Dangerous Curves Read online

  “If you can give me one good reason why I shouldn’t send you home, you better speak up.”

  One good reason? Only one good reason?

  She almost lit into him. “Excuse me, but you’re the reason I’m here.”

  He didn’t look happy to be reminded of that. “I wanted you here to do some investigating, not flirt with drivers.”

  She stepped past him and sat down on the couch, her jean-clad rear sliding on the surface like a kid on a playground toy.

  “Put a sock in it, Sanders.”

  Okay, not very professional. Not very polite, either, but the time for pleasantries was over. She lifted a hand, interrupting whatever it was he’d opened his mouth to say, probably something rude.

  “All I did was talk to the guy.”

  “It was more than talking.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” she said.

  “But I don’t blame him for getting the wrong impression, dressed as you are.”

  What?

  She drew herself up. “What bothers you more, Sanders? That I look good in this outfit? Or that your driver thinks I do?”

  Blain looked as if he’d swallowed a gallon of brake fluid.

  “Go on,” she said. “Admit it. I’m not what you expected and it’s driving you nuts.”

  He crossed his arms again.

  “I’ve changed. And you don’t like the new me.”

  He met her gaze for long, long moments before saying, “This isn’t working.”

  Cece met that gaze head-on. “You’re right. It’s not.”

  “I’ll call your boss—”

  “On a personal level,” she interrupted, suddenly standing. There was no place for him to go, and so he was forced once again into close proximity with her. It was a tactic she’d learned at the academy. Invade a man’s space and you’d get his attention, and maybe his respect.

  “It’s no secret we don’t like each other,” she said softly. “And it’s no secret that I don’t want to be here. But the fact of the matter is you were right to bring me on board. I’m the best person for the job. Don’t let your personal feelings for me get in the way of what’s right.”

  “What personal feelings?”

  “The ones that make you dislike me.”

  “I don’t dislike you,” Blain said. “I…” He looked as if he didn’t know what to say. “I’m just not confident in your abilities.”

  Hell of a time to realize that, she almost said aloud. Instead she said, “Okay, fine. Let’s just get this out of the way then, shall we?”

  “Get what out of the way?” he asked, the sleeves of his shirt stretching as he recrossed his arms, cords of muscles swelling as those arms flexed.

  “Time to have it out. To lay it on the table.”

  He didn’t say anything, just continued to give her that scrunched-brow glare men gave you when you irked them.

  “You don’t like me because I made a fool of myself by chasing you around when I was younger,” she admitted. “You don’t like me because I did some really stupid stuff back then, too. Stuff you still hold against me, obviously, or you wouldn’t be so quick to get rid of me.”

  “Not true,” he said, his blue eyes seeming darker all of sudden. Or maybe it was the fluorescent lights. Despite the half-a-million-dollar rig, one of them appeared to be on the fritz. The light click-click-clicked as it struggled to stay on.

  “You still consider me a risk. With all the baggage still floating around in your head, it’s a wonder you even mentioned my name to your stock car racing pals.”

  “I told you. I knew you’d play straight.”

  “What changed about that?”

  This time it was his turn to straighten. “All right. Fine. Gloves off. The problem is you haven’t changed. You’re still the same Cece Blackwell. Outspoken. Unpredictable. Too much of a wild card.”

  And that was when the tiny cork holding her temper popped free.

  “You don’t know a damn thing, Blain Sanders.”

  And the jerk just stared down at her, not even flinching. She took a step toward him, a small step, but enough to remind him that she wasn’t afraid of him, or any other man. “You just think you know who I am. Who I was,” she corrected. “You don’t have a clue about me. About how hard I struggled to finish high school while holding down a full-time job so I could help out my mom. About how hard I fought to be accepted by the popular kids in high school, you included.”

  She resisted the urge to stab her finger into his chest, but only by curling her hand into a fist.

  “You were so full of yourself,” she said. “So cocky and self-centered. I loved taking you down, even though a part of me did it because I wanted to get your attention, and because I needed to prove to myself that having more money than me didn’t make you better.”

  “I didn’t have more money than you.”

  “No, but your parents did.”

  His eyes narrowed and he started to shake his head.

  “But you know what?” she said before he could say a word. “I did match up. My Camaro was the fastest damn car in high school, even though I had to scrimp and save for every part I put on that thing. And in the end, what did I have to do? Sell it to help my mom pay the mortgage.”

  His stony expression was suddenly tinged with surprise.

  “That’s right. I had to sell it. My Camaro. A car that was everything to me. The last thing I had of my dad’s before he died. My last piece of him. And I had to sell it.”

  “Cece, I—”

  “No. Let me finish.”

  But for a moment she couldn’t go on, so overcome by a ridiculous, unbelievable stinging of tears that she had to inhale to stop from crying.

  You beat him? her dad had asked.

  I blew his doors off, Dad.

  Good for you, Tiger.

  She couldn’t speak as the whole horrible time came rushing back to her again. Her dad’s death. Her mom’s financial spiral. That last terrible year of high school. And then her mom’s death two years later. Jeesh, no wonder she’d been running with the wrong crowd. For a split second Cece felt the emotions coalesce within her: grief, humiliation, sadness. She tried to shove the feelings back inside, but like oil on hands, it was hard to wash them away.

  “We were so damn broke,” she found herself saying. “No life insurance. No money in the bank. Nothing. My mom and I tried as hard as we could to stay afloat, but life kept kicking us in the teeth. I swear that’s why she died a few years later. She just gave up—the doctors called it a heart attack. I called it a broken heart. Not just because of her grief for my dad, but because of her grief at the human race. Nobody cared that she’d just lost her husband. Nobody cared that we’d sold everything we owned, everything—cars, furniture, jewelry—to make ends meet.”

  And this time it was she who crossed her arms, tipping her head back in the process, her stupid tears causing prisms in her eyes. “When she died I vowed never to put myself in that position. I have a job that I’m good at, money in the bank, and believe me, that’s something that I’m proud of.

  “So from where I stand, Blain Sanders, I’m more than competent to do a little investigating. Chances are this is nothing, anyway. But you’re the one calling the shots, so if you want me to go home, I’ll go.”

  She waited for him to say something, anything.

  But he didn’t.

  “Fine. I’m outta here,” she said, pushing past him and out the door. “Didn’t want to come, anyway.”

  And the jerk let her go.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  HE SHOULD GO AFTER HER, Blain thought. Instead he heard the hollow thud of her footfalls on the center isle’s rubber mat as she left the hauler.

  She’d had tears in her eyes.

  Blain had never, not ever, seen Cece Blackwell cry. Hell, a few days ago he’d have sworn she was incapable of doing such a thing.

  Her mom had died? He hadn’t heard about that.

  Blain stood motionless for a few seconds more.
In the end, his conscience made him move.

  “Cece, wait,” he said.

  Fat drops of rain had started to come down, the asphalt dotted with Dalmatian spots. Cece was already near the garage, the overhang protecting her. He quickly caught up with her, and the damnedest thing was, she’d gotten control of herself. Her face looked frozen in anger as he stared down at her.

  “Cece, wait.”

  She kept on going.

  “I’m sorry,” he called out.

  Still moving.

  He caught up, stepped around her, staying her with a hand when she would have darted by him. “I didn’t know your mom had died.”

  She widened her eyes as if to ask, Yeah, so?

  “I’m sorry.”

  At last she spoke. “Fine. Apology accepted.”

  She pushed past him.

  “No, wait,” he said, catching her arm. “Don’t leave.”

  She glared.

  “Please,” he found himself saying, because the truth of the matter was, he did trust her to get the job done. She’d always been at the top of her class, even though he’d been shocked to learn just now that she’d held down a full-time job while doing it. How had she managed to do that? But he supposed it didn’t matter. He had a bad feeling about Randy’s death, and he was positive that if anyone could prove or disprove his theory, it was Cece. He didn’t know why he felt that way, but he did.

  “I need you.”

  She shivered, though she still glared.

  “You cold?”

  “No,” she lied, shivering again.

  “You are.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  He grabbed her hand, to find her fingers were like ice. “Jeesh, Cece, you are freezing. C’mon back inside the hauler. I’ll get you a coat.”

  But she didn’t move. He didn’t, either. The rain pinged atop the metal roof, but Blain was mesmerized by the expression in her eyes.

  “You really want me to stay?” she asked, pulling her hand out of his grasp before tucking it beneath the crook of her arm.

  “I do.”

  An air-ratchet went off in the distance, the high-pitched whir ending right as she asked, “Why?” and blinked away raindrops that clung to her lashes. “Give me the real reason you’re so insistent I help you out.”

  He debated whether to tell her the truth, and decided he should. “Sonoma drags.”

  She looked puzzled. “The grudge matches?”

  “It was the last time we raced. Do you remember?”

  She nodded.

  He shook his head a bit. “I thought you were anxious to beat me because it was me you were racing, but afterward, when you’d won, you got out of the car…and do you remember what you did?”

  She shook her head.

  “You didn’t look at me—you looked up.” Blain would never forget her face at that moment. Ecstatic, triumphant…and sad. “You whispered, ‘This one’s for you, Dad.’ I saw it.” And he’d been stunned. “I never forgot that day,” he said. “It wasn’t me you wanted to impress. You’d set your sights on winning that race in memory of your father.”

  Blain looked off, his gaze moving to the racetrack. “I feel the same obligation to Randy. Every time I think about what happened, I vow to get to the bottom of his wreck. You of all people should understand that kind of promise.” He could tell from the look on her face that she did. “Something’s not right, and I need your help to figure it out. Will you help me?”

  She shivered again. He thought she might refuse, but then she said, “Fine” in a way that sounded almost resigned.

  His shoulders slumped in relief. “Thanks, Cece.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t thank me yet.”

  But he was grateful just the same. “C’mon,” he said, “let’s get you into something warmer.”

  She took a deep breath, only to shiver again. “Okay,” she said through teeth that chattered.

  By the time they made it back to the hauler they were soaked, the droplets of rain so heavy they’d turned the pavement a glistening ebony. Cece rubbed her arms as she stood beneath the car lift that jutted out over the back of the rig. Blain handed her a team jacket a second later.

  “Thanks,” she said as she slipped the thing on.

  And Blain, a man who’d never looked at Cece as anything more than a means to an end suddenly saw her in a much different light. She was a woman who’d overcome tremendous odds to get where she had. He realized now that she had depths he’d never noticed before.

  “You can keep it,” he said, looking back at the garage, at anything but her. “You’re going to need it by the looks of things.”

  She followed his gaze as she zipped the jacket up. And suddenly it sounded as if someone had poured a wheelbarrow full of water on top of the hauler. It began to rain, seriously rain.

  “Qualifying’ll be postponed,” he muttered.

  “You think so?”

  She had raindrops clinging to her blond hair and forehead, her tiny frame suddenly reminding him of high school. He had a memory of her getting out of the Camaro, of stalking up to him and challenging him to their first race. He’d accepted. She’d won. It still amazed him.

  “Yeah,” he said. “C’mon, let me grab a scanner so I can keep track of what’s going on.”

  And that was how Blain Sanders found himself showing her around. And he had to admit, she impressed him. Not so much because she was a fast study—because she was—but because she knew a hell of a lot about stock car racing. More than she let on, he realized.

  “So now you know what I do thirty-six weekends out of the year,” he said as they halted beneath one of the track’s massive grandstands, their breath puffing out like dragons.

  “Forty,” she said.

  “Forty?”

  “Well, sometimes it’s more than that, right? Depends on if you qualify for the Bud races, or go to Japan.”

  He almost smiled. Yup. Just as he suspected. “How long have you been a fan?”

  Rain dropped down the backs of the empty grandstands, well, not completely empty. A few diehard race fans sat beneath colorful tarps, hunched down, shivering and waiting in hopes the track got dry enough to run the practice, and then later, qualifying. It wasn’t going to happen.

  “What makes you think I’m a fan?” she asked, looking up at him out of a face turned gray by the storm’s light.

  “Cece, the way you talk is a dead giveaway. The average person doesn’t know the difference between a Ford template and a Chevy template, but you did.”

  “I studied up,” she said with a shrug.

  The smell of stale beer, cigarettes and spilled food was familiar but for one thing: the scent of Cece carried to him on the same breeze.

  “Bull,” he said.

  “All right,” she said. “So I’ve been following the circuit for about five years now.”

  “Really?” He felt his left brow tug up.

  She shrugged. “I didn’t mean it to happen. One night I was out with some friends and I looked up and there you were.” Cece remembered as if it was yesterday. “I nearly spat out a mouthful of beer.”

  She boldly met his gaze, daring him to mock her, but he didn’t. Humph. And so she added, “At first I watched because it did my heart good to see you lose.”

  His gray eyes flickered and she held her breath, wondering why it was that she felt such an overwhelming need to provoke him. But when he didn’t rise to the bait, she relented, giving him another burst of honesty. “But you didn’t lose, at least not all the time, and by the time I realized you might have a shot at the year-end championship, I was hooked. I’ve been watching ever since.”

  He didn’t say a word, and Cece didn’t know what surprised her more, that he didn’t say something snide, snooty or just plain rude, or the fact that he appeared to be—yes—it very definitely seemed like he was about to smile.

  “That’s why you looked giddy while I was showing you around.”

  She didn’t take offense. “It’s n
ot every day someone gets to meet people she’s only seen on TV.”

  His smile grew and Cece found herself thinking she liked it, not because it made him look more handsome—which it did—but because it put such warmth in his eyes, genuine warmth, as if he might be a really nice person.

  You of all people should understand…. Cece swallowed past a lump in her throat.

  “I remember when I first met Richard Petty. I’ll never forget that day,” he drawled in his Southern accent.

  “So you know what I’m talking about.”

  He nodded, and a part of Cece could only think how bizarre it was to be here with him, talking to him after wanting to hate him for so many years.

  But then his expression turned curious. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

  She shrugged. “Truth be told, I didn’t think you’d keep me around for longer than a few hours.”

  And that reminded Cece of what she’d been brought in to do—investigate, not make friends with Blain Sanders.

  Who was currently a suspect.

  She shook her head.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I need to get going,” she answered. “I’ve still got a job to do.”

  She could tell the moment he remembered why it was they’d been brought together, too. The smile slid down his face like rain on a stormy day. And for a second she caught a glimpse of it, saw the unmistakable darkening of his eyes. Grief. He tried to hide it from her, but some things were impossible to conceal.

  He’d lost a driver. Someone he’d known a long time. A friend. She knew all too well what that felt like.

  “It was probably just an accident, Blain. I really doubt that letter you received is anything more than a worked-up fan.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  But he didn’t believe her. So she said, “Think about it. Why send a threatening letter after you murder someone?” He winced at the term “murder,” and Cece cursed herself. One of the things about working at the Bureau was how jaded you became using certain words. “Blain, if someone were really trying to go around scaring race fans, or killing drivers, they would have sent a note to the press, not to you.”