He lets me go, his expression still sombre. I turn and grab my bag and notes off the chair near the bed and walk out without looking back.

I’ve made it down the stairs when Alex, one of the bodyguards employed by Mac, stops me at the front door. His large but comforting hand encircles my upper arm. “You okay? I heard shouting. Has he hurt you?” His words are rushed and quiet.

I shake my head ‘no’ and smile thoughtfully at him. “What are you going to do anyway? Lose your job?”

Letting go of my arm, he shifts on his feet. “I can’t stand by and let it happen again.”

“You never let it happen in the first place. You weren’t on shift, and it’s not your job to protect me from Mac. It’s your job to protect him when he’s here. Anyway, I was handling it before you came along.” He looks hurt, so I soften my snippy tone a little. “He’s going on tour in a few days; we can all breathe a sigh of relief then.”

His jaw tightens and flexes. “I know, but…” He folds his arms across his chest, more as a hug than a defensive gesture, and stares down at me. “It doesn’t mean I don’t worry, Liz.”

“I know.” And I do. Alex is a close friend, well, as much as his job allows.

He glances towards the security camera shifting in our direction and steps back away from me. “Where are you going, Ms. Ryder?” This time he speaks louder.

“Out.”

He nods. “Do you need an escort?”

“No. But thanks.”

“Are you sure?” His eyes narrow to slits.

“Absolutely.” A huge, triumphant smile spreads across my face. Before he can argue, I pull the door open and step outside, shouting over my shoulder, “Thanks anyway.”

The fresh air hits me and I let the light breeze graze my face for a few seconds before I head to my car.

The drive to the mod shop will only take an hour or so, but it’ll give me a chance to think and get my game face on.

The cruel man I live with now isn’t the one I thought I loved. He hasn’t been so for quite some time. I thought I could make him see that what he is now isn’t who he used to be. I shake my head to myself. Who was I to think I was more powerful than the hold his addictions have over him?

I’d grieve for a lost love, but the tears won’t fall—there’re none left. That’s when I recognise my decision’s already been made. My heart’s already left Mac, and I need to follow it and get as far away from him as I can. I just don’t know when or how. For the rest of the drive, I let the music flowing from the radio drown out my thoughts.

When I pull up outside Ignition, the first thing that strikes me is how well presented it is. The building’s large, rendered in brilliant white. It has the usual shutter door for moving cars in and out, but the right-hand corner’s glass from floor to roof. It’s not what I expected and not what I usually find when I come out to these places. It gives a very good impression. If a guy can spend so much time to make the outside look this impressive, he must be good at his job. That’s the girl in me coming out, even knowing full well the outside of a building has no relevance whatsoever to how good the work is that’s undertaken inside.

I steal a glance at myself in the rear-view mirror to ensure my makeup hasn’t slid down my face, and run my fingers through my hair. I lift my bag from the passenger seat, open it up, and take out the rough bio I scribbled down about the owner.

Being a woman in a male dominated environment is difficult sometimes. I’ve had to work hard to gain the reputation I have in my field. I am acknowledged for, as the blokes would put it, ‘knowing my shit,’ when it comes to cars. That doesn’t stop the interviewees from either trying to take me down a peg or two, or trying to hit on me. The thought makes me ponder what I’m going to face today. In all honesty, I’m not up to dealing with either.

I prop the folder on my steering wheel and check over my notes again. The owner’s name is Noah Hamilton and he’s twenty-eight years old. In the relatively short time the shop’s been open, he’s already earned an unrivalled reputation, and is recognised as one of the best mechanics in the country. Although his workshop is located right in the heart of England for some reason he specialises in American muscle cars. Even though it’s generally known he’s good with any type of car.

With the wonders of the Internet, I’ve discovered he’s an adopted child. He has an older sister, who’s a biological child, and his parents appear to be fairly well off. He joined the armed forces at the age of sixteen and got out a couple of years ago, which coincides with when he set up the business.

Not a lot to go on, really. Unusually, he doesn’t appear to be a member of any social networking sites, and the business has no online presence, at all. In fact, I wonder how he gets clients.

Glancing at the clock, I note I’ve still got fifteen minutes to kill before my appointment. I hate being late, but I also make sure I’m never early. Needing a break from reality, I decide to pull out my e-reader and catch up on the latest sexy romance I’ve downloaded. It’s a great way to ease the pre-interview nerves fluttering in my stomach. I’m in the depths of a particularly erotic chapter when the deep whine of a motorbike getting closer draws my attention. It pulls up a few spaces away from me.

I may know something about cars, but I don’t claim to know the first thing about motorbikes. The one I’m staring at can only be described as ‘sexy.’ It’s almost completely black, with the front suspension in a sort of bronze colour. If earth-shattering, mind-blowing sex had been morphed into a motorbike, in my mind, this would be the result.

I do know enough to know this isn’t a Harley. It’s a race bike disguised, not all that well, as road legal. I’m intrigued by it. I’ve never ridden a motorbike. Mac doesn’t have one, and none of our family or friends has ever owned one. At this moment, it seems like the pinnacle of stupidity. My face heats and I wonder if it’s the chapter I’m reading or the sight before me that causes the reaction.

The man lucky enough to have his legs wrapped around the bike has rugby player thighs. When his heavy, black boots hit the ground, thick muscles strain against his worn jeans. A black leather jacket and an all-black helmet complete the look. He tweaks the throttle before he kills the engine, kicks the stand, and gets off.

I can’t keep my eyes off his rear when he strides away towards the building, without a glance in my direction. He lifts off his helmet as he pushes through the glass doors. I catch a glimpse of him running a hand through his dark, unruly bed hair. It’s only a guess from this distance, but I can guarantee the man matches the orgasm on wheels he’s just dismounted. I suck in a shaky breath and glance over at the clock.

It’s 10:03, shit, I’m late.

I grasp the file and stuff it back into my bag. I rush out of the car, slam the door, and swear under my breath, all on the way towards the glass doors, which I assume must be the reception area. I bustle through them and am astonished at the beauty of the area in front of me. The whole room’s a glass box apart from the rear wall. The floor’s polished white stone. There are two red leather sofas arranged to face one another, between them a glass table with a few magazines arranged over it. I smile when I notice one’s actually ours. My boss at Nitrous would be pleased. At the back, central to the walls, is a beautiful, white reception desk, which has a graceful curved front with the mod shop logo inlaid in black. But what I love most about the room is the fact that you can see straight into the workshop.

Stepping up to the reception desk, I spot a sign which asks you to ring an extension if the desk is unattended. The person who works at this desk is either seriously inflicted with OCD or it’s never used. Taking another quick glance into the workshop it’s obvious the tidy ethic is carried throughout the building. I suppose if it’s on view all the time it needs to be. I pick up the phone and dial the extension numbers provided and hear the ringtone echo in the workshop.