What he needed was a fast girl. With the right tools and a little patience, he'd have her stripped down and ready to ride in no time.

That '69 Pontiac GTO he'd spotted at auction last week was exactly the kind of sweetheart he was looking for. He'd get his hands on one of those babies as soon as possible.

His Cadillac lurched forward with a neck–wrenching crunch and there went his fantasy and his morning. He'd been back in town less than forty–eight hours and some bozo had already rear–ended his car. An omen?

Then came the metallic sound of his bumper hitting the asphalt, and his gut cramped the way it did when he occasionally overindulged in beer weenies.

Cameron sucked in thick Texas air, but the humid stuff did nothing to soothe the sudden burn in his belly. He should've crawled back into bed. The signs had all been there. Shower water icy enough to permanently shrink his balls. Nothing but tap water to pour over his cereal. Boxers the color of Pepto–Bismol after a run–in with a red T–shirt in the washing machine.

His mom always warned him to wear clean underwear in case he was ever in a car accident. Cameron might flirt with other types of danger, but he wasn't stupid enough to disobey Emmalee Wright. He climbed out of his prized possession, a 1963 Caddy convertible with butter–soft leather seats and fins big enough to propel a shark. The car's door handle caught the back pocket of his jeans, and well–washed cotton gave way with a thread–popping rip.

Of all the days to mind Mom's advice.

"Welcome frickin' home," he muttered. Jesus, bare–assed or half of Shelbyville ogling his pretty–in–pink underwear?

Give me bare–assed any day.

His car sat in two pieces in the middle of his hometown's busiest intersection, and people were already craning their necks to stare out the front windows of McIntosh's drugstore and Bitsy Miller's beauty shop. What a way to kick off his career as a respectable business owner.

He stalked to the back of his car to inspect the damage. Cracked taillights, ruined bumper and buckled trunk. Goddammit. Now he definitely wouldn't pick up the garage keys from Scooter Kaynes on time.

The source of his latest run–in with Monday morning madness, who'd almost run him over in her shiny Escalade, was Alice Ann Shelby. Cameron hadn't seen her in years, but he'd recognize that white–blond hair anywhere.

Without a doubt, God was a woman. Because a man wouldn't have thrown him into this mess with the princess of Shelbyville. That big SUV with its oversized grille guard and without one damned scratch was probably her latest indulgence from Daddy, the town's self–appointed king.

Squashing the urge to cover his butt cheek with his hand, Cameron stepped over the bumper sprawled like shiny roadkill behind his car and headed toward Allie. Why wasn't she removing her fanny from her car? Surely she realized she'd hit something.

He peered closer. Her forehead was resting on the steering wheel. Jesus, was she hurt?

He rushed over and jerked open the Escalade's driver's side door. The fear jumping in his belly boiled over into purely pissed off. Hurt, his ass. She was punching buttons on her cell phone like a madwoman.

Cameron swung between the urge to throw back his head and laugh and the urge to beat his head against her hood and bawl. Neither made much sense, seeing as the headache he'd been courting since 7:00 a.m. was currently drilling a hole the size of Dallas through his left eyeball.

"Allie, you okay?" a boy hollered as he and two friends barreled down the sidewalk on skateboards, jumped over the curb and into the intersection.

Allie's attention finally shifted from her phone, and she lowered her passenger side window. She scrambled across the console and leaned so far out the window, Cameron couldn't help but check out the sight of her grade–A ass thrust into the air. If she didn't watch out, she'd end up lying on the asphalt along with his bumper. Relief and disappointment warred inside him as he ogled the backside of her thin white pants. If she'd worn a skirt today, he would surely know the make, model and color of Allie Shelby's panties.

"Ben, why are you skateboarding in the road?"

The lead skateboarder hitched up his baggy shorts and pointed toward Cameron. "Um...I'm pretty sure you nailed that guy."

She glanced over her shoulder at him and plopped back into the driver's seat. Looking at her heart–shaped face was no real hardship either. Her long lashes were a few shades darker than her hair. Her eyes were light brown at the center and brightened to dark blue at the rims. Those eyes had always struck him as a little unsettling.

His survey caught on her mouth. Yep, God was a woman and Satan was a man. Because a mouth like hers, with full unpainted lips, was certainly made for sin.