Dangerous Curves (3 page)

He’d said
what?

She smirked.

And then he remembered.

She lifted both brows this time, her expression turning to one of wry amusement. “It’s coming back to you, isn’t it?”

It felt like a welding torch had been lit near his face.

“So I’m sure you can understand why I thought you didn’t like me.”

She settled back in her seat. There wasn’t much room between her and the seat in front of her, but she somehow managed to cross her legs, the look on her face a mix of smug and amused.

“Look,” he said. “If I said something like that it was probably because I was sick and tired of you blabbing all over the school that your Camaro was faster than my Nova.”

“It was.”

“And because you told Gina Sellers that you wanted to ask me to the prom.”

Her eyes widened.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know about the crush you had. And so I was pretty certain that you weren’t really interested in Jeff Mayer in any other way than getting closer to me.”

Those green eyes of hers flickered with something. Humiliation? “You didn’t know that for certain.”

“Oh, yeah? Then why’d you dump him when I told him I didn’t want him bringing you around?”

“I didn’t dump him, he dumped
me
…because of
you.”

His body flicked back.

Her eyes narrowed. “You didn’t know that, did you?”

And there was too much anger in her eyes for it not to be true. “He told me the opposite.”

She leaned toward him, and the smell of her perfume hung between them for a second before a passing draft carried it away. It was a scent completely at odds with the image he’d carried around of her for years—acne medicine and car parts—not that he’d spent much time thinking about her. She smelled flowery. Almost feminine. Not like a tray of used motor oil.

“Look, Blain, I told you this was a really bad idea. You and I are like oil and water, always have been, always will. Why don’t we just give this up right now?”

He stared across at her, at this new Cecilia Blackwell. Calm. Controlled. Not the pimple-faced girl he remembered. And though he’d never have admitted it to her when they were younger, he’d always admired the way she’d tackled challenges. Whenever she’d put her mind to something—souping up her Camaro, getting the best grades, whatever—she’d always been good at it. Always.

“No,” he said, coming to an instant decision. “From what I hear, you’re good at what you do. I want someone I can trust. You’re it.”

He thought she might say something else. Saw the word clearly in her eyes:
fool.
But she didn’t say that. Instead she said, “Fine. Let’s get down to business then, shall we?”

She leaned over and pulled out a brown partition folder from an overnight bag-type thing she’d stuffed under the seat in front of her. There was a yellow label on it that said Escrow File: 937 Orchard Road. Her old address from home, he recognized. How bizarre to remember that.

She straightened, the plane jerking back from the gate just as she did so. Her left breast brushed his right arm.

He felt scalded.

“Sorry,” she murmured, hardly noticing.

He narrowed his eyes. No blush. No embarrassment. The Cece Blackwell he remembered would have had a hard time meeting his eyes.

This Cece glanced up at him boldly as she said, “I’ve put together a list of things I need to accomplish this weekend—learning the ins and outs of a race car garage, for one. Plus examining security, that sort of thing.” Suddenly, a ray of light that shot out from around the terminal illuminated her face and eyes. It turned those eyes Caribbean green. He’d been there last year with a woman whose name he couldn’t recall.

“When’d you have time to do that?” he asked.

“Last night,” she said without looking up, her leg swinging again.

“In a hurry to get me out of your hair?”

“Eeyup,” she responded as she opened the file, lifting her hand to the bridge of her nose, almost as if she were pushing up a pair of nonexistent glasses. When she realized what she’d done, she gave him a look.

“Contacts,” she murmured.

He’d wondered what had happened to the glasses.

“According to what you told my superiors, you’re suspicious about Randy Newell’s death.” She looked at him, her face serious. “If it’s too hard to discuss the death of your friend, just let me know.”

“Do it.”

She turned back to the file. “Forensics is looking at the debris right now, but so far you’re the only one who thinks something looked suspicious about the wreck.”

He nodded, remembering yet again the way Randy’s car had exploded. Just detonated. Fuel cell rupture. That’s what they claimed. It happened. Rare, but it happened.

And Randy had been inside.

“I have to be honest. I don’t see how someone could blow up a race car. They’d have to put the explosives inside the vehicle, but your tech inspection would’ve uncovered that. And what would be the motive? Terrorist act? If so, we’d have known by now. One thing about terrorists, they love to claim their work. And so if not that, maybe revenge? Revenge against who? You? Your driver?”

He felt her look over at him.

“Blain?”

He met her gaze, though he had to repeat her words in his head to remember what the question was.

“You all right?”

He told himself he was fine.

She grabbed his hand. “Blain?” she asked again.

He stared down at that hand. Her nails were short. No-nonsense. Not a lick of polish. Typical Cecilia.

“I’m fine,” he said hoarsely, trying to focus on her, on the plane, on anything other than the sudden memory he had of Randy standing in the winner’s circle after they’d won their first race together.

She tilted her head toward his, forcing his attention. “I lost my partner a few years back.” She shook her head, still clasping Blain’s hand, squeezing it gently before she released it. “I still think about him every day.”

His breath hitched unexpectedly at the sadness in her eyes. She truly
did
seem to understand. “Actually,” he said gruffly, suddenly uncomfortable with his feelings, “I just don’t like flying.”

She drew back, her pretty eyes widening. And then her lids narrowed, her lips compressing just before she said, “Liar.”

He barked a laugh—just one little laugh—but it was the first since watching Randy’s car fragment into a thousand pieces.

He opened his mouth, about to thank her, but a
voice came over the P.A. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please. We need everyone to exit the plane. Immediately.”

Blain looked up, wondering what the hell was going on.

“Bomb threat,” Cece said, her eyes instantly and completely serious.

“I
T WAS JUST
a coincidence,” Cece told Bob from the privacy of her Las Vegas hotel room via a Bureau cellphone. She and Blain were staying at the Rodeo, a western-themed resort meant to make someone think she was in the Wild West…or a B movie. Knotty pine furniture and a lodgepole pine bed filled the room. Various horses and cowboys galloping to save helpless calves were depicted in the prints hanging on the wall.

“I’m sure of it,” she insisted. “Why would Blain’s bad guys call in a bomb threat?”

“I agree it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense,” Bob said. “But we have to treat this as if it’s not a coincidence.”

Her hand tightened around the palm-size phone. “I know, I know, but I still think the whole thing is a wild-goose chase. If someone wanted to blow up a racetrack, or an airplane, why not just do it? Why tell someone you were going to do it beforehand?”

“That’s what you’re there to investigate.”

“The letter about Blain’s driver was probably sent
by some crackpot redneck mad at Blain for owning the car that beat his favorite driver,” Cece muttered. “Not a real murderer.”

“Look, Cece, it was a threat, and these days we have to take all threats seriously, including today’s. I’ll let you know what we find.”

She inhaled, knowing he was right. They’d taken a lot of heat for 9/11. Didn’t want to be caught with their pants down again. And, hell, these days a shopping list could get someone in trouble—if it had fertilizer and Clorox on it.

“When do you want me back?”

“As soon as you’re done making your report.”

The sooner the better, Cece thought. She didn’t like the way being around Blain made her feel. For a second there on the plane she’d been overcome by memories of her old partner, of the look on his wife’s face when she’d broken the news to her, and his kids’ faces at the funeral….

“Got that, Cece?”

“Roger,” she answered, stabbing the Off button without saying goodbye. This was no time to dwell on the past.

A knock sounded. Cece turned to the door. Blain. She’d told him to meet up with her the moment he’d settled into his room. Apparently that was now.

She crossed to the door, opening it.

“What’d he say?” Blain immediately asked, striding in without so much as a hello.

She shook her head, looking up and down the
hall before stepping back into her room and closing the door.

“He said he’ll look into the threat,” she summarized.

Blain stopped in front of her one window, the Las Vegas strip stretching out behind him. Blinking lights flicked on and off, visible even in late morning. It was a warm day, despite it being early spring…not that you’d guess it was spring by the mud-brown mountains surrounding the city.

“Does he think it might be the same person who sent me the letter?”

“Look, Blain, it’s too early to tell. He’s going to have someone look into it. Meantime, I’m here to check things out.”

He didn’t seem pleased. Well, she wasn’t exactly thrilled, either.

“Are you ready to leave?” he asked.

She nibbled on her lower lip, crossing her arms in front of her. “I’ll meet up with you later. I need to change.”

His eyes narrowed. She caught a look of suspicion just before he asked, “Into what?”

She shrugged. “Something a little more racelike. Remember, I’m not here in an official capacity. Well, I am, but we don’t want your fellow trackies to know that.”

“Trackies?” he asked with a lifted brow.

“What else should I call the people you work with?”

“How about crew members?”

“Whatever,” she said, lifting a hand in dismissal. “Just let me get changed. Unless you want me to show up in a business suit, toting an FBI badge.”

He shook his head. “Just remember there’s a dress code in the garage.”

This time it was
her
brows that lifted.

He nodded. “No sleeveless shirts. No open-toed shoes. No bare legs.”

She snapped her fingers in mock regret. “Damn. I guess that means I can’t wear my thigh-highs.”

His eyes narrowed further.

She rolled hers. “Relax, Blain. I promise not to embarrass you. I’ll look the part. Just let me do my job.”

A
ND SHE DID LOOK THE PART,
judging by the raised brows she received from certain members of the male persuasion. As she walked toward the garage, she tried not to feel self-conscious. All those years at Bimbos and she still felt uncomfortable when gawked at—made her think she might have a piece of tissue trailing from her heel.

Perfect.

She’d decided on a chic yet revealing mode of dress—not for Blain’s sake, although that might have been fun, but so she blended in better. And so she wore a black chemise covered by a black mesh, long-sleeved shirt, powder-blue jeans hugging her legs like giant tube socks, a black stripe of leather
running down the side. Of course, tucked into her black half-boots was a .22 handgun. Still, she felt very sexy in an Annie Oakley kind of way.

Unfortunately, Nevada weather in the spring was like a woman who couldn’t make up her mind, and so Cece damn near froze in the getup. Off in the distance what looked to be a thunderstorm was brewing, dark clouds gathering over the granite mountaintops. Terrific. And she’d forgotten a jacket.

A guard wearing a bright yellow coat eyed her up and down, the word
SECURITY
emblazoned across the front as if someone might mistake him for a race car. The obnoxious color wasn’t very flattering to his Hispanic face, a face that lit up when he saw her.

“Good afternoon,” he drawled flirtatiously as she paused near the entrance he “guarded.” Yeah, right. The guy didn’t even have a gun. “May I help you?” he added.

On a normal day Cece would give him one of her patented Death Star FBI agent looks. But this wasn’t a normal day. Undercover. One of Blainy-poo’s friends. So she smiled back, flicking her long blond hair over her shoulder à la Dallas Cowboys cheerleader.

“Good afternoon,” she answered with a smile, flashing him the hot pass credential she’d picked up at a trailer outside the racetrack.

“Go right on in,” he said, waving her by.

“Thank you,” she drawled in a sexy alto she hadn’t used since her days at Bimbos.

The Frankenstein heels of her boots sank into fresh tar as she headed toward the garage. Four white buildings were lined up like dominoes along the homestretch, the lesser mortals (i.e., race fans) kept out by the tall wrought-iron fence with giant don’t-try-to-climb-this spikes at the top. The buildings were nice in a single-story, no-frills kind of way. Some cars were in their garage, others half out as if they’d stalled and come to a rolling halt. It wasn’t race day, which really bummed her out. Yup. Her guilty little secret. She was a closet race car fan.

She paused midway between the fence and the garages and took it all in: the smell of burnt oil and high octane fuel. Compressors and air wrenches whirring in the distance. The
crack, crack, crack
of a motor idling. Crew members in their multicolor team shirts darting around.

Little darts of electricity lifted her skin into goose pimples. Dang. She’d always wondered what it was like on the inside.

She found Blain’s car parked in a garage stall at the very end of the second building; the pylon-orange stars painted on the trunk lid were hard to miss. The front end of the vehicle was jacked up off the ground, and two men stood near the front, peering into the motor compartment as if a girlie flick played inside.

“Excuse me,” she said, trying not to gawk as an ex-driver-turned-famous TV commentator walked past her, clipboard in hand, gray hair plastered in place like an elderly Ken doll.

A head peeked around the lifted hood, another from the other side, like two wide-eyed chickens peeking around a coop. She looked down as the sound of a creeper’s wheels grinding against smooth concrete caught her attention. A pair of feet emerged from beneath the car—big feet in brown leather shoes. Legs. Black pants. Blain.

The thought was confirmed when a taut chest encased in a team orange, polo-style shirt turned into a tan face with angry eyes.

Uh-oh.

“Well, well, well.” He glared up at her. “Look who decided to show up.”

“Well, well, well,” she drawled right back. “Blain Sanders at my feet. Just what I always wanted.”

He frowned, rolling the creeper around so he could sit up. “You get lost on the way out here?” he asked, grabbing a red rag that lay nearby, then tossing it aside.

“No,” she answered, smiling brightly, even though his question irritated the heck out of her.

“Get caught in traffic?”

“No,” she repeated quickly. Okay, so she’d been primping. It wasn’t often that she got to go undercover as a glamour girl. Usually she was playing the role of anything
but,
and she was woman enough to want to dress in cool clothes. “I just took my time.”

He frowned again, his gaze scanning her up and down. And even though he sat at a lower elevation, he must have noticed how cold she was because she
could have sworn his eyes caught on her less than soft nipples. She blushed, but darn it, it was cold standing here in the shadows. A stiff breeze blew between the garages, tossing dust and grit and empty wax cups around. “I thought team owners didn’t work on cars.”

“This team owner does,” he grumbled, rising to his feet. “Especially when his crew chief is off running around and there’s a problem.”

She resisted the urge to step back. Blain was a big guy.
In a lot of places,
she found herself thinking before clamping down on
that
unprofessional and unwanted thought.

“Are you ready to give me a tour?”

He looked irritated. Really, really irritated. He glanced at the car, and the crew still gawking. He glared. The chicken heads ducked back behind the coop.

“In a minute,” he said. “We’re trying to figure out why the car doesn’t start.”

“Power?”

He shook his head.

“You sure?”

“Positive,” he said, the one word managing to convey his utter disgust that she’d even attempt to diagnose the problem. Geez-oh-peets, if ever she needed a reminder of why she didn’t like him, this was it. Funny, she’d forgotten how sexist he could be. That was why she’d taken great pleasure in waxing his doors when they’d been younger.

She glanced away, about to suggest something else, just to irk him. But the sight of a cord cocked at an odd angle as it sat atop the coil caught her attention, and despite herself, she squinted at it, because it sure didn’t look like it was on right. It wasn’t.

“Sooo,” she drawled, “I suppose the fact that that thing over there,” she pointed to a blue wire, “isn’t on right has nothing to do with it?”

It took a moment for her comment to register, and when it did, Blain actually started, shoulders stiffening, head jerking up.

“Of course, maybe you guys invented a new type of coil wire that I’ve never heard of.” She lifted a brow sarcastically. “Laser beam, maybe. Yeah, that must be it…lasers.”

Blain’s eyes narrowed.

Cece crossed her arms, feeling supremely smug as she stood there. Okay, it was luck that she’d just happened to glance at the coil, and luck that she’d chosen power as a possible diagnosis. But it was all she could do not to gloat as he looked in the direction she suggested, muffled an oath, then stormed over and popped the wire on right.

“Try it,” he muttered, straightening.

A crew member shot her an “I’m impressed” look, then came around the hood of the car, reached in and flicked the starter switch.

Cece just about jumped out of her boots as the engine roared to life. She almost glanced down to make sure the things were still on her feet.

“Holy shlamoly,” she cried, covering her ears.

Blain turned to her, shook his head, though she was positive he hadn’t heard her. Nobody could possibly hear her. She was a mouth with no sound coming out of it.

“Cut it,” he yelled over the cacophony, slicing his finger across his neck for added insurance.

Silence descended, silence so instant and so complete it was like walking outside after a rock concert.

“Thank you,” she said, pulling her fingers out of her ears. “I’ll send you the bill from my otorhinolaryngologist.”

“Your
what?”
Blain asked, and did she detect a hint of curtness in his voice? Could he be a bit embarrassed? Just a tad?

One could only hope.

“Ear, nose and throat guy,” she clarified.

The man that had started the car turned to her. “You just saved us a half hour of work.”

She smiled brightly. “Yeah? Fancy that.”

“Ee-yow,” the other crew member cried. “Blain, where’d you find this girl? Gorgeous and she knows something about cars.”

Gorgeous? Hardly. But she still blushed. Forever a dog in Cinderella’s clothing. “Thanks,” she said.

Blain glared at his crew again. They instantly went back to work.

“Wow. Impressive,” she said as Blain walked toward her. “Can you make them jump through flaming
hoops with that look, too? I hear Circus Circus down the road is looking for new acts.”

His face didn’t loosen up one bit as he said, “You know, you are without a doubt the most irritating, frustrating, exasperating woman of my acquaintance.”

She smiled brightly, reached up and patted his smooth-shaven cheek. “Aw, gee, thanks.” She spun away.

“Where are you going?”

“Problem solved, so that means I can go on my tour, right?”

He just looked at her, then shook his head. And could that be…was the sky falling…might that actually be a bit of a smile on his face?

“Thanks for the help,” he said.

Her mouth fell open. An apology, too? From
him?

“That was a good call,” he added.

She studied him through narrow eyes, watching to see if his own eyes flicked to the right as he searched the creative side of his brain. It was a way to glean if a person was telling the truth, and she unashamedly used it now.

His eyes darted
left.
“I checked that cord when I first realized we had a problem. Obviously, I must not have pushed it back in all the way.”