Dangerous Curves (10 page)

“When do I leave?” she asked in resignation.

“Right now.”

Great, Cece thought. Really great. Luxurious accommodations compliments of Blain Sanders. And just what the hell was she going to say to him when she did face him again?

I
T WAS A QUESTION
that plagued her the whole way to Blain’s home, one Agent Thurman driving her there, the lush green North Carolina landscape sliding by the window like movie scenery. Her anxieties only increased when she passed through a wrought-iron gate. In her experience, only truly elaborate homes were to be found on the other side of gates, though why it should make her more anxious to discover that Blain had an elegant mansion was anybody’s guess.

And it was elegant. Cece and her new friend goggled at the sight of it. She knew this for a fact because she was staring right at the middle-aged agent when his eyes bulged like a fly’s. Then she turned to follow his gaze and her eyes probably bulged, too.

An acre of stucco and glass perched on the edge of a grassy knoll that had obviously been professionally landscaped. Nobody but landscapers could successfully mix daisies and calla lilies. And okay, so it wasn’t really an acre, but she wouldn’t be surprised
if it wasn’t half an acre. A blacktop road brought you right up to the front door, with the house on your right. Cece got out of Agent Thurman’s standard-issue Ford Taurus, the squeak of the car door breaking the silence of the serene and peaceful Villa Sanders. And that’s what it looked like. Red tile roof, beige stucco, lush landscaping that seemed all the more tropical for the North Carolina humidity pressing against her face like a wet rag.

Wow.

“Sanders said to go on in,” Agent Thurman said, heading for the front door after chirping his car alarm. Who did the man think would rob him out here? A hard up squirrel? By the looks of things, even the squirrels had it good around here. “I guess we go in the front door.”

Cece glanced over at Agent Thurman, tempted to say, “You think?” Only something about the agent’s voice, about the way he’d said…

“And I gotta tell you, I can’t wait to see the inside of this place.”

There it was—confirmation. “You a race fan?” she said.

“I am.”

Well, really, was it much of a surprise? This was the heart of stock car country.

But she wouldn’t have figured Agent Thurman to be the type. For one thing, he wasn’t exactly young, just a few years shy of her boss’s fifty years, by the looks of it. But his eyes sure glowed like a teenager’s
as he opened Blain’s front door with a key Blain must have given to him, pulled out a piece of paper and disarmed the alarm that beeped in electronic rage. Cece followed him inside, her steps slowing to a snail’s pace as she took it all in.

Holy shlamoly.

The foyer alone was as big as her apartment. Vaulted ceilings with windows above and around the door let in so much light it reminded Cece of a cathedral. Marble floors were done in—what else?—checkered flag. To her left was a living room, the white carpet looking like it’d been poured from a bucket of paint, it dripped down the sunken floor so smoothly. Cream-and-white upholstery with matching drapes, cherry side tables—luxury everywhere she turned, which, at the moment, was to the right. She and Agent Thurman stepped into a less formal family room packed with racing memorabilia plus a flat screen TV nearly as big as her bed back home, wraparound couches in mocha-brown, and a white Berber carpet that must have been hell to keep clean.

“Here it is.”

Cece found herself blinking at Agent Thurman’s words, having zoned out on her surroundings. He’d moved off to the left, through an arched entry that led to what must be a trophy room.

Agent Thurman looked like he’d found the mother of all drug stashes, the kind agents dream of finding, except this wasn’t drugs, this was race stuff.

“I’ve heard about this room.”

All right, she couldn’t help herself. She wanted a look-see, too. Cece stepped through the arch and was brought up short by wall-to-wall trophies. But it wasn’t just trophies. The room was full of other goodies, too, from a shelfful of different colored helmets to a brightly painted hood to, of all things, a tire propped against a wall, rocks still embedded in the rubber.

“Look at that,” Agent Thurman said in awe. “That’s the championship trophy right there.” He walked over to a case, his awed face reflected back in the glass. Cece resisted the urge to follow. Photos caught her attention. They were on a wall beneath the shelf of helmets. Dozens of Blains looked back at her. Blain wearing a headset as he stared out at a racetrack. Blain in the winner’s circle—Blain in a lot of winner’s circles—Blain dressed in a tux as he accepted the year-end trophy. Blain with various drivers, celebrities, even TV personalities.

She shook her head, admitting to herself that she was impressed. She’d known he was something of an icon, but nothing brought that home like this room did.

Her hands had started to shake. Whether it was seeing Blain’s face again, or because of the sudden realization that he was far, far out of her league, she didn’t know.

“I’ll be right back.”

Agent Thurman nodded, lifting his hand in a half-hearted
gesture as he acknowledged her words. Cece crossed the room, heading for the back of the house and, hopefully, the rest room. She needed to splash cold water on her face.
Really
cold.

But the back of the house was a kitchen. Seriously, the whole back of the damn house belonged to a kitchen—well, and a sunroom off one end—but the rest had so much red tile Cece felt like she was standing in Mexico. Brushed aluminum appliances reflected fuzzy half-arcs of light. Windows to her right gave her a view of Lake Norman, which sparkled like a fizzy soda beneath the setting sun. Cece’s heels clicked on the tile floor as she crossed to the sink, turning on the spigot so she could splash her face.

Why did her hands shake?

Sure, she’d known Blain was a celebrity. A familiar face to race fans. Team owner. She’d known he’d come a long way from their little town, known he had more money than she’d earn in a dozen lifetimes.

Yet it hadn’t hit home until that moment.

She dabbed at her face with a towel hanging by the sink (no paper towels here). Her hands still shook, damn it. Fingers curled into her palms as she took a deep breath and stared out at the lake through the window above the sink. Green lawn stretched almost to the shore, a pier bobbing and swaying like a cork atop the water. She bet if she went out on the balcony, she’d hear the water’s rhythmic swish-swoosh-swish of tiny waves.

“Cece.”

She jumped.

Oh, jeez. Blain came toward her, the look on his face one she’d never seen before.

“Lord, Cece, you have no idea how worried I’ve been.”

He tried to pull her into his arms, and she wanted to go…she really did. But she shook her head instead, saying, “We’re not alone,” in a low voice.

He seemed to understand, though the regret in his eyes did something surprising—it tore at her heart.

And then she said more loudly, “I’m fine, Blain, really.”

“You’re fine?” he asked quietly. “You didn’t look fine when you were running around that hotel lobby.”

“I was dealing with a bomb threat,” she said.

“I know.” All he did was stare at her and she could see the myriad thoughts zooming through his mind. They flickered one by one through his eyes like slots on a game wheel. Worry, anger, relief.

“It was nothing, Blain. They took the thing away before it could explode. And now we have some solid evidence to examine.”

He continued to stare. Cece grew increasingly uncomfortable.

“How do you do it?” he finally asked.

“Do what?”

“Shut ’em off.”

“Shut
what
off?”

“Your emotions.”

“I don’t shut them off.”

“Well, you sure are acting like this is nothing out of the ordinary,” he said, “because I’ve got to tell you, Cece, hearing there was a threat, knowing the target was probably you—”

“It was nothing—”

“And the way you brushed me off in the lobby.”

“I didn’t expect to see you.”

“I came back to see you.”

“Bad timing.”

“Bad timing or not, it scared me to death,” he finished with a shake of his head. “And I haven’t been that scared since I saw Randy’s car fragment into a million pieces.”

Her heart began to pound, the intensity in his eyes as he stared down at her making her want to touch him, to tell him it was okay, that she would be fine.

Except she shouldn’t touch.

“Someone tried to kill you,” he said grimly. “Maybe me, too, according to one of your colleagues. That same person killed Randy.” He turned, moving away from her to stand before a huge bay window to the left of the kitchen counter. She wanted to follow him over there, wanted to lay a hand on his shoulder in comfort.

“Why?” she heard him whisper.

She hated to tell him this, hated the way staring at his face made her feel. Anxious, conflicted, afraid for him. She shouldn’t be afraid for a victim.

But she had to be honest. “I don’t know.”

He didn’t like her answer. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands for a long moment before dropping his arms back to his sides.

He stiffened before saying his next words. “I’m going to lose the team.”

She felt her head tip to the side. “No, you’re not.”

He met her gaze. “Yes, I am. I’m going to lose the team, probably my sponsor, maybe my driver, pain in the ass that he is. It’s all starting to fall apart.”

“Surely you won’t lose the team because of this?”

“Maybe, maybe not, but I know for certain I’m going to lose my sponsor.”

“What? Why?”

“Because they don’t like bad press, Cece, and this is bad. This is very bad.”

“Not if you don’t tell them.”

He shook his head. “They’ll find out. Sooner or later they’ll find out, and when they do, they’ll bail.”

“But they’ve been with you for years.”

“So?” he said with a shrug. “It might look all peaches and cream, but behind the scenes racing is just as cutthroat an industry as the movie business. One of my fellow owners won’t hesitate to snap up my sponsor should they leave me high and dry. When that money stops coming in, I’ll go through my reserves in a month, maybe two. Even if this thing does go away by then, it would take me at least a month beyond that to find another sponsor.”

He was right. She knew enough about racing to
know that it took a while, sometimes forever, to get a major corporation to foot the bill.

He rubbed his eyes again. Cece stared up at the man she’d always secretly idolized. All right, she could admit that. She’d had a huge case of hero worship as a teenager. And then later, when he’d gone on to a successful career in racing, she’d been a little bit starstruck, not that she’d have admitted it a couple of days ago. Hell no, if not for that damn bomb, she probably wouldn’t be admitting it now.

“We’ll catch them, Blain. Whoever’s doing this, we’ll catch them.” And when she looked at him, the way her tummy tightened had nothing to do with pure lust and everything to do with her growing feelings for the man.

He stared back at her, and maybe it was from rubbing his face, maybe it was from exhaustion, but his eyes were red. “I’ve worked years, Cece, years to get where I am.”

“I know.”

“I came back east with nothing but twenty bucks in my pocket. Swept the shop floors of any race team that would hire me, worked seven days a week in the hopes of winning a spot on a crew, and when I did finally get that shot, I spent another few years working my way up the food chain. All the hours, all the hard work, all of it about to unravel because somebody thinks I’ve wronged them.”

“But maybe not,” she said as optimistically as she dared. “Today’s little incident might change that.
We have clues now. Real clues. There are surveillance cameras that caught it all on tape, witnesses, crime scene investigators that might be able to track the blast cap—things that the Bureau can pursue, when all we had before was pretty much bubkus.”

She saw the hope flare in his eyes, saw the way it hung against the fear like an anchor too heavy for its boat. He
had
worked hard, and she admired him for that.

“In the meantime we’re going to live life under a microscope,” he said.

“Well, I, for one, have always wanted to see the inside of a race shop.”

“Me, too,” came a voice from the family room.

Which made them both smile, and both remember that they had company.

“You know what’s really ironic?” Blain asked in a low voice, too low for Thurman to hear.

“What?” Cece asked. “You always wanted to meet a girl who carried a gun?”

Blain found himself almost smiling again. Damn, but he liked her sassy humor.

“I really thought you were something in high school.”

She couldn’t have looked more surprised if he’d tossed a stick of dynamite at her—although maybe that was a poor analogy given what had happened that day. Damn. He still couldn’t believe it.

“It’s true. You irritated the heck out of me, but the way you always beat me impressed the hell out of me.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

He shook his head.

She shook her head, too. “I always thought you hated me.”

He resisted the urge to touch her. “I know. I let you think that. Couldn’t let on that I got a kick out of racing you. What kind of guy likes to get beat by a woman? Over and over again?”

She smiled before saying, “I’ll be damned.”

His eyes caught on her lips. Soft. They’d been soft beneath his own. It was such a contrast to the tough-as-nails woman she pretended to be.

Yeah, he had a feeling it was all an act. Or maybe she’d had to be tough for so long she no longer realized it wasn’t who she really was. But he remembered how she’d been as a teenager. She’d been like a little puppy, following him around. Remembered the hero-worship in her eyes.

“I used to envy the way you and your dad worked on your car.”

The mention of her dad wiped all traces of a smile from her face. He missed it, almost reached out and touched her lips, to maybe tip the edges back up again.

“I always envied your rich-boy life.”

“It wasn’t what it seemed.”

“Really?”

He shook his head. “My dad was always off making money. My mom consoled herself nightly with a gin and tonic, and when my dad did come home, it
was yelling and screaming almost twenty-four-seven. I built my cars as a way to escape, no dear old dad to help me out, although that was probably a good thing.”