Читать книгу Dangerous Curves - Pamela Britton - Страница 8

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 overnight 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 for get things like what it’s like to lay one on a sexy man.

Blain, sexy?

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.

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have.”

But far from looking pleased at his small victory, he leaned toward her, and she could tell that she’d pushed him to the very edge of the short little pier he’d been standing on.

“Make sure it doesn’t happen again,” he snapped.

Oh, yeah? They would just have to see about that, Cece thought. Because there was one thing Mr. Blain Sanders didn’t know. After her first year of college, when she’d realized men were looking at her in a way they’d never looked at her before, she’d used that knowledge to her advantage. Cece Blackwell had put herself through college working for Bimbos, a restaurant that prided itself more on the perkiness of its servers’breasts than on the freshness of its cuisine.

And the only thing she enjoyed more than McDonald’s French fries was making men squirm, probably because most of her life men hadn’t given her the time of day. Then she’d turned nineteen and voilà, sex goddess. It’d been darn disconcerting when the cutest guy on campus had asked her out. Who’d have thunk? But she’d never forgotten what it felt like to be the campus dog. So when she’d turned into Sleeping Beauty, she’d been smart enough to have fun with some Prince Charmings. Blain Sanders was no prince, but it’d be fun playing with him.

She’d make sure of it.

“IF ANYONE IN THE GARAGE asks how we know each other, just tell them we’re old friends,” Blain said as Cece Blackwell sat down next to him in one of the compact seats that filled the jet’s interior. He looked over at her in time to see one side of her mouth tip up.

“What?” he asked.

“We were never friends,” she said, her arm brushing his.

“Yeah, but we can’t tell them the truth. NASCAR doesn’t want people to know an FBI agent is sniff ing around.”

“And why did you hate me so much?” she asked.

It took him a moment to follow her question, but not before he found himself asking, “Huh?”

“Why didn’t you like me in school?”

He took his own seat, staring at her for a second as he replayed what she’d said, and then tried to frame his answer. “I didn’t hate you,” was all he could think of to say.

“Oh, you were never flat-out mean to me, but you didn’t like me. That much was obvious.” She reached beneath her to search for her seat belt. The movement opened up the shirt beneath her black jacket, giving him a glimpse of a white, frilly lace bra. Frilly? Since when?

“Look, Cecilia, I hardly knew you. How could I hate you?”

“Good point. But if that’s true, why did you tell Jeff Mayer that he could do better than me when he and I started dating?”

What was she talking about…?

She lifted a brow as if trying to prod his memory. “We were at a convenience store and you saw me with him. I’d wandered off to another aisle and you must have thought I couldn’t hear you, but I could.” She tilted her head, a lock of blond hair slipping from behind her ear. “You told him the reason I lived in a double wide was because of the size of my ass.”

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.