He had that look in his eye she was starting to recognize. It was lust and it was flaming red-hot at the moment. Which was sincerely puzzling to her. Since when did dangling in a car window entirely clueless as to what she was doing constitute sexy?
“Let me help you,” he said, leaning closer and closer to her.
There was a split second before he kissed her that Imogen could have used to move away, protest, stop him. She didn’t.
As a matter of fact, when his lips touched hers, Imogen forgot everything—her thesis, their differences, where they were—and put her arms around his neck and kissed him back.
He had such a nice mouth, and he used it so well, warming her from head to toe with a few presses of his lips. Each kiss had her gripping him harder, which had him kissing her harder, until they were melded together, breathing heavily and taking and sharing passion. When his tongue invaded her mouth, Imogen felt an eager tug between her thighs, and she rocked forward in her flats, losing her balance.
Ty buried his hands in her hair and worshipped her with his mouth over and over again. Her glasses were in the way, but she didn’t give a damn, and clearly neither did Ty, since he showed no signs of slowing down for the next hour or two.
They might have stayed that way indefinitely if they hadn’t heard a man’s voice say, “Damn, somebody needs a room.”
They both pulled away and Imogen could feel her cheeks burning as she peeked around Ty to see who had caught them. It was a man in a golf shirt and khaki pants, very trim and toned, an attractive man in his fifties.
“Shit,” Ty muttered under his breath. Then louder, “Hey, Carl, how are you this evening?”
“Not as good as you, clearly.” The man gave Ty a half smile. It wasn’t full-blown, but it looked genuine, and there was nothing leering or suggestive about the way he glanced at Imogen, which reassured her.
Ty turned back to her, and shifted her so she was next to him, his hand in hers. “This is Imogen Wilson, a friend of mine. She’s a grad student in sociology who is very interested in the culture of stock car racing.”
Amused that Ty chose now to prove he did in fact know how to pronounce her name, Imogen smiled. No one needed to know that she was mostly interested in the dating and mating habits of one particular driver.
“Imogen, this is Carl Hinder, the owner of Hinder Motors and the man responsible for my career being where it is.”
Oh, Lord. Given that Ty had just explained a car owner’s role, she knew the importance of this man in front of her. And he had caught them making out against Ty’s kelly green car. She was certainly creating a new definition of classy.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hinder,” Imogen said.
“Likewise, Imogen. And that’s a lovely name you have. Shakespeare?”
“Yes.” She smiled openly at him now. “My mother was a fanatic about her William.”
“Where are you from? I don’t hear any North Carolina in your voice.”
“I’m from New York, born and raised there. I just moved to Charlotte last year and I’m enjoying it immensely. The people are lovely.”
“Well, don’t let this joker monopolize your time,” Carl said with a nod and a grin in Ty’s direction. “Charlotte has more to offer than punk drivers.”
“Hey,” Ty protested. “The lady likes punk drivers.”
Carl laughed. “They always do, especially on Sundays. Good night, y’all. Pleasure meeting you, Imogen.”
“You, too.”
When Carl walked away, Ty leaned against his car and picked at his T-shirt. “Lord, that man scares me.”
“Why? He seems very friendly.”
“Don’t let him fool you. He’s sharp as a tack and a killer businessman. I don’t think I’m afraid of anything for the most part. Not losing, not failure, not death, not snakes or spiders. But that man makes me sweat.”
“What could he do to you?” Imogen asked, amazed to see that for the first time she’d been in Ty’s presence, he did look genuinely uncomfortable.
“Fire me.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know. Anything. Then that’s it. Who am I if I’m not driving?”
Wow. Imogen would have never guessed Ty had insecurities in any way, shape, or form. She was about to reassure him that he wouldn’t be fired unless he did something catastrophic and that, even if he was, he could find another team to drive for, but Ty cut her a grin.
“Never mind,” he said before she could speak. “Just wasn’t expecting to see him, that’s all. Now, let’s get you into this car.”
Imogen bit down on a shriek when he scooped her up in his arms and turned her so her legs slid into the car. One minute his hand was on her butt, her weight supported by his lean but powerful muscles, the next she was sitting in the driver’s seat of a race car.
Ty watched Imogen sitting stiffly, her hands up in the air like she was afraid to touch anything for fear of what it might to do to her, and he felt immeasurably better. God, what had he been thinking, blurting out that crap about being afraid of being fired and being nothing more than a washed-up loser driver? He didn’t say things like that to anyone. He didn’t let anyone know at any time that the only thing he was really afraid of was being cut off from the one thing he loved and the one thing he was good at. If he couldn’t drive, there was no backup plan for a guy who couldn’t make sense of the words on a piece of paper or on a computer screen.
How did he explain that to someone as brilliant as Imogen? He couldn’t. Of course, neither should he be spending time with her, and he wasn’t planning to stop that anytime soon. She just made him laugh, made him feel good.
Turned him on.
Really, really turned him on. It was the way she blinked up at him with those big blue eyes behind her glasses, all curious and aroused, that made him lose focus on everything except getting her into his bed. Wiggling her cute little ass in front of him hadn’t hurt the cause either.
“Just relax, Emma Jean. The car doesn’t bite. Unlike me.” He winked at her as he leaned in the window.
“I don’t want to destroy anything,” she replied, not even responding to his innuendo.
“Babe, this car can hit the wall and still be salvageable. You can’t do anything to hurt it.”
“You’re positive?”
“Trust me. You’re fine. So here’s the history—stock car racing got its start from guys taking a car they could buy from any dealer, tricking out the engine, then racing it on the beach initially, then on the track. So it was a ‘stock’ car in that it was the same as the family car when they acquired it. Now only the body of the car is the same as a passenger car, and even that has some modifications, but we still use the name stock. But if you look around, you can see there isn’t much that reminds you of your personal vehicle.”