There were few things I liked more than driving fast. Sex, of course, topped it, but there were times when the adrenaline flowing through me gave me a similar sense of excitement and euphoria.

And driving fast with a gorgeous woman sitting beside me, her cheeks flushed, her hair caught in the wind, her head thrown back in a laugh, well, that was pretty damn exciting too. More than exciting. Hot as hell.

Blood rushed to other parts of my anatomy, reminding me that it had been too damn long since I had participated in that other kind of heart-racing, all-consuming activity. I’d had plenty of opportunity, of course, but the women who tended to make themselves available to billionaires weren’t usually the kind of women I was interested in. But Libby was temptation on a stick. From her endless curves to her lush mouth to her laughing eyes, I had a hard time looking away from her.

So I was grateful that my attention was focused on the road. Driving was usually the best way to clear my head, and I had gotten some of my best ideas on this ride – heading from the city to the factory. But right now my brain seemed focused on conjuring up some very dirty fantasies involving Libby and the back seat of my car.

It could never happen, though. Not only was the back seat far too small for the two of us to do everything I wanted to do to her. With her. But besides our vehicular limitations, I had strict rules when it came to the women I dated. My career was at an all time high and I didn’t have the time or the energy for anything serious. And I didn’t mix business with pleasure. So the moment I had hired her to write the book, I had closed the door on any possible sexual involvement. Because I didn’t sleep with employees. And I especially didn’t sleep with employees who were tasked to write about my life.

Especially employees that were nothing like the people I usually hired. I managed a quick, sidelong glance at Libby once more. The dress she was wearing was just as outrageous as the one she had been wearing yesterday. I had never known anyone who wore so many colors at once. You needed sunglasses just to look at her.

Everything about her was like that – blinding. Like looking into the sun. I was used to people blending in around me, trying not to draw the wrong kind of attention. Rob had always told me that the last thing you wanted someone to remember was the way you looked. Your appearance needed to be neutral so it wouldn’t distract from the product. It was clear that Libby didn’t have that problem. She wanted people to look at her. And it was hard not to. Even though I knew I shouldn’t.

But knowing that didn’t slack my lust. It had just been too long, I told myself. Despite what the tabloids said, I rarely dated and even when I did, it was with women who understood that I couldn’t commit more than a night to them. There was another, far more important female in my life, and I wasn’t looking to complicate that relationship by adding another woman into the mix. Especially one who was clearly interested in uncovering my carefully guarded secrets.

She was sneaky, I’d give her that. All that talk about the car and car names, I had almost slipped. Almost.

But if I valued anything, it was control. And I made sure that my self-control was never in question. I wasn’t going to let Libby find out anything I didn’t want her – or the world – to know. Even if she kept leaning forward and stroking the dash of my car, her generous cleavage on display, her small hand smoothing the faux leather like she was caressing something, or someone. Or a part of someone. My stomach tightened and I forced myself to look away. Control, Willis, I told myself. You need to be in control.

I leaned harder on the gas. The road was clear and we shot down it, Libby thrown back against her seat, her chest bouncing, an excited, surprised laugh escaping her.

“What is about boys and fast cars?” she asked.

“I don’t know about other boys,” I told her. “But this man just appreciates a good, well-made engine. A really powerful one.” Despite my better intentions, the words came out in a seductive drawl.

Her cheeks were pink.

“How powerful?” she asked, and licked her lips.

“Very,” I murmured, pulling my focus back to the road.

Stop flirting, Willis, I ordered myself. You do not flirt with employees. You do not flirt at all. Because flirting was all about teasing and playfulness. And while I appreciated a certain playfulness in other aspects of my life, my love life was not one of them. I wanted everything to be straight forward, for both parties to know the score before anything started. Nothing about Libby was straight forward.

“Mmm,” Libby made a soft little humming sound in her throat. “I guess I’ll just have to take your word for it.”

“Don’t you trust me?” I asked, realizing what a ridiculous question it was.

We barely knew each other. There was no reason for her to trust me. And no reason for me to trust her. I needed to remember that. Yesterday I had thought we had come to an agreement on the book, on what I wanted covered. No personal details, I had told her. And yet, today, she had pried. Started digging for the human interest piece everyone was always trying to get out of me. But she was going to be about as lucky as the rest. My private life was locked up as tight as a vault. No one got in. Not even a sexy, redheaded, curvaceous temptress. No matter how much I wanted to show her exactly how powerful my engine could be.

My office in Manhattan was a modern marvel. Tall and steel and magnificent, it was a sign of everything I had earned. Everything I had worked for.

But truth be told, the factory was where I felt most at home. The steady hum of the equipment, the never-ending buzz of conversation, the constant flow of people on the factory floor. That’s where I belonged. Among people who understood machines, knew how to fix them, how to make them run, how to make them better. People who got their hands dirty. People with oil under their fingernails.

That’s the world I had grown up in. Everything I knew about cars, about engines and machines, I had learned in a rundown motorcycle shop in Brooklyn. It was still there, only it wasn’t so rundown anymore. Mac and I had both sat at his father’s knee, learning the tricks of the trade, learning how to fix anything. Even things that weren’t related to cars and bikes, though it was harder to guarantee success in those other areas. But Tom tried to teach Mac and me anyway. And I soaked in the information as much as I could.

Tom was the person who had taught me everything I knew about being a man. About how to be a good mentor. A good parent. And how to treat – and please – women. There was an art to all of it. And Tom was a master. You could bring him a bike and he could tell what was wrong with it just by listening to the engine. Mac and I got good at repairs, but we never were as good as Tom.

Not that many people knew. He was a well-kept secret, but when he died and the shop went to Mac, all that changed. Mac had done his damnedest to make sure that no one forgot his father or his shop. And his hard work paid off. Now all of New York – hell, all of the United States – knew about Tom’s Bike Shop. It wasn’t a secret anymore. Instead, it was the place to go if you had a vintage motorcycle.

And still one of my favorite places in the world. I could lose a whole day there, just tinkering with an old bike and drinking beer with Mac. We’d always open one for Tom, paying our respects to the master. To the man that taught us everything about making things work.

The smell of the factory, of the grease and the metal, all of that reminded me of Tom’s shop. Of being a kid. A teen. A young man. Before I was on covers of magazines and had a big fancy office and all these people wanting to know every single detail about my personal life. Before women were trying to sleep with me because of the size of my wallet instead of the size of other things I kept in my pants. I was grateful for my success, damned thankful too, but sometimes I wished that it didn’t come with the expected open door policy on my private affairs.

It was a moment before I realized that I was just standing there, lost in my own thoughts and memories. I glanced over at Libby and found that she was equally distracted. Her mouth was open, eyes wide, as she took in the bustling factory in front of us. Something tugged at my heart. The expression on her face was exactly how I felt about this place. Somewhere between awe and excitement.

Then she looked over at me and the world seemed to slow for a second. Libby’s eyes sparkled and she smiled at me. I cleared my throat and turned away.

“This is the factory,” I said needlessly.

“It’s incredible,” she said, her voice a bit breathless.

I hated that I kept seeming to lose my head around her, even if just for a moment. I had been captivated by a pretty face before, and though it had given me what I considered the most precious thing in my life, I had promised to never let myself fall for an innocent smile and trusting eyes again.

“Let me show you around.” I knew I sounded gruff, but it was necessary.

Libby blinked and the spell between us was broken. She straightened, as if she too was being brought back to reality, and pressed her lips together. Nodding, she pulled out a notebook and a pen.

“A bit old-fashioned,” I noted, gesturing at her writing equipment.

She looked down at it. “Is it?”

“Most interviewers come armed with a recording device.” I couldn’t remember a reporter interviewing me without one.

“Oh, well.” Libby dug around in her bag some more, coming up with her cellphone. It was an old one, several years and several models out of date. “I guess I can find some sort of app to do that.” She tried searching on her phone but even I could see how slow it was.

“Let’s not waste any time,” I said, putting my hand on hers and lowering the phone for her. “We don’t have all day.”

“Right, of course.” She tossed the phone back into the bag and held up her pen and paper, brandishing it almost like a shield. “I’m ready.”

I wasn’t convinced, but as we walked and I talked, I could see her writing rapidly. Glancing over her shoulder, I noticed she was writing in some sort of code.

“What is that?” I asked, pointing at what looked like a nonsensical scribble.

“Shorthand.” She let me look at the notebook, but it made absolutely no sense to me. “My grandmother taught it to me.”

“Your grandmother.”

Libby nodded. “She was a secretary in the 1940s,” she told me. “When her boss needed her to take notes, this was what she did. Before computers and phone apps and all that stuff. Apparently the guy she worked for liked to talk a lot, so she got really good and really fast. He was a lawyer.”

“I see.” I frowned at the paper, still trying to make heads or tails of it.

“She kept a lot of the notes she took and when I found them in the attic when I was a kid, I wanted to decipher them. So she taught me her system.”

“You wanted to decipher notes a lawyer made over sixty years ago?”

Libby shrugged a shoulder. “What can I say, I was a weird kid. Learned a lot about property law, actually. Really boring stuff.”

“I bet.” I just couldn’t figure her out. She had to be the weirdest, most unusual person I had ever met. And that was saying a lot considering I had been born and raised in New York, the central hub of weirdos.

“But you were saying…” She poked her pen down at her paper. “’That technology is a double-edge sword that both connects and separates us.’”

Well, at least she had the quote right. Apparently her system worked just as well as a recording app.

“Why don’t we look at the engine room,” I suggested.

“Sure,” she said as she kept scribbling, “but you should know that I don’t know anything about engines, so when I smile and nod, just pretend I understand everything you’re saying.”

“You sound like my investors,” I told her.

Libby threw back her head and laughed. Her red curls bounced attractively around her face and I had the sudden urge to run my fingers through them. I didn’t. Instead, I shoved my hands in my pocket.

“I bet your investors are excited about the launch of the Celero.” She followed me down the hallway, her heels clicking on the stone floor.

“They’re excited about the projected profits,” I corrected her. “Well, some of them.”

“Some of them?”

“One of my biggest investors is one of my oldest friends.” That was common knowledge. “Have you heard of Mac Roberts?”

Libby nodded eagerly. “I remember seeing his name when I did some digging on you.”

I stiffened, even though I knew that doing that so-called “digging” was part of her job. The job I had assigned to her.

“For the book,” Libby clarified, obviously noticing my reaction. Her words were not reassuring. “I saw that you two go way back.”

I nodded, my shoulders still tense. “We grew up together. He lent me the money to start the company.”

“Which I imagine you’ve repaid him a few times over.”

More like a hundred times over. Not that Mac needed the money now. Back then, with the shop just taking off, it had been a bigger risk. For both of us. Anyone with any financial sense had warned us against the partnership. Money ruins friendships, we had been told. But it hadn’t ruined our. In fact, the reward for our risk had been more than either of us expected. Now we both had more money than we knew what to do with. Which wasn’t too bad for a couple of kids from Brooklyn who liked to dick around in an old motorcycle shop.

“Is there a way I could reach out to Mac?” Libby was asking, nibbling on the end of her pen.

For a moment, I was distracted by those lips of hers, by the enticing image of her and that pen. But then I realized that she was probably doing it on purpose. That she wanted to distract me. That she was using her body, her incredibly distracting and enticing body, to get what she wanted. I was annoyed that I kept almost falling for it.

“He’s not that hard to find,” I told her gruffly. “Pretty sure anyone in New York could tell you where Tom’s Bike Shop is.”

The coquettish smile faded from her lips.

“I see,” she said, dropping her gaze.

The air between us cooled significantly. I told myself that’s what I wanted – that it was for the best that we kept a professional distance. Best for the book, best for my business, and best for my libido.

“Come on.” I knew I was being abrupt and kind of a dick, but it was better this way.

Without a word, she followed me. We walked silently for a while, though I could practically hear her thinking. Glancing over at her, I saw that her lips were moving, as if she was having a discussion with herself. I told myself not to find it charming, but I did.

We headed towards the factory floor.

“Here,” I told her, handing over a hard hat and jacket.

Libby took it silently, but her brow was furrowed.

“I can show you how the engines get constructed.” I gestured for her to go ahead of me.

She did, but after two steps, she whirled on her heel, facing me.

“This book is going to be boring,” she told me.

Her eyes flashed. With anger? Passion? It was hard to tell, but I did find the way her nostrils flared to be unbearably cute. I pushed that thought aside and tried to focus on what she had just said.

“Boring?” No one had associated the word boring with me – or a product of mine – before. I didn’t like the way it sounded.

“Yes,” she straightened. “Right now, your book is going to be very boring.”

“I thought it was the job of the writer to ensure that doesn’t happen,” I told her, crossing my arms.

A flush spread across her cheeks. “It’s the job of the writer to make the best of what she has.”

“And you’re saying you don’t have anything good?” I demanded. “I’ve given you plenty to work with. You followed me around all day yesterday and now you’re getting a firsthand look at a car that could very well change the automobile industry. Are you saying that’s not enough?”

The blush grew. “Not exactly.” She gestured at the factory. “All of this is great – the factory, the product – there’s plenty to write about.”

“So what’s the problem?” I asked.

“It’s not the amount of material that’s the problem,” she frowned. “It’s the type of material.”

“You’re saying my car is boring.” I could feel a muscle in my jaw twitching. “The thing I’ve worked for years to perfect is boring to you. I think my investors would disagree.”

“I’m sure they find it fascinating,” Libby said. “They’re probably going to make millions off of it. As, I imagine, will you.”

“Once again, I don’t see the issue.” I gave her a look that would have scared some of my most seasoned employees. But she didn’t back down. Instead, she seemed to dig her feet in, her eyes narrowing.

“People don’t want to read a book about cars!” Libby blurted out. “They don’t want to read about factories and engines and technological advances. Most people find that boring. They read a book because they want to know what’s behind all of it. The human aspect. They want to know about you.”

“There’s plenty about me.” I glared at her. “Or haven’t you been listening?”

“None of it is personal,” Libby told me. “And that’s why it’s boring.”

“I told you, my personal life is off-limits.”

“Well, then the book is going to be full of exactly what you want. And no one is going to read it.”

We stood there for a moment, staring at each other. Neither of us said anything, but my eyes wandered over Libby’s face, over her flushed cheeks, pouting lips and heaving chest. She was annoyed at me. No one had the balls to be annoyed at me. At least not to my face.

I found it unbearably hot.

Her passion was appealing. So, so appealing. It made me wonder what she’d be like in bed. If the red spreading across her cheeks and down her chest, went all the way down. If her whole gorgeous body would be covered in that same pink flush. I imagined kissing all the way down her body, following the blush, my tongue lavishing attention on every inch of what I imagined was incredibly soft skin.

I realized that I was staring. And that certain parts of my anatomy were getting more blood than my brain. I shook my head.

“Come on,” I told her. “I’ll show you the rest of the factory.”