Page 64 of Wicked Heat

“You know I do.”

“Need stuff for your period you can’t grab at a drugstore?”

“Ash! Jeez! I’m not on—No!”

“Then you can text or call Aria from the car. You can borrow my laptop to write if you’re on a deadline—and don’t even try to tell me you don’t save your work to the cloud—and anything else you need we can get on the way or in Vegas.” He flashes the same smile I’ve seen so many times in newspaper and magazines. “My money, my way.”

“I already agreed to the terms to get your money,” I remind him. “Those weren’t among them.”

“But to fulfill those terms, you have to be physically present with me. And I’m leaving. If you want my money, you’ll have to come with me. If you’ve changed your mind, I’m happy to release you from the terms of our arrangement.”

“A lawyer would have a field day with that argument.”

“Probably. But by the time a court rules, your deadline would be long gone. I may not know why you need the money—though you’re going to tell me—but I’m confident time is of the essence. So give it up, sweetheart. I’ve won.”

“Fuck. You,” I say, which only makes him laugh.

“That’s definitely a possibility,” he says. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Holy crap,” I say, staring at the piece of automotive artwork parked in front of us. We’re in the Bat Cave, otherwise known as Damien’s massive underground garage. It’s cavernous and houses I-don’t-know-how-many cars. All I know is that there are rows and rows of them. This one shines brighter than them all.

“Sweet, isn’t it?”

“It’s gorgeous,” I say, though the word is completely inadequate. The body is molded in waves of black and orange and what might be blue but could just be a trick of the light playing off the shiny black depths. Looking at it, I’d totally believe this thing came from outer space. Or the future. Or, I don’t know, Car Heaven, maybe.

“It’s a McLaren P1 GTR-18,” Ash says to me, which might as well be gobbledygook. I do, however, get the general drift. Translation: This is one seriously amazing car. And probably cost more than, oh, a space shuttle trip around the globe.

“When did Damien get this?”

“He didn’t. It’s mine.”

“As in you designed it?”

He shakes his head. “No, I bought it. Technically, it’s a track car, but I’ve done some modifications to make it street legal and add in a bit of comfort.”

“Just a fun new toy?”

He quirks a smile. “I like toys. And I wanted to get familiar with her.”

I glance at him, then run a fingertip over the sleek body. I’ve never been someone who considers cars sexy, but this beauty has completely changed my mind. “You’re working on a collaboration,” I guess. “Pitching them your motor.”

“Am I?”

I tilt my head, studying him. “Either that, or you’re gunning to be a driver when this baby’s entered in races.”

“And wouldn’t that be sweet?” he says. But I notice he doesn’t deny it.

I frown. I don’t know much about racing, but I do know that Ash is an excellent driver who really shouldn’t be on a track.

He was the youngest driver ever to win the Daytona 500, but he quit racing because of repeated crashes and because he knew he was reckless.

And not just in a car. Where Ashton Stone goes, a story follows.

Some are pretty damn cool—like how Hollywood’s approached him a zillion times over, but he flipped them off because he didn’t want to get sucked into that life.

Some are bad—like the rumors of the dead woman in his past that Maggie had alluded to. I’d heard those whispers before—the hints of scandal. Of a police investigation. Of pay-offs. And I have to admit—if only to myself—that I wish Maggie had pushed the question. I want to know what really happened, because I don’t see that kind violence in Ash, but I’m not sure if that’s because it’s not there or because I’m intentionally averting my eyes.

All I do know—though I don’t even want to admit it to myself—is that I’m attracted to him. A man with a dark and reckless reputation. A man shrouded with secrets. A man who comes from a family that’s about as fucked up as they come.