Scott Templeton lives for the adrenaline rush, but when the ghost of a legendary race car driver suddenly appears in the passenger seat next to him, it sends Scott literally into a tailspin. Now he can't convince the guy to head toward the light and stop haunting him, not until Scott promises to make a special delivery. Maggie Cooper has a five-year plan that involves making executive VP with a corner office and a salary that will cause a grown man to weep. What it doesn't involve is a high-speed hotshot who claims her dead father sent him. She doesn't care how charming Scott is, or how he seems to devour her with his eyes, or even how her shotgun-toting grandmother is playing matchmaker. Maggie is determined to resist, but Scott is just as determined to convince her that loving him is worth the risk.

Love in the Fast Lane

Chapter One

T. S. "Scotty" Templeton was too focused on pushing the Porsche toward two hundred miles per hour to notice exactly when or where he picked up an unexpected passenger. It wasn't your typical race-day casualty, not a bird crammed into the grille or a bug vaporized on the windshield. No, this guy had all appendages intact—two arms, two legs—and was still moving.

"Who the hell—?"

Scott wasn't known for finesse on the best of days, and while racing at night?—forget about it.

The interloper in the passenger seat puffed up with pride and announced, "Larry Cooper, but everyone calls me Speed. Pleased to meetcha."

As if Scott gave a flying fig. It was midnight, with little light bouncing off the moon. If he didn't pay full attention to the road course, it'd chew him up and spit him out.

He hadn't pissed away recent months. He'd quit smoking. He'd given up cookies and hit the gym, and really, for that alone, he deserved to win another Rolex. He'd given up drinking; not that he had a problem, except he finally had to admit that booze just tore his stomach all to hell and wasn't worth it. And truth be told, he felt better. Sharper. Quicker. On top of his game.

So why him?

There were a thousand predictable things that could end this race prematurely, and another thousand bumps of the unpredictable variety, but a few things were crucial. He, for one. Besides just loving to race at night for the sheer thrill of it, it gave him a psychological edge over drivers who let the darkness intimidate them. A ten-hour edge, this early in the year. On top of that, the Porsche was running like a striped-ass ape. And the team owner seemed happier than he'd been in years, which meant he'd stay off Scott's back and let him do what he did best—drive.

That was pretty tough, given that he was no longer racing solo. A stowaway was impossible; there wasn't room for a cockroach to hide in the cockpit.

A hitchhiker was out of the question.

The alternative was too far beyond reason even to be considered.

And yet, there sat someone. Sandy hair, mustache, average height and weight, outdated racing suit. Between the tight turns and a plethora of opponents flying along the track, each class running at different speeds, each driver on the alert for accidents and debris, there really wasn't time to take in more than that.

"Uh, you might want to watch the next turn, son."

"Get the fuck outta my car!"

It was second nature to key the radio. Dumb as dirt, too, because the next thing he heard was the owner's voice crackling over the headset.

"Something wrong, Scotty?"

"Who is this guy?"

After a slight pause, the answer came. "There's nobody on you right now, buddy."

As far as the owner could see, that probably was true. It was a perfectly clear night in late January, nice and cool, easy on the engine. The 24 Hours of Daytona was the most difficult road course of all, at times compared to Le Mans. Last year Scott had won the coveted Rolex watch. He intended to start this season with another win, a wider margin. More victories meant more sponsors. More championships meant owning his own team sooner.

But instead of thinking ahead to the next turn, which was coming up in seconds, Scott was obliged to check out a guy who couldn't possibly be there.

"Hey, boss . . ." How to ask this over the two-way without sounding crazy? "The name Larry Cooper mean anything to you?"

"Speed Cooper, sure, stock car great. Back in the seventies. Know why he was a champion, Scotty? Because," the owner roared, "he kept his mind on what he was doing!"

"You gotta watch out up ahead," Cooper warned, and Scott snarled, "I know what I'm doing."

"I sure as hell hope so," the owner shot back.

Scott slowed for a turn. He was covered from head to fingertip to toe in fireproof gear, and his body strained against the harness. His passenger lounged in the open space beside him, as calm as a statue, and said, "Next corner's a bad one."

"Feel free to step outside."

"Is he on somethin'?" The owner wasn't questioning him now; probably the crew chief. "Goddammit, Scotty—"

Scott tuned out the owner when Cooper said, "I've been waiting for you to come back to the track for weeks."

"You're a hologram, right? Some projected image." Scott was buckled in too tightly to reach up and wrench out the car cam, but at least this time he'd kept his finger off the PTT button.

"Can a projector do this?" Cooper vanished, only to reappear smack-dab in the middle of the hood.

Scott swerved. First out of reflex, then back and forth a few times out of pure orneriness.

"Whoa, watch it there, Scotty," the owner said. "What's up, buddy? Talk to me."

"I'm a little busy right now, boss." Scott tapped the brakes to throw Cooper's ass off the hood, but nothing dislodged him. Nothing even threw him off balance. He just perched there like a friggin' hood ornament.

"Yeah, I can see that. You smoke something a little funny this morning?"

"I don't do funny."

"Great, I always like it when one of my drivers hallucinates. Say, Scotty . . .""Yeah, boss?"

"Get your sorry ass in gear before you wreck my car!"

Cooper reappeared in the passenger seat, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. "Say, you're not very good at this."

"You're throwing off my timing. Go away."

From the rattle and thump over the headset, Scott figured the owner had just thrown his across the pit.

"You're a ghost, right? Not an angel."

"An angel?" Cooper sounded stumped for a moment. "Oh no no, nothing like that. I'm not here to take you to heaven." He made Twilight Zone noises and laughed at Scott. "I just want you to deliver something."

Love in the Fast Lane. Copyright © by Jenna McKnight. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

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Excerpted from Love in the Fast Lane by Jenna McKnight
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