Racing Hearts Read online

  Shoving the little witch out of my mind, I said, “It’s... not bad, exactly. But shit, it doesn’t leave a damn thing to the imagination.”

  It showed off my ample curves nicely, but I’d look like I was offering myself up on a silver platter in this thing. It was overly suggestive bordering on being an advertisement. Squinting my eyes as I gazed at the top of the bustier netting, I shook my head. If I so much as turned the wrong angle, the mesh would expose my nipples for the entire world to see.

  There would be press at the kickoff party, after all.

  Um, no. I’d have to class it up or run down to Mina’s to get something else. Not that I really had it in the budget right now.

  Shit.

  Chewing my lip, I drew a deep breath and resolved myself to do just that. If I left now, I could catch Mina’s before they closed for the night.

  “Take a pic of it. I'm sure it’s fine, Charlyse. You can make anything look good.”

  God, he was sweet.

  I sighed. “Fine.”

  I snatched up my phone and took a quick selfie. I then catapulted the image into text space, bracing myself for the feedback I was about to get. Though, knowing Colton, he’d find a really nice way of telling me I was right. He didn’t have a cutting bone in his body.

  Fidgeting with the netting over the bustier, my frown deepened. The damn dress hadn’t looked like this online. What had possessed me to buy something online, knowing it would take several weeks to send it back and get a refund? What a shame. It had looked so perfect in the digital catalog.

  “I don’t know what you’re freaking out over. It’s sexy as hell,” I heard Colton say through the phone’s tiny speaker.

  I snorted. “You mean slutty.”

  “I don’t, actually,” he replied, sincerity lacing his tone. “This one’s got class, Char. Seriously.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, until I bend slightly to pick up my wine glass, and the world gets a good look at my rack.”

  Colton laughed. “It’s a good rack, though.”

  I stomped my foot. “Colton!”

  He laughed again. “You can tape that up, right? It looks good, babe. I say wear it.”

  If he said so... I’d known him long enough to trust his word. He was the closest thing I had to a sibling—to family—save for Dad. I didn’t remember my mother, she had died when I was just a baby. So I’d gotten boatloads of nurturing and affection from Colton and my dad. I couldn’t imagine there being a tighter sort of bonding than there was for have-nots growing up very simply, with impossible race dreams. Colton’s dreams, anyway.

  Colton had sort of been adopted by us at an early age. When he and I became inseparable friends in the third grade, I had made him get off the bus at my stop and meet my dad. Colton lived in foster care, having never met his real parents, and pretty much spent every day with us, going back to whatever home he was in after dinner. Until we were fifteen. It was then Dad had bought a bed and a dresser and set it up in our spare room, letting him pretty much live with us.

  I was quite happy modifying stock cars (and sometimes building them from the ground up with the team). It fed into my need to take things apart and understand what made them tick. And I was good at it. Damn good.

  Colton was the one with racing in his blood, as well as the chops to do something with it, if he’d just get out of his own way and stop looking out for everyone but himself. None of us were really sure where his talent for driving came from, but he was a natural behind the wheel, and Dad and I hoped he would be able to win the Grand Prix one day. Or... at least a few NASCAR races.

  I gazed at myself in the full-length mirror again and sighed. “Okay. Compromise,” I decided. “I’ll wear it with a tight-mesh shawl. Class it up.”

  Colton laughed again, his voice coming out tinny in my dropped-one-too-many-times smartphone. “You’re such a prude.”

  “I have to be. If I don’t class it up a bit, everyone at this party will think the shop offers hand-jobs with our repairs. Appearance is everything, dude.”

  Colton still didn’t grasp the concept of that sort of thing, but then that was what he had me for. I was the pragmatic triple-thinker. He was the slightly naïve do-gooder who saw the best in everything and everyone. It kind of made me worry about him when and if he made it to the higher levels of racing. Corporate interests had carved several snake pits into the racing industry. A lot of drivers, too green around the edges, wound up in the seedier circles, allowing their sponsors to pimp them out and throw races for the superstars they’d built their brands around.

  The ones they wanted to be sure continued to shine.

  Colton was a talent—a true one. He didn’t deserve to be pushed to the back for being too innocent to see a bad deal when he signed one, so I looked out for him when he would get approached about signing with someone. Nothing worthwhile had landed in his lap yet so far, though.

  “Shit. It’s almost seven. I’m gonna hop in the shower,” I said, looking at the clock.

  “Sounds good. I’ll swing by in a half hour.”

  After hanging up with him, I carefully peeled myself out of the fuck-me dress I’d errantly purchased, and gave it a temporary home on a hanger haphazardly left on my doorknob before making my way to the shower. I’d only worked a half-shift, courtesy of Dad, but it was a grueling one with several wrecks coming in that had had their limits pushed in a couple of perilous practice runs. Not to mention the damned Trans Am I’d had to put to the wayside for the race car wreckers that had come in late in the afternoon.

  Too many overachievers were burning out their engines before they had a chance to even see a starting lineup, but it was good business for the family, so there was no point in bitching about it. As with anything, it weeded out the hobbyists from the real drivers who had racing emblazoned in their hearts. The ones who knew how to play it risky without messing up their resources in the process.

  After stepping into the shower, I added a hefty squeeze of shower gel to my loofah and scrubbed myself into abandon, the stirrings of excitement flitting in my belly as my mind returned to tonight’s party.

  I wasn’t a socialite—not by a longshot— but events like this were akin to Christmas to a girl like me. Old hats, shiny new superstars, and glowing hopefuls made their grand entrances at parties like this one, and the midnight show was always something to remember. The event’s organizers always hired the best acts before the race. And now, instead of reading about the big event in one of the racing mags like I did every year, I would actually get to attend.

  Truth be told, I was a fan of Dalton Enterprises. They had a reputation for playing it clean, and unlike too many corporate juggernauts, they didn’t prey on the smaller shops like the one my father owned. I looked forward to seeing what surprises lay in wait for tonight’s event.

  Something told me it was going to be a night to remember.

  Chapter 4

  Tyler

  I LOOKED AT THE CURTAIN dangling too low to the ground and pointed at it. “You’ve gotta get that lifted higher. We don’t need any lawsuits tonight.”

  “Right,” Zara, my assistant noted, scrawling as much on the surface of her tablet. “Got it.”

  Grinning at her, I clapped my hand on her back. She was so dutiful, it was cute. “Thanks. And hey, take a break after this. I don’t want to see you for another hour or two.”

  Looking alarmed, Zara’s head shot up, a wisp of wavy blonde hair flying out from the bun it was fast collapsing down from. “But... the event is in three hours. How am I—”

  “You won't do us any good frazzled, and even Ray Charles can see that you are right now. Have a long dinner and tell Stacy to handle the details. She can buzz me if she hits any walls. Most of the groundwork is done, anyway.”

  Forcing back a grimace, Zara’s anxious blue eyes averted to the side as she relented.

  Like me, she was a control freak. Except she didn’t wield power with that control; she punished herself with it. She’d work herself
to the point of passing out if I let her, and tonight was too important for that. She’d laid the foundation for the entire party, and there was no reason her secretary couldn’t handle the rest. Stacy would be taking Zara’s job, anyway when I promoted the little workaholic from personal assistant to the VP of Operations. Might as well get her used to really delegating orders now. She was too easy on the people she oversaw, and that wasn’t good for anyone. I needed top performance from all my employees.

  “Right. On it.” She hurried away, heels clacking on the marble floor.

  I chuckled. I tell the woman to take a load off, and she approached it like another checkbox on the itinerary.

  Staring at the three-dimensional race car logo hanging down from the ceiling, my heart squeezed a little in my chest. The Dalton Enterprises logo got its start in a drawing I’d made when I was six. Before that, my dad had used a stylizing of the company’s initials. But the company had really begun to develop brand recognition once we had an engaging logo that could be sewn onto team patches, plastered on the sides of victory cars, and displayed on flags, pit boxes, and racing strips.

  Highly recognized as a symbol of clean racing and some of the best in today’s industry, it was something to be proud of. And every time I looked at it, really looked at it, my heart woke up for the tiniest sliver of a moment, threatening to let loose the floodgates of emotion I was determined not to feel.

  Sure, I buried myself in my work, and I took on as many stunts as I could cram my schedule with, but nothing ever truly erased the loss I’d suffered in the past two years. Life just wasn’t the same now, and all the money and bimbos in the world weren’t enough to fill the void inside of me.

  I’d tried—really tried—to see if ridiculous and luxurious purchases, or meaningless one-night-stands would do something about the constant ache in my heart, but I’d failed that self-destructive first year when nothing but the flames of futility licked at that gaping hole. That first year when I’d thought burning up the world would change something that couldn’t possibly be changed, regardless of my level of power.

  Some might think I’d had the world on a string, but death had easily wiped away the premature grin someone foolish like me had worn for so long. You could buy most of the driving contracts, fast cars, and top-shelf mechanics in the world, but you’d be hard-pressed to buy back a life. That realization was what separated me from most billionaire assholes who, for one reason or another, hadn’t learned the humility of how infinitely meaningless all the money in the world actually was.

  That whole money can’t buy happiness line? It was true. Money bought things—that was the extent of its power. It couldn’t and wouldn’t do shit for your soul.

  COOL BLUE LIGHT SPILLED from the centerpiece of race cars forming a circle of quasi-sunrays around Speed Liquor’s dripping fuel fountain display at the car circle’s middle. Hot girls in glittering, racing-flag checkerboard cat-suits and thigh-high boots hoisted up trays of the liquor company’s newest releases. They pranced along the raised platform and gracefully descended the steps to the lower level at the edges of the room where all of the booths awaited the VIPs and notables.

  The far wall was still closed off, but it would soon open to reveal the stage where Krash would be ushering in the midnight race and fireworks with a quick show before the doors opened to the track I had been zooming around earlier.

  I wouldn’t be making the grand entrance myself right now, not for at least an hour after the first of the guests arrived. But I’d be watching from the bank of monitors in my office, sipping the high-dollar bourbon I’d come to love a little too much. It’d give me time to get my mood in the right place while sustaining the distant, but benevolent appearance I liked to keep as the company’s CEO.

  Familiarity never failed to breed contempt in money circles. If you kept the competitors and bottom-feeders on their toes, you maintained an edge that always kept them guessing. In my playbook, that was the only way to handle things.

  Plus, I liked to know which notables were already down there before I took the elevator to the event room. Some of the schmoozers had actual personalities, and whether I ever planned to throw them a bone or not, they were at least entertaining. If some of the less-savory assholes showed up before the midnight race, I’d use them as buffers.

  I’d probably flirt with a select groupie as well, for no other reason than to fend the others off. Not that I planned to take her seriously, whoever she might be. I didn’t have time for distractions right now. Not while I was preening Kristoff Vance to be my successor as Dalton Enterprises’ brand face.

  I had decided a year ago that I was taking a step back from the competitive end of racing before I got sucked too far into the role. Cashing out while I was ahead, so to speak. Not that I’d ever stop racing cars or bikes. I lived for the rush I got while in the driver’s seat, but I wanted to pursue stunts more than win trophies. Plus, I had a company to run.

  I’d known my official career as a driver was over from the time my father passed, but I wasn’t bitter about that. My father would have sacrificed everything for me when he was living. I’d had no problem at all stepping up to the plate then, and still had zero regrets about my new role.

  I hadn’t been lying to Kyle, Evan’s scumbag’s son. Jason Dalton was right there with me every step of the way. I could feel his guidance every time a crucial business decision needed to be made. I knew I wasn’t alone—not truly. I had every intention of making my father proud up there from where I hoped he looked down on me.

  Drawing a sip of the bourbon, I tilted my head contemplatively when Jacques Raines stepped through the door to the party with a gaggle of trophy girls in tow. Showy bastard. The spectacle was worse than last year, where he’d shown up in uniform, like he had some sort of pompous need to remind everyone he’d won the Grand Prix a total of one time. What a dick. Letting out a half-laugh, I flicked the switch to the center cameras, focusing on the middle of the room. My gaze immediately zeroed in on a beauty I’d somehow not notice slip in through the front door.

  Leaning against the hood of the blue racer, an expensive-looking bombshell with the curves of a pinup model accepted a drink from one of the glittering drink pushers I was overpaying.

  She was beyond gorgeous.

  Leaning back, I watched her lift the wine flute to her plump red lips, drawing a small sip. Having an immediate reaction, and unable to take my eyes off her, my pants tightened, which was so unlike me. I’d had panties raining down on my head for quite a while now, but very few women had what it took to make me do a double-take.

  This one? She had what it took to make me do a triple-take and stare. Classy, but sexy, she was the kind of woman who had curves for days, but didn’t look to be flaunting it shamelessly. She had everything it took to bring a man to his knees, and she was concealing a good portion of it under a flimsy shawl over a skintight green dress that managed to give her an air of mystery rather than take away from the undeniable allure of her ensemble.

  Shifting in my seat, I took another pull from my drink and forced myself to rein in the all-too masculine response threatening to overtake me. Adjusting my pants to get more comfortable, I decided I’d play this one slow, like I did everything. If I rushed in right now, I’d send the wrong message and lose my edge. I hadn’t even exchanged a word with her yet, but I was already having to suppress a reaction.

  What kind of woman made a man go feral before he even knew her name?

  After draining the rest of my drink, I set the heavy glass tumbler on my desk and eyed her a long time before forcing myself to switch cameras and check the front door again. Maybe I’d cut my entrance delay up a bit. I’d been expecting the usual assholes tonight, but there was something—someone—far more interesting in the building, and I had every intention of getting to know her.

  Chapter 5

  Charlyse

  RESISTING AN EYE ROLL, I watched as a leggy blonde with fake boobs and too much makeup eyed my friend like he was a
piece of chicken fried steak smothered in gravy. “Oh, my God, Colton, just go get her. What are you waiting for?”

  “And lose my edge standing next to the prettiest girl in the room? Not a chance.” Colton gave me a playful grin and leaned back on the hood of the electric-blue vintage racer at the room’s centerpiece. He was taking a hell of a long time getting over his breakup with Alyssa, and when he said things like that, it made me think he wasn’t even trying.

  He seriously needed to get back in the game.

  “That girl’s already undressed you with her eyes, loverboy. I can’t fathom what your problem is.” I mean, I could, of course, but why mention it?

  He took a cautious sip from his gin and tonic. “I told you. I’m fine right here.”

  Colton bristled a little at my comment, like a kid brother tired of being pestered by big sis, but he quickly smiled through it, his face flushing a bit with frustration. Colton had the sort of heart which ran very deeply into whatever connections he got tangled in. Nothing was casual for him where emotional relationships were concerned, and maybe that was what had scared Alyssa away after a while.

  Some girls could handle a man who wasn’t afraid of commitment, and the promise of an enduring relationship with complete acceptance of flaws. But, the other camp of women wanted someone like Colton, where there was a high risk and danger of heartbreak. It made all the bad boys so appealing to their type.

  I may have had a touch of that need for danger in myself, too, but I wasn’t the sort who wanted an asshole to try to claim me. With a father like I had, I fully expected the men in my life to be the dedicated sort. Men who had balls and courage in all areas of their lives.

  Unfortunately, it was a tall order. I’d already had several run-ins with the wrong sorts of men who’d proved my theory correct that most bad boys were, indeed, assholes. Insecure boys inside, who were far too wounded to easily open themselves up to anything serious. Somehow, I’d made myself okay with that—for casual encounters, anyway.