She gasped, looked down and crossed her arms over her br**sts and torso. “Go. Away.”
“Not happening. Get dressed or undressed. Either works for me.”
The flush on her cheeks deepened and her fingers fisted, but she didn’t move.
“Need help making up your mind?” He stepped toward her.
She whirled on her heel, hustled through one of the four doors opening off the main room and shut the panel—hard.
He grinned. He could always count on Amelia doing the exact opposite of his usual women. Most would have dropped the gown—if they’d been wearing one when they’d opened the door in the first place—and invited him to spend the day nak*d.
She was hell on his ego but a good outlet for his frustrated competitive nature.
He made a quick call to order her breakfast and considered calling home to check on his teams, but he calculated the time difference and returned the phone to its clip. Nobody would be in the shop this late on a Tuesday night.
Thinking about the shop made him antsy. He started pacing.
He’d hired a relief driver to keep his car on the track and keep earning owner points. Daily e-mails from his crew chief kept him up to date on the kid’s progress. But it wasn’t the same as being there. With his teams. In the driver’s seat. In the groove of the track. In the winner’s circle.
But Vincent—damn his friend’s sorry hide—had threatened to pull Hôtel Reynard’s twenty million sponsor dollars not just from Toby but from Haynes Racing’s other two teams if Toby didn’t stay away from the track until the neurologist cleared him. Toby could find another sponsor, but he wasn’t willing to lose Vincent’s friendship. Especially when his buddy was right. Toby had no business risking himself or other drivers by getting behind the wheel when one little bump could upset his equilibrium and put him and anybody near him into the wall.
One of his laps around the sitting room carried him past the dining room table. A calendar caught his eye and halted his steps. Each square listed the wedding-planning activities for each bridesmaid by time and location over the next four weeks. Hair appointments, dress fittings, manicures, massages…
Toby pulled out his PDA and noted each of Amelia’s assigned tasks. If she dodged him again, he’d find her. He’d barely stuffed the electronic organizer back into his pocket when her bedroom door opened.
He turned and his whistle died on his lips.
A white eyelet sundress with string straps crisscrossed her chest, with a narrow ruffle leading from the V-neck down and around the hem, which hung just above her knees. A waist-high bow on her side cinched in the fabric and reminded him how delicate she’d been perched above him. Long, lean legs. Small, round br**sts. Slender enough he’d thought he might snap her in two. And then she’d taken him inside and he hadn’t been able to think at all.
If he pulled that bow, would her dress open for him? Would she be wearing plain white cotton panties like last time? And no way could she be wearing a bra under there. His pulse raced.
A matching eyelet headband kept her hair off her face, and low-heeled white sandals revealed shocking-pink toe-nails. Funny, before Monaco he’d only seen her two ways: Naked and in hospital scrubs. She’d even worn scrubs the night he’d taken her to dinner because he hadn’t given her time to go home and change—her clothes or her mind.
He’d never pictured her in street clothes. But that was probably because he spent most of his time picturing her nak*d. She’d been so efficient on the job that her girlie-girl attire was a surprise. “Nice.”
The white bangles on her wrist tinkled as she fidgeted with her purse. “Thank you. Where are we going?”
“Hôtel de Paris and a private villa.”
“Why a private villa?”
“Thought the brunch should be relaxed instead of formal. We’ll have it catered.” He opened the suite door, motioned for her to precede him into the hall and then followed her out. “There are beds at either place in case somebody has too much champagne and needs to sleep it off.”
“That’s probably a good idea.” She hustled to the elevator as if trying to outrun him.
He stepped in the cubicle beside her and braced a shoulder against the wall. As usual, the rapid descent caused the floor to buckle and pitch beneath him. Damn, he hated this. He didn’t even want to consider what he’d do if the doc was wrong and the vertigo didn’t go away.
It will go away. It has to.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Fine.”
“Then why do you have a white-knuckle grip on the railing? Are you claustrophobic?”
“Sugar, I spend hours strapped in a race car. Drivers can’t be claustrophobic.”
She fixed him with her patented get-over-yourself stare.
“Balance problems,” he admitted grudgingly several seconds later.
“From the wreck?”
“Yeah.”
“Is it just sudden movements or all movement? Up and down? Or lateral, too?” She’d kicked into nurse mode. It turned him on.
Sad, Haynes. Sad.
“Sudden. Whichever way.”
The elevator doors opened. She linked her arm through his elbow. “Lean on me if you need to.”
He wasn’t about to tell her the dizziness had passed—not when he had her close enough to smell the flowery scent of her hair and feel the warm softness of her breast against his arm. “Car should be out front.”
Her sandals clicked-clacked across the marble floor. Another first. He was used to her in those god-awful ugly but silent nursing shoes. The tap-tap-tap of her heels danced along his already attentive nerves, jacking his awareness of her up another level.
The driver he’d hired opened the rear door to a black Benz as they approached. Amelia’s steps slowed. “You weren’t kidding about the limo. I’ve never ridden in one. I guess you have?”
He shrugged. “Racing’s a fast life. Not just on the track. Limos, jets, helicopters are all part of the deal.”
“Rented, right?” Her voice sounded tight. Her hazel eyes couldn’t get any wider. She stared at the car as if she expected it to bite.
“The limos are rented. The rest we own.”
The shocked gaze bounced back to him. “You own jets and helicopters?”
“Haynes Racing Inc. owns two private jets and a chopper plus an assortment of haulers and motor homes. We keep pilots and drivers for each on salary.”
“That seems a little…extravagant.”
“Getting to and from racetracks and appearances is part of the job, and a lot of business is conducted during the ride. Most teams are similarly equipped. It’s just transportation, Amelia. You get used to it.”
“Teams? I thought you were just a driver.”
Just a driver. His muscles knotted. She knew nothing about him. And she sure as hell didn’t know about his old man’s prediction that Toby would never amount to anything.
You’re just a pretty face, Tobias. You’ll never be nothing else. And when yer looks and charm dry up you’ll be just a outta-work bum like me.
A drunk outta-work bum with a mean streak a mile wide and a razor-sharp tongue despite the slurring words.
Toby shook off the bitter memory. He’d scrapped and fought to make sure he wasn’t “just a” anything. His talent, interests and finances were carefully diversified. These days you couldn’t pick up a sports magazine without finding an article about him between the covers, and stories about HRI filled the pages of racing magazines and a few business journals. He loved every aspect of his business, from push broom to promotion.
Fans and fame had their perks, but he had to admit it was nice to be an unrecognized regular guy—for the most part—in Monaco. “I own HRI. We run three race teams and drivers.”
Most women would be impressed with the wealth and power involved in being a team owner as well as a top driver. Apparently not this one. Amelia’s lips pursed as if she’d sucked a lemon. She blinked and eyed the hotel as if considering going back inside.
He unhooked their arms and stroked a hand down her spine, stopping an inch short of her butt—not because he wanted to but because she was skittish. He nudged her forward. “Breakfast is waiting. Climb in.”
She entered the limo slowly, her head turning every which way, as if she were afraid she’d miss some minute detail. He tended to take a comfortable ride for granted. There were always people to get him where he needed to go, and since he couldn’t drive until his head cleared up, having a driver in Monaco was a necessity.
Amelia settled on the bench seat and caressed the dove-gray glove-soft leather slow and easy, as if committing each inch to memory. The way she’d stroked him that night. His muscles clenched. He released a pent-up breath on a silent whistle and followed her in, but instead of sitting beside her he settled across from her so he could watch her captivated expression.
“Sir?” The driver’s voice forced Toby’s attention away from Amelia’s killer legs. Louis extended a tray with two coffee cups, a carafe and a plate of éclairs.
Toby took it from him. “Thanks, Louis.”
“You’re welcome, sir.” Louis closed the door and circled the car to climb behind the wheel.
Toby sat the tray on the seat beside Amelia. The suck-a-lemon look replaced the enchantment on her face. “It won’t work.”
“What?”
“Trying to soften me up with my favorite foods.”
Okay, so he wasn’t above using whatever leverage he had to woo her back between the sheets.
“Just ordering something you said you liked.” He filled the coffee mugs and then slid back to fasten his seat belt. “I’d rather be serving you breakfast in bed.”
She rolled her eyes, buckled herself in and then reached for a china cup. “Give it up, Toby. I’m not going to sleep with you again.”
“Ever hear it’s not wise to challenge a driver? We’re a competitive bunch.”
The car eased away from the curb. She pinched off a corner of an éclair and popped it between her lips. The blissful expression on her face had him shifting for a more comfortable position, but the slow glide of her tongue sweeping her icing-covered lips convinced him there wasn’t one. His pants were cutting off circulation to one of his favorite parts. He straightened his legs in the space between the seats.
Her gaze found his. “Why can’t you accept that I’m not interested and give up?”
“Because you strip me nak*d with your eyes every time we’re in the same room.”
She choked on a bite of éclair, chewed rapidly and gulped coffee. “I do not.”
Her scandalized whisper sparked another flashback to their night together. “Sugar, you can tease me all you want, but don’t lie. Not to me. Not to yourself. You want me.”
She opened her mouth to argue, closed it again and then frowned at him. Her fingers fussed with the ruffled hem of her dress, and each pleating fidget lifted her skirt an inch or two and flashed him a glimpse of smooth upper thighs. “I do not tease.”