This time, she didn’t miss the opportunity to glare at him. Much to her annoyance, he didn’t wilt beneath its power. “You know damn well what I meant. Christ, are you always such a smart arse?”

“Yes,” he said simply, throwing her completely off-kilter. The mischievous twinkle in his eye did nothing to dispel that sensation, either. He was managing to be unnerving, irritating and attractive all at once—which just annoyed her even more. She didn’t know whether she wanted to slap him or snog him.

She sighed and rolled her eyes. Reaching into her bag, she then pulled out her smart phone and fired up the dictation app. “You’re okay with me recording this, right? We’ll cover a lot more ground, much quicker, if I don’t have to take notes.”

Rafe gave a casual shrug, as though he really didn’t give a shit—about the recording, about the interview, or about her. “Fine by me.”

“Great.” She forced her lips to form a smile, when what she really wanted to do was grimace. Or drop her head into her hands with despair. God, he was going to be hard work, she just knew it. His story had better be bloody well worth it. She pressed the ‘record’ button and shifted her gaze to meet his. The quiet intensity in his eyes nearly caused her to stumble at the first hurdle, before she’d even spoken, but she managed to hold it together—barely. “So! Thank you, Rafe Donovan, for agreeing to speak with me. Can you tell me about yourself, please? A bio, if you like. A bit of background I can pull on for people that have never heard of you.”

“Like you, you mean?” he replied, quirking an eyebrow.

Well, fuck. He got the measure of me quickly. “We’re not here to talk about me, Rafe,” she said sweetly, desperate to turn the focus back on to him. “I’m writing a sports column, so please tell me all the things my readers will want to hear about. Start with the basics.”

He huffed out a heavy breath. “All right, all right. God, you’re no fun, Gloria.”

“I’m not here to have fun. I’m here to work.”

Christ—what the hell was going on with her? She didn’t normally get all hot under the collar for guys like Rafe Donovan—arrogant arseholes. He might look nice, but it didn’t change the fact he was a bit of a twat. She had to bite back a smirk as a potential headline flashed into her brain—British Superbikes: No Sponsorship for Arrogant Arsehole Competitor.

Snapping back into professional mode, she gave him a saccharine smile. “I should be the one asking the questions, Rafe. Do you mind if I call you Rafe? And is there somewhere quiet we can go for a chat? Can you take the time? I know you have another practice race later on.”

After being led along at what felt like a breakneck pace to her much shorter legs for a good ten minutes, they arrived at a black van with Rafe Donovan Racing Team written on the side. She’d been regretting asking if there was somewhere quiet they could go for approximately nine and a half of those ten minutes, and now she seriously wished she could take it back. All she’d wanted was to get away from the stares of his two buddies and talk privately. Honestly, stepping outside the garage would have done the job. But apparently Rafe had taken her request very seriously, and here they were.

Jingling the keys he’d retrieved from one of the other men before they’d left, he pressed a button on the fob. There was a bleep, and the lights flashed once. Rafe turned to her and indicated the van with a jerk of his thumb. “Quiet enough for you?”

For once he wasn’t smirking, and his tone wasn’t sarcastic, so she responded politely, “Yes, I’m sure this will be fine. Thank you.”

“Great. Come on, then. I do have a bit of time, but not loads as I need to get back to my brothers so we can finish the tune up on my bike before my next race.”

So she’d been right about them being related, then. His brothers were a fair bit older than him, by the looks of it—she’d internally pegged him as around her age—mid-twenties. “Okay, no problem.” He’d opened the passenger side door for her, and she climbed in, her face reddening as she realised he’d remained behind her as she got into the vehicle—no doubt affording himself quite the close-up view of her backside in her tight jeans. At least she wasn’t wearing a skirt.

She sat down as quickly as she could and turned to glare at him, but he was already making his way around the front of the van. With some difficulty, she reached out and grasped the door handle, then tugged the door shut, turning down the volume of the bikes roaring around the track.

A clunk and a creak as the driver’s door was opened, then the van dipped on its suspension as Rafe joined her in the front. He slammed the door and flashed her a smile. “Right then, where would you like to start, Gloria? That’s an… unusual name for a woman your age, by the way. Pretty, but unusual.”

Raising her eyebrows, she shot back, “I could say the same.”

“What? That my name’s a pretty but unusual one for a woman of my age?”

He smirked, and the other two men with him—who were, by now, paying attention—sniggered.

Indignation rolling through her, Gloria pulled herself up to her full height—which was probably still a good foot shorter than his—and said, “No, I’m not looking for somewhere to powder my nose. I’m looking for you, Rafe Donovan.” She’d deliberately used his name to unsettle him, and it seemed to work.

The briefest flicker of uncertainty passed over his features, before being replaced with a smug look. “Have we met before? I doubt it, ‘cos I’m pretty sure I would remember you.” He raked his gaze up and down her body, lingering on her breasts, then grinned widely.

Goosebumps broke out all over her skin, but she stood firm, and kept her expression neutral. Stepping forward, she held out a hand over the bike, ignoring the other two men still tinkering with it. “My name’s Gloria Heath. I’m a reporter, and I’ve been given an assignment to write about this weekend’s British Superbikes tournament and the riders taking part in it, with special emphasis on individuals whose back stories might be of particular interest. Which is what has led me to you.”

Narrowing his eyes, Rafe grabbed a nearby rag and scrubbed at his right hand for a moment before reaching out and taking hers. As they shook, he said warily, “Nice to meet you, Gloria. So, what makes you think my back story might be of particular interest?”

As they’d been in physical contact, Gloria had again concentrated hard on keeping her expression neutral, while hormones zipped through her body at an alarming rate and made her heart race once again. Now they were no longer touching, she felt slightly more in control of herself—at the same time desperately wanting to wipe her palm on her trousers. Whether it was an attempt to erase the effect the contact had had, or remove oil and grime from her hand, she wasn’t sure.

She had to tread carefully here. She didn’t want to put the guy’s back up and have him refuse to talk to her. Granted, if he did, she still had two full days and what was left of today to find someone else to focus on for her article, but now she’d found Rafe, she wanted him. In more ways than one, if the reactions in her traitorous body were anything to go by.

She found the garages without too much trouble, and after asking a couple more people for further directions, she finally located 19—otherwise known as Rafe Donovan. Who, despite the first man’s reluctance to divulge gossip, she now knew had a story, as well as no outside funding. It wouldn’t fill many column inches at the moment, but at least it gave her a jumping-off point.

Passing into the gloom of the garage-cum-workshop, which was indeed, in the arse end of nowhere—she’d long since passed the areas given over to the biggest teams—she gave her eyes a moment to adjust to the light before approaching the three men clustered around the Kawasaki. They were so engrossed in their work that they didn’t notice her.

After a moment, though, the man himself looked up from his task and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead—leaving an oily streak—and spotting her in the process. A slight frown on his face, he stood up and met her gaze, a glint of interest in his eyes. “Hello, can I help you?”

Gloria was stunned into silence as she took him in. He’d unzipped the top half of his leathers, leaving them hanging around his waist. It looked cumbersome, but not as much, she guessed, as trying to work whilst wearing the top half, too. Underneath he wore a white T-shirt, which she felt was an unwise choice, but one she appreciated, given the way it clung to his chest and torso and afforded a delightful view of his muscular arms. The blobs and smudges of oil and dirt only served to highlight the bright whiteness of the material, and the tanned skinned of the wearer.

As well as having luscious dirty-blond hair that she wanted to tangle her fingers in, Rafe was also incredibly handsome. He had cheekbones to die for, a smattering of pale stubble on his cheeks and chin, lips that should really have been too plump for a man, but somehow suited him, and the most soulful pair of blue eyes she’d ever seen. She suspected that, had he not been wearing leathers and covered in dirt and grime, he would actually appear angelic. But, as it was, he came across as quite the opposite. An impression cemented by his next words. “Hey, you lost, sweetheart? You looking for somewhere to powder your nose?”

By the time the practice race had finished, Gloria’s mouth was dry and her heart pounding. She gulped down some of her water, swallowing hard as she shook her head incredulously. That had been incredibly exciting, and it wasn’t even a proper race! She’d had a great view of the straight from the box, and had watched much of the rest of the action on a nearby TV screen. And boy had there been some action; crazy speed, tight corners, skidding, breakdowns, near-misses… basically, these racers had some serious brass balls—and that included the sole woman, who’d already gained Gloria’s life-long admiration.

Gloria just couldn’t imagine how much courage it took to screech around tracks so fast. Pushing a car to eighty miles per hour on the motorway was about as speed demon-like as she ever got. And that was only if it was quiet. These people quite literally put their lives on the line for their sport. She shuddered, hoping nothing of the sort would happen this weekend. That was not something she ever wanted to see.

Pulling herself out of her thoughts, she returned her attention to what was going on. Now the race was over, she needed to go and find her potential interviewee.

Getting to her feet, she flashed a polite smile to the other spectators she’d shared the bank of seats with—only a handful, probably because the bulk of the spectators would only be at the track on the Sunday, for the main races—and returned her empty glass to the bar. She thanked the handsome barman, tipping him a wink when he said “Any time”, his tone a tad lascivious. She had no intention of doing any more than flirting with him, but it couldn’t hurt to keep him on side, given she’d probably be seeing more of him over the next couple of days. If it meant she got served more quickly when the place got busy, then that was just a bonus.