One night in Daytona (One Night Stands Book 1)

by Ann Grech

  Copyright © Ann Grech 2014

  All rights reserved.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organisations, trademarks and incidents are either entirely fictional or, if they are real, are used in a fictional sense. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  B L U R B

  Jos Farris was on top of the world, leading the Daytona 500 until a simple mistake ended his race and possibly his career. Cassie Lane’s day had gone to hell; on national television her star whistle-blower backed out of the story that would have made her career, making Cassie look utterly incompetent.

  But Jos’ day suddenly looks up when the red-headed beauty sits down next to him in a biker bar in Daytona Beach, Florida. Cassie can’t resist the chemistry between the two of them. And she’s not the only one. The sparks sizzle as soon as they touch, but is their love affair fated to a one-night stand or will destiny bring them together again?

  For M, B and J.

  Always for you.

  A C K N O W L E D G E M E N T S

  My biggest thank you goes to my boys for putting up with late dinners, housework not being done and mummy / wifey being grumpy after a lack of sleep. Your unwavering encouragement means the world to me. I love you more than words can express.

  Thank you also to my amazing beta readers Milly Beckett, Sassie Lewis, Lacey Roberts and KC Vixen. You all rock!

  Willsin Rowe, your cover design exceeded my dreams a hundredfold. Thank you so much.

  And finally, but certainly not least, thank you to the ladies at Hot Tree Editing. You are wonderful!

  C H A P T E R O N E

  “Welcome back to our live coverage of the Daytona 500 after those important messages from our sponsors.”

  “This is the final pit stop for Jos Farris. He’ll only need enough gas to get him over the line and with twenty laps of the circuit left, it’ll be a quick stop. He’s got it in the bag. Mark my words: Farris is on his way to his first driver championship. This is his season. He’s already dominating it. The darling on and off the racing circuit is ready; go, go... oh no. It looks like Farris’ car has stalled. What a disaster!”

  “Farris is usually cool as a cucumber, but he’s got to be feeling the pressure here. He’s trying to restart the engine, but it’s just not coming alive.”

  “He’s out. He’s out of the Daytona 500. What a tragedy. From leader of the race to a DNF. Jos Farris is a DNF. His pit crew are moving the car into the garage and have the jacks out already. Farris is out of the car. His race is over. What a tragedy.”

  “What the fuck, man?” Buck Allbright shouted at Jos in his Texan drawl, his white Stetson contrasting against the mottled red of his face and white handlebar moustache. “Can you or can you not drive this fucking car? I’ve invested millions of dollars into this team and you,” he poked a thick finger in Jos’ chest, “you’ve just pissed on it.”

  “The starter motor crapped itself. The engine wouldn’t turn over. What’d you want me to do?”

  “Not stall the fucking car.”

  “Deliver me a goddamn car that isn’t plagued by mechanical faults and I’ll win this damn race. But no, we’ve had problems with that piece-of-shit alternator all day. And don’t even get me started on the shit that went down last year.”

  “Bullshit, Farris. It’s your driving. You’re fucking incompetent. Get the fuck outta your suit. You ain’t drivin’ for this team again,” Allbright shouted, spittle covering Jos’ face, as he grabbed Jos’ firesuit with both hands and shook him.

  “You can’t fire me, asshole,” Jos swatted his hands as he pushed Allbright away, making him stumble and land on his ass before the media circus vying for the best take of the argument.

  “I’ll have your ass for this, you disrespectful little shit,” the team owner gritted out as he steadied himself on the tyres. Jos’ glare back at him seemed to push Allbright over the edge of his already tattered temper and he threw a punch at Jos. The fringing on Allbright’s white button down shuddered as wildly as the jiggle around his thick waist as he again stumbled. Jos didn’t think. He’d been pushed to the limits of endurance today, his anger and disappointment at his stupid, stupid mistake exploding in a haze of red clouding his vision. Jos’ lightning fast reflexes kicked in and he sidestepped Allbright’s reach, easily avoiding his punch. Before his brain could engage, survival instinct kicked in and Jos’ fist connected with the soft cartilage of his team owner’s nose, sending a crimson splatter of blood down Allbright’s pristine shirt.

  Jos kept punching until his pit crew pulled the two brawling men apart. Allbright was clutching his nose, blood streaming down his face as he howled and Jos shook out his already swelling hand.

  The contrast between the two men was stark. Allbright typified the Texan cowboy come oil magnate. He was a sixty-something, portly man dressed in a near all-white suit excepting the corporate logos of the team sponsors sewn to the back and chest of his shirt with matching red cowboy boots. Jos had a longer, leaner look with a shock of dark, sweat-plastered, messy hair and brown eyes that, except for the distinctive gold flecks, were almost black in their intensity. The two men struggled against the teammates restraining them until Jos relaxed in their arms and said quietly, “I’m done. Let me go,” just as the closest reporter was wrapping up a live cross to their pit area.

  “Tensions are clearly high in the Allbright Oil Team after Jos Farris attacked team owner Buck Allbright. It seems that the darling on and off the track has a bit of a temper and certainly some work to do to patch up his rocky relationship with team ownership.”

  “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer, Farris. I’ll make sure you’re done. You’ll never drive another race car again. This is the end of your career. Start collecting food stamps. I’ll sue you for everything you’re worth and more,” Allbright ranted as Jos stripped off his race gloves, unzipped his suit, and pushed through the team area to his private trailer.

  “And now we cross live to Cassie Lane in Daytona Beach, Florida where Florida’s Senator Ginty has a private box in today’s Daytona 500.”

  “Thank you, Tamara. I’m here with Fiona Lewis, Senator Ginty’s former head staffer who has made allegations of fraud against the Senator, claiming that millions of dollars of campaign funding was misappropriated into Ginty’s personal accounts to maintain a lavish lifestyle, drugs, prostitutes, and a high roller gam
bling addiction. Ms Lewis, can you confirm for the cameras the evidence that you have on Senator Ginty’s financials.”

  “I’m sorry, Cassie. I made a mistake. I’ve since verified that the Senator’s financial dealings are legitimate and no fraud has occurred. I recant my earlier statement to you and apologise immensely to the Senator for my erroneous judgment.”

  What on God’s green earth just happened? The staffer’s information was solid and she was determined to expose the lying scum for what he was: a criminal. “So you now deny that payments to exclusive sex clubs and known prostitutes were made from campaign funds? You deny that significant withdrawals were made from campaign accounts in casinos in blatant breach of campaign spending laws?”

  “Yes, I do. I’m sorry, Cassie. I made a grave mistake. You need to believe me and back off,” the former staffer pleaded with her confidant, the woman who’d helped her dig up the dirt on the sleazy Senator and comforted her when the former staffer realised that going public would end her aspiring political career.

  “Has someone threatened you, Fiona?” Cassie asked gently, reading the obvious fear vibrating through Fiona’s body.

  “No, no he hasn’t,” Fiona denied. “You shouldn’t be saying things like that. He’d be angry that you’re accusing them of threatening me,” Fiona pleaded with Cassie to stop.

  “Who is ‘he’? Who are ‘they’? Who has forced you to lie to the camera now to protect them?”

  “Stop, Cassie. Please”

  “Answer me, Fiona. You came to me with evidence that there had been rampant theft of campaign funds. Now you’re saying that you were wrong, that you made a mistake in reading the records,” Cassie pushed.

  “Yes, okay? I made a mistake,” she cried, turning away from the camera that she only remembered was rolling when Cassie returned her gaze back to it.

  “Well, Tamara, it seems that more questions have arisen from today’s developments in Senator Ginty’s use of the campaign funds. Back to you.”

  “And that’s a wrap,” Cassie’s cameraman said as the flashing light on the camera blinked off.

  “Something’s up, John. I need to speak with Fiona.”

  “You’re too late, look,” he motioned as Fiona stepped into a cab. “Something’s happened to spook that poor girl. That darned Senator has long tentacles and I think he’s squeezing her to shut her up.”

  “You got that right. Darn, what a disaster. The network is not going to be happy about this ‘lil snafu.”

  “Ah, my dear, you have a way with words.” John laughed dryly.

  “Yeah, great. Just great,” Cassie sighed. “I’m gonna get my ass kicked for this. I pushed so hard for this story and for the live cross. I shouldn’t have insisted we do it here. I should have got her on camera yesterday when she gave me all the information. Let’s go back to the hotel and try and rescue this mess.”

  C H A P T E R T W O

  Jos pulled his Ducati crotch rocket into a biker bar on S Atlantic Avenue in Daytona Beach. His was the only street bike in the lot. Every other bike was a Harley or custom chopper. At least in a place like this he wouldn’t be recognisable. Swapping his helmet for a cap that he pulled low over his face, he sauntered over to the bar. His eyes were the dead giveaway for most people that met him. He could usually pull off being incognito by simply dressing casually, like he was today: faded black jeans, chunky motorbike boots, and a grey Henley. It was a very different look to the one the public usually saw. He always had on team clothing when he did anything official. Hanging out in places where the Sprint Cup’s diehard fans didn’t often frequent also helped. Biker bars were a favourite of his; the rowdy bikers, their old ladies not letting them get away with any shit, the bar flies wanting to get down and dirty with a biker to piss off their daddies, cheap drinks and good grub. And bikers were happy to leave you be, something he desperately needed right then.

  Jos’ team manager had visited him in his trailer after he’d showered the grit and sweat from today’s disastrous race away. The meeting didn’t go down as Jos had hoped. That asshole of a team owner had already involved the lawyers, instructing them to draw up the paperwork terminating his contract and reporting him to NASCAR, alleging he brought the sport into disrepute for his show of violence. If Allbright was successful, Jos could get fined or worse still, be delisted as a driver. Did no one care that Jos didn’t throw the first punch? Yeah, he may be bigger and stronger than the fat ol’ Texan bastard, but he was acting in self-defence, surely that meant something. But apparently money talks and Allbright practically oozed money. A rancher from way back, his family had massive holdings in Texas, but his wealth really skyrocketed when on one of those farms they discovered a massive oil reserve.

  Jos and Allbright couldn’t have been more different, Jos having grown up in one of the trailer parks in Oklahoma. His folks didn’t live there anymore; Jos bought them a little cottage in a better part of town with his signing check. Even though he was well off now, he hated pompous asses who showed off their cash with every chance they got. And Allbright? That’s exactly what Allbright did.

  “JD. Double, straight up,” he told the bartender as the beefy man stood before him. Sliding the glass over the bar to him, Jos tipped it back, the whiskey leaving a trail of fire down his throat as he swallowed.

  “Another?”

  “Please.” Jos nodded.

  “JD. Double, on the rocks please,” a tired feminine voice uttered next to Jos in a soft southern accent. Her accent was muted, like she hadn’t lived in the South for a long while. Even with the obvious dejection in her voice, its warmth surrounded his body, unknotting his tense muscles and curling low in his belly.

  “There you go, pretty lady.” From the corner of his eye, Jos watched her swirl the whiskey over the ice in her glass before tipping it to her lips. He sat in silence as she finished her drink, pushed the glass aside, and dropped her head to the timber top of the bar, banging it lightly a few times.

  “You look like you’ve had as shitty a day as I have,” Jos finally spoke after she’d wiped the corners of her eyes with delicate fingertips, painted in a French manicure with gloss polish. Her auburn hair was pulled tight in a clip, making her fair skin seem even paler. The freckles dusting her straight nose were starting to show through her professionally made-up look.

  “You have no idea.” She sighed again, biting her quivering lip. Jos’ attention was drawn down her profile, from her emerald green eyes to her plump, pink lips glossy from the quick swipe of her tongue. As she stripped off her navy blue New York power suit jacket and slipped it over the back of the barstool, his gaze drifted downward to her crisp white button down shirt fitted to her ample breasts and tiny waist. The matching navy fitted skirt left no curve to the imagination. She had one luscious booty, and if anything awoke Jos’ libido, it was a perfectly rounded, tight ass. Jos swallowed thickly, willing his cock, which had suddenly made an appearance at the sight of a pretty girl, down. He dragged his gaze away from her toned calves, delicate ankles, and petite feet in hot as sin peep-toe pumps, and nodded to the bartender holding up two fingers, the universal sign for two more of the same. “Gosh darn it, I’ve worked so hard and I was finally making my way up the ladder. Thought I’d scored the story of a lifetime when poof,” she waved her hand, “it all went up in smoke. Now my editor and newsroom chief want to can my ass.”

  “You’re a reporter?” Jos’ cock wilted. The one thing he didn’t do was get involved with the media, not after his co-driver’s reputation was savaged by an irate reporter who he’d bedded and walked away from after one night.

  “Yeah, in politics. Well, I was. It seems I’ve been summoned back to Chicago tomorrow to face the music. In all likelihood, I won’t be reporting anything as of tomorrow. I’m Cassie by the way.” She turned to him and held out her hand for him to shake.

  “Jos,” he rasped, his tongue suddenly as dry as the Bonneville Salt Flats he’d visited last year during Speed Week. Damn, she wasn’t just pretty;
she was beauty personified. Like a mirage in the desert, an oasis that could quench a dying man’s thirst. When her hand slipped into his, he felt the electric current running through him, knowing she had felt it too when her eyes widened in innocent shock. His wince drew her attention to his hand and she turned it to see his bruised knuckles.

  Her lips quirked up slightly as she ran her fingers lightly over the swelling. “Well, Jos, you do look like you’ve had a rough day too.” Reaching into her glass, she plucked a melting cube of ice out of it and ran it over his knuckles gently. “Wanna get it off your chest?”

  “What? You haven’t already heard?” he snorted.

  “Why would I have heard anything about your bruised knuckles?” she asked, her brows drawing together.

  “It’s gotta be all over the news by now. I can just see the headlines: ‘Jos Farris’ fall from grace.’”

  “Ah, you have a distaste for people in my line of work.” She nodded, deflating even more.

  “Yeah, you could say that. A certain sports reporter made my co-driver’s existence hell.”

  “That’s good then. I know nothing about sports. Politics I can talk about for hours, but not sports. What do you play?”

  Jos usually had a good read of people. He had to in his line of work. He’d had many a ‘friend’ who, he’d realised the hard way, had simply implanted themselves into his life to leech off his celebrity status. Assessing her curious gaze, he realised she was genuine; she had no idea who he was. Either that, or she was a brilliant actress. Laughing he said, “Sprint Cup. I’m a driver.”

  “Oh,” she replied, the surprise evident. “Why are you in a biker bar? Don’t you drive a car? Do you ride a bike, too?”