One night in Daytona (One Night Stands #1)

Copyright © Ann Grech 2014

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This book is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, organisations, trademarks and incidents are either entirely fictional or, if they are real, are used in a fictional sense.  Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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B L U R B

Jos Farris was on top of the world, leading the Daytona 500 until a simple mistake ended his race and possibly his career.  Cassie Lane’s day had gone to hell; on national television her star whistle-blower backed out of the story that would have made her career, making Cassie look utterly incompetent.

But Jos’ day suddenly looks up when the red-headed beauty sits down next to him in a biker bar in Daytona Beach, Florida.  Cassie can’t resist the chemistry between the two of them.  And she’s not the only one.  The sparks sizzle as soon as they touch, but is their love affair fated to a one-night stand or will destiny bring them together again?

For M, B and J.

Always for you.

A C K N O W L E D G E M E N T S

My biggest thank you goes to my boys for putting up with late dinners, housework not being done and mummy / wifey being grumpy after a lack of sleep.  Your unwavering encouragement means the world to me.  I love you more than words can express.

Thank you also to my amazing beta readers Milly Beckett, Sassie Lewis, Lacey Roberts and KC Vixen.  You all rock!

Willsin Rowe, your cover design exceeded my dreams a hundredfold.  Thank you so much.

And finally, but certainly not least, thank you to the ladies at Hot Tree Editing.  You are wonderful!

C H A P T E R   O N E

“Welcome back to our live coverage of the Daytona 500 after those important messages from our sponsors.”

“This is the final pit stop for Jos Farris.  He’ll only need enough gas to get him over the line and with twenty laps of the circuit left, it’ll be a quick stop.  He’s got it in the bag.  Mark my words: Farris is on his way to his first driver championship.  This is
his
season.  He’s already dominating it.  The darling on and off the racing circuit is ready; go, go... oh no.  It looks like Farris’ car has stalled.  What a disaster!”

“Farris is usually cool as a cucumber, but he’s got to be feeling the pressure here.  He’s trying to restart the engine, but it’s just not coming alive.”

“He’s out.  He’s out of the Daytona 500.  What a tragedy.  From leader of the race to a DNF.  Jos Farris is a DNF.  His pit crew are moving the car into the garage and have the jacks out already.  Farris is out of the car.  His race is over.  What a tragedy.”

“What the fuck, man?” Buck Allbright shouted at Jos in his Texan drawl, his white Stetson contrasting against the mottled red of his face and white handlebar moustache.  “Can you or can you not drive this fucking car?  I’ve invested millions of dollars into this team and you,” he poked a thick finger in Jos’ chest, “you’ve just pissed on it.”

“The starter motor crapped itself.  The engine wouldn’t turn over.  What’d you want me to do?”

“Not stall the fucking car.”

“Deliver me a goddamn car that isn’t plagued by mechanical faults and I’ll win this damn race.  But no, we’ve had problems with that piece-of-shit alternator all day.  And don’t even get me started on the shit that went down last year.”

“Bullshit, Farris.  It’s your driving. You’re fucking incompetent.  Get the fuck outta your suit.  You ain’t drivin’ for this team again,” Allbright shouted, spittle covering Jos’ face, as he grabbed Jos’ firesuit with both hands and shook him.

“You can’t fire me, asshole,” Jos swatted his hands as he pushed Allbright away, making him stumble and land on his ass before the media circus vying for the best take of the argument.

“I’ll have your ass for this, you disrespectful little shit,” the team owner gritted out as he steadied himself on the tyres.  Jos’ glare back at him seemed to push Allbright over the edge of his already tattered temper and he threw a punch at Jos.  The fringing on Allbright’s white button down shuddered as wildly as the jiggle around his thick waist as he again stumbled.  Jos didn’t think.  He’d been pushed to the limits of endurance today, his anger and disappointment at his stupid, stupid mistake exploding in a haze of red clouding his vision.  Jos’ lightning fast reflexes kicked in and he sidestepped Allbright’s reach, easily avoiding his punch.  Before his brain could engage, survival instinct kicked in and Jos’ fist connected with the soft cartilage of his team owner’s nose, sending a crimson splatter of blood down Allbright’s pristine shirt. 

Jos kept punching until his pit crew pulled the two brawling men apart.  Allbright was clutching his nose, blood streaming down his face as he howled and Jos shook out his already swelling hand. 

The contrast between the two men was stark.  Allbright typified the Texan cowboy come oil magnate.  He was a sixty-something, portly man dressed in a near all-white suit excepting the corporate logos of the team sponsors sewn to the back and chest of his shirt with matching red cowboy boots. Jos had a longer, leaner look with a shock of dark, sweat-plastered, messy hair and brown eyes that, except for the distinctive gold flecks, were almost black in their intensity.  The two men struggled against the teammates restraining them until Jos relaxed in their arms and said quietly, “I’m done.  Let me go,” just as the closest reporter was wrapping up a live cross to their pit area.

“Tensions are clearly high in the Allbright Oil Team after Jos Farris attacked team owner Buck Allbright.  It seems that the darling on and off the track has a bit of a temper and certainly some work to do to patch up his rocky relationship with team ownership.”

“You’ll be hearing from my lawyer, Farris.  I’ll make sure you’re done.  You’ll never drive another race car again.  This is the end of your career.  Start collecting food stamps.  I’ll sue you for everything you’re worth and more,” Allbright ranted as Jos stripped off his race gloves, unzipped his suit, and pushed through the team area to his private trailer.

“And now we cross live to Cassie Lane in Daytona Beach, Florida where Florida’s Senator Ginty has a private box in today’s Daytona 500.”

“Thank you, Tamara. I’m here with Fiona Lewis, Senator Ginty’s former head staffer who has made allegations of fraud against the Senator, claiming that millions of dollars of campaign funding was misappropriated into Ginty’s personal accounts to maintain a lavish lifestyle, drugs, prostitutes, and a high roller gambling addiction.  Ms Lewis, can you confirm for the cameras the evidence that you have on Senator Ginty’s financials.”

“I’m sorry, Cassie. I made a mistake.  I’ve since verified that the Senator’s financial dealings are legitimate and no fraud has occurred.  I recant my earlier statement to you and apologise immensely to the Senator for my erroneous judgment.”

What on God’s green earth just happened?
  The staffer’s information was solid and she was determined to expose the lying scum for what he was: a criminal. “So you now deny that payments to exclusive sex clubs and known prostitutes were made from campaign funds?  You deny that significant withdrawals were made from campaign accounts in casinos in blatant breach of campaign spending laws?”

“Yes, I do.  I’m sorry, Cassie. I made a grave mistake.  You need to believe me and back off,” the former staffer pleaded with her confidant, the woman who’d helped her dig up the dirt on the sleazy Senator and comforted her when the former staffer realised that going public would end her aspiring political career.

“Has someone threatened you, Fiona?” Cassie asked gently, reading the obvious fear vibrating through Fiona’s body.

“No, no he hasn’t,” Fiona denied.  “You shouldn’t be saying things like that.  He’d be angry that you’re accusing them of threatening me,” Fiona pleaded with Cassie to stop.

“Who is ‘he’?  Who are ‘they’?  Who has forced you to lie to the camera now to protect them?”

“Stop, Cassie.  Please”

“Answer me, Fiona.  You came to me with evidence that there had been rampant theft of campaign funds.  Now you’re saying that you were wrong, that you made a mistake in reading the records,” Cassie pushed.

“Yes, okay? I made a mistake,” she cried, turning away from the camera that she only remembered was rolling when Cassie returned her gaze back to it.

“Well, Tamara, it seems that more questions have arisen from today’s developments in Senator Ginty’s use of the campaign funds.  Back to you.”

“And that’s a wrap,” Cassie’s cameraman said as the flashing light on the camera blinked off. 

“Something’s up, John. I need to speak with Fiona.”

“You’re too late, look,” he motioned as Fiona stepped into a cab.  “Something’s happened to spook that poor girl.  That darned Senator has long tentacles and I think he’s squeezing her to shut her up.”

“You got that right.  Darn, what a disaster.  The network is not going to be happy about this ‘lil snafu.”

“Ah, my dear, you have a way with words.” John laughed dryly.

“Yeah, great.  Just great,” Cassie sighed.  “I’m gonna get my ass kicked for this.  I pushed so hard for this story and for the live cross.  I shouldn’t have insisted we do it here.  I should have got her on camera yesterday when she gave me all the information.  Let’s go back to the hotel and try and rescue this mess.”