Hard and Fast by Erin McCarthy

pre-race tests at tracks. Each car is only allowed four single-day test sessions of your car, but if you have four cars racing, you can share any data you learn from all those runs with each other.”
    Imogen was wishing she had brought a notepad to jot things down on. “But doesn’t that make you all sort of even when you start a race?”
    “Cars are close to even. It’s the skill of the driver and how the lady in black treats you that day that determines the winner.”
    “The lady in black? Who is she?” Imogen frowned up at Ty as he flashed his ID for a security guard and they entered the building. If there was another Nikki in Ty’s life, she was going to be profoundly irritated.
    Ty grinned at her. “The track, sweetheart. The lady in black is the track.” He strode down the hallway, but he shot her an indecipherable look over his shoulder. “And did your dating manual tell you that you should be prepared to share the man you snag with the lady in black? No point in getting jealous because drivers are in love with her and she’s a huge part of our lives.”
    She had read the entire book, and there was nothing that Imogen would classify as a warning or a word of caution. It was all full steam ahead until you had achieved your goal of marriage to a driver and lived happily ever after. But she could see Ty’s point. Any woman looking to live with a race car driver had to accept that his career consumed a large majority of his time. You either had to accept it or be miserable, and jealousy and unhappiness over it could destroy your relationship.
    Truthfully, she didn’t know how she would feel about that herself. She didn’t think she was needy, and her own aspirations consumed a lot of time, but maybe the inflexibility of it would eventually wear on her.
    Ty pushed open a door and Imogen followed him into a garage. There were several cars in various stages of construction, some just raw frames, others looking ready to roll onto the track with all their decals in place. The room was cool and smelled like tires, and Imogen was surprised to see that while there weren’t a lot of people working, it wasn’t empty either. One car was a flurry of activity with at least eight men moving around it, talking, drilling, or screwing, or whatever it was they did to prep cars.
    “Whose car is that?” she asked. “What are they doing to it?”
    “The fifty-six car is Elec Monroe’s.”
    Of course, she should have known that. Tamara had her husband’s car number tattooed on the interior of her wrist, in a gesture that had impressed Imogen. She wasn’t sure she could handle being jabbed repeatedly with a needle and permanently discolor her skin to prove her love. Needles made her light-headed and she’d probably faint during the procedure, knocking the tattoo artist over and winding up with an indistinguishable blob.
    But Tamara seemed happy with hers.
    “Why are they working on it so late?”
    “There must be something they’re tweaking. That car should already be on the hauler ready to go to Martinsville in the morning. The rest of our cars for this weekend are already loaded.”
    “Then what are all these cars I’m looking at?”
    “Cars for Texas, two weeks out.”
    “You don’t drive the same car every week?”
    “No. Have you seen a race, babe? We beat the hell out of them. They need some work done after a race.”
    That was true, but she had never thought about the implication of such abuse.
    “And every driver needs an immediate backup car, in case his is wrecked in pre-race testing or qualifying.”
    “Where is your car?”
    “The sixty car, over there. Looks like they finished the paint job. I got saddled with green this year, which is just about my least favorite color. But for a ten-million-per-week sponsorship deal, I’ll suck up the fact that I’m driving around looking like a moving golf course.”
    Ty started walking toward his car, so Imogen followed him, drinking in the sight of all the