GUNNER STEVENS DIDN’T LIKE being manipulated. He normally didn’t allow it. Especially since he’d gotten out of racing. He no longer had to please anyone—not his corporate sponsors, his pit crew, or the rather inflexible officials of NASCAR.

But he was being manipulated now, and he knew it. Walt Ashton was dangling Ashton Automotive in front of him like a carrot while inviting him to this or that event, purposely putting him in contact with Ashton employees to see how he’d fit in and get along with them. It wasn’t any secret that Walt wanted to feel good about letting his precious company go, which was admirable—and tolerable because it was so admirable. But, considering the way Walt had shoved April into his arms, Gunner wondered if the manipulation ended there. Maybe Walt was hoping Gunner would take an interest in his plain daughter….

Gunner lowered his gaze to April’s face as they moved, rather jerkily on her part, to a Luther Vandross ballad. She had creamy, soft-looking skin with a few freckles across the nose, brown, intelligent eyes and white, straight teeth. But her lips were too thin and certainly didn’t curve into an inviting smile. Her thick-framed glasses reminded him of a schoolteacher who’d once banished him from class. And he couldn’t remember ever dating a woman who wore her hair in such a no-nonsense bun. Loose and messy, maybe. Sexy. But not pulled back so tight it nearly slanted her eyes.

She took her hand off his shoulder long enough to adjust her glasses. “You’re staring,” she pointed out, meeting his gaze without flinching.

Gunner cocked an eyebrow at her as he considered the defiant glint in those dark eyes, and purposely let his attention move lower. Skinny. Too skinny. And mostly flat. Not a good combination with a plain face and a sharp tongue.

“Do you mind?” she said.

He grinned at the annoyance in her voice. Walt wasn’t playing matchmaker. Anyone could see that an intellectual like April Ashton wasn’t Gunner’s type. And from the stiff way she danced, and the significant distance she insisted on keeping between them, he doubted she had men standing in line.

“This is supposed to be a slow dance,” he murmured when she resisted his attempt to pull her closer.

“I’m aware of that, thank you.”

“So maybe you should relax.” Once again he tried to maneuver her into a more natural embrace, but her eyebrows gathered above her glasses, and her arms stiffened, holding him right where he was.

“I typically don’t dance.”

“That comes as quite a surprise.”

He knew she’d picked up on his sarcasm when she stumbled and barely missed landing on his foot. He thought she might pull away then, but, for some reason, he was glad she didn’t. He wasn’t quite ready to let her go. Maybe her cool indifference was a refreshing change.

Or maybe he simply didn’t want to face the idea of turning his back on the whole Ashton Automotive deal, because then he’d have nothing to do but head home to the opposite coast. These days his penthouse in New York seemed empty and faraway even when he was just down the street. And the parties and people he’d associated with over the past few years appealed to him even less. Ever since his mother had died eighteen months ago, he didn’t want to do anything anymore—not even visit his father, who still lived in upstate New York where Gunner had grown up. Quincy Senior had walked out on Gunner’s mother when Gunner was only two. They’d barely heard from him—until Gunner started seeing some real success with racing. Then Quincy Senior began to show significant interest, and now all he could talk about was when Gunner won Rookie of the Year, the Busch Clash, the Coca Cola 600, his first Winston Cup, his last Winston Cup, his other Winston Cups, or his statistics for any given year.

Glory days. Gunner didn’t like discussing the past with his father or anyone else. Recounting the achievements of his racing career made him feel as though the best part of his life was over. No one wanted to be a has-been at thirty-five.

“Your father mentioned you’re a physicist,” he said, preferring conversation to his thoughts.

“Yes.”

“Which means you spend your days where?”

“Working in a laboratory for Lenox-Moltinger.”

“What kind of company is Lenox-Moltinger?”

She twisted slightly to study the crowd at the edge of the dance floor, and he saw a blush creep up her neck. Following her gaze, he noticed a fiftyish woman smiling into the face of a young man, both of them unnaturally tanned for Christmastime. They were standing by the silver and white tree, holding hands in a way that suggested to Gunner they weren’t mother and son. “Someone you know?” he asked.

April jerked her attention back to him and flushed even more brightly. “Lenox-Moltinger builds computer processors,” she said, reverting to his earlier question. “You see, light travels extremely fast under normal circumstances, Mr. Stevens—”

“Gunner,” he broke in with a smile. He’d heard the respect and pride in Walt’s voice when he’d introduced April and knew it couldn’t hurt to win her over.

“Um…okay. Gunner, then,” she said, obviously flustered and still preoccupied with the couple she was surreptitiously watching. “Anyway, light is a very efficient way to move data.”

“Hence the use of fiber-optic cables.”

“Exactly. But I’m trying to do the opposite. I’m trying to slow the speed of light.”

Her eyes were now fixed on a point past his shoulder. Never had he received less of a woman’s attention. When he glanced back, he saw that it was the same couple who held her interest. “Slow it?” he said, bending his head to fall within her range of vision.

“As much as possible,” she murmured.

“Why? When it comes to computers, I thought speed was the name of the game.”

“It is when you want to move data.” She tilted her head to look around him and he finally turned so she couldn’t see anything.

She blinked and focused on him. “It’s much less desirable when you want to store data.”

“So that’s what you’re trying to do? Store data using light instead of the usual hard drive?”

“Simply put, yes. In a few years, the Bose-Einstein condensate will enable us to revolutionize the whole computer industry.”

Gunner noticed the older woman with the younger man leaving the tree. “Ashton Automotive employees seem pretty close,” he said, turning her and nodding toward the couple.

Her lips tightened, but she didn’t reveal the reason for her acute interest. “Is that why you want to purchase the company?” she asked. “Because of the camaraderie?”

“Partly.” Ashton Automotive had several elements that appealed to Gunner—it was the right size, sold the right product, had the right image. But he was mostly interested in owning a business he could continue to build. Since he’d retired a year ago, he’d been living the rich bachelor’s life, spending millions on houses and cars and boats, and hanging a new supermodel on his arm for every charity function he attended. He’d been trying so hard to prove he’d moved on after his mother’s death—when he quit racing—that it had taken him several months to realize it wasn’t working. The media and the rest of the world seemed fooled, but he’d never felt more out of touch with the self-respect that really mattered to him. So, he’d recently thrown himself into business. And now he did nothing but work.

“I’m sure one chain of auto-parts stores is as good as another to you,” she said. “Why don’t you start your own? Gunner Stevens Automotive has a nice ring to it. You’ve already got the name recognition to pull it off.”

“Are you drumming up competition for your father?”

“Trying to protect him from doing something he’s bound to regret.”

“Why would I want to start from scratch when your father’s put his company on the block?”

“I can’t see my father selling Ashton Automotive,” she said. “He’s just going through a difficult time. It won’t last long enough for him to complete the sale.”

Gunner opened his mouth to argue, to tell her that he and Walt had been discussing terms. But the music was ending and a slender hand with rings on almost every finger clasped April’s shoulder just as he let her go.

It was the older woman April had been watching so intently, minus her young lover. “There you are,” she said. “I’ve been looking all over for you. The dance floor was the last place I thought to check.” She glanced Gunner’s way, then her mouth dropped open. “But now I see why you’re here. Isn’t this Gunner Stevens? The race-car driver, Gunner Stevens?”

April pushed her glasses closer to her face, giving Gunner the impression she tended to hide behind them. “Yes.”

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

The muscular young man approached with two glasses of champagne, and April winced visibly at the sight of him.

“Rod, dear, we’re about to be introduced to Gunner Stevens,” the woman said excitedly. “You know who he is, don’t you?”

“I do.” Rod looked impressed, but April looked as though she wanted to die.

“Mr. Stevens.” April’s tone grew formal again. “Please meet my mother, Claire Ashton—” she cleared her throat “—and her, um, date.”

Gunner’s jaw dropped. This was her mother? From what Walt had told him, Gunner had gotten a completely different idea of Claire Ashton. He’d certainly never expected to find her at the same party as Walt and Regina. It was his understanding that the divorce wasn’t going well. But now that he could see Claire’s face more clearly, he saw the resemblance between her and April. Although April’s hair was darker, nearly coffee-colored, she definitely favored her mother more than her father. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said.

“Likewise.” Claire beamed. “What brings someone like you to our little party?”

He couldn’t exactly say that Walt was trying to sell off the company, so he kept his answer vague. “Walt and I met through some business dealings. He invited me.”

“Dad’s thinking of selling Ashton Automotive to Gunner,” April said, instantly giving him away.

Gunner frowned. So much for winning her over.

Claire brought a hand to her chest as shock, hurt, then anger passed over her face. “Why? So he can spend more time with that…that incense-burning floozy? I begged him for years to take life easier, to let us go away on our own sometimes, to come home for dinner at night, to simply relax a little and be a husband and father. Would he do it? No! That business was too damned important to him. Now, after all the years I shared him with his beloved company, he’s going to sell, just like that?” She snapped her fingers.

Gunner sent April a dark look, thanking her for putting him in such an awkward position, and she smiled in a self-satisfied way. “I tried to tell Gunner he was probably wasting his time here. Dad doesn’t have the right to sell the business without your permission.”

“He doesn’t?” her mother said.

“Of course not,” April replied. “The business is community property. You own half of it, remember?”

“That’s right.” Claire’s gaze remained fastened on her daughter’s for a moment, then she threw her shoulders back and turned to Gunner. “We won’t let him sell.”

“You won’t let him sell,” April amended.

Claire stood taller still. “I won’t let him sell.”

“Even if it means you’ll walk away from your divorce with several million dollars in your pocket?” Gunner replied coolly.

Claire seemed to waver. “Why does it always come down to money? We were married thirty-three years,” she said to no one in particular. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

April bolstered her by stepping closer. “Actually, we’re still hoping my father will come around and there won’t be a divorce,” she said.

Gunner glanced at Rod, who seemed completely unaffected by this statement. Walt was across the room, talking to Regina and a man Gunner had never met. In his view, April and her mother were hanging on to a relationship that was long gone. As painful as it was for them, he thought they’d be better off to face the truth and take what cash they could. But thirty-three years was a long time. Gunner could understand why they’d fight to save their family. He just hadn’t realized the situation was quite so messy. He didn’t want to be dragged into something that could possibly become even more complicated and might not end well.

Taking a deep breath, he made a decision. “If you change your mind, you’ve got my number.” He handed his card to April, who was obviously calling the shots—on her mother’s part, anyway. Then he turned on his heel and walked out, into the brisk night air—Los Angeles’s mild version of winter—and hailed a cab. He was going back to New York whether there was anything waiting for him or not.