On the Move (4 page)

She had the hots for him.

Oh, yeah. She wanted him. No mistaking the blush that spread around the collar of her I-want-to-be-taken-seriously suit.

Well, well, well.

He started his car, five hundred horsepower roaring to life with a near feral growl. When he found his gaze resting on Vicky yet again—despite warning himself not to turn and stare—she was gazing out the window, hands in her laps, her fingers contracting over and over again.

“Hey, listen,” he said, placing a hand on her thigh.

She flinched like a dog whose nose had just been smacked.

“Don’t,” she said.

“Sorry,” he said, biting back a smile. “It’s a habit of mine, touching women when I talk.”

“And I’m a person who enjoys personal space.” She made a box out of her hands. “My space,” she said. She motioned outside the box. “Your space. No touchy-touchy.”

He almost laughed because he knew that despite what she said, she wanted him.

“Let’s go,” she said impatiently.

He started the car and punched the gas pedal.

“Hey,” she yelled, thrust back in her seat by the force of his acceleration.

He set his smile free.

Nothing like horsepower to put him in a good mood. That was one of the perks of his job. Not only did he get his choice of cars—as long as they were made by his race car’s manufacturer—but he got to drive them for free, compliments of one of the local dealerships.

“Sorry,” he said. “I have a tendency to do that.”

“Go figure,” he heard her mutter.

It was one of those early spring days where the sky was as blue as pool water. Warm, too. It made him want to roll the windows down and turn up the radio.

He took his foot off the accelerator. A glance at his passenger revealed she’d gone deathly white. “You okay?” he asked.

“No,” she squeaked. “I’m not.”

“Too fast?”

“What do you have under the hood? A space shuttle engine?”

“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “It’s a supercharged, 5.4 liter V-8.”

“Whatever that is,” she replied.

Brandon wondered why he felt the need to play with her a bit. Maybe because he wanted to get back some of his own control. He still couldn’t believe she’d asked him to fire Scott just because she didn’t want to work with him.

“It means it’s got a very,” he said, leaning toward her, his eyes darting between her and the road, “
very
big engine.”

The look she gave him could have melted the interior dashboard and
that
was made of carbon fiber.

“Like me,” he added, just in case she’d missed his point. He rested his palm on her thigh again.

She picked up his hand as if it was roadkill. “Box,” she said, making a square out of her hands yet again. “Remember?”

He’d expected her to blush. Maybe even wilt into the seat. She did neither. That surprised him. He had considerable experience with the opposite sex, and he’d recognized the look of sheepish dismay he’d seen earlier. It’d been followed by a curse and a blush, a sure sign he’d gotten her hot and bothered.

“Look,” she said, reaching for the briefcase she’d set at her feet. “Since you seem so bored right now, perhaps we should go over your contract again.”

Bored? Did she think he was flirting with her to pass the time?

Well, wasn’t he doing exactly that?

Yeah, he admitted. She was an uptight, undersexed woman—exactly the type he liked to avoid. Unfortunately, it seemed as if they’d be stuck together for a while.

But maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing?

“Sure,” he said. “Go ahead and refresh my memory.”

She pulled out a legal document that made Brandon’s stomach turn just looking at it. Words. He hated words.

“Okay, so,” she said, settling the document on her lap. “I don’t think we need to go over the first paragraph. It just spells out the names of those people who have a fiduciary interest in the contract. The next paragraph is the Indemnity paragraph. It just states that you agree not to sue KEM Enterprises or its employees if something they do results in legal action….”

Brandon nodded, though to be honest, he was listening with half an ear. What if she asked him to read something? What then?

Relax, Brandon. You’re driving. She’s not going to ask you to do that.

“Are you listening?” Vicky asked.

The words intruded upon his deliberations.

“I’m listening,” he said, pressing down the accelerator so he could merge onto Interstate 77.

“Then what did I just say?” she asked.

Brandon glanced over at her. She was leaning against her seat, her eyes narrowed as though she was about to order him to the corner of the room.

And it hit him then what he could do to keep her a little more malleable.

Seduce Vicky.

Okay, so maybe not seduce her. Just flirt with her a bit to distract her. Sure, it wasn’t exactly ethical. But the truth of the matter was, he was desperate.

But something told him it’d take a lot of work to get Vicky alone.

Ah, but wouldn’t it be fun to try? His eyes caught on the legs that peeked out from beneath her business suit. They looked surprisingly tanned and toned.

Yup. Maybe not a bad idea at all.

“Brandon?” she said, looking at him over the top of her glasses.

It was that look more than anything that sealed the deal. He had a feeling seducing Vicky would be a challenge—and he loved to be challenged.

“Oh, I was listening,” he said, reaching out and touching her again. “Your voice can really turn a guy on.”

Vicky didn’t react. Not at all. Wait, she blinked at him. He knew this because her glasses magnified her eyes and he could see the way they stared at him intently, her own gaze darting between his two irises as if debating which one to jab a finger into.

And then, to his shock, she left his hand on her thigh. “Let’s just go back to the point where you tuned out, okay? Or did you want to try and seduce me right now, in which case I’ll just put this contract away so I’ll be unencumbered while I laugh my head off.”

Seduce her? How did she know?

“What makes you think I’m trying to seduce you?” he asked, pulling his hand away and clenching the steering wheel. His fingers felt weird, probably because her leg had been surprisingly warm.

She tipped her head down and stared at him over the rim of her glasses. “Your voice can really turn a guy on.” She mimicked his masculine voice. “Pish,” she hissed. “I’ve heard better.”

“Better what?”

“Your whole flirt-with-the-plain-Jane-lawyer-to-get-out-of-work thing. I’m not buying it.”

“You think I’m flirting with you to avoid discussing my contract?”

“What else could it be?” she said.

“Maybe I’m genuinely attracted to you.”

“Yeah, right.” She looked away, shaking her head.

“Maybe I am.”

“Years of being the class president—
not
the prom queen—has illustrated the fallacy of
those
words.” She smiled, and it appeared as if she
really
didn’t care.

“I’m smart, not pretty. And that’s okay,” she said quickly. “I
like
being smart. From what I’ve observed, being gorgeous is vastly overrated. It takes twice as long to be taken seriously. Most women hate you on sight. You have to wear makeup wherever you go because, God forbid, you should ever look less than perfect. Obviously, I don’t have that problem. I don’t care about makeup. I’m smart, and that’s more important than looks because looks fade. So if you don’t mind, let’s stop the kidding around. I’d like to finish going over your contract with you since you seem to have forgotten the bulk of it.”

He stared at her in shock for a full five seconds, all the while peeking glances at the road in front of him. When he finally pulled his gaze away, it was just in time to spot the road he needed. “Hang on,” he said, jerking the wheel right.

“Jeesh,” he heard her mutter as she clutched the armrest.

“You know,” he said, shifting gears and ignoring her complaints. “I’ve often heard smart women are hot in bed.”

“That’s exactly my point,” she immediately countered. “You’ve
heard.
Ergo, you have yet to experience it yourself. You have no firsthand experience and thus lack the skill set which would enable you to make a fair assessment of the situation.”

Skill set?

He almost burst out laughing. And if they hadn’t been in such a hurry, he’d have pulled over right then. Maybe used his “skill set” for both their pleasure.

Later.

Much later. If there was one thing Brandon was good at, then it was learning new things. That was the reason why he’d switched from IRL to the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series, and why he’d continue to drive for whoever wanted to put him behind a wheel. He’d never met anyone like Vicky before, although at this point he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. She made him want to laugh, and it’d been a long time since a woman had done that to him.

“Now,” she said. “Are you ready to stop playing around and get to work?”

Oh, he’d get to playing around again. With her.

“Shoot,” he said, because there was something else Brandon was good at—being patient. He would kiss her, if only to prove to her that he was right. Beneath the business suit was a ferocious kitten, one who would
enjoy
his touch.

He would make sure of it.

Vicky’s gaze moved to Brandon and she was tempted to kick him under the table just so he’d look at her and she could give him an “I told you so” glare.

But all he did was lean back in his chair and cross his arms, like a petulant boy who’d just been told to stop shooting spitballs.

“I don’t think I can stress this enough, Miss VanCleef,” Mr. Knight said, his eyes shifting to hers and glinting like cold emerald chips. “If your client doesn’t begin to toe the line, he’s out. We were very careful to include several clauses in his contract that will give us full recourse should he cross the line. KEM is not afraid to take legal action.”

No doubt. In her professional opinion, Brandon’s contract was ironclad. If Brandon continued to ignore KEM’s dictums, not only would he forfeit the right to race someone else’s stock car, but KEM would demand reimbursement for the anticipated revenue he’d earn them over the remaining years of his contract—an estimated five million dollars.

Vicky glanced at Brandon, trying to gauge if any of this was sinking in. Judging by the look on his face, it wasn’t. His eyes showed about as much emotion as a piece of wood.

She turned back to Mr. Knight, trying to appear poised and confident when what she felt was way, way out of her league.

“I appreciate your candor,” she said, proud that her voice sounded steady. “And I realize that you’re being very gracious in giving Brandon a chance to prove himself. Trust me, SSI wants Brandon to succeed as much as you do.”

“Undoubtedly,” Mr. Knight said, glancing at Brandon as if he expected the driver to finally say something. “But with Daytona only a week away, we need Brandon on his best behavior.”

“I’m not racing this weekend,” he said.

“Excuse me?” Mr. Knight asked, cocking a black brow.

“If you won’t let me race my drag bike, I’m not going to race your stock car.”

“You can’t do that,” Vicky and Mathew Knight both said at the same time.

“Brandon, we talked about this on the way over,” Vicky added. “You’re bound by the terms of your contract for the next two years. Remember the Breach of Contract clause I read to you. If
you
don’t drive,
we
get in trouble.”

He knew that. Of course he knew that. He was just being difficult. The question was, why? she wondered.

“No team owner I’ve driven for in the past has enforced that clause,” he said, leaning forward in a sudden rush, his muscular arms flexing as he rested them on the glass-covered table.

“I’m not most owners,” Mr. Knight said. “And if you climb on that bike, you’ll be hearing from my lawyers.”

Right then a beep sounded. They heard a disconnected voice on the intercom say, “Mr. Knight, your fiancée’s on line two.”

“Okay, thanks,” Mr. Knight said. “Excuse me a moment.”

He got up, but he didn’t leave the room. Vicky quickly grabbed a piece of paper, slid it across the table’s smooth surface to Brandon, and wrote:
What are you doing?

Brandon glanced at the paper, his eyes growing—if possible—even more emotionless just before he shook his head.

Are you trying to blow this?
she wrote next, tapping the paper with her pen to get his attention when it became obvious he wouldn’t look in her direction. Once again, all he did was shake his head.

Fine,
she wrote next.
Be a jerk. But tell me you’re bluffing about not racing this next weekend.

Nothing. Nada. Not even a shake of his head. By then it was too late. Mr. Knight rejoined them. “Sorry,” he said. “Where were we?”

“I’m not racing,” Brandon said again.

Vicky just about clutched her hair and screamed.

“That’s right,” Mr. Knight said with a narrowing of his eyes. “And I was about to tell you that I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you
off
said bike.”

Vicky didn’t doubt Mr. Knight’s word for a moment. Mathew Knight wasn’t one of the richest men in the world for nothing. Fly For Less, the airline he’d built from the ground up, was one of the highest grossing carriers in the industry. That kind of success didn’t come from letting people walk all over you. During a time when other airlines had closed their doors, Fly For Less had continued to grow, offering deeper and deeper discounts and yet somehow managing to increase their profits. If Mr. Knight wanted to play hardball, he had the money and resources to do exactly that.

“Brandon,” Vicky said. “Maybe we should talk outside for a second.” She gave Mr. Knight an “I’ll handle this” look.

“We’ve done enough talking,” Brandon said.

“Outside,” Vicky repeated, more sternly. She even placed a hand on his shoulder, leaned in and said, “Now,” in a voice that had always worked on children whenever she’d used it.

Brandon looked as though he might refuse. She tightened her grip. He slowly stood, although not before giving his team owner a look, one that clearly said this wasn’t over until it was over.

“Why are you being such an ass?” Vicky asked the moment they were out of earshot. “I don’t know why you feel the need to bait Mr. Knight, but you really should stop.”

“He’s trying to control me.”

Vicky glanced back toward the glass doors of the conference room. Undoubtedly, Mr. Knight could hear them. She led Brandon farther down the hall. “He’s not trying to control you,” she said as they entered the main lobby, a massive space that featured glass walls to their left and right. There was a showroom to her right and to her left a store that appeared to sell team merchandise judging by the racks of T-shirts and jerseys. “It’s just business to him.”

The receptionist chirped a happy, “Have a nice day,” as they walked by her desk.

“We’ll be right back,” Vicky mumbled, heading for the tinted doors directly ahead of them. She needed to walk, the faster the better. If she didn’t burn off some of this energy, she’d end up stuffing Brandon’s mouth with his own contract.

“Where are we going?” Brandon asked.

“To talk outside,” she said, pushing open the front door and entering a courtyard sandwiched in between the U-shaped building.

“What makes you think I’ll listen to you any more than I did Mr. Knight in there,” Brandon said, motioning over his shoulder.

“You’ll listen to me because, despite all evidence to the contrary, you’re a very smart boy.” She stopped beneath the shade of one of the trees that lined either side of the sidewalk. Grass stretched out beyond, ending at the base of the glass-covered building.

“Boy?”

“Man. Whatever. I don’t know what happened to you the moment you walked into the conference room, but I don’t like it. You’ve gone right back to being a jerk again. The attitude stops. Right here. Right now. If it doesn’t, that’s it. SSI and you are through.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted? For me to get fired. Or for me to fire SSI.”

He
would
bring that up, she thought, squinting against a spot of sunlight that poked through the leaves. The fact of the matter was, she’d just been bluffing. Or had she been? Damn. She didn’t know what she’d been doing, she just knew that in the meeting with Brandon and Mathew Knight she’d felt a sudden urge to make things right—despite the way he’d been joking around with her earlier.

She
liked
representing Brandon. Maybe it was the feeling that for once in her life,
she
was in control. Well, sort of. Maybe it was sitting across from a man like Mathew Knight—someone who inspired her with his success. She wanted to help make careers. And, yes, damn it, she wanted to
be
close to the glamour and glitz of professional athletes. She wanted to be somebody, someone other than the daughter of the übersuccessful and ultrawealthy VanCleef family. Maybe, ultimately, that was it—she wanted her own identity, and if this was as close as she got to “being somebody,” then so be it.

It was time to start acting like an agent.

“Look, Brandon,” she said, spying their reflection in the glass across the grassy yard. The man looked handsome even from a distance. “We don’t have much time. Mr. Knight isn’t the type who likes to wait. Therefore it’s imperative you heed my words. Don’t cross the boss. Go back inside, smile at the man, and tell him you’ve seen the light. I know you can do it. You did it with me earlier. Somewhere inside you is a reasonable human being. I’d like that same man I saw earlier to make an appearance in the conference room now.”

He looked ready to argue again, but just as it had out by the side of the road, the fight seemed to drain out of him. “Do you really think he’ll come after me if I race?”

“I do,” she said with an emphatic nod.

“All right, fine,” he said. “But I want something in return.”

“What’s that?” she asked warily.

He gave her a smile, one laced with wicked charm. “You,” he pronounced happily.