Burning Rubber: Extreme Racing, Book 2

by Pamela Britton

  Callie nodded. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

  And when Derrick pulled into the winner’s circle later that afternoon, Callie knew she’d made the right choice. The first thing Derrick did after he climbed out of his car was to pull her into his arms and kiss her.

  “See,” he teased, “told you I wouldn’t die.”

  She snuggled into his arms.

  “I love you, Derrick Derringer.”

  “I know.”

  “And I’m never leaving your side.”

  “What about work?” he asked, drawing back.

  “I’m going to telecommute,” she explained with a smile. “Of course, Veronica doesn’t know that yet, but she’ll find out soon enough.”

  His smile must have been as brilliant as her own.

  “That’s my girl,” he told her softly.

  She was his girl. For now, forever and for always.

  Epilogue

  The network studio was a silent as a tomb.

  “We’re live in five, four…” The intern who held a hand up to the broadcaster sitting across from Derrick went silent, his fingers counting down the seconds.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” said the gray-haired host. “Welcome to Race Talk. I’m Chance McLennen. Tonight we have stock car racing legend Derrick Derringer in the studio with us. Some might call Derrick a renegade with his recent defection to the X-TREME Racing League. Tell me, Derrick, whatever made you decide to leave a successful racing career to compete in what is effectively a start-up organization?”

  Callie watched from behind a group of production as Derrick smiled. “First of all, I haven’t left stock car racing. Let’s get that clear.” He gave the host an equally patronizing smile. “I still manage to drive full-time for Hooligan Racing.”

  The talk show host nodded. “For now.”

  “For now,” Derrick echoed back.

  “But that might change next year?”

  “Maybe.” Derrick shifted a bit in his black leather chair. The whole set was done in black, Callie suspected because it complimented the host’s silvery good looks. “Maybe not.”

  “But you like racing for the XLR?”

  Derrick glanced over at her, although Callie doubted he could see her beyond the lights used on set.

  “I like racing. Period.”

  “So tell me about the XLR. Any worries you might get blown up?”

  Callie winced.

  If anything, Derrick’s smile grew. “None whatsoever. But it’s still early yet.” Chance shifted some papers, pretending to look for data, although Callie was certain the man had Derrick’s statistics memorized. “You’ve only run, what? Three races according to my record.”

  “That’s correct,” Derrick said. “The fourth is this weekend.”

  “Yet despite police taking a suspect into custody, security is still heightened at each race.”

  Veronica.

  They had her to thank for that. She insisted the presence of security guards would keep the XLR in the headlines. Unfortunately, that’d proven true.

  “It’s just a precaution.”

  Chance didn’t say anything for a moment—a single second that felt like eternity on live television.

  “What if I told you I’ve spoken with the man accused of sabotaging the X-TREME Racing League and that he claims he didn’t act alone.”

  Callie’s shoulders tensed.

  Derrick remained unfazed. “We already knew there was someone else. The father of one of my fellow drivers—”

  “No.” Chance gave a sharp jerk of his head. “He claims this has nothing to do with Shane Houser.”

  Callie couldn’t believe her ears.

  “It’s a lie,” Derrick said.

  Yes, a lie. Like most criminals, Charlie Coldwell would sell his own soul if it meant a potential deal with law enforcement.

  “He claims what he told me will be proven at the next race.”

  “Bull,” Derrick threw back. “The only thing that’s guaranteed is my winning the next XRL race.”

  “You’re certain of that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The sportscaster must have realized Derrick wouldn’t budge. “Let’s talk about your winning streak…”

  The words seemed to fade into the background. Was it possible? Could there be someone else on the inside trying to harm the XRL. What did that mean for Derrick?

  “He’s just dramatizing the whole thing,” someone hissed.

  Callie gulped, hand over her heart. “Diane,” she whispered back. “You scared me half to death.”

  Derrick’s PR rep gave her a smile, eyes alight with friendliness. “I saw the look on your face.” Diane glanced at Derrick, her words barely audible. “But you don’t need to worry. Chance is just trying to improve ratings.”

  A breath she hadn’t even known she’d been holding rushed out of her. “You think?”

  “I’m certain.” Diane patted her on the back. “Charlie Coldwell is going away for a long time. No worries.”

  What would she do without Diane? A voice of reason amidst the chaos of her life. The XRL had gained momentum in the previous two months. More and more race fans were showing up to watch the drivers compete. Diane had helped Callie to juggle it all: the constant pressure, Callie’s move to North Carolina…Veronica.

  “Thanks, Diane.” Callie squeezed her arm gently, the woman’s tall frame accentuated by the tailored gray suit she wore.

  “You’re welcome.”

  In front of the cameras, Derrick was smiling at something Chance had said. “Yes, it’s definitely safe to say I’m off the market.” Once again, Derrick seemed to find her eyes, the smile he gave her full of tenderness.

  This time, it was Diane who patted her arm. “See. Nothing to worry about.”

  “So it’s official then,” the sportscaster asked. “You’re engaged.”

  Callie glanced down at her hand, the four-carat ring on her finger catching the light. She couldn’t keep the smile off her face.

  Yes, it’d been chaotic. Yes, it would continue to be crazy, but she wouldn’t change a thing.

  “I am,” Derrick was saying.

  “Finally going to settle down, huh?” Chance teased.

  “Yup.”

  “And your future bride is Vice President of Development for the X-TREME Racing League?”

  “She is, and she also conceived the idea for the X-TREME league. She’s brilliant.”

  Callie’s whole body swelled with pride.

  “There you go, folks,” Chance said with a wide smile. “Derrick Derringer is off the market and coming to a local track near you. Derrick, thanks for coming here today…”

  Less than two minutes later, Derrick was by her side.

  “Well?” he asked the two women in his life.

  “You did great,” Diane said.

  “Terrific,” Callie agreed, happy to sink into his arms.

  “It’s true you know.” He drew back and looked into her eyes. “You are brilliant.”

  “So are you,” she said, leaning back.

  “Okay, you two, that’s enough.”

  “No,” Derrick contradicted. “It’s not nearly enough.”

  He kissed her. Callie let him. She didn’t care that Diane watched. That studio personnel darted around them. That off to the side a few Derrick Derringer fans waited for an autograph. All she cared about was the man in her arms.

  The man she loved.

  He drew back, tweaked her nose, smiled at Diane. “Let’s do it. Let’s put the tires to the tar and burn some rubber.” He clutched Callie’s hand, her engagement ring once again catching the light

  She could do anything as long as she held that hand.

  Anything.

  Maybe even burn rubber.

  About the Author

  With over a million books in print, Pamela Britton likes to call herself the best known author nobody’s ever heard of. Of course, that’s begun to change thanks to
a certain licensing agreement with that little racing organization known as NASCAR. Nowadays it’s not unusual to hear her books being discussed by the likes of Jay Leno, Keith Olbermann or Stephen Colbert. Flip open a magazine and you might read about her, too, in Sports Illustrated, Entertainment Weekly or Southwest Airlines’ Spirit Magazine.

  But before the glitz and glamour of NASCAR, Pamela wrote books that were frequently voted the best of the best by The Detroit Free Press, Barnes & Noble (two years in a row) and RT BOOKclub Magazine. She’s won numerous writing awards, including the National Reader’s Choice Award, and a nomination for Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart.

  When not creating stories for her readers, Pamela works as a reporter for a local newspaper. She’s also an award-winning columnist for the American Quarter Horse Journal. She lives on a ranch in Northern California with her husband, daughter and, at last count, twenty-one four-legged friends.

  If you'd like to chat with Pamela you can find her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/pamelabritton or at www.pamelabritton.com.

  Look for these titles by Pamela Britton

  Now Available:

  X-TREME Racing

  Playboy Prankster

  Coming Soon:

  Books 3 and 4 in the X-TREME Racing Series

  From zero to sixty in a heartbeat—if she doesn’t throttle him first.

  Playboy Prankster

  © 2010 Pamela Britton

  Extreme Racing, Book 1

  When CJ Randall arrives in Nevada to cover the Celebrity Pro/Am Off Road Rally for DRIVE Magazine, she’s already stuck between a cactus and a hard place. Her boss has made it clear if this article doesn’t measure up, her job is wrecked. Then she gets a look at the “pro” half of her “am”: Tan. Rich. Overconfident. Unsuitable. Bachelor. Lacking. Ethics.

  T.R.O.U.B.L.E.

  She’s sworn off tall, dark and handsome men. Too bad the desert heat is making her hyperventilate like a hormone-crazed teenager.

  Despite her makeup-free face and ready-to-go attitude—a far cry from the high-maintenance women he’s used to—Bryce Danvers doesn’t expect CJ to last an hour. To his surprise, she toughs out the entire day. The least he can do is show his appreciation with some fast food and a friendly kiss.

  The instant their lips connect, warning klaxons go off in CJ’s head. He’s a taste of heaven she can’t afford to sample again. Bryce finds himself wanting to give her generous curves a bumper-to-bumper inspection. And his focus on the checkered flag shot all to hell.

  Warning: If you like your stories PG-13, this is not the book for you. If you like Boy Scout race car drivers with clean-cut reputations, you should pass. And if you like to breathe while reading, steer clear. Love, laughter and hot, hot, hot sex scenes will leave you gasping for air.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Playboy Prankster:

  “Ohmigosh,” she screeched, her hand on the handle of the bathroom door and staring at Bryce in disbelief. She glanced down at the towel barely covering her private parts and darted back into the bathroom. “Bryce Danvers, you creep, how the heck did you get in my room?”

  “You left your window open. I stuck my hand in and unlocked the door.”

  She felt her mouth flop open, then closed it, then opened it again. She couldn’t believe he was telling the truth, had to resist the urge to call him a liar.

  “Well, you can just walk right back out.” She clutched the towel around her more firmly, closing the bathroom door until there was just a crack to peek out and hoping upon hope that she was suffering a Dramamine induced hallucination and not facing the reality of Bryce Danvers in her hotel room.

  “Ah, honey, you don’t really want me to leave, do you?” he drawled in his mint julep voice.

  “Don’t you call me honey, you…you pervert,” she opened the door a bit more. “What’s the matter, the woman in pink lose your room number?”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind. Get out of here before I call security.”

  “CJ, this place doesn’t have security.”

  “How do you know?”

  “’Cause I caught a look at the guy at the front desk. The closest that man had come to security is the maximum security kind.”

  He must mean that god-awful man at the registration desk, the one with more ink tattooed on his arms than a printing press. “Well, then I’ll call the police.”

  “You’ll have to come out here to use the phone.”

  “That won’t be a problem since you’re leaving.”

  “Why? Are you afraid I’m going to bite?”

  “I’d need a rabies shot if you did.”

  He groaned. “Ooo, a low blow.”

  She didn’t say anything. Trouble, she reminded herself.

  “And to think, I was going to ask you out to dinner.”

  “Sorry. I have other plans tonight.”

  “What plans?”

  “None of your business.” She heard a rustling sound and stiffened. “Don’t you come near me, Bryce Danvers.”

  Silence.

  “Bryce?” she called warily. Maybe he was leaving. She opened the door another notch.

  Nothing.

  She peeked her head out the door.

  “Boo.”

  She jumped. The brat stood right by the door frame wearing a white polo shirt and tan slacks, looking entirely too good for her peace of mind. “You…You…” She hissed, all the while trying not to gawk. Bryce, without his firesuit, was a sight to behold. The shirt clung to his muscular frame, the white contrasting with his tan and making his eyes stand out even more. She clutched the towel around her more firmly.

  “Are those bruises on your shoulder?”

  She looked down, startled out of her salivating. Bruises? What bruises?

  He walked forward and CJ tensed. Oh gosh, this was bad. This was really, really bad. He smelled like that forest again, and she was in a towel, and he was…oh goodness, he was touching her. Gently, softly touching her shoulder. She closed her eyes, her body thrumming like a guitar string.

  “Did the harness give you those?”

  She nodded, still not trusting herself to look up at him. If she did, she might drop the towel and offer herself to him like Aphrodite on the altar of love.

  “Where else are you bruised?”

  “It feels like everywhere I have skin.”

  “Can I see?”

  She looked up at him, there was a look concern on his face. CJ squelched the stab of disappointment that it wasn’t burning, uncontrollable lust.

  “C’mon, I promise not to hurt you.”

  That was what all men said, but she lowered the towel anyway, not a lot, just so he could check it out, the feel of his eyes on her more erotic than the feel of his fingers.

  “You’re black and blue.”

  Was she? She almost closed her eyes, but the look in his eyes wouldn’t allow her. There was so much tenderness in his gaze, so much genuine concern her heart instantly forgave him for not tossing her over his shoulder, throwing her on the bed, and having his wicked way with her.

  “Why didn’t you tell me the belts hurt you?”

  Because she hadn’t cared. Because with him sharing the same airspace as her she was hard pressed to notice much of anything. “Because I didn’t think it mattered.”

  His blue eyes narrowed, such pretty blue eyes, so mesmerizing.

  “Not matter? Of course it matters.”

  Oh, gracious, she didn’t think she could take much more of being near him. Her body had begun to warm. Places that had no business getting excited suddenly cried out for a little action. And when his finger reached out to touch her again, when she noticed that his eyes had never left her own, the realization that he wanted to kiss her hit her with the force of a club.

  “Bryce?” she murmured, unsure, hardly daring to hope that she read his expression correctly.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  But she wasn’t mistaken. He did want to kiss her. She could tell.
Never mind that her common sense demanded a reason as to why he was suddenly interested in her.

  Common sense be damned.

  “Bryce,” she said a second time, and was it her imagination, or did she hear a pleading tone to her voice.

  Pleading, definitely pleading, because he’d begun to dip his head. Her ears began to ring.

  “Don’t get it,” he mumbled.

  “Don’t get what?” she whispered, her eyes on his lips, those wonderful, sensual lips. The ringing grew loud.

  Ringing?

  It was the phone. Darn, darn, darn. Miles-the-editor-from-Hell. What rotten luck. Or was it? She stiffened, suddenly admitting what she’d been about to do, and with whom. Reality came crashing down. Obviously, pickings were slim out in the desert. Why else would Bryce Danvers, the man who could have absolutely anybody, show up on her doorstep?

  “CJ—” Bryce begged.

  She clutched the towel around her like it was the jacket to her black interview power suit and looked up at him, and for the first time in her life she knew what it meant to get lost in someone’s eyes. Never again would she scoff at the silly romantic term. She could feel herself drowning in Bryce, but the jangling of the phone was a persistent reminder of what she was here to accomplish…and it wasn’t a night of wild passion.

  Redefining room service…

  Suite 69

  © 2011 S.L. Carpenter and Sahara Kelly

  The Zephyre Corporation’s annual convention may be designed to let colleagues kick back in the Florida sun, but Riley McGuire doesn’t plan to let anything interfere with her chance to shine for corporate management. Not even the devastatingly sexy guy playing air guitar—naked—in her hotel suite.

  Oliver Wilson expected to share a deluxe suite with what he assumed was an amiable Irish-American beer drinker, not an acid-tongued Boston beauty who can’t hold her liquor.

  Their agreement to muddle through is shot to hell by a tug of attraction that, in the convention’s decadent atmosphere, grows too strong to resist. Oliver discovers there’s more going on under Riley’s suits than good marketing ideas. And Oliver’s gentlemanly teasing gets under Riley’s skin…in a sexy way.