She slips into something a little less comfortable: a fire-resistant racing suit. "These look like the jammies I used to wear," she says, yanking on a trouser leg. "Junior, would you mind helping me with the zipper?" Mr. Chivalry is only too happy to lend a hand. He whispers something in her ear.
What did he say?
"He asked if he can scare the crap out of me on the track," Miller says.
And what'd you say?
They ease into Earnhardt's number 8 car—he through the driver's window, she through the passenger's—and idle in the 95� heat. Miller says, "I don't think I've ever been this hot in my life."
Earnhardt doesn't argue—he's never seen her in a string bikini.
When he gets the O.K. to start, Earnhardt gazes at Miller and says, "Are you ready?" She returns the gaze and says, "I'm ready." He guns the engine and peels off, jamming number 8 through its gears, the engine whining. The NASCAR driver and the swimsuit model scream around the track at 150 mph, nearly kissing the wall.
After two laps it's all over. Earnhardt rolls in, Miller rolls out. Her face is frozen in a beatific smile.
"Was it good for you?" says Earnhardt.