Zero To Sixty (BWWM, Sports, Billionaire) Read online

  Zero To Sixty

  Tamara Adams

  A note to my readers:

  I have been listening. With each story I write, I find a need to go deeper, to uncover more of the secret longings and fears, the insecurities that plague us all when it comes to love. I've also found a need to explore more of the characters inner and outer life.

  This time I explore a world that my husband finds fascinating: professional car racing. It's a fast and dangerous world and then men who dominate it are their own special breed. Fearless, strong and rough around the edges. I wanted to take my prim and proper heroine out of her comfort zone and challenge both these characters with seeing things from a new perspective. To me, these characters jumped off the page, demanding that I write their story. I am especially proud of this, my ninth book.

  Please continue to share your experiences as a reader with me. I find it invaluable as I continue to learn and grow as an author.

  I hope you enjoy Zero To Sixty as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  Much love,

  Tamara

  Copyright © 2015 by Tamara Adams

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2015

  For my Boo.

  One

  Beep

  Beep

  BEEP BEEP BEEP

  Denise rolled over and stared at the clock. It was six AM on Saturday. She didn't set an alarm on Saturday. In fact, her phone volume was off. Except for one thing…

  Oh no.

  She groaned and reached for her phone.

  It was on the new side table in her newly decorated room in her brand new house. Well, technically it was a townhouse condo on the edge of Beverly Hills. But it was a very nice townhouse condo.

  And it was hers.

  Every penny she'd ever earned was in this place and she loved it. Even if it was a little bland. She looked around, wondering what had possessed her to decorate with so much beige. Where were the purples and peaches she loved so much as a child?

  She'd outgrown them apparently.

  Besides, it's not like she was ever home. She'd been out of business school for exactly eighteen months, and in that time she'd climbed the corporate ladder steadily. Mostly due to extreme diligence and hard work.

  Luck had nothing to do with it.

  On Friday she'd been given a new assignment. Her first solo account. One of the last things she'd done for the weekend was set up an alert on her phone. It was to ping her every time her new assignment made an appearance in the press.

  Ansel Philips.

  Her phone was beeping madly.

  She pushed her eye mask up and over her head, rolling to her stomach. She was so tired that her eyes refused to adjust immediately. She squinted at her phone, seeing a ticker tape of Ansel Philips news blasts.

  Literally every gossip site, every channel, every news outlet had the story.

  Apparently the spokesperson for her new account, her first solo account, had been busy last night.

  Very, very busy.

  Why was she not surprised?

  Annoyed, yes. But not surprised. Not even a little.

  Denise had studied the folder on Ansel Philips last night after cooking herself a light dinner. It was a thick folder. More like a phone book really. But fascinating. She'd read it until she was finished, well after midnight. Born dirt poor in the black hills of West Virginia and orphaned young, Ansel was raised by his grandmother who'd apparently been tough as nails. The woman had single handedly dug out an old mine on their property and found coal.

  With the modest fortune she'd found, she'd funded her only grandson's dream: to race cars. Ansel had been fifteen when he'd started, entering local races with a forged ID and a car cobbled together with discards found at junk yards. But he'd had something.

  A spark.

  She snorted.

  That was putting it mildly.

  The man oozed charisma. He was dynamic. Arrogant. Gorgeous.

  From the beginning, Ansel had attracted attention. Not just because he could drive, and God knows he could. But because of his bad boy antics, drinking, smoking, fighting, gambling and womanizing. And that was only the stuff that was printable. Rumors had it, he was up to far more.

  All this made him the perfect spokesman for Black House Whiskey. He practically screamed All American Bad Ass. Actually, that wasn't a bad tag line. She'd have to remember to jot that down.

  After she'd had her coffee.

  She sighed and thumbed through the articles. Each one had a different picture of Ansel. Lord knows he was photogenic. Naturally tall for a driver, he was muscular and lean. He was sun baked and whiskey cured. His famous baby blue eyes were far too pretty for a man, as were those sensual lips. The rest of him though, was hard and craggy.

  He was one hundred and fifty percent man.

  Not to mention a major pain in the ass.

  Denise didn't usually curse but her new assignment was not off to a good start. Contrary to popular belief, not all press was good press. Anything illegal would create issues for the brand. It was hard enough to get actual liquor advertising these days as it was.

  She knew she was going to have to call her new show pony at some point and have a talk with him. She rolled out of bed and put on a pot of coffee. There went the start of her plan to catch up on sleep this weekend.

  There was no way she was going back to bed now.

  Denise pulled on her running shorts and stretched while her coffee brewed. Then she texted Sasha to cancel lunch. She saw her best friend maybe once a month but they were in constant contact otherwise. Still, she knew Sasha would not be pleased that she was canceling again.

  But it couldn't be helped- she had to work. If Sasha gave her a hard time, she could always blame Ansel. It was his fault after all.

  She poured some coffee into a travel mug and hit the streets of Los Angeles.

  {}{}{}{}{}

  Ansel groaned, shielding his eyes from the harsh fluorescent lights above. His head ached, his back ached, hell, his whole body ached. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling, being hungover, but this one was particularly bad.

  Plus whatever he was lying on was hard as a rock.

  And the strong smell of disinfectant was making his stomach do back flips. He squinted, looking around the square room he was in. Cement, industrial lighting, a toilet and bars. It was all too familiar.

  Damn it all to hell.

  He was in jail.

  Again.

  The drunk tank from the looks of the cell's other inhabitants.

  He sat up, resting his head in his hands.

  "Ansel Philips?"

  A young cop was standing on the other side of the bars. Ansel lifted his hand weakly, too woozy to do anything else. The cop waved him over, doing a double take as Ansel staggered toward the bars.

  "Wait a minute- are you the Ansel Philips?"

  "None other."

  "No shit! My kid's a huge fan. Can you autograph something for me."

  "If you get me a cup of coffee, I will sign anything you want."

  The cop laughed.

  "Sure, you got it. Oh and your girlfriend is posting bail now. Whooo-eeee! You are a lucky man my friend."

  "Huh? Girlfriend? What girlfriend?"

  But the cop was gone. Hopefully bringing back an industrial sized coffee.

  One thing he knew for sure was that whoever was bailing him out
was definitely not his girlfriend.

  Ansel did not believe in relationships. He loved women. Often. Just not for very long.

  The cop was back with the coffee in a few minutes. He'd also found a magazine with Ansel on the cover. He signed it, silently thanking his lucky stars that it was a racing mag and not another damn tabloid. He hated those garbage mags. They always upset his Grannie.

  "So, this girl, what does she look like?"

  The cop laughed and slapped his knee.

  "You got that many girls running around?"

  Ansel shrugged. He did have a lot of girls. But very few repeat customers. In fact, zero of them.

  "She's a dime man. Perfect ten. Classy looking too. Like I said, you are a very lucky man."

  The coffee was empty by the time they led him out. He collected his personal possessions. One pair of aviator sunglasses. One phone, with about fifty missed calls and texts. And one almost entirely empty bottle of bourbon.

  Well, that explained the headache.

  Ansel walked out to the waiting room to meet the mystery woman who had bailed him out.

  Holy hell.

  He slid his sunglasses on in the nick of time. He definitely did not want anyone to see the expression on his face at this moment. His eyes, bloodshot as they were, were wide open with surprise.

  Shock made him stop in his tracks. Shock and something more visceral. Pure, unadulterated lust shot through him, heading straight to his gut.

  "Ansel?"

  He nodded, not sure if his mind was playing tricks on him. He was looking at one of the best looking women he'd ever laid eyes on. No, the best.

  And he'd laid eyes on a thousand hot chicks in his day. Hell, more than his eyes. His whole body, usually.

  Only trouble was, he was seeing two of her.

  Long dark hair, a heart shaped face with huge doe eyes and the softest, poutiest, sexiest lips he'd seen in his life. And that body- damn! The girl would put a victoria's secret model to shame. Long, lean and curvy as hell.

  Good Lord the girl was stacked!

  Even if she was dressed like a sexy librarian. A very, very sexy librarian.

  He smiled at her, wondering if he'd already bagged her. No- he would have remembered. Besides, he'd never been with a black girl before. Every other kind of woman under the sun, yes, but this would be a first time.

  He couldn't wait, hungover or not. His cock was already starting to pulse with blood. That was alright though.

  Better his dick than his head.

  She stood and held out an elegantly manicured hand.

  "Hi, I'm Denise. I'm with Black House Whiskey."

  "Oh."

  Well, that explained it. She was here to chastise him. Damnit. And he was so looking forward to taking her to bed. Or, anywhere for that matter.

  Hell, he'd do her up against a wall and praise Jesus for it.

  "Can we go somewhere to talk? You look like you could use some breakfast."

  "Sure. What time is it anyway?"

  She gave him a look that reminded him of his Sunday School teacher.

  "Two o'clock."

  At that moment Ansel decided something. He was going to have this girl. He was going to have her and make her scream. It didn't matter that the cards were stacked against him. It didn't matter that she was his handler.

  All that mattered was that she ended up beneath him. And that he wiped that disapproving look off her face. He grinned at her and held open the door.

  "Let's go."

  Two

  Denise was having a hard time concentrating. They'd finally been seated after waiting twenty minutes for a seat in the bustling, vintage style diner on Melrose. Ansel had removed his sunglasses once inside the diner and his eyes were- well other than being bloodshot- they were startlingly blue.

  Spectacular.

  Ansel was grinning at her like he could see right through her. Heck, maybe he could. He certainly knew enough about women from what she'd read about him.

  Meanwhile she was… hopeless. Men made her nervous when they came on strong, which happened often enough. Of course, they made her nervous when they came on soft too.

  Basically, they just made her nervous.

  She'd had approximately two and a half boyfriends since turning sixteen. She knew nothing about men. At all. She didn't consider herself to be good at kissing. Or any of that other stuff. Mostly she'd just lain there during sex, and hoped for the best.

  She'd never known what to do with her hands. On a date. Or after...

  Of course, this wasn't a date. This was business. And that was something she did know a lot about. Top of her class at B-school. Undergrad too. And the youngest person in her department to be given an office and a solo assignment.

  So she had this in the bag. She just needed to, um, ignore his manly prowess.

  Ansel had a lot of prowess.

  He was pouring sugar into his second cup of coffee when she decided it was time. She pulled a piece of paper of her briefcase and slid it across the funky fifties table. He eyed it but didn't pick it up.

  "What's this?"

  "Well, since I have you here I thought we could review the schedule. It was faxed to you on Friday afternoon."

  "I have a fax?"

  She blinked, not sure if he was joking. No, he looked genuinely surprised. The man clearly had no clue what she was talking about.

  "I guess I can assume this is the first time you are seeing this. Let's get started."

  He shrugged and leaned back, blatantly looking her over. She stiffened. She hated when men did this to her. And Ansel was doing it for the fourth or fifth time since they'd met.

  Heck, the fourth or fifth time since they'd sat down.

  He was luxuriating in the act of checking her out too. Almost as if he liked her. A lot.

  She shook herself internally. Dealing with difficult people was part of her job. She'd done it before.

  Of course, none of them made her insides feel like jelly.

  "The schedule Mr. Philips."

  A slow smile dawned across his face as he finally scooped up the paper and glanced down at it. It was like he was trying to memorize the way she looked.

  Why he would do that, she had no idea.

  It took about three seconds for Ansel to react. He sat up in his seat, his blue eyes practically bugging out of his head. He glanced at her with a reproaching look on his face and tossed the paper back onto the table.

  "I'm not doing all of this. No way in hell."

  He crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow.

  Denise sighed heavily. Thankfully she'd been prepared for this. Ansel was not the sort who relished schedules or being anywhere on time. Other than the finish line of course. He was well known for getting there first.

  That or anyplace they were serving free drinks.

  Or into bed with yet another bikini model.

  Here we go…

  {}{}{}{}{}

  Ansel was staring at the woman sitting across from him. Her large brown eyes were beautiful, yes, but there was a steely determination he hadn't seen there before. The fact that she looked like an angel had little to do with reality. She meant business.

  Too bad his dick wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention to that fact.

  Now that'd he'd gotten a better look at her, he was ready to jump out of his skin. So far she'd already aroused him out of his mind, which was impressive given the state of his hangover.

  On the hangover chart, this baby was Defcon 1.

  No matter how much he liked looking at her, and he liked it a lot, it didn't mean he was going to tolerate being told what to do by a skirt. She was just like all the other women he'd met in God's green earth. Bossy.

  Well, he wasn't having it.

  He crossed his arms and gave her his very best stare. It was cold. It was hard. It said one thing and one thing only.

  Dare me.

  He watched as she fished out another piece of paper from her black leather brie
fcase. It looked expensive. Hell, everything about this woman looked expensive. From the tiny gold studs at her delicate ears, the subtle makeup that enhanced her already perfect skin, to her haircut, to her pale pink perfectly manicured nails.

  He glanced at the paper she placed in front of him. His contract with Black House Whiskey. He lifted his eyes, giving her a challenging look.

  "Yeah, so?"

  "Is this your signature?"

  He rolled his eyes, letting out a dismissive snort.

  "You know it is sweetheart."

  Her eyes flared at bit at the endearment. Of course they both knew he didn't mean it in an affectionate way. Now, if they were in bed together… that would be something else entirely.

  He'd make her purr like a kitten.

  Right now though, the kitten was showing her claws.

  "If you do not hold up your end of the agreement the contract is void Mr. Philips."

  He shrugged. She was getting to him. Especially the way she kept using his last name. His good for nothing father had been Mr. Philips. He wanted her to call him Ansel.

  Actually, she could call him almost anything really as long as it was preceded by 'faster' or 'harder' or 'deeper.'

  Faster Mr. Philips.

  Harder Mr. Philips.

  Deeper Mr. Philips.

  He grinned at her, his imagination running wild.

  "So don't pay me that day. I don't need the money. And call me Ansel dammit."

  "You misunderstand me Mr. Philips. If you do not appear at the scheduled events, you owe us money. One million dollars to be exact."

  You could hear a pin drop in the diner. It was as if all the air had been momentarily sucked out of the room.

  "You're joking."

  "I'm afraid not Mr. Philips. If you do not adhere to the agreed upon number of promotional appearances, then you are going to pay the client. Quite a lot in fact."

  He picked up a stir stick and chewed it, wishing it was a smoke.

  Damn, if she didn't have him between a rock and a hard place.