OK HERE IT IS AS I TOLD REVIEWS I WOULD HAVE THIS CHAPTER UP BY THRUSDAY AND HERE IT IS EVEN THOUGH I WAS REALLY BUSY I DIDN'T WANT TO GET HUNTED DOWN LIKE HOW I TOLD THE REVIEWS THAT THEY HAD PERMISSION TO IF I DIDN'T HAVE IT POSTED! AND NOW ONTO THE STORY!

Zachary Goode gave a rebel yell into the headset, knowing he'd half deafen his spotter and any of the crew who were listening.

"She's sweet," he yelled, feeling the grab of the tires, the tightness of tail. He accelerated into Turn Three at the Speedway in Charlotte, pulling the wheel hard left, hanging on to control as he fought for more speed. A glance at the oversize tachometer told him the engine was cooperating.

Charlotte was his track. He always did well here. Being a North Carolina boy, it was important for him to place high in Sunday's race for a lot of reasons. Today's training run was feeling good. He was pumped; the team members were working together like magic.

The run of bad luck they'd suffered recently was about to end. He loved race week in Charlotte, culminating in the big race.

Sunday, he fully intended to take a victory lap. He owned this course, and anybody who wanted to try and take him better be ready to do serious battle.

Then he felt the speed fall away as though somebody's turned off the ignition.

"Awwww, no!" he yelled, as a multicolored blur of cars zoomed past him like a swarm of bees. It was only a practice to make sure everything was running smoothly, but it was clear that things on the Goode team weren't going smoothly at all.

After they'd towed the car into the huge garage, by the hauler that housed a second race car and all the tools and spare parts they might need, Grant Newman, his crew chief, slapped him on the back. "Probably the fuel line, Zach. We'll get it fixed for Sunday."

Zach nodded. He didn't even bother saying anything. Every one of the glum faces on the team reflected him own expression. Luck. They really needed some luck.

Preferably the good kind.

As usual, even though it was only a practice, loads of fans were out, a number of them gorgeous young women. Zach didn't quite know how young women in America had suddenly decided stock car racing was sexy, but he wasn't complaining. To Zach, they made his job a lot more interesting.

There was at least a van load of college girls crowding him now as he made his way to the garage, but he didn't mind. They had long hair and bare legs. Sure, the hair color was different, and some bared their legs with little bitty skirts, and some wore butt-hanging shorts, and unless he learned their names he'd have trouble telling them apart.

The blonde whose T-shirt read NASCAR CHICK told him her name was Tinna (I know that's not how you spell it but I had to do it), with two Ns.

"Where y'all from girls?" he asked as he obligingly autographed a ball cap with his number on it. Some women gave him a hard time for using terms like girls, but he wasn't going to stop. Political correctness was so complicated he'd pretty much given trying to figure it out. He believed to the depth of his being that women should get paid the same money for the same work as men, which they could pretty much do anything they pleased. However, he also believed it was his God-given responsibility as a man to treat women with a little special courtesy, and if a young women in a miniskirt wanted his autograph, then she might have to put up with him opening a door or pulling out her chair for her or calling her a girl.

"California," she said, all suntanned legs and long blond hair and not looking at all that offended he'd referred to her and her friends as girls.

"Long way from home."

"We came specially to see you," she said, as she'd no doubt say to any other driver she could stop.

"Are you going to win on Sunday?"

"Honey," he said, "I'm going to do my very best."

Then he posed for a photo with the bunch of them and took the next item shoved under his nose. As he signed a copy of today's newspaper, he wondered idly how many dorm rooms had his picture tacked up on the wall and shrugged.

Who could figure celebrity?

He made sure all the kids in the vicinity got an autograph, and then with a final wave and a "thanks, folks," he walked past the guards and back into the garage where his crew was already crawling over his car like ants over picnic leftovers.

"Hey, Zach," Grant Newman said. "Me and the crew are going for dinner and a couple beers tonight. You coming?"

"Can't I'm going to a wedding."

"Who do you know getting married in Charlotte?" Grant asked.

"Macey."

The older man blinked slowly "You're going to your ex-wife's wedding?"

"It's kind of a tradition. I've been to all of 'em."

He and Grant had known each other for years. His crew chief regarded him with eyes that had worked on metal chassis so long they'd taken on the color of steel. "Make sure you don't end up as the groom—again."

Macey, his ex, had gone on TV twice now claiming he and she were getting back together. Both times it had come as a big surprise to Zach. Probably a bigger surprise to the poor sap she was set to marry tonight.

"I've got it covered."

"Why do you let her get away with this stuff?"

He thought about it. "Ashlee's trying to find a way to be happy. I wasn't much of a husband, so if she wants to have some fun at my expense once in a while, who am I to blame her?"

"Zach, buddy, she wants you back."

"Not going to happen."

BACK TO CAMMIE (BUT DON'T GET MADE ZACH AND CAMMIE WILL MEET SOON!)

Cammie knew her disastrous day had sunk another notch when she accidentally locked herself out of her hotel room.

In her underwear…

Unable to believe she could have been so easily bested by a fire door, she tried the knob, pushed her hip against the door, but it remained sullenly closed.

Cammie wasn't the sort of person to walk out of a door without ensuring it stayed open for her safe return. Stress and shock, she discovered, could do strange things to a person. Added to the natural stress of being dumped by her fiancée on the very day she was to receive the greatest compliment of her career was the rising panic that she'd miss her moment of glory. She hadn't come all the way to Charlotte to accept the Sharpened Pencil Award in her underwear.

Embarrassment prickled along her skin as she stood there for a moment wondering what on earth to do. She'd only steeped outside to see if her dress was back yet.

Breathe, she told herself, determined not to panic. She told herself, determined not to panic. She was top-to-toe ready, so the minute the dress arrived—and she found someone to let her back into her hotel room she'd grab her clutch purse and her neatly typed acceptance speech and go.

A minute ticked by. Two. The air felt over warm and she heard the faint noises of a large building, but saw no sign of her dress. There was no hotel phone on her floor. Could she slid into the stairwell and creep downstairs, then somehow gets a hotel employee's attention?

Yes, she thought. That's what she'd do. Tonight would be the culmination of her career and she couldn't be late—especially since her ex and his recently outed love would be sure to think she was moping. Her chin went up at the thought. She might have a broken heart, but she was hanging on to her pride with every ounce of willpower.

At last, the sound she'd been waiting for—the whir of the elevator and then the clunk, shhhh as it stopped at her floor. She jogged forward, anxious for clothing. Ahead of her, a room door opened and a man came out, luckily without looking her way, at the exact moment the elevator doors opened. Horror of horrors, over the man's solid shoulder she saw three of the regional managers from her company—including her own boss—step out.

Cammie didn't stop to think. In one smoother gesture—and a surprisingly quick one, thanks to the panic-driven adrenaline suddenly coursing through her veins—she stuck her hand out and caught the door the stranger had exited from before it closed. Then she slipped inside the unknown man's room.

Even as she sagged in relief, having whisked herself out of sight before the trio of managers saw her, she knew what she was doing was wrong. Thankfully, this room door didn't seem to be as efficiently quick at slamming behind a person as her own, but that was no excuse for trespassing. Still, she only wanted to use his phone to call down to the front desk and get someone to track down her dress and another room key. And this time she wasn't giving up until she was certain her request had been understood.

She walked down the short hallway past the bathroom and closet into the main part of the room, idly noting a black case on a luggage stand and a pair of dirty socks on the floor. She averted her eyes as though that would minimize her rude intrusion into another guest's space.

Perhaps she should write the stranger a polite note explaining her behavior…

Or would it, in fact, show better manners if she—

Her etiquette dilemma ended when she got to the main room and found a man there. It had never occurred to her that there could be someone else inside. Before she would open her mouth to apologize, he glanced at her and said, "You're late. I'd about given up on you."

Cammie blinked stupidly as she looked up at a man who seemed vaguely familiar. Not another actuary. Something about his air of danger told her he didn't calculate ricks for a living. He was only a couple of inches taller than she was in her heels, but muscled and hard-bodied. There was a scar on his cheek that seemed unnecessarily large—as though it was showing off what a tough guy he was.

"I'm so, so sorry," she stammered. "I would never normally enter someone else's hotel room—"

"No problem. I'm glad Grant let you in. I was waiting for you. Come on, let's go." He looked her up and down in a way that suddenly reminded her she was still in her underwear. "Nice dress."

"It's a slip."

"Never could get the hang of ladies' fashion terms. Looks good on you. Sexy." He picked up a light grey suit jacket and pulled it on over matching slacks and a crisp white shirt, which clearly suggested somebody in this hotel got their clothes pressed in a timely manner. He wore no tie, but his black shoes shone.

Sexy? He thought she looked sexy? Some of her embarrassment at being caught in a slip faded. Okay, quite a bit.

He walked up to her and put an arm around her shoulder, turning her towards the door. At his touch she experienced the strangest sense of weakness. He had the kind of energy that could carry a person with it, whether she wanted to go or not.

When they got to the door, she realized she had to stop him or she's be back where she started—out in the corridor with no clothes. She turned. "Um, just a second."

He reached around her for the door handle. The door at her back and Mr. Muscle in front was the absolute definition of being stuck between a rock and a hard place. His jacket just brushed her arm and as he looked down at her she noted his eyes were a deep emerald green with brown-and-gold flecks. "What's your name?"

"Cameron Morgan," she said and foolishly stuck out her hand.

"Cameron. Do you go by C? C.M.? Camster?" He spoke with the syrupy drawl that suggested he was from around these parts.

She shuddered. "I most certainly do not. It's Cammie. Not C, C.M., Camester?" She said shaking her head.

Solemnly, he shook her hand.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance." He didn't say ma'am, but the accent implied it. "You seem a little uptight there Cammie. Everything all right?" The way he said her name, it sounded like Ken Doll.

"If I could use your phone?"

"No time. You can phone from my car. Come on."

"Your car?" She put a hand to her head, partly to see if it was still attached to her body. Too much had happened today. The tug of familiarity when she looked at him didn't help. "Who are you?" she finally asked.

Amusement flickered in his eyes, fascinating her. "I thought Jonas was going to fill you in. My name's Zachary. My friends call me Zach."

And thunk, it all fell into place like three cherries in a slot machine, although of course she'd never played a slot machine. You didn't have to be an actuary to figure out that the odds were stacked against the player.

That's why he'd seemed familiar. Zachary Goode was a NASCAR driver. And not just any driver. He'd caused the kind of sensation even a non sports buff like Cammie had noticed. "You're ranked fifteenth so far this season." It wasn't that she followed sports, but rankings and number systems of every kind appealed to her and sort of stuck in her brain. There were a lot of numbers stuck in there.

"Wait till Sunday, honey. All that will change. This speedway's my track." She felt his intensity like an engine revving. "Jonas said you were a fan."

"Jonas said that?" Whoever Jonas was.

"Sure. I promise tonight won't be too boring. We'll have dinner, make nice, and be on our way. We can catch up to Jonas after if you like."

She felt as if she were in a dream; everything was a little misty around the edges and didn't make any sense. "This is a date?"

His smile crinkled at the corners of his eyes and made that scar turn from a wobbly L to a C. "You're right. It's not a date, exactly, more an acting job. I sure do appreciate you being able to make it."

She'd always thought Southern men had more than their fair share of charm, but this guy was in a league all his own.

NASCAR driver, Actuary of the Year, acting job. It wasn't adding up.

"Can you handle it?" This man regarded her from those emerald-green eyes as though she weren't the brightest spark. How extraordinary. She supposed he had ample reason to doubt her intelligence, given that she'd stumbled into his room half dressed and seemed to echo every statement he made. For a few luscious moments, she was experiencing what it might feel like to be a silly women. Not silly, she reminded herself. Sexy.

The kind of women a virile and exciting man like this might look at twice. He stared right into her eyes a moment longer and she took that as a good excuse to stare back. Rough, tough and gorgeous. His hair was a tumble of dark brown with the kind of streaky gold that suggested he spent time in the sun. His skin was weathered the mouth uncompromising, the jaw cleft. And the scar fascinated her.

"I don't want to be rude, but do you really need Jonas to find you dinner dates?" The guy was great-looking, successful, rich. He didn't look like the sort of man to need help getting female companionship.

He scratched a spot behind his ear. "Bryce was supposed to explain all of this. I need an actress. You just hang all over me, pretend we're crazy in love. For a couple of hours at this wedding we're going to, I want people thinking I have a girlfriend. That's all."

"I'm to appear as your girlfriend without actually being one?"

"That's right. Can you handle it?"

She laughed at the bitter irony of her situation. "Oh, yes. I've had practice."

He glanced at a watch that looked designed for a scuba diver rather than a race car driver. "We'd better get going."

Now much of an explanation, but she really didn't have time to get into this guy's relationships with women.

Now was the time to tell him that Jonas hadn't sent her, she was wearing a black silk slip from Victoria's Secret and that no one was ever going to mistake her for a NASCAR driver's girlfriend.

She was the kind of women that the man she'd been dating for two years dumped on a business trip so he could sit on a business trip so he could sit at the actuary banquet with his pregnant girlfriend or fiancée or whatever.

And suddenly the thought of slogging through dinner alone, while Josh and Dee Dee canoodled in some dark corner, was simply too pathetic. Cammie had a secret romantic streak. She gobbled up novels and subscribed to a couple of movie channels including an oldies station. She loved the moment especially in old films, where the enraged heroine slapped the out-of-line guy, where she stood up and said, "Nobody treats me this way."

Maybe all that reading and viewing hadn't been a waste of her time, as she'd sometimes thought. Maybe it was training for her moment to stand up and slap Josh—metaphorically, of course.

A thought struck, so utterly blinding in its brilliance and daring that her heart jumped unpleasantly.

The NASCAR driver standing in front of her at this very minute believed she could pass as his girlfriend. Why on earth couldn't she see what that would be like?

On the heels of that thought came another, even more scintillating.

What if she showed up at her banquet with this walking shrine to testosterone? This man, she suddenly recalled, who'd been featured in People's 50 Hottest Bachelors issue. Wouldn't that show Josh—and everyone? Not exciting enough, huh?

AND THERE IT IS 3,093 WORDS REVIEW PLEASE AND I'LL HAVE THE NEXT CHAPTER UP BY NEXT FRIDAY OR THURSDAY! AND THE NEXT CHAPTER WILL BE ABOUT ZACH'S EX'S WEDDING!