he wasn’t there, and damned if the thought didn’t bother her enough to kill her hunger and shatter the mood.
Her movements stilled and her eyes popped open and the fantasy ended. And Skye Farrel did the one thing she’d criticized every man in her past for. She rolled over, closed her eyes and went to sleep.
Chapter Ten
“The sun is shining, the weather is clear and it’s a great day for a smooth bottle of wine and some fast and furious racing. We’re at Sears Point Raceway in Sonoma, California, at one of only two road courses in the NASCAR Winston Cup series. It’s going to be an exciting day full of sharp turns, lots of dips and a great view from the beautiful hills surrounding the track—cut!” Bobby Dupree, the host of MTV’s newest Sunday night segment called Race Daze, motioned to the cameraman.
“There’s Clint MacAllister!” He started after Clint and Lindy, who picked up their pace and headed for one of the enormous garages set up for each racing team beyond the pit area. “Hey, Cowboy!” Bobby wasn’t just good looking with his short brown hair and Ricky Martin looks. He was fast. The microphone came over Clint’s left shoulder. “Are you really out for good?”
Clint kept walking, his cowboy boots slapping pavement as he picked up his speed and moved faster.
Not faster, as in he wanted to get away. Faster, as in busy. His plane had been delayed in San Francisco, and the drive north had taken an hour and a half instead of the usual forty-five minutes, thanks to some construction and two different funeral processions.
He was late. And tired thanks to last night’s kiss. Christ, he’d actually kissed her.
Not that the fact surprised him. He’d known since the first spark of attraction that he would eventually kiss Skye Farrel. What he hadn’t anticipated was how that kiss
would make him feel—all hot and bothered and so damned needy, as if he hadn’t had a woman in years. Or that he would want another, so much in fact that he’d tossed and turned the entire night thinking about another kiss and more.
Like touching and licking and working them both into a frenzy. And then parting her smooth thighs and sliding so deep he forgot where he ended and she began.
“Come on, Clint. Give us the scoop. The race fans want to know,” Bobby kept on, dogging Clint’s every step. “What’s the real story behind your retirement?”
“I’d love to answer all your questions, but Lindy, here”—he motioned to the woman keeping time to his right— “would skin me alive. She handles all the press interviews and she’s a stickler for protocol.”
“Come on,” Bobby persisted. “Rumor has it you’re running scared. Is that—”
“Have a good one,” Clint cut in, pushing through the door and leaving Bobby to face off with a narrow-eyed Lindy, who turned on him in the doorway.
“You heard the man. You want an interview, you have to go through me.”
“I already did. You turned me down.”
The door rocked shut on the rest of Lindy’s words and Clint found himself surrounded by the roar of a motor. The smell of oil and hot metal filled his nostrils and he inhaled, drinking in the familiar scent. Relief washed through him, short-lived when he spotted Vernon Simmons, a newspaper in his hand and a look blacker than oil that needed to be changed, talking to Tuck.
“. . . making a mockery of this race team and that makes a mockery of Big Tex, and that makes me mad.”
“I was just having a little fun. It was harmless,” Tuck said with his usual easy grin. But there was nothing easy about the look in his eyes.
He was wary and worried that he’d made a mistake. Clint knew, not because he knew Tuck all that well, but because he knew the look. He’d worn it a time or two in his younger days when he’d been wet behind the ears and a little too big for his britches.
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