Dangerous Curves

Dangerous Curves Pamela Britton Special Agent Cece Blackwell is smart, savvy and knows her way around a race car Heading up a team to investigate the murder of a rally driver is right up her alley.The only problem is star driver Blain Sanders, the man who requested her. Blain is well-heeled, well-connected and drop-dead gorgeous – and he knew Cece when she was a drag-racing tomboy with grease under her nails. But Cece has grown up since then, in all the right places. And while catching the killer is her main objective, she’s not above making the man who ignored her as a teenager squirm a little. Two people on a sure-fire collision course.But Cece and Blain are about to discover that the sweetest victory does not always come from winning… “It’s in my blood, Cece. I love this sport. But I can’t stand by and let it endanger people’s lives…” “I know,” she said, bending to kiss Blain’s cheek. But the way it felt when her lips connected with his skin…well, it made her want to kiss something else. No, she warned herself. She shouldn’t. This wasn’t a fantasy. This was a flesh-and-blood man. “Blain, I don’t think this is a good id – ” He pulled her to him, kissed her hard, and Cece settled onto his hard thighs as if she’d done it a million times before – and in her dreams, maybe she had. Only this was so much better than her fantasies. Praise for Pamela Britton “Passion and humour are a potent combination, and author Pamela Britton comes up with the perfect blend and does everything right.” — Oakland Press “Pamela Britton is no longer a rising star in the field of romance; she is a star, and-an especially brilliant one.” —Romance Reader at Heart dangerous CURVES pamela britton www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk) Dedicated to Doug and Robin Richert, two of NASCAR’s finest. Acknowledgements I have to be honest in admitting that when I proposed writing a romantic suspense, I never realised the amount of research it would involve. The crime dramas on TV are nothing like real life, and so it’s with much gratitude that I thank the following people for answering all my tedious law-enforcement questions. Mark Kolla and the gang at Sean and Donna’s wedding who graciously spent time helping me to straighten out my plot (in between drinking screwdrivers), and with a special thanks to my brother-in-law, Michael Mattocks, who never laughs at my silly ideas. My pal in the FBI who asked not to be named (I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you). Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you for answering all my questions about bombs, protective custody and what it’s really like to be a female agent in an office full of men. You’re an angel. Lastly, as always, to my wonderful husband, a man who knows intuitively when I need to be left alone, and who’s one heck of a plotting partner. I love you, Michael. CHAPTER ONE SHE WAS FIVE FOOT SIX of spandex-wrapped, thigh-high-boots-wearing, bustier-clad woman. And she wasn’t happy. Shoving open the door of her boss’s office, Cece Blackwell had to fight not to yell the words, “What do you mean I’m assigned the NASCAR case?” The glare of fluorescent lights arched perfectly off her boss’s prematurely bald head as he turned to face her, black brows—the color his hair should have been, if he’d had any—lifted above light gray eyes. “I can’t believe you’d do this to me,” she added, placing her hands on her leather-clad waist, Cece so screaming mad she felt ready to lob her Carmen Miranda red earrings at him. Or maybe her matching bracelets. Yeah. They’d be easier to slip off. “I won’t do it,” she huffed. “I won’t.” And darn if she didn’t feel like stomping her feet like her neighbor’s three-year-old daughter. Bob’s chubby-cheeked face remained blank. It was one thing she despised about him. No, envied, this ability he had to remain unruffled no matter what the circumstances. He was like one of those mimes you saw in the park, able to keep a straight face even as some dog doo-dooed on his leg. The talent was helped by the fact that he had wrinkle-free skin near impossible to glean the age of. Cece supposed Mother Nature had blessed him with such a complexion as a way of making up for the no hair thing. But instead of addressing her concerns, Bob eyed her up and down. “You been working that organized crime ring?” he asked in his Bronx accent. “That’s why you dressed like that?” “You know I was,” she said, referring to the rent-me-by-the-hour outfit she wore: rhinestone-studded black bustier, Band-Aid-wide leather skirt and the pi?ce de r?sistance, black thigh-high boots. “The operative word being was, Bob,” she gritted out between Screaming Red lips. “Was because they called me off the streets and told me I’d be working a new case, one that you know I have no desire to work. So tell me it isn’t true, Bob, in which case I’ll go change out of this hoochie wear, because if you tell me it is true, I quit.” “It’s true,” he said. “I quit.” She turned on a stiletto heel and jerked open the door. “Cece, wait.” “Talk to the hand, Bob,’ cause the ears aren’t listening.” “Damn it, Cece, you don’t stop, you’re fired.” She whirled to face him, hand falling off the handle. “I’m fired? I’m fired?” she raged, stabbing at herself with her finger, one of her fake press-on nails popping off and arcing through the hair like a boomerang. “You’ve got some nerve, you know that, Bob? You know about my past with the owner of that race team. You know every damn detail. And yet you’re still assigning me this case? That’d be like—” she searched for the right words “—that’d be like me assigning you to work with your ex-wife.” Bob winced. “I won’t do it.” “You have to,” he said, his face stern. Her eyes narrowed. “No, I don’t.” “This ain’t no multiple choice, Cece. We need your expertise with explosives.” “Oh, yeah? Just like you needed my expertise working that organized crime ring? I’ve spent four weeks dressed like this. Four weeks and I’m this close to finding out the name of the guy who sold Mantos those explosives. You want me to walk away from that? I don’t think so. Find someone else with the expertise.” “We want you.” Cece tottered over to Bob’s desk, not caring that her breasts all but fell out as she leaned over the papers strewn on it. “Look, Bob, I’ve had a really bad day. Some man offered me a hundred bucks if I’d let him sniff my underwear. Another asked me to do a threesome. An evangelist talked my ear off for an hour because he was convinced he could save my soul. To say I’m in no mood for this would be an understatement. My feet hurt, I have a rub spot on the back of my knee and I’m convinced a bird pooped in my hair, only, see, I can’t tell because makeup decided to turn my hair into their version of the Burning Bush, sans the flames, although there’s so much hair spray in this mess—” she pointed at her teased and cemented blond hair “—I could give Michael Jackson a run for his money.” She leaned even closer, her bonded hair not budging an inch. “Don’t do this to me.” “It’d just be for a few days.” “This close to busting Mantos,” she repeated, making tweezers out of her scarlet-red nails. “Just think about it.” “Okay,” she said straightening, looking up to the ceiling and tapping a red nail on her chin as if contemplating the color of a toupee for Bob. “Thought about it,” she said, piercing him with a glare. “No.” Bob flung himself back in his chair, tossing a Snappy Lube pencil onto his desk. “You’re impossible.” “Yeah, well, that’s why we work so well together.” She turned toward the door. “I could force you.” “Don’t bother,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m your boss,” he added. “Then act like it and tell upper management I said no.” A wolf whistle greeted her as she entered the “bull pen,” a maze of cubicles that housed the junior agents. “Bite me,” she said to no one in particular as she slammed Bob’s office door with enough force to rattle the side window. She jabbed her spiked heels into the business-brown carpet as she stormed off to her office in another corner of the mostly glass high-rise, the muted gray light that dribbled in mimicking the fog outside. Damn Bob. Of all the dumb, fool things to ask her. She jerked open the door of her office before slamming it closed. For a long second she just seethed as she stared out the window. Blain Sanders. A name from the past. A man who’d been responsible for more humiliating teenage memories than she cared to admit. Even now she felt the sting of a blush as she recalled some of her more embarrassing moments—trying to get an after-school job at the same place as he did, only to have him call her a stalker; slipping that ridiculous note that was supposed to be anonymous in his locker, only to have Billy Richards see her do it. And then, their senior year, she’d tried to get even with him by building a car that was faster than his. She’d succeeded at that, but then her dad died and her whole world had come crashing down. Cece bent to grab some spare clothes from a filing cabinet drawer, trying to forget the memories, but like oil on top of water, they refused to be kept down; her dad’s car accident, her brush with the law, her mom’s death…some of the worst times of her life. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Cecilia Blackwell.” She froze, her hands on some sweats, thinking maybe, just maybe, the voice had been part of a hair spray induced hallucination, because it was impossible for the day to get any worse then it already had. Famous last words. “I see you’re dressing different.” But only one person called her by her full name like that, the syllables clipped like the snap of a 9 mm. She closed her eyes for a sec before opening them again to slowly turn and face the door. Ten long years and a forgotten high school crush faced her. Blain Sanders. Terrific. Perfect timing. “Well, well, well,” she mimicked, “if it isn’t the hometown hero.” And she used her coolest I’m-an-FBI-agent-even-if-I’m-dressed-like-a-call-girl voice. She hadn’t survived a year of coed training to blush when caught wearing next to nothing. Besides, he didn’t seem to care, merely met her gaze directly. “You’re looking good,” he said, and she knew he was being sarcastic ’cause there was no way, no how that Blain Sanders found her attractive. “Gee, thanks,” she answered, her mind screaming a different answer. Get out. Damn it. She’d fantasized about this moment, about meeting him again, but always in a chic black suit, black pumps and her hair pulled back in a smooth chignon. Instead she wore fishnet stockings—fishnets, for goodness’ sake—next to no clothes and a head of hair big enough to be spotted by the Space Shuttle while he…he looked like he’d stepped from the pages of People magazine. She eyed him up and down in an impartial I’m-no-longer-affected-by-him way. Rain-colored eyes still looked just as striking against a fringe of long, dark lashes. Strong jaw. Wide shoulders and a body that hadn’t gained an ounce of fat in the ten years she’d gone up two sizes. “Nice outfit,” he said. It was the same voice as before, only…different. This voice dripped Southern like a jar of maple syrup, not surprising since he’d spent the last ten years of his life working the stock car circuit. Blain—California born and bred—had apparently adopted redneck ways. “You always dress like that?” What the heck do you think? she almost snapped. Instead she flicked her teased-and-shellacked hair and said, “Well, the dress code is pretty lax around here. I do what I can to be comfortable.” He lifted a brow. She placed her hands on her hips, giving him a stance ? la Wonder Woman right down to the conical breasts. “Of course I don’t dress this way,” she muttered. “I was doing an undercover gig on the East Side.” “The FBI lets you walk around that way?” “Didn’t someone tell you?” she snapped. “I’m not really FBI. Got the badge and gun out of a gumball machine. I was hoping for the Scooby-Doo necklace, but I guess it just wasn’t my day.” His eyes darted to hers again. For half a heartbeat she thought she saw something drift through his silver gaze—interest, maybe—but she had to be seeing things. Blain Sanders. Mr. Celebrity. Mr. I Can Have Any Woman I Want. Mr. What’s Your Name Again Sweetheart So I Can Sign Your Junior High Yearbook would not be noticing her. It used to drive her crazy when she’d had that huge crush on him because nothing, but nothing she’d said or did—and oh boy, had she done some things—ever made him remember her name, much less show interest in her. Nah. Imagining things. “If you’re here to tell me you don’t want me on the case,” she said, “you’re wasting your breath. I don’t want it, either.” He crossed his arms in front of him, his pecs beneath his shirt bulging like those of a beach-bound muscle man. “Actually, I came here to tell you that it was me who wanted you on the case.” BLAIN WATCHED HER mouth gape in surprise, her startling green eyes grow wide. He’d forgotten the color of those eyes until that very moment; “antifreeze-green” he’d used to tease. She really did look ridiculous in that getup, or so he told himself because he id not, as a rule, find women in thigh-high boots attractive. “Why the heck would you do that?” she snapped, the red hoop earrings she wore swinging with each jerk of her angry jaw, her boots squeaking as she shifted on her feet. He shrugged, his eyes darting around the office. Wall of glass behind her, the California fog he didn’t miss much creeping through the streets. Bachelor of Arts degree on the wall to his left. No pictures on the opposite one, to his right. Not even those “love your fellow co-worker” posters. Nothing but bare walls, a low shelf and a CD player behind her black-and-gray desk conspicuously devoid of files and clutter. Man, she didn’t even have one of those little stuffed toys most women hung on their monitor. Typical Cece Blackwell. She was about as feminine as a case of motor oil. “Hell-ooo,” she reminded him of her presence. As if he could forget. “You’re the best person for the job,” he stated. “Well, you can just un-request me.” His eyes swung back to hers. “No,” he surprised himself by saying—surprised, because during the whole trip from North Carolina he’d told himself he’d made a mistake in insisting she be assigned the case. He must be more shaken up over Randy’s death than he’d thought, because requesting that Cece Blackwell work the case when all he had were some half-baked rumors about her success as an FBI agent was pure craziness. And yet here he was. She’d changed, he thought, unable to stop himself from scanning her up and down. She looked like a woman. Granted, not the type of woman he’d be attracted to, but a woman nonetheless. And that kind of perplexed him. She’d grown breasts since he’d last seen her. “Excuse me, Blain, but I must have misunderstood you because I could have sworn you just said ‘it was me who requested you,’ which doesn’t make any sense because that would mean you were willing to work with me, something I know from experience would be the last thing on earth you’d want to do. So let’s go over this again. Did you or did you not just say that you requested me for this case?” “I did.” She gave him a look, one he remembered from their youth. It usually meant a shovelful of sand or a sharp-tipped acorn was about to be thrown his way. “Why in the heck would you do a stupid thing like that?” “Like I said. You’re the best.” “And just how do you know that?” she asked. His gaze snapped up. “People back home talk.” She smirked, painted red lips compressing. “I haven’t talked to anyone back home since my mom died.” “Not even Mr. Johnson?” She closed her eyes, obviously recognizing the name. Mr. Johnson, ex-cop-turned-P. E.-teacher who had taken a shine to Cecilia Blackwell all through high school, especially when she’d chosen to pursue a career in law enforcement. He was also a big race fan, which was how Blain had kept up with Cece’s life—though in an inadvertent way, because he wasn’t interested in her. He looked her up and down again. Not interested at all. “We talk on a regular basis,” Blain admitted. “I’m going to kill him,” she said, and this time Blain eyed the column of her neck. Her skin looked soft there. Funny. The memories he’d carried of little Cecilia Blackwell were that of a grease-covered kid. One who’d had puppy love dangling from her stray dog eyes. Not the woman standing before him now. Taller. Long blond hair. Hourglass figure. “Why? The old guy’s proud of you. You’re the only student of his that’s gone any further than the local police department.” And Blain felt grudging respect for her. Most of their former classmates had never left town. Not so Cece. Like him, she’d struck out on her own. He admired that, no matter how much it irked him to admit it. “Besides,” he added, “who cares how I found out? What’s important is that I know you’ll be straight with me.” He clenched his hands, trying to stifle emotions he didn’t want her to see. “The president of our association refuses to postpone the next few races because we don’t have proof that the wreck that killed my driver was no accident. All I have is a threatening letter that mentions a Cup race two weeks from now. Your bosses seem to think it’s probably just a nutcase. NASCAR seems to think the same thing. I’m not so certain.” Blain had to look away for a second, hoping she didn’t see how hard he fought for control at the memory of Randy. Got a tire going bad. They were the last words he’d said. “I heard he was your driver,” Cece said. “He was.” And his best friend. And his business partner. “Sorry about your loss,” she said, crossing her arms in front of her. Not for Cece the show of sympathy most women would give him: the concerned touch, the sympathetic hug. No. She just tilted her head as she said, “But it still doesn’t change the fact that this is a bad idea.” “I’m not going to beg.” And he wouldn’t, damn it. She owed him this. “You don’t have to. My answer is no.” He straightened and pulled out his trump card. “I’ll tell your boss about the felony.” She paled beneath the makeup covering up the freckles he remembered. About the only thing still the same. “What felony?” She tried to brazen it out. “The one you got for stealing that car when you were seventeen. The one sealed now because you were a minor, but the one I’m sure you didn’t tell the FBI about, since you were hired by them.” He found himself looking down at her, those wide green eyes. Pretty eyes, he’d always thought, despite the fact that he’d always teased her about them. “Bastard.” He crossed his arms again and shrugged. “You know damn well I didn’t steal that car. Tommy Pritchert set me up to take the fall. I just happened to be driving the wrong car at the wrong time.” “Tell that to your boss.” She looked as if she wanted to throttle him. “You know well and good I can’t do that.” “No. But I can.” And now she looked as if she wanted to bludgeon him. “Did it ever occur to you that my successes as an FBI agent might be severely overrated?” “Yeah.” He took another step toward her. A hint of something tickled his nose. “You wearing perfume?” he asked in shock. She tilted her head. “What of it?” You build that car? he’d asked after she’d roared into the high school parking lot when they were seventeen. What of it? Same response. Same woman. Or was it? “Nothing,” he answered—the same response he’d given her back then. “And even if Mr. Johnson has exaggerated, I remember the way you found out who’d keyed your car. You thought I’d done it, but instead you discovered that—” “Rick Carpenter had done it,” she finished. “Yeah. My point being that the way you discovered who’d done it was pure genius.” “So let me get this straight,” she said in a clipped voice, straightening, one hand held out, palm up. “You decided I’d be perfect for this case based on an idea I got off Columbo?” “It worked. No one expected you to give a ’69 Camaro away as bounty, but you did.” She shrugged. “I didn’t give it away. I only let someone drive it for a week. The kid offered to buy it afterward and I let him. I’d beaten you enough times that I was through with it anyway.” Her words rankled—still, after all these years. Man, but she knew how to push his buttons. Even after he’d left the small town they’d grown up in he’d thought about the way she’d smoked his doors whenever they’d raced. Four championships and numerous awards later and he still couldn’t believe she’d built a car that had beaten his. But he shouldn’t let it rankle, he reminded himself. It was all the more reason to insist she work the case. No other agent this side of the Mississippi would have her knowledge of race cars. She was a pro. Plus an expert on explosives. “Look, Cece, I don’t know anybody else with the experience to solve this case. You’re the closest thing to an ally that I’ve got and I need your help.” And for a second the wreck replayed in his mind again. Blain’s knuckles ached, he clenched his fingers so hard. “I need your expertise. You’ll give it to me, even if I have to blackmail you to do it.” She stared up at him, and he was surprised at how close he’d gotten. Age had changed her, he realized. Her cheekbones were more prominent. Lips fuller, her mouse-blond hair lighter, too. “Fine,” she snapped, her green eyes firing like spark plugs. “But don’t blame me when it doesn’t work out. You’ve no idea what it’s like to work with someone you despise.” It was on the tip of his tongue to say he didn’t despise her, but something made him hold back, something that made him feel uncomfortable and on edge at the same time. But then, he always felt that way around Cece Blackwell. 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 voil?, 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. CHAPTER THREE “IT 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.” AND 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 ? 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.” Ah, so this wasn’t actually an apology per se. Rather, it was a saving of face. “I see,” she said, somehow disappointed. She turned away again, but he grabbed her arm this time, turning her back yet again. Gently, though. “Wait,” he said, lifting his hand, his face in profile as he stared at the ground and shook his head. “That came out wrong. I wasn’t trying to make excuses. You were right. I was wrong. Good call.” He really was trying to act grateful. How…bizarre. She’d never had a kind word from the man. “You’re welcome,” she said. He nodded and it was then she realized that he hadn’t let go of her arm. He must have realized it, too, because he suddenly released her like a hot exhaust manifold. She knew exactly how he felt because it seemed as if she’d been burned by one herself. She almost took a peek at her arm as she turned away yet again, Blain falling into step alongside. “You know,” she said—and she couldn’t believe she was going to tell him this. She really couldn’t. “I once tore apart a carburetor only to discover that I was out of gas the whole time.” “You did?” She nodded, suddenly feeling as red as a Radio Flyer. Jeesh, why’d she tell him that embarrassing thing? “I was an hour on the side of that road. You wouldn’t believe the number of guys that pulled over to help.” She looked up at him, realizing as she did so that she’d tried to make him feel better. Him. Blain Sanders. The guy who had scarred her for life more times than she could count. Had she lost her mind? Thank God her cellphone rang then, because she needed a moment to tighten the screws in her head. “Blackwell,” she answered, forgetting for an instant that she was supposed to be a civvy and not a special agent. It was Bob, and as usual, he was to the point. “Got a new suspect for you if this thing pans out.” “Oh?” she answered, turning away from Blain. “It’s Sanders.” 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. 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 not 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.” He went silent for a second, his lips tightening. “You’re not telling me anything I haven’t heard already, Cece. It’s just a crazy race fan. One who didn’t like Randy and so he claimed to have killed him.” He met her gaze. “But I don’t believe it.” And that was why he couldn’t be a suspect, Cece admitted—because killers didn’t fight for justice. Crazy people didn’t send themselves letters and then bring them to light. Supposing Blain was right—this whole thing really was a murder and some terrorist or crazed fan was out for blood—Blain had nothing to gain by going public. If he was a murderer, he’d have kept quiet. Nah. Supposing this wasn’t a wild-goose chase, Blain was innocent. “Well, if you’re right, I don’t see how someone could have done it. The garage is locked down tighter than Fort Knox.” “It is,” he agreed, following her gaze to the infield, where the garage stood like a million-dollar industrial complex. “I suppose it needs to be that way.” She gave him a small smile. “To keep race fans out. Like me.” It worked. He didn’t smile, but his expression lightened in the way the sky slightly brightened just before dawn. That was better. What was better? she asked herself. Surely she didn’t care if Blain Sanders smiled? Right? Right? “Yeah, fans like you,” he said, and for a brief second he smiled. Cece felt triumphant—but then the smile wafted away like so much smoke. Triumphant? “Look, I…” She gazed out over the grandstands, at the cars in their stalls, the race crews milling about, the security folks dragging some guy away…. “What the—” Blain followed her gaze. Just then some man wearing a team uniform bent down to inspect his car. “Oh, damn,” Cece said, furious with herself that she’d been so distracted by Blain that she hadn’t even noticed the commotion in the garage. “Someone must have snuck in.” “Yeah,” she said, turning to dash off. But why? CHAPTER SIX THEY RAN. Cece kept ahead of him, though Blain managed to catch up to her from time to time. Their first stop was at the entrance to the infield tunnel, and it prompted Cece to reach for a badge Blain hadn’t even known she was carrying. The woman who guarded the entrance waved Cece through. Frankly, she hardly paid any attention to either of them, despite the fact that they’d run up to her, were wet and obviously in a hurry. “Cece, wait,” Blain said as he moved to catch up. But she didn’t slow down. By the time they made it through the fluorescent-lit tunnel, Blain was feeling out of breath and grudgingly impressed with Cece’s stamina. “Which way?” she asked as they emerged into the rain again. “This way,” Blain said, turning toward the two-story VIP suites blocking the view from the pit road. There was an opening near the end of the building, and Blain wiped the rain from his face as they entered the garage. Cece stopped abruptly. Blain looked toward where the security personnel had been a few moments before. Gone. He inhaled deeply, his heart pounding to the point that he could see his shirt move in rhythm to the beat. “Took him away,” Cece said, sounding far less out of breath than Blain. They had. A lone security guard stood talking to Jeff Burks, crew chief of the number twenty-one car. “We can go talk to Jeff,” Blain said, setting off again. But Cece didn’t follow. He stopped, turned. Her hair had collected drops of rain like blades of grass, the team jacket she wore darker on the shoulders. Her chest barely rose and fell. “You coming?” he asked. “No.” His puzzled eyes must have asked the question he didn’t. “I shouldn’t reveal my presence here,” she answered. He looked as confused as he felt because she said, “I know I ran down here like I was, but in hindsight, announcing the fact that I’m an FBI agent might not be such a good idea.” “Why not?” “Because my boss doesn’t want people to know I’m here. And because this is still just an investigation. If I go around questioning people, it’ll raise flags.” “So raise them.” She reached out and touched Blain’s arm. He hadn’t put on a jacket, so it was bare and wet, and her palm was so warm it startled him. “I was told to keep a low profile, Blain. Flashing my badge around is not low profile.” He gazed at her in frustration. “Look,” she said. “I sincerely doubt a bad guy would tinker with a race car in full view of race fans and television cameras.” Blain turned back to where said bad guy had stood. Jeff laughed at something the security guard had just said and it made Blain irritated with the whole situation all over again. Man, this uncertainty drove him nuts. “They took the guy into custody, Blain. I’ll get someone to call security and ask what all it was about, but not right now. I’d rather be more subtle.” “Fine,” he said, glancing back at Jeff and the security guard. They were walking away, the crew apparently satisfied that all was well. “I’ll call my office and fill them in on what just happened.” He nodded. She touched him again. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, Blain. I just don’t want to answer the inevitable questions that’ll be raised if word gets out that an FBI agent is snooping around the racetrack.” And as much as he wanted her to do the exact opposite of what she suggested, Blain found himself saying, “Fine.” She released his arm. “It’s probably nothing.” He wiped a hand over his face, rain dripping off the edge of his palm. It probably was. Damn, but he wished he could believe that. “Let me make some calls and we’ll find out for sure.” AND SHE’D BEEN RIGHT. Turned out some overzealous race fan had wanted to stuff a good luck sock into the frame of the car. Asock. Ridiculous, but not unheard of, and as Blain returned to his hotel room later that night, he found himself grateful that Cece had kept her head, that she’d been the calmer of the two, and that she’d been subtle in her handling of the situation. She’d impressed him. And she’d also made him think that maybe, just maybe, the feds were right. This was all a wild-goose chase. He hoped so, he thought as he knocked on her hotel room door. “Hey,” she said in a tired voice after the door swung wide. “Here’s the information you wanted.” “Thanks.” She took the papers from him as she leaned against the door frame. She looked beat. Exhausted. As if she’d worked nonstop since coming back to the hotel. She probably had. “Did you find out anything more about that guy?” She nodded. “Nothing more than a race fan, complete with car-tire coffee table at home.” Blain’s shoulders loosened. Maybe it was time to let it go. Maybe he had been overreacting. “You finished working?” She shook her head. “Looks like it’ll be a long night. I want to get this wrapped up by tomorrow.” So she could leave. Head back to San Francisco. He wished she didn’t have to go. “Have you had anything to eat?” he asked. “No. And I don’t really feel like going out to grab a bite, either.” “There are other ways to get a bite than going out,” he said, pushing on her door so he could enter. “What are you doing?” she asked after stepping aside. “You need nourishment,” he said, sparing the room hardly a glance as he went to her nightstand and picked up the phone. “You’re no good to the investigation if you drop dead from starvation.” He didn’t even hear her approach. Didn’t even feel her behind him until her arm brushed his own, the white T-shirt she wore transferring static to the hair on his arms. “Don’t,” she said, grabbing the phone from his hand. Green eyes that looked a hell of a lot different than they had in high school peered up at him without an ounce of hostility. Beautiful eyes, he admitted to himself. Unusual and striking with their gold and silver flecks, flecks that matched her loose hair. “I’m fine. Really,” she said, hanging up the phone. “I’ll eat something later on. Right now I need to concentrate on my files, and this list of names.” She held up the papers he’d given her. Disappointment flickered through him. “Hey,” she said, her eyes brightening. “I heard they ran qualifying. Who won the pole?” And he felt like a kid all of a sudden, boasting to the cute girl next door as he said, “We did.” She smiled up at him. Not that fake, sexy smile she’d used on him at the airport. Not the false smile she’d given him any number of times since, but a genuine, happy-for-him smile. She was happy for him. Why did that surprise Blain so damn much? “That’s wonderful,” she said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “You must be thrilled.” He was thrilled. And you know what? It felt good to share the information with her. Yeah, they might have started out on the wrong foot, but in the past twenty-four hours he’d developed a whole new respect for Cecilia Blackwell. She hadn’t tossed his concerns aside. Hadn’t treated his worries like they were nothing. So far she’d acted with absolute professionalism—well, aside from that incident at the airport, but overall, yeah, she’d done a good job. He respected her for that. “Yeah, well, I wish you’d stick around for at least the Busch race tomorrow night.” And he really did. “Too much stuff to do this weekend.” He scanned her face, noted yet again how pretty she looked without makeup, how much she’d changed, how if she were any other woman, he’d… He’d what? Want to date her, he realized. Beauty, brains and a NASCAR fan—a guy could do a lot worse. “I should get back to work,” she said, looking suddenly uncomfortable. Had she read in his eyes some of what he’d been thinking? “What time do you leave tomorrow?” “Late morning.” He didn’t know what to say after that. “Then I guess this is goodbye, since I have to be at out the track early.” “I guess so,” she said, looking anywhere but his eyes. “Good luck tomorrow and Sunday.” “Thanks.” Damn it. He didn’t want her to leave. He wanted to spend more time with her. To find out what she’d been up to in recent years. Who her favorite driver was. What kind of ice cream she liked. What? He stepped back. “Have a safe flight.” “Thanks,” she said again. “You, too.” But as he turned away, he couldn’t help but feel regret. His hand even lingered on the door for a moment, then quickly, before he changed his mind, he left her room. “Bye,” he heard as the door closed. Yeah, bye. Damn it. CHAPTER SEVEN CECE MAY HAVE HOPED for a clean getaway, but apparently that wasn’t on the cards. A phone call from her boss had her speeding to the racetrack when she couldn’t get through to Blain. Apparently the man didn’t like being interrupted on race day, so he turned off his cellphone. Track officials were no help. Nor was anybody at his shop. Thus Cece found herself fighting race fans on their way to the Busch race. Returning to the track made her feel…anxious. Yeah, anxious. She’d spent the whole night analyzing her feelings for Blain. Scratch that. She’d spent the whole night replaying the look on his face when he’d said goodbye. She could have sworn she’d seen regret in his eyes, regret she felt, too. And now here she was, about to face him again, and instead of concern over the news she had to impart, what she felt instead was anxiety that she was about to see him again. She parked in the infield again, only today she was wearing regular jeans and a comfy off-white sweater that, perversely enough, was too warm, since today there were no thunderclouds in the distance. Thus she was overheated, out of sorts and not in a good mood when she finally tracked down Blain in his Cup car hauler, not the Busch car garage where she’d spent the last half hour looking for him. “Cece,” he said when he spotted her outside the sliding glass doors. Cece almost didn’t recognize him. He wore a different shirt—this one for a different sponsor—the blue polo shirt making his eyes all the more striking. And there went her heart. Thump, thump, thump, just as it used to do when they were kids. When he’d been out of her reach and she’d wished he wasn’t, and now, oddly…he wasn’t. “Changed your mind, did you?” he asked with a huge grin. “No,” she said, suddenly feeling strange. Okay, so she probably wasn’t looking forward to telling him her news. That was to be expected. But she had a feeling her sudden tension had to do more with seeing him face-to-face again than any official business. Maybe, but that didn’t make it any easier. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all morning,” she said, suddenly wanting to get this over with. He looked wary, his smile dimming a few watts. “What’s up?” he asked. She took a deep breath, wishing she’d never gotten involved with this stupid investigation in the first place. But there was no sense in sugarcoating things. And so she let out the breath and said, “Forensics came back with a preliminary report on the wreck that killed your friend.” “On a Saturday?” “They work round the clock.” “And?” Damn it, why did she hate doing this so much? “They found evidence of nitrates.” His mouth hung open, the smile completely gone now. “Explosives?” She nodded, quickly and sharply. “It’s nothing for certain yet, Blain. Just a chemical swipe that came back positive. They still have to run things through the computer, but I thought you should know.” The crowd roared. Blain looked off to the infield. 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