Читать книгу Dangerous Curves - Pamela Britton - Страница 10

CHAPTER FOUR

“IMPOSSIBLE.”

It was the first word that came to Cece’s mind, never mind that Blain’s brows rose like twin drawbridges at her tone of voice. She lifted an index finger in the universal sign meaning just one moment, and turned away to try and find a quieter area. Quieter? Hah.

“Blain right there?” her boss asked when she told him to hold on a sec. At least she thought that’s what he said. It sounded more like, “Brain dead?”

Yeah, she felt pretty brain dead at the moment. Here she was getting all excited about being in a stock car garage when what she should be doing was focusing on the job.

She walked to the end of the building, that ever-present cold wind poking rude fingers through her mesh shirt.

Note to self: no more cute shirts.

“Now what’s this you say?” she said, crossing to the fence.

“Someone at the airport saw Sanders make a call on his cellphone just before you two boarded.”

“So?”

“We looked into it. It was to the airline.”

She tipped her head back for a second, a part of her noticing those storm clouds had gotten closer. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Bob. He could have called the airline for any number of reasons. Besides, he’s the one that keeps insisting on an investigation. You told me yourself the president of the stock car association would rather this whole thing go away.”

“Yeah, but he wouldn’t be the first twisted mind to insist the Bureau investigate a crime he’d committed.”

“If a crime was committed,” she felt the need to say.

“One might have been.”

“What do you know that I don’t know?” she asked, instantly suspicious.

“Nothing, nothing. I’m just telling you to keep your eyes open.”

Ridiculous. The whole thing was ridiculous. She would like to have told Bob all the various reasons why she doubted Blain Sanders was the perp, starting with the fact that he’d been the most disgusted with her when she’d been arrested all those years ago. “Boy Scout” didn’t begin to describe Blain Sanders. But just then she saw the man of the hour himself round the corner of the building, waving her toward him.

“Will do,” she said.

But when Cece stuffed her phone in her pocket, she couldn’t help but shake her head. Blain, a suspect. Hah! And, dang it, what was wrong with these jeans? They were too tight to get her damn cellphone back in her pocket.

Blain Sanders, stock car stalker. The thought of him as a bad guy was almost laughable. A man who refused to drag race on the street because it was illegal would not threaten to blow up a racetrack, much less kill his own driver.

“Trouble?” he asked as she joined up with him again.

“Nah. Just some office stuff.”

The way his eyebrows arched like a cat’s back made her think he didn’t buy her excuse…not one bit, but that didn’t stop her from saying, “You ready to go?”

He stared at her for half a heartbeat—long enough that she found herself thinking how odd it was to be here with him. After all the times she’d watched him on a giant TV, after all the times she’d fantasized about meeting up with him again.

Fantasize?

No. Not like that. Well, maybe once.

Or twice.

“Yeah. And we’ll need to hurry if I’m going to show you around before the next practice.”

She nodded, stepping up her pace alongside him. “Is your car all fixed?”

“Yeah. Thanks to you.” But he didn’t seem all that relieved.

“More troubles?”

He glanced at her in surprise. Cece glanced away, ostensibly to check out what was going on the garage, but more because she felt suddenly weird gazing at him. He looked so worried.

“Our lap times at this morning’s practice weren’t as good as they should be,” he admitted.

“Yeah, but you practice again tomorrow.”

“Yeah, but qualifying is today. If the weather holds.”

Blain motioned toward the grandstands. Cece followed his gaze. She could see the leading edge of those giant, bubblelike clouds.

“We just can’t catch a break. Ever since…”

His driver had died. He didn’t need to complete the sentence. Cece could read the look in his eyes. Worried. Tense. Not like a suspect. Jeesh, she almost felt sorry for him.

Sympathy? For Blain Sanders? The man responsible for her one and only felony? Who’d given her such low self-esteem as a teenager that it’d taken a year of working at Bimbos before she’d started to think she might not be such an ugly duckling after all? Who’d blackmailed her into working this case? She must have bolts for brains.

They reached the rear of his car, but the moment they arrived, a white-coated racing official said, “Blain, I need to see you for a moment.”

Blain motioned for her to stay put, then followed the guy into the garage. Secret, confidential meeting. Must be important stuff. But that was okay because it gave her a moment to think.

Blain a suspect?

Not.

“You here with Blain?”

Cece jumped, turned.

And there he was. Lance Cooper. Blain’s newly hired driver. Tall, handsome, and with such a warm smile on his face, it completely contradicted Cece’s mental image of cocky race car drivers.

“Uh, yeah.”

His smile grew wider, his white teeth startling against his tan face. Must be professionally bleached, Cece thought, even as she found herself wanting to return that grin.

“The crew told me he was with a woman,” he said with a gleam in his light gray eyes. “One who fixed my car.”

“That was me,” she said, thinking that he seemed nice.’ Course, he was new to this particular level of racing so maybe it hadn’t sunk in yet that he was a “big star.”

“Thanks.”

“My pleasure,” she said, giving in to the temptation to smile. He reached out a hand to shake hers. Cece automatically took it, thinking his messy blond hair gave him an almost boyish look.

“How’d you figure out it was the coil wire?” he asked.

“Lucky guess,” she answered, realizing there was nothing boyish about the look that suddenly entered his eyes.

“Then lucky me.” And the way he said the words…mmm mmm mmm, he was flirting.

She felt her cheeks heat. And then he crossed his arms, a brow lifting as a piratelike grin spread across his face. Naughty, naughty man. Not that she was attracted to him—no, no, no, something about his looks didn’t quite appeal to her. Besides, he was Blain’s driver, and she had a feeling if Blain saw her flirting—

“Don’t you have an interview to do?” a disgruntled voice asked.

They both turned, and it was just as she’d thought. He looked peeved.

“Yeah, but they can wait,” Lance answered.

Blain didn’t say a word, just lifted a brow in a very analytical, Mr. Spock way, his meaning obvious.

“I’m going,” his driver said.

When Cece met Blain’s eyes it was to see him direct the same irritated gaze at her. “Follow me,” he said.

Yes, sir, she silently answered, resisting the urge to salute. What was up with him? She had half a mind to drop her little bomb that he was considered a suspect, but then decided against it. She’d probably give him a heart attack right on the spot, and then she’d have to give him mouth-to-mouth.

Mmm.

Stop it, Cece.

He led her toward a row of big rigs parked around the perimeter of the garage. Her interest was piqued. The race car haulers. Cool. She’d always wanted to see what they looked like inside.

She didn’t have time to examine them too closely, though, because his next words snapped at her like the sting of a rubber band.

“Lance Cooper is off-limits.”

That made her stop. And it was almost biblical the way the world suddenly darkened, a puffy storm cloud obstructing the sun.

“What do you mean, off-limits?” she asked.

He crossed his own arms, leaning toward her a bit. “No romantic entanglements.”

Unfortunately, that’s what she thought he’d meant, and it really torqued her, too, because the man had no business saying who she could and could not get involved with. No say at all. Not that she was getting involved with anybody. No way.

“Look,” she said. “I wasn’t flirting with him, if that’s what you think.”

“You were smiling.”

“So?”

“So, you’re not here to cozy up to my driver,” he said in a low voice, looking up for a second as a team member from a different crew came walking toward them. Without saying another word, Blain turned, heading toward his own hauler. With swift movements, he opened the dark-tinted glass door and stepped inside. Surprisingly warm air hit Cece in the face.

“Am I supposed to follow you, or is the lecture over?”

He stopped, and Cece didn’t like that he towered above her. Not at all.

“I want to continue this conversation in the lounge.”

“Ooo, the lounge,” she said sotto voce, which only made him more angry, judging by the way his eyes narrowed.

Cece sighed. What a disaster. Not even one day together and already they were at each other’s throats. Granted, she was provoking him a bit, but she wasn’t doing it intentionally.

The moment she climbed the steps of the big rig and passed into the heated—yes, heated—interior, she came to an abrupt halt. “Whoa.”

Sure, she’d seen the things on TV, but a thirty-inch screen in no way conveyed the enormity of what a hauler looked like on the inside. Fluorescent lights turned cabinets a blinding white. To her left a mini-kitchenette took up a good four feet.

“You coming?”

She hadn’t even realized she’d stopped. Cece shook her head, somehow amused by it all. Most men couldn’t keep their clothes in the hamper, but this place looked as spotless as the altar of a church. One of the bottom cabinets hadn’t been closed all the way. Cece peeked inside. An engine block lay there. Jeesh. They built cabinets for their motor parts.

A second later Blain opened the door of the lounge. Cece hardly had time to notice the black leather couch, mirrors and natural wood cabinets lining the perimeter. She and Blain were practically nose-to-nose when he turned back to her, his eyes nearly the color of the blue flames that shot out of exhaust pipes.

“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.