On the Move by Pamela Britton Page A

sooner the better. Maybe with a little distance he could sort all this out.
    “All right then. Later,” she said.
    He watched her turn away. Only when she was gone did he get up off the floor.
    “Good job, Burke.”
    She knows you can’t read.
    Yet she wanted to help him.
    For a moment he allowed himself to hope that maybe, just maybe, it was possible.
    But who was he trying to kid? He’d tried to learn, numerous times. But no matter how many hours he worked at it, the letters continued to be a jumble of symbols. The few words he did recognize were not enough that he could make sense of anything. He was beyond hope. He was probably too old to learn. Vicky wouldn’t be able to help. Besides, he needed her to act as an agent, not a reading instructor.
    That’s what mattered, he finally decided, watching as she started her car and backed out of his gravel drive.
    He needed her on a professional level, not a personal one. Personal relationships never worked. He should know. His father had screwed him out of his personal fortune. His mother had screwed him out of a personal life by not standing up to his father and insisting Brandon be allowed a normal childhood. Every relationship he’d ever tried to have had ended in disaster. Most of the women he dated were only after his money. A few were out to snag themselves a celebrity husband. Most could care less about him as a person.
    What he needed more than a temporary lover…what he needed more than physical release, was someone to get his career back on track. That was it.
    Even an agent could be a friend.
    Wouldn’t that be nice? a little voice asked. He didn’t have many of those.
    Hell, he didn’t have a single one.

“When I’ve got a lot on my mind, it helps to get in the car and drive.”
    — Todd Peters , race-car driver



CHAPTER TWELVE
    V ICKY WAS LATE.
    Panic began to clog her throat as she tried to navigate Daytona’s race day traffic. She turned onto Speedway Boulevard only to find it at a complete standstill. As she’d glanced at her watch, the digits moving closer toward the noon hour, she wondered what had possessed her to ask Scott when she should leave for the speedway. Scott probably hadn’t been to a race in years.
    She should have called Brandon.
    Just recalling his name amped up the beat of her heart. That’s why she couldn’t call him, and why she’d tried to avoid even thinking about him since that day in the kitchen when he’d scooped her up in his arms. Luckily, she had a brief moment of clarity once his lips had left her own, a moment wherein she’d realized that this was it—she was going to bed with Brandon Burke. If the ensuing panic hadn’t ricocheted through her body like a hollow-point bullet, well, she might have brought new meaning to the words personal attention.
    Each minute that passed was agony. By the time it was all said and done, she arrived at the track an hour before the race was due to start. She knew that wasn’t good. She’d been given specific instructions on the use of her Cold Pass, a pass which meant she’d have limited access to the garage. Had she made it to the track on time, she’d have had to vacate the garage one hour before the race started. That was now.
    “Damn,” she said, pulling to a stop. The track schematic she’d been overnighted along with her garage and parking pass showed her to be a good distance away. It’d take her at least ten minutes to get there. Crap.
    Nagging at the back of her mind was the thought that Brandon hadn’t called. It wasn’t so much that she’d expected him to contact in the three days following their kiss—she wasn’t that unrealistic. It was more that he hadn’t phoned her this morning. She’d told him she’d see him today. Wasn’t he the least bit concerned about her whereabouts?
    She ran to the garage, having been pointed toward its entrance by at least a half a dozen people.
    “Sorry, can’t go in,” said the security officer guarding the