Dangerous Curves Page 2

  “Why in the heck would you do a stupid thing like that?”

  “Like I said. You’re the best.”

  “And just how do you know that?” she asked.

  His gaze snapped up. “People back home talk.”

  She smirked, painted red lips compressing. “I haven’t talked to anyone back home since my mom died.”

  “Not even Mr. Johnson?”

  She closed her eyes, obviously recognizing the name. Mr. Johnson, ex-cop-turned-P.E.-teacher who had taken a shine to Cecilia Blackwell all through high school, especially when she’d chosen to pursue a career in law enforcement. He was also a big race fan, which was how Blain had kept up with Cece’s life—though in an inadvertent way, because he wasn’t interested in her.

  He looked her up and down again.

  Not interested at all.

  “We talk on a regular basis,” Blain admitted.

  “I’m going to kill him,” she said, and this time Blain eyed the column of her neck. Her skin looked soft there. Funny. The memories he’d carried of little Cecilia Blackwell were that of a grease-covered kid. One who’d had puppy love dangling from her stray dog eyes. Not the woman standing before him now. Taller. Long blond hair. Hourglass figure.

  “Why? The old guy’s proud of you. You’re the only student of his that’s gone any further than the local police department.”

  And Blain felt grudging respect for her. Most of their former classmates had never left town. Not so Cece. Like him, she’d struck out on her own. He admired that, no matter how much it irked him to admit it.

  “Besides,” he added, “who cares how I found out? What’s important is that I know you’ll be straight with me.” He clenched his hands, trying to stifle emotions he didn’t want her to see. “The president of our association refuses to postpone the next few races because we don’t have proof that the wreck that killed my driver was no accident. All I have is a threatening letter that mentions a Cup race two weeks from now. Your bosses seem to think it’s probably just a nutcase. NASCAR seems to think the same thing. I’m not so certain.”

  Blain had to look away for a second, hoping she didn’t see how hard he fought for control at the memory of Randy.

  Got a tire going bad.

  They were the last words he’d said.

  “I heard he was your driver,” Cece said.

  “He was.” And his best friend. And his business partner.

  “Sorry about your loss,” she said, crossing her arms in front of her.

  Not for Cece the show of sympathy most women would give him: the concerned touch, the sympathetic hug. No. She just tilted her head as she said, “But it still doesn’t change the fact that this is a bad idea.”

  “I’m not going to beg.” And he wouldn’t, damn it. She owed him this.

  “You don’t have to. My answer is no.”

  He straightened and pulled out his trump card. “I’ll tell your boss about the felony.”

  She paled beneath the makeup covering up the freckles he remembered. About the only thing still the same.

  “What felony?” She tried to brazen it out.

  “The one you got for stealing that car when you were seventeen. The one sealed now because you were a minor, but the one I’m sure you didn’t tell the FBI about, since you were hired by them.”

  He found himself looking down at her, those wide green eyes. Pretty eyes, he’d always thought, despite the fact that he’d always teased her about them.

  “Bastard.”

  He crossed his arms again and shrugged.

  “You know damn well I didn’t steal that car. Tommy Pritchert set me up to take the fall. I just happened to be driving the wrong car at the wrong time.”

  “Tell that to your boss.”

  She looked as if she wanted to throttle him. “You know well and good I can’t do that.”

  “No. But I can.”

  And now she looked as if she wanted to bludgeon him.

  “Did it ever occur to you that my successes as an FBI agent might be severely overrated?”

  “Yeah.” He took another step toward her. A hint of something tickled his nose. “You wearing perfume?” he asked in shock.

  She tilted her head. “What of it?”

  You build that car? he’d asked after she’d roared into the high school parking lot when they were seventeen.

  What of it?

  Same response. Same woman.

  Or was it?

  “Nothing,” he answered—the same response he’d given her back then. “And even if Mr. Johnson has exaggerated, I remember the way you found out who’d keyed your car. You thought I’d done it, but instead you discovered that—”

  “Rick Carpenter had done it,” she finished.

  “Yeah. My point being that the way you discovered who’d done it was pure genius.”

  “So let me get this straight,” she said in a clipped voice, straightening, one hand held out, palm up. “You decided I’d be perfect for this case based on an idea I got off Columbo?”

  “It worked. No one expected you to give a ’69 Camaro away as bounty, but you did.”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t give it away. I only let someone drive it for a week. The kid offered to buy it afterward and I let him. I’d beaten you enough times that I was through with it anyway.”

  Her words rankled—still, after all these years. Man, but she knew how to push his buttons. Even after he’d left the small town they’d grown up in he’d thought about the way she’d smoked his doors whenever they’d raced. Four championships and numerous awards later and he still couldn’t believe she’d built a car that had beaten his. But he shouldn’t let it rankle, he reminded himself. It was all the more reason to insist she work the case. No other agent this side of the Mississippi would have her knowledge of race cars. She was a pro. Plus an expert on explosives.

  “Look, Cece, I don’t know anybody else with the experience to solve this case. You’re the closest thing to an ally that I’ve got and I need your help.”

  And for a second the wreck replayed in his mind again. Blain’s knuckles ached, he clenched his fingers so hard. “I need your expertise. You’ll give it to me, even if I have to blackmail you to do it.”

  She stared up at him, and he was surprised at how close he’d gotten. Age had changed her, he realized. Her cheekbones were more prominent. Lips fuller, her mouse-blond hair lighter, too.

  “Fine,” she snapped, her green eyes firing like spark plugs. “But don’t blame me when it doesn’t work out. You’ve no idea what it’s like to work with someone you despise.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to say he didn’t despise her, but something made him hold back, something that made him feel uncomfortable and on edge at the same time.

  But then, he always felt that way around Cece Blackwell.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THEY WERE SUPPOSED to meet at the San Francisco airport and fly to Las Vegas together for the Snappy Lube 500, a race Cece had heard about, but never seen live and in person. She’d been tempted to catch an earlier flight just so she could avoid him, but had decided that would be a cowardly thing to do—and she wasn’t a coward.

  Damn Bob.

  And damn Blain for blackmailing her into this. It figured that her sworn enemy would have the wood on her.

  She spun away from the window overlooking a bunch of jets, their engines revving with high-pitched whines. The smell of airplane fuel mixed oddly with pizza, the drone of flight attendants on the overhead speaker a constant buzz. On the landing strip a 747 braked, the roar of its reversed engines barely masked by the windows. To think, Blain Sanders usually flew around in his own jet. Must be nice.

  “I should have resigned,” she mumbled to herself.

  Money was tight in the Blackwell household. Hell, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d left town on a vacation. And yet here was Blain with his own jet, his own race team and countless other things Cece had only dreamed about.

  Her overnigh
t bag clocked her in the back as she turned again. She ignored the way the strap dug a furrow in her shoulder, just as she ignored the direction her thoughts had taken. A baby cried to her right. A teenaged couple fought over a wallet-sized CD player. And wherever she looked, race fans strolled or sat, all on their way to the track. They wore T-shirts, ball caps and jackets with team logos splashed across them. She spotted every sort of paraphernalia imaginable, from the ridiculous—tennis shoes with car numbers emblazoned on the sides—to the truly ridiculous—a suitcase shaped like a race car. Apparently a number of people, mostly men, didn’t mind embarrassing themselves in public.

  She’d taken only two steps when she saw who she was looking for: Blain-the-Blackmailer Sanders.

  He strode toward their gate with the air of a man on a mission, or maybe someone who needed to relieve himself. Either way, he moved along at an impressive clip. He wore a tan leather jacket over a cream-colored turtleneck. His eyes scanned left and right, his big body parting the crowd like the prow of a ship. He reminded her of someone from Special Ops, not the owner of a race team. Women’s eyes lingered. Men looked up, only to hastily look away. Blain seemed oblivious to it all.

  Cece waited for him to spot her, but when his gaze slid over her and kept right on going, she stiffened. He didn’t recognize her.

  He stopped five feet away, his expression growing impatient. Checked his watch. Frowned. Looked up again.

  Well, well, well. Granted, she wasn’t in her hoochie-wear, but she didn’t look that different. The face was the same even if the secondhand Ann Taylor suit—in basic black—and white cotton shirt were not. She’d pulled her hair back in a chignon, too, her face free of makeup. Okay, well, maybe not completely free. She’d dusted a bit of blush over her cheeks and a wisp of brown powder in the corner of her eyes, something one of her female co-workers had assured her would make them look bigger. All right, all right, and maybe she’d put mascara on, too. But that was it. Goodness knows she wasn’t trying to impress Blain Sanders.

  Speaking of which… “If you’re looking for me,” she called out, “I’m right here.”

  She watched him turn, watched his eyes zip right past her again, only to suddenly return with a snap. What ho? Did the lightbulb go on over his head?

  It had.

  He blinked, staring at her as if still disbelieving.

  “What? You think I look better dressed as a prostitute?”

  Someone walking by gave them a sharp glance—a man, Cece noted. Race fan, she cataloged immediately. Midthirties. About five-eight. Beer gut his most prominent feature.

  You’re not on the job, Cece. Chill out.

  But she was always on the job, thanks to Mr. Sanders here, and that irritated her all over again.

  “Hey,” the man said. “You’re Blain Sanders.”

  Cece stiffened.

  “You really are,” the guy repeated.

  The decibel level of his voice made Cece glance around. Well, if they’d been trying to be inconspicuous, that plan had been shot to bits.

  The man came forward, pudgy hand extended. “Mr. Sanders,” he said in a voice that sounded Bronxish. “I’m your biggest fan.” He pointed to his chest. “See?”

  Oh, jeesh, the man had the pylon-orange Star Oil logo emblazoned across his chest, the words Star Oil Racing sprawled in fancy white script across the shirt’s black background.

  “I can’t believe it’s really you.”

  “It’s really me,” Blain said, and was it her imagination or did his Southern voice sound anything but hospitable?

  “I mean, I’ve watched you for years. Even before you were with Star Oil. Since the time you were with Mark Miller’s team when you won your first championship.”

  Oh, great. A bona fide groupie. Just what they needed.

  “I mean, this just makes my day.”

  Great, Cece silently said. You go to Las Vegas with Blain. Have a terrific time.

  Blain’s look clearly said stay put. That gave her pause. Had her expression been so transparent?

  “Nice to meet you,” Blain said taking the fan’s hand.

  The man grinned from ear to ear before looking her way, and Cece saw the moment he remembered that it was her prostitute comment that had drawn his attention in the first place.

  She stiffened, about to set him straight, because it was obvious the guy thought her a working girl. Only a sudden thought came to mind, one of those thoughts she knew she should ignore, but she didn’t because, jeesh, where Blain Sanders was concerned, you needed to get your licks in where you could.

  “Blain darling,” she drawled in a British accent. If she was going to be a prostitute, she was going to be a classy prostitute. “You said you’d get me a drink.” She sidled up to him, placing her hand in his arm so she could walk her fingers up his biceps. “I’m thirsty,” she pouted, looking up at him in what she hoped was a sultry fashion.

  She saw his left eyelid twitch just before his light blue eyes narrowed.

  Okay, so maybe this wasn’t exactly professional. And maybe she shouldn’t be such a cat, but she had a score or two to settle with the man, and some of that settling was going to happen right now.

  “Don’t make me wait,” she added huskily.

  “Oh, man. I’m sorry. You’re busy,” the man said. “Nice meeting you.”

  “Oh, no, don’t go,” Cece piped up before he could leave. “Blain adores having a chat with fans. At least I believe he does, but I’m afraid it’s been a while since I last saw him. You know how it is.” She smiled. “He’s so busy he doesn’t have time for a girlfriend.” She glanced up at Blain. His eyes promised a slow death. “That’s where I come in,” she added, just out of spite. She turned back to the fan, brightening. “I say, would you like my card? I’m on call for Blain this week, but I could check my schedule for the next.” She was proud of the way schedule came out. Shhedual. Very British.

  The man apparently fell for it, at least judging by the way his mouth hung open. Blain made a noise, some sort of guttural growl. Very cavemanish.

  Cece shifted her bag as if about to search through it.

  “No, no,” the man said, suddenly looking about as comfortable as a furrier at an animal-rights convention.

  She paused, eyes wide. “No? Oh, well. Too bad. We might have had a good time, you and I.” She smiled mischievously, turning to Blain again and batting her eyelashes at him. “I’ll just leave you two alone, then. Blain can, ah, catch up to me later.”

  The fan choked. Cece hooked a hand around the back of Blain’s neck before he could move out of reach.

  “Come here, darling, and give me a kiss.”

  Blain tried to draw back, his expression clearly warning don’t you dare.

  She smiled and silently answered, Oh, I dare, Blain. I dare.

  Tell her boss about her felony, would he?

  She tugged his head down, puckered her lips. He didn’t go willingly, but he couldn’t resist without causing a scene. She closed her eyes, realizing too late that she really didn’t want to kiss him, either.

  “Mmm, yummy,” she purred just before their lips connected.

  Wow.

  She didn’t know where that word came from, but touching lips with Blain was like dropping a bottle of nitro on the ground.

  Blam.

  Blain must have felt it, too, because his lips suddenly turned as hard as wheel hubs.

  Cece jerked away, having the presence of mind to cover her confusion with a “Ta-ta,” then turning on the heel of her black pump to saunter away, never mind that her nerves pinged an alarm at the way that kiss had made her feel…and the look of promised retribution in his eyes.

  “Diet Coke,” she said the moment she took a seat at the chrome and black vinyl bar not far away, tugging a bowl of Chex Mix in front of her. She’d been working too hard. That’s why kissing him had felt so…well, odd. Working undercover made you forget things like what it’s like to lay one on a sexy man.

  Blain, sexy?r />
  Well, yeah…sort of. Maybe.

  She lobbed her thoughts away as she set her purse down next to the single-legged bar stool. It was a struggle to sit down while looking ladylike, but she managed, her reflection peeking out at her from between the necks of liquor bottles. Tightly drawn back ash-blond hair, glowing green eyes. She almost smiled at herself—almost, because from behind her suddenly appeared her nemesis. Blain.

  Here we go.

  “Don’t you ever do that again,” he drawled, and boy-oh-boy, did he look mad.

  She swiveled, her legs brushing his. He glanced down, jerking back as if she’d said, “Boo.”

  “Don’t do what, Blainy-poo?” she asked, tempted to run her foot up his shin just for kicks.

  “You’re not a prostitute, which is exactly what that man thought.”

  She kinda liked his accent, she decided, her eyes catching on his lips. They glistened from their kiss. She felt her gaze sharpen, disconcerted by the sudden lurch her stomach gave.

  “What do you care what that guy thought?”

  “I’m a celebrity and I don’t like the possibility of some race fan getting on the Internet and telling people I’m into call girls.”

  She let out a quick “Oh, pul-leez” as her left leg darted out involuntarily, almost as if it were determined to touch him of its own volition. His eyes followed the motion. She stopped. His eyes darted back up.

  What was this? Was Blain Sanders looking at her legs? “A guy like that doesn’t even own a computer.” She swung her leg again. He glanced down.

  He was looking at her legs.

  “You might be surprised at how savvy race fans are. But that’s not the point. The point is you shouldn’t have kissed me,” he said. Cece noticed that his eyes turned a deep, almost violet blue when angry.

  She straightened as a new and unexpected discovery rolled through her. Blain Sanders was checking her out. He didn’t want to check her out, she could tell, but he was definitely getting a fix on her.

  She almost laughed because she would never, ever have thought the great man himself would stoop to eyeing her of all people.