He was the center of attention by the car, looking smoking hot in his suit, hair in his eyes as usual. Tuesday had teased him about gelling it back but he’d made his opinion on that very clear. He didn’t use hair products past shampoo. End of story. She had found herself the perfect man, really. He was manly, yet sensitive, protective, and not a slob. If he was a little anti-social, hey, there were worse things. And if he refused to talk about his accident with her she wasn’t going to force him to relive something so awful.
Tuesday smiled at a driver’s wife whose name she had forgotten. Which was ridiculous because she never forgot names and she shouldn’t have forgotten this one in particular. It was Jonas’s wife, the blonde with br**sts not found in nature.
Whatever her name was, she said to Tuesday, “Gawd, I almost wish I knew how to drive a stock car. I think that antique one is so sexy . . . and every guy here wants it, which makes me want it.”
Where was her wine? Tuesday grabbed a glass off a passing waiter’s tray and blinked at the blonde. She was having trouble following her and she wasn’t about to point out that the car didn’t exactly qualify as an antique. “I know, it’s cool, isn’t it? We’re closing the bids on it in just a few minutes.”
“I guess I’d really rather have the Hermès bag. Besides, I think that old guy really wants it. Which is stupid, because he doesn’t know how to drive it any more than I do.” She pointed toward the car.
Diesel was talking to a guy who was probably all of fifty, which clearly qualified him as old in this woman’s book. But Tuesday knew who he was and the fact that he might be interested thrilled her. He was the CEO of a Fortune 500 company and owed a piece of the speedway, which combined to make him filthy, stinkin’, bid-as-high-as-he-wanted rich. It had been a coup just to have him attend. If he bought Diesel’s car, he would more than likely pay top dollar for it.
“Does he? Excuse me,” she told the blonde. “I need to go make some announcements.”
An idea had jumped into her head. It was brilliant, the absolute bestest way to secure a bid from Roger Hanover, Mr. Gazillionaire. She took a monstrous sip of her wine, dribbling a little down her chin. Wiping it off, she straightened her skirt and headed for the podium.
DIESEL was trapped with Roger Hanover, listening to him go on and on about all his accomplishments and travels. Diesel basically wanted to slit his wrists and go home to Wilma, but he had to stay through the whole damn auction for Tuesday. He wanted to support her. He also wanted to make sure she didn’t pass out in the chocolate fountain.
Last he had seen her she was talking to Nikki Strickland and snagging yet another glass of wine. Now a quick glance around as he nodded politely to Roger proved her nowhere to be found.
“So as I was saying . . .”
Blah, blah, blah. God, Diesel hated doing the pretty. He wasn’t good at sucking up or being the center of attention, and tonight he’d had to do both. Since he’d walked in the room, there hadn’t been a single second where someone hadn’t wanted to shake his hand, thank him, take his picture, or ask him questions that were none of their damn business.
“Right, right.” He nodded, surreptitiously trying to find his girlfriend. They’d had a shaky week, but tonight he’d wanted to clear the air. He wanted to explain to her why that article bugged him. He wanted to ask her to move in with him.
But he was getting crankier and she was getting drunker and it didn’t look like tonight was going to end with his telling her he loved her in any meaningful way.
He should have known she would reach for a glass of wine tonight. She was nervous, and he should have stuck closer by her side. Except all the exposure she and her PR team had given his car had ensured he was trapped next to it for the last three-plus hours. His knee was killing him and he’d yet to have even one of those damn puff things circulating on serving trays of waiters.
“Excuse me, can I have everyone’s attention?”
Tuesday’s voice can streaming over the microphone, louder than was necessary and full of an exuberance that immediately raised alarms in Diesel. She was at the podium, leaning over it, her dress falling a bit forward, her hair looking a little less polished than it had several hours earlier. There was a wineglass in her hand and no particular reason for her to be up there. She wasn’t scheduled to speak. He knew that. She’d gone over the whole event out loud so many times, he could have run it.
“I hope everyone is having a wonderful time. I’m so grateful to everyone who came tonight, and keep those bids coming in.”
So far, so good. She sounded coherent, appropriate, and she wasn’t slurring her words.
“So we have a very special item here as you all have seen, this wonderful 1963 Chevrolet restored to the condition it was in when it won the championship that year. I have a special treat for whoever is the high bidder on this item.”
Uh-oh. There wasn’t supposed to be a special treat. Diesel took a step forward, knowing he was too far away to stop her, but afraid of what she might say. He did not want her to embarrass herself.
“The man who has restored this stock car treasure will be granting a driving experience to whoever wins the car tonight . . . that’s right, you’ll be in the passenger seat while Diesel Lange takes you around the track.”
The guests started clapping, cheers went up, and Roger made an exclamation of surprise and pleasure, but it was all secondary noise to the buzzing that had just started up in Diesel’s ears. She had ambushed him. Sold him out. Done exactly what he had f**king asked her not to do. He didn’t want to drive. Couldn’t drive.
Why the hell hadn’t she respected that?
He managed to smile and give one last handshake to Roger before excusing himself, his head suddenly throbbing as badly as his knee. He made his way to Tuesday, who was making a wobbly descent from the stage.
“Hi,” she said with a loopy smile, eyes bright. “Wasn’t that an awesome idea?” She leaned in to whisper, “I think whatshis-face will up his bid for that. Brilliant, huh?”
So getting a few extra grand was worth throwing him under the bus? Blatantly disregarding his request?
He was so pissed he took a deep breath before he spoke. Then another one.
She frowned. “Are you okay? Is your knee bothering you?”
Yes, but that was the least of his concerns. “Can I talk to you somewhere private?”
“Just for a minute. I have guests, honey bunny.”