It was Nikki Borden. Twenty-two years old. Bouncy. Bubbly. Blond. Built like Barbie, thanks to Nikki’s campaign of personal starvation and the assistance of breast implants and lip injections. She was definitely a beautiful girl by most male standards, and Imogen knew Nikki worked hard to maintain her appearance. Unfortunately, it seemed to be at the expense of nurturing her mind. The few times Imogen had tried to have a conversation with Nikki, she had been left wondering if there were residual effects of the excessive use of hair dye because there was a whole lot of nothing going on in that girl’s head.

None of which would bother Imogen, per se, except that Nikki was dating Ty McCordle, the stock car driver Imogen had an inexplicable attraction to.

“Don’t turn around,” Tamara said to Imogen, horrified. “She’ll see us!”

“Damn,” Suzanne said. “Too late.”

Nikki was waving to them with a big smile, and Imogen stifled a groan. She did not want to spend her time at the racetrack trying to make small talk with Nikki, and it was her fault they were going to have to do the polite. She should have just run and asked questions later, but that wasn’t her personality. She always had to know what was going on, and it was highly likely her curiosity would be the death of her someday. Today it was going to result in fending insults from Nikki, who seemed to think it was her duty in the name of friendship to inform Imogen of all her physical flaws.

“Hi!” Nikki said, making record time over to them despite her high heels. “Where are you guys going? I’ll go with you.”

“We have passes to sit in the boxes,” Suzanne said. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure we can get you into the restricted area.”

Suzanne didn’t look the least bit sorry, and Imogen almost felt bad for Nikki, who clearly was hanging around the track by herself. Imogen knew what it was like to always be the loner.

“Oh, I have a pass, too,” Nikki said, pulling a piece of paper out of her giant purple handbag. She grinned. “I guess having sex with a race car driver ought to get you something, right?”

Ugh. Imogen had known that Nikki was having sex with Ty—she had to be. It wasn’t like Nikki was the kind of girl who could cook a man a meal, discuss politics or racing with him, or even be considered a candidate for bearing his future children. Nikki was a booty call, if Imogen understood the definition of the term correctly. But to know it and to hear it out loud were two different things entirely.

“I guess that I’d rather get an orgasm out of sex than a paper pass, but that’s just me,” Suzanne said.