What the hell had that been? Some sort of intervention?

When he'd been summoned to the gentleman's ranch owned by Texas oilman Gerald Barden, he hadn't given it a second thought. He'd figured the men wanted to discuss the racing schedule, the competition and what they expected from their driver in the upcoming season, so he'd been surprised when they'd laid down the law about how he would conduct himself off the track from now on.

But Chase didn't like ultimatums—never had, never would.

Outside, the stars flickered overhead, and like the restless spirit that often swept through him, a warm summer breeze stirred up the leaves on the ground.

He wished he could kick that edgy spirit that had been a part of him since he'd been in diapers and had toddled after his older brothers, but he'd never been able to.

After climbing into the classic '63 Corvette he'd recently restored, Chase turned the ignition and pumped the gas pedal. When the engine responded with a well-tuned roar, he put the transmission into gear and started the long drive back to Houston, hoping to put some distance between him and his sponsors.

Chase had always lived life in the fast lane, both on and off the track. Hell, he didn't know how to live any other way; he didn't even want to.

Besides, he'd had his fill of people bossing him around while he was growing up. By the time he hit his teen years, he'd decided not to put up with it anymore.

For that reason alone, he was tempted to flip open his cell phone, call Gerald Barden back at the ranch and tell him and his cronies what they could do wit