The Indy Man

"How do you think you'll do in the time trials for the Indy 500?"

"If the car keeps running the way it did today, it ought to finish somewhere up in the top ten," he replied.

"The newspapers say you have the fastest car," Greg observed.

"Maybe," Mitch shrugged, "but in a race as long as the Indy 500, there are too many unknowns that can happen for owning the fastest car to make you a sure winner."

"Yeah," her brother agreed with a smile. "A lot depends on the driver behind the wheel and you're the best driver on the circuit."

"With you and luck on my side," Mitch grinned over his shoulder, "I won't need a cheering section to win. Of course, there are some other guys in the race who are just as intent on making that victory lap as I am."

"Oh sure," Greg admitted, "but you'll win. I know it."

A low chuckle followed her brother's positive statement. Susan reluctantly acknowledged to herself that it was an attractive sound, warm and caressing like his voice. Her fingers tightened convulsively on the handle of her purse, not wanting to like anything about this man.

Out of the corner of her eye, she studied the strong hands gripping the wheel. Muscles rippled in the tan arms, bare below the short sleeves of his shirt. She considered the strength that the fingers, hands and arms had to possess to manhandle a car traveling at upward of a hundred and eighty miles or more.

Yet something told her they could be gentle, too. The prospect of them ever touching her with that gentleness was disturbing and she mentally shook the thought away.
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