The instant my ass hit the seat, we were moving. It felt like Danny didn’t so much hit the gas as let the car off the leash: it leapt forward with an angry roar and I was pinned in the big leather seat by the acceleration. The dirt bike, which had been disappearing into the distance, began to creep closer. I grabbed the seatbelt and fastened myself in. What am I doing?! I’m in a car chase. With a stranger!

His accent reminded me of one of the characters in my favorite book series, The Throne of Night. In my head, everyone in medieval-y, fantasy worlds have British accents. Danny didn’t sound like one of the princes. More like the rough warrior from the backstreets who winds up saving the kingdom. I’d never heard an accent like it in person. All the men I’d known had had southern accents, calming and mellow as a cold beer on a hot day. Each time Danny spoke, it was like a shot of whiskey, rough and fiery and completely intoxicating. The words burned into my brain and soaked down through my body, leaving me heady.

The car was British, too, an old Jaguar, full of character and attitude. The chrome had been polished until it gleamed and someone must have been busy under the hood, too, because the engine sounded like a choir of angels yelling a vengeful war cry.

The dirt bike was threading its way through the morning traffic, darting through gaps and dodging down alleys. We were thundering after it, a bull chasing a dragonfly. We skidded around a corner and I slid across the leather seat until I was wedged against the door. Ulp.

We straightened out and accelerated, the buildings becoming a terrifying blur. I felt my stomach knot. I’d never gone this fast in a car: I’m always the one getting honked at for being too cautious at intersections. I found the grab-handle above me and clung on for dear life. Maybe if I close my eyes. I tried it. Nope. Nope, that’s worse.

I opened my eyes and focused on Danny, instead. That was better. God, he was gorgeous: sinful lips pressed into a tight line of concentration, gleaming green eyes flicking over the road ahead. He drove like no one I’d ever seen, his hands and feet moving in a complex, coordinated dance as he shifted through the gears, his hands dancing on the wheel as we slewed around a corner. It didn’t feel like he was driving…more like he was silently communicating with the car, guiding it the way a good horseman guides his horse. I could smell his cologne and it was amazing: citrus and vanilla, light and clean, playful…but there was a twist of some dark spice, too, sophisticated and rawly sexual. I wanted to bury my nose in his shirt collar.