Killer Curves

by Roxanne St Claire

  Screw them all, Beau thought. He’d loved Gus, loved racing against him. It wasn’t his fault the stubborn mule wouldn’t wear an effective neck restraint.

  Forty more laps ticked off and someone blew an engine, bringing out a much-needed caution flag. Beau couldn’t make it without more fuel.

  “Splash ‘n’ go,” Travis ordered over the radio. “No rubber on this pit.”

  “Yep. Everyone else’ll take two,” Beau agreed, knowing the front runners would opt for the shorter pit stop of a two-tire change only. “Let me get in front. I’m not sliding at all.”

  “You need the track bar adjustment,” Wag argued. “You’re tight in every turn, Beau. Don’t push it.”

  “Fuel only,” Beau insisted as he rumbled down Pit Road and screeched to a halt for eight men to descend upon his car. “Don’t adjust a damn thing.”

  “We’re doin’ the track bar adjustment, Beau,” Wag responded. “Dallas is takin’ on four new tires.”

  Shit. This was exactly why he was on his fourth crew chief in as many years. Why couldn’t he find someone to think like he did, to work with him? Travis did, but Mickey Waggoner was the crew chief, and that gave him ultimate leadership on race day. The driver and owner had to defer.

  In nine and a half seconds he had two new tires, enough fuel to finish, and a looser track bar. But Dallas Wyatt beat him out of the pit by an inch and Beau took second place.

  “I thought you said he was taking four,” Beau said into his mike.

  “Got that one wrong,” Wag admitted. “Just race him, Beau. You can do it.”

  He had to hold his speed through the turns, like Dallas would. No mean feat on a thirty-one-degree bank, but he could do it. Before the track bar adjustment.

  “God damn it,” he groused. “I’m slidin’ all over hell and back. It’s too damn loose!”

  The car skimmed up the embankment of each turn, forcing Beau to skirt the wall until he purred in the long straight and nearly caught up to Dallas.

  “Don’t change a thing you’re doin’, man.” Travis’s voice was nearly drowned out by the thunderous crowd. “You were one point five seconds faster on that lap than Dallas. Go eat him for lunch, boy.”

  Beau inched closer on the straightaway and nearly rubbed Wyatt’s backside, the draft causing Dallas to swing just far enough up the track for Beau to fly right by.

  “Way to be, Beau Jangles!” Wag screamed in his ear.

  He lay full force on the throttle as the blur of the grandstands whizzed by. The stamping, chanting, strident complaints of the fans drowned out the noise of his engine. They were insane. Standing, screaming, goddamn demanding that he back off for the almighty Dallas Wyatt.

  Sorry, kids. This one’s for the angel watching from Pit Road.

  “Hold him off for four more laps and you got the checkered flag!” Travis said.

  Whooee! Beau screamed in his head. Life is good again!

  He lifted his foot off the throttle on turn one with three laps to go, and a wave of terror rolled through him as the back end swerved wildly up the track. He tapped the brake, but the throttle was locked, locked at 190 miles an hour as his car skidded toward the wall.

  Beau sucked in his breath and swore, gripping the useless wheel.

  “What the hell are you doin’?” Travis demanded.

  Beau felt his head smash into the restraint and his breath jam into his lungs at the force of the spinning car. Burning rubber mixed with a blinding cloud of white dust and asphalt. All he heard was the high-pitched shriek of brakes and the sickening scrape of metal against concrete, leaving a quarter-mile-long black and red and yellow streak along the wall.

  Chapter

  Five

  Celeste’s drawn-out gasp seared her throat, already raw from screaming. As she watched the blood-curdling crash, all she could hear was the deafening cheer of the crowd.

  Dear God. They want him dead.

  With 200,000 others, she stood and waited to see if they got their wish. As an ambulance and fire truck rolled out to Beau, her heart knocked against her ribs in a wild, crazy rhythm.

  Finally, the window net dropped down and Beau climbed out of the car, and a riotous chorus of boos shook the speedway. Beau said something to one of the medics who’d arrived, then looked up at the crowd and tossed them the same casual salute he’d given Becca in the coffee shop.

  What was left of Celeste’s heart flipped into what was left of her throat. She’d never experienced anything like the last three hours. Constant, heart-stopping, earth-shattering, and eardrum-cracking noise. Immeasurable speed and more drama than she’d ever imagined possible. And she had never, ever seen anyone cooler under pressure than Beau Lansing.

  As Dallas Wyatt roared over the finish line, Beau arrived at the pit, his hair soaked with sweat, his face dark with fury and frustration. He yanked at the Velcro collar of his racing suit and ripped it open halfway down his chest as he marched up to the bald man, Wag, about ten feet away from where Celeste sat.

  Beau rammed the man’s shoulders with two hands. “Why the hell did you make that adjustment?”

  Maybe not the coolest man she ever met.

  She took the few steps down to the track level of the pit, mesmerized by the exchange of curses and heated words.

  Wag pointed a finger at Beau’s chest. “Dallas got you loose, man. He got you loose. That’s racin’.”

  “That’s bullshit.” Beau kicked the corner of the giant red toolbox as Travis climbed down from his seat at the top of it.

  Travis put his hand on Beau’s back. “Calm down, boy,” he said. “That one hurt, I know. But I never seen better racin’ in my life.”

  “That was deliberate. Maybe Wag doesn’t know it and maybe he does, but that adjustment made me so loose, I lost it. Again.”

  Travis tried to push Beau out of the pit. “That kind of shit happens, Beau.”

  “It doesn’t just happen , man. That’s a fire, a broken seat belt, and now a bad adjustment. What the hell is next? I can’t get in the goddamned car and drive—and win—if I don’t know if I’m gonna get out alive. That son of a—”

  A television crew arrived in the pit, but Beau burned a hole in the reporter’s face with one deadly look. Travis stepped in front of the camera to answer a question.

  Beau twisted away, tearing down the zipper of his racing jacket and slipping his arms out of the sleeves. A drenched white T-shirt with a stylized number twenty-three stuck to the impressive planes of his chest. Celeste had seen the number everywhere since she got to Daytona. Gus Bonnet. The dead icon.

  He looked up to see her staring at him, his eyes still blazing, rivulets of sweat sliding down his face and hair giving him a menacing look. It disappeared when he smiled wryly. “Sorry you had to witness that.”

  She stepped closer. “It was really…amazing.”

  “Guess that depends on your perspective.” He narrowed his eyes at the track. “From where I sat, it was less than amazing.”

  “I mean the whole thing. Take it from someone whose spectator history consists of politely clapping at the U.S. Open. It was amazing.” She dropped her gaze over him, resisting the urge to stare at the way the fabric clung to him. “Are you all right?”

  He nodded and stabbed a hand through his wet hair. “Just pissed.” He leaned so close she could feel heat emanating off him. “Did you really like it?”

  She touched her throat. “I nearly lost my voice from screaming.”

  A sudden roar of approval shook the grandstands, and Beau looked across Pit Road to the celebration taking place on a huge black-and-white-checked stage. In the middle of it, Dallas Wyatt sprayed a crowd with champagne from the roof of his car.

  “Bastard,” Beau muttered. “I swear I’m gonna nail that son of a bitch.”

  “You were really close. That must hurt.”

  “Hell, I’m used to that this year.” He turned back and winked at her. “But I was trying to impress you.”

  “Color me impressed.�
�

  His eyes widened hopefully and his gaze dropped down her body. “Enough to…you know?” For a moment, her heart flew back into her throat. You know what?

  Oh. Of course. The kidney.

  “Let’s kill the hormones, kids, and get outta here.” Travis came up from behind her and put a hand on Beau’s shoulder. “We gotta talk.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss, Travis. Fire Wag’s ass. Tomorrow.” He pointed at Celeste. “And hire her.”

  “Jesus,” Travis mumbled. “Can’t you live without this particular one, boy?”

  “No.”

  The response earned a disgusted look from Travis.

  “Fine.” He pushed Beau forward, waving off another reporter before tossing a look at Celeste. “Be at our offices Monday morning.”

  Beau’s satisfied smile lit his face. He reached toward her and brushed his knuckles under her chin. “See ya later. Cece.”

  Gavin’s piglike snort, followed by a long wheeze, convinced Elise he was asleep. Stealing a glance at her bedside clock, she calculated what time he would begin to snore in earnest so she could sneak out of the room.

  Given the amount of scotch Gavin had consumed that evening, and the fact that he’d spent the morning poking himself into his latest mistress, she was certain she had less than ten minutes to wait. He’d drunk heavily after the important supporters had left the fund-raiser, basking in his own glory with trusted friends. It was not quite midnight. Even if she waited ten more minutes, she might have enough time.

  Gavin groaned again. Thank you, Miss December, for wearing him out. Gavin’s latest diversion must have been a Christmas baby. Why else would she be saddled with such a seasonal name?

  She actually had to keep from smiling every time Gavin casually mentioned his speechwriter or whatever fictional title he’d given her. As though Elise was so witless she didn’t know when he’d started a new affair.

  Without a sound, she slid out of bed, glided across the hallway, and tiptoed down the winding stair, holding the Italian cast-iron railing to guide her in the dark. In the butler’s pantry, she moved like a thief in the night to open a decanter of brandy and pour a half a glass in a crystal snifter. Her heart thumped in silly anticipation. She knew she should be long past this secret indulgence, but it was hard to resist. She simply loved the chance to hear the voice that burned in her memory, with the lazy cadence that still heated her.

  An explosion in the distance startled her and the brandy decanter slipped an inch in her fingers but didn’t hit the surface. Fireworks, of course. They would shake the quiet town of Darien for the next few hours as local teenagers played with bottle rockets and poppers to celebrate the Fourth of July.

  She didn’t bother to close the door of the media center. If the fireworks didn’t wake Gavin, the television certainly wouldn’t. Still, she lowered the volume before she turned on the system, so only she could hear.

  As soon as the image came on the screen, she fought a little twinge of disappointment. She was too late. A victor in shocking orange already climbed to the hood of a car, spraying champagne among the screaming throngs. Hope for a glimpse of Chas faded.

  But then the screen filled with crumpled steel and a damaged crimson number seven, fanning her spark of anticipation. She nestled into the leather chair, her brandy snifter forgotten on a side table, hoping that the mangled car would result in an interview with the owner.

  “It might be tough to talk to Beau Lansing because there seems to be some heated exchange going on in the Chastaine pit,” the reporter said.

  She sucked in a little breath at the Chastaine name. Even after all these years, it could cause a tickle of response in her. Suddenly the picture changed to a closeup of his driver, hair hanging wet with sweat, his temper flaring at someone in a matching suit. Pull back, pull back, she silently demanded the camera operator. He must be there somewhere.

  At last, she saw him. A warm rush poured over her at the sight of his face as he put a hand on the driver’s shoulder and said something.

  Ah, Chas. Older, heavier, but just as intense, just as dear.

  An unfamiliar face filled the screen. “It appears Beau was none too pleased with the results of that last pit stop but he is, thankfully, unhurt by that tango with the wall,” the reporter said. “Of course, this’ll hurt him even worse in the standings and add fuel to the fire that the Chastaine team is indeed cursed by the specter of Gus Bonnet’s tragic death earlier this season.”

  Outside another firework exploded, but Elise hardly heard it over the quickening thump in her chest as the camera focused on Chas.

  “Ah, shoot, we just got loose as a goose on that last lap and did a little rim-ridin’. That’s all. Ain’t no curse on us.” She knew she was grinning like a fool, but the sound of his voice still delighted her. “This Dash Chevy team is workin’ so hard this season, and we’re lookin’ at some big changes soon. Our luck’s bound to shift into another gear any day.”

  He turned away from the camera and Elise stared at the screen, willing the interviewer to ask one more question, give her just five more seconds with Chas, but the idiot jabbered on about track bars and pit stops.

  Then something caught her eye. In the corner of the screen, over the shoulder of the man on camera, was a familiar face. Her warm glow transformed instantly into ice-cold horror.

  “Oh my God in heaven, it’s Celeste,” she whispered to herself. “It’s Celeste.”

  Her breath was trapped in her lungs, threatening to suffocate her. Then the brandy snifter flew across the room, exploding against the television into a thousand slivers of crystal.

  “What the fuck are you doing, Elise?” Gavin’s thick voice sounded so ugly after Chas’s easy warmth. How long had he been there?

  Chapter

  Six

  Celeste watched dust dance in the sunlight sneaking through room-darkening drapes that didn’t quite meet in the middle. She rolled over the lumpy pillow to see the clock. It was nearly eleven, the latest she’d slept in years. Of course, the halls of the Ramada hadn’t quieted until 4 AM. Some spa she’d run away to.

  The jangle of the room phone made her jump. Only one person on earth knew where she was. She cleared her throat, but she still sounded half-asleep when she answered.

  “Did all that racing wear you out?” Beau asked.

  Her toes curled at the timbre of his voice.

  “No. The celebrations in the hallways did.” Sitting up, she tugged the twisted phone cord, nearly knocking over a glass of water on the nightstand.

  “Yep, they’re happy when Wyatt wins. I even see a few dead soldiers in the lobby.”

  Her pulse jumped. “Where are you?”

  “Downstairs. Hoping to take you to brunch. You didn’t make other plans with any of my many fans you met last night, did you?”

  She ran her fingers through her hair. What else was she going to do today? Hang out by the pool of the Speedway Spa and second-guess her decisions? “I need a few minutes.”

  “I’ll be in the lobby. Look for the guy with the stiff neck.”

  His crash had played over and over in her dreams. “How do you feel?”

  “Sore. Mad. Alive.” His laugh was dry. “I’ll see you in a few.”

  Trying to ignore the physical response she had to the sensual tone of his voice, she showered and shook her short hair dry, then slipped into a cotton sundress. With a touch of mascara and lip gloss, Celeste dropped her room key into her bag, slid on a pair of low-heeled sandals, and took one quick look around the room. The eerie sensation that she had stepped into someone else’s body tickled her again. Well, she had—into Cece Benson’s body. A woman about to find out who she really was.

  That was why anticipation skimmed over her as the elevator took her downstairs. It certainly wasn’t that sexy race car driver waiting there. Definitely not.

  He was merely a means to an end.

  She spotted him in the lobby, on a sofa with two boys who were no more than ten years old
. One knelt in rapt attention, the other bounced excitedly on his heels. Beau moved his hands in an animated demonstration of one car following another, his mouth making motor sounds that obviously delighted the boys.

  “But it’s never easy to pass on the outside and I don’t recommend it,” he warned with a serious look.

  As she approached, Beau looked up and broke into a smile that some toothpaste sponsor surely coveted. Standing, he ruffled the platinum hair of the smaller kid, who gazed up at Beau with veneration.

  “You tell your dad to get you a go-cart, Sam,” he said.

  “We’ll tell him you said so, Beau,” the other one promised, still bouncing on his heels.

  “I’m sure his mom will appreciate that,” Celeste said as they bounded away.

  “But be careful,” Beau called to them.

  The little blond turned for one more rapturous look, then waved with a piece of paper. “Thanks for the autograph! You’re the greatest, Beau!”

  “See?” she said. “You’ve got plenty of fans.”

  He stabbed a hand through his hair, his fingers lingering on his neck to rub it as he grinned at her. “Women and children love me. Unfortunately, they’re not very loud.”

  She wondered just how much that booing bothered him.

  “Come on,” he said, gesturing toward the front. “I’ll take you over to the beach. I know a great place.”

  As they walked, she said, “You know, it’s not necessary to babysit me.”

  “I’m not,” he said, holding the lobby door for her. “It’s moving day.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I arranged for you to stay in the Chastaine apartment. It’s not far from the shop. We can move your stuff there later.”

  “Okay,” she said, putting a hand over her eyes to shield them from the midsummer Florida sun. “I’ll be happy to check out of this place.”

  “Plus, I can brief you a little before your first day tomorrow so you impress the boss.” He snapped open his Oakleys and slipped them on, eliminating the possibility of reading anything else in those revealing eyes.