CHAPTER ONE
SLINGSHOT: A maneuver in racing where the car following the leader in a draft steals his good air and takes the lead.
How to Work It: Hang back if your man is interested in another woman. When she proves herself too obnoxious or clingy, move right on past her into the lead.
—From How to Marry a Race Car Driver in Six Easy Steps
“OH, my God, run!”
Imogen Wilson had her shoulder nearly dislocated from its socket when her friend Tamara yanked her arm, trying to drag her down the hallway. Stumbling to keep up with Tamara and their other friend Suzanne, Imogen glanced behind her to see why they needed to sprint, worried about a herd of angry race fans, a fire, or a sudden act of terrorism in the speedway.
What she saw was worse.
It was Nikki Borden. Twenty-two years old. Bouncy. Bubbly. Blond. Built like Barbie, thanks to Nikki’s campaign of personal starvation and the assistance of breast implants and lip injections. She was definitely a beautiful girl by most male standards, and Imogen knew Nikki worked hard to maintain her appearance. Unfortunately, it seemed to be at the expense of nurturing her mind. The few times Imogen had tried to have a conversation with Nikki, she had been left wondering if there were residual effects of the excessive use of hair dye because there was a whole lot of nothing going on in that girl’s head.
None of which would bother Imogen, per se, except that Nikki was dating Ty McCordle, the stock car driver Imogen had an inexplicable attraction to.
“Don’t turn around,” Tamara said to Imogen, horrified. “She’ll see us!”
“Damn,” Suzanne said. “Too late.”
Nikki was waving to them with a big smile, and Imogen stifled a groan. She did not want to spend her time at the racetrack trying to make small talk with Nikki, and it was her fault they were going to have to do the polite. She should have just run and asked questions later, but that wasn’t her personality. She always had to know what was going on, and it was highly likely her curiosity would be the death of her someday. Today it was going to result in fending insults from Nikki, who seemed to think it was her duty in the name of friendship to inform Imogen of all her physical flaws.
“Hi!” Nikki said, making record time over to them despite her high heels. “Where are you guys going? I’ll go with you.”
“We have passes to sit in the boxes,” Suzanne said. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure we can get you into the restricted area.”
Suzanne didn’t look the least bit sorry, and Imogen almost felt bad for Nikki, who clearly was hanging around the track by herself. Imogen knew what it was like to always be the loner.
“Oh, I have a pass, too,” Nikki said, pulling a piece of paper out of her giant purple handbag. She grinned. “I guess having sex with a race car driver ought to get you something, right?”
Ugh. Imogen had known that Nikki was having sex with Ty—she had to be. It wasn’t like Nikki was the kind of girl who could cook a man a meal, discuss politics or racing with him, or even be considered a candidate for bearing his future children. Nikki was a booty call, if Imogen understood the definition of the term correctly. But to know it and to hear it out loud were two different things entirely.
“I guess that I’d rather get an orgasm out of sex than a paper pass, but that’s just me,” Suzanne said.
Imogen had to concur with that. She would really like to have an orgasm at the hands of a race car driver. A race car driver. Ty. Sexy, laid-back, always wearing a grin Ty. Who was instead giving Nikki orgasms and track passes.
It was utterly futile to think she could ever attract the attention of a man like that, and she needed to remember that. Why she even wanted to severely mystified her, but there was something about his joie de vivre, the way he didn’t take himself too seriously, that appealed to her. Or at least to the parts of her that resided below the waist.
“Well, let’s go sit down,” Tamara said. “We’re going to miss half of the race and I have a certain rookie driver I need to cheer on.”
Tamara was clearly antsy to see her husband Elec driving, already flashing her pass and making her way into the seating area of the boxes. Imogen followed her, wondering if her sunscreen was going to hold up for the duration of the race. She was dark haired and fair skinned, and the North Carolina sun was brutal. Looking around at the crowds, she realized that the straw hat she had brought to shield her face wasn’t exactly de rigueur. Everyone else who had on a hat was wearing a ball cap, most advertising their favorite driver. Imogen was aware she wasn’t dressed appropriately either. She was wearing a black sundress with a three-quarter-sleeve cardigan and sandals while the majority of the crowd was in shorts and T-shirts.
But considering it was her very first time to the track in Charlotte to watch a live stock car race, she hadn’t known the protocol. She had been looking forward to it as a life experience and because she was still fishing around for a thesis project for her graduate degree in sociology. The culture of stock car racing in the South seemed like a great jumping-off point, but she needed to home in on a more specific topic.
Only she hadn’t anticipated being stuck sitting next to Nikki. Suzanne had virtually vaulted over the row of seats to get the one farthest from Nikki, and Tamara had already taken the seat next to Suzanne. That left Imogen, then Nikki on the end, who was wiping the seat off with a tissue.
“I don’t want to get my white pants dirty,” she said in explanation when Imogen stared at her.
“Then why did you wear white pants?” Imogen couldn’t help but ask.
“Because they make my butt look good,” Nikki said, like this was completely obvious.
“Don’t you have other pants that make your butt look good that won’t attract dirt?”
Nikki smiled. “Yes. But with white pants you can’t wear anything but a thong, and men love that.”
Ah. Imogen didn’t see the logic in that at all, because wouldn’t men generally assume that a woman like Nikki was always wearing a thong? And if they were allowed to actually gain the knowledge of the thong for themselves, she suspected they wouldn’t care one way or the other what Nikki had on over them. But there was no point in launching a further discussion with Nikki. Imogen suspected Nikki had made up her mind and that was that.
“Of course.” Imogen settled into her own seat and looked out at the track. A pack of cars went whizzing by before she could blink, none of which were identifiable to her by either decal or number. She should have bought a program so she could attempt to educate herself.