Killer Curves

by Roxanne St Claire

  She scanned the parking lot, honing in on a black Porsche Carrera. “Bet I can guess which one is yours.”

  He followed her gaze and lifted one shoulder. “Lead the way if you think I’m such a cliché.”

  She reached the Porsche and watched him pull a key ring from his jeans pocket. She put her hand on the passenger door handle. “I knew it. The girl magnet.”

  “Weren’t you paying attention yesterday?” He held up the remote keyless entry and squeezed. The lights on a big red truck behind her flashed. “I drive a Chevy.”

  She couldn’t help smiling as she moved around to the other side of the truck, hearing him chuckle at his little victory. She tugged at her skirt and tried to climb into the truck with a measure of modesty.

  “You’re lucky,” he said as his gaze lingered over her exposed thigh. “My other cars don’t even have doors.” He winked as he closed the door, sending an unnerving tingle through her.

  Stop, stop, stop! The warning light flashed in her head as she pulled her seat belt over her shoulder. She couldn’t fall for that practiced charm. It was only part of his plan to save the man who signed his paychecks. He even told her in New York that was Plan A.

  She couldn’t let Don Juan of Daytona become even remotely appealing to her. Then she’d be no different from the foolish girl who fell for Beau’s boss thirty years ago. Her need to fill a void that had gnawed at her since she was fourteen had nothing to do with the attractive race car driver.

  Sliding behind the wheel, he glanced over at her before he put the key in the ignition. “Wanna drive?”

  She shook her head. “Not if you can keep it under a hundred and fifty miles an hour.”

  He turned the key with a devious smile. “No promises.”

  He took it slow through downtown traffic, then onto a busy four-lane highway. They talked about the race and he explained the difference in a race car being tight and being loose and why he wrecked.

  “Basically, the whole race depends on finding the balance,” he said. “That’s why I was so furious with Wag. We had it. Perfectly.”

  She remembered his ominous demands in the pit. “Will Travis fire him?”

  Beau shrugged. “Travis would have to be crew chief himself for the rest of the season and that’s…well, you know that’s not feasible.”

  She’d wondered how long until he brought up Travis. “He looked pretty healthy to me.”

  “Yeah, like I told you, he’s going to be perfectly normal for a while. He’s going to dialysis once a week, but no one knows that except me.” He looked over to her. “Did you notice the kind of yellowish tint to his eyes? That’s jaundice.”

  “And here I thought it was venom.”

  He grinned and shook his head. “He’s all engine noise and no horsepower. Ignore that.”

  “Who else knows about his condition?”

  “A lot of people know he’s been sick, but no one knows how serious it is.”

  Why did it have to be a life-or-death situation? Why did she have to hold the key to the man’s life inside her? “And what does his doctor say?”

  “That the two years it takes to make it to the top of the donor list is pretty much a moot point, since he doesn’t have that much time. And even if he did, his best bet would be a match from a relative.”

  “Which leads directly to…me,” she said, studying the blue expanse of the Intracoastal Waterway they were approaching and the long, narrow bridge they had to cross. She took a deep breath. “Are you sure there’s no one else? Not a brother or sister or cousin?”

  He accelerated onto the bridge. “They had a little problem with cirrhosis and suicide in the trailer park where Travis grew up. He lost his brother years ago, and both his parents.”

  A wave of nausea threatened Celeste’s empty stomach. As the truck clunked onto the steel roadway, she read the green sign announcing the entrance to Broadway Bridge. Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes.

  She conjured up images of self-destructive alcoholics in a double-wide, then tried to erase them by opening her eyes. But the vista in front of her only made her queasier.

  “Why do you think that man would take a kind word from me, let alone a body part? He didn’t like me at all.”

  “He has a lot of baggage, that’s all.” He accelerated into the left lane and Celeste’s lungs expanded as she gripped the handbag on her lap.

  “Uh-huh.” Her pulse kicked up as they started their ascent.

  He glanced at her. “He’s a good man when you get past all that.”

  She ventured a glance at the water, way below.

  “Are you scared of heights or something?” he asked.

  “Bridges,” she admitted in a tight voice. “I’m terrified of bridges.”

  “Seriously?” He reached over the console and put his hand on her leg, searing the bare skin where her hem met her thigh. “Don’t worry; you’re perfectly safe. I’m a great driver.”

  “In circles. You’re very good at turning left.” She clenched her teeth and tried to ignore the heat of his hand, which was as dizzying as their elevation.

  “Just don’t think about it,” he said. “Think about the race you saw. You started with the most historic track in NASCAR, you know.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It made Petty and it killed Earnhardt. Nowhere else like it in the world.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Just one more minute, darlin’.” He squeezed her leg. “We’re almost over it.”

  Until they were, he kept the conversation on racing and his hand on her leg.

  Beau avoided the topic of Travis during their meal, deciding it was best not to pressure her at the start. They ate at a casual restaurant on the beach that he liked because the owner always tucked him into a private corner, never mentioning to the other patrons that one of Daytona’s more famous residents had dropped in. Fewer interruptions, fewer autographs.

  She was adept at small talk, getting him to talk about NASCAR’s influence on the city, with its corporate offices located a few miles away and the steady stream of revenue from the world famous track. But he didn’t want to talk about racing or business or Daytona. He wanted to know more about her.

  “How long have you lived in New York City?” he asked when they were nearly done with their food.

  “A couple of years. After college I went home to Connecticut for a while, but that was pretty stifling, so I moved to the city.”

  “Is that when you started in the lucrative docent business?”

  She gave him a friendly smirk. “I got a job in advertising, and I moved in with my old college roommate who lived in TriBeCa. I worked for a year as an art director.”

  “Just a year? What happened?”

  She looked down at her eggs. “I quit.”

  “Why?”

  She crossed her knife and fork on the edge of her plate, tines down. He remembered reading somewhere that the gesture was meant to tell the waiter you’d finished. He doubted their server at Conchy Pete’s knew that, though. “Didn’t you like advertising?”

  “No. I really enjoyed the work. I studied art in college, and advertising, especially the video work, was fun. But my parents weren’t too crazy about my living downtown or working. Anyway, I got engaged.”

  “Did life stop then or something?”

  She laughed self-consciously. “Until I got unengaged.”

  He looked pointedly at her left hand, noticeably missing the rock he’d seen in New York.

  “I do that a lot,” she said quietly.

  “Do what a lot?”

  “Get unengaged.” A soft pink flushed her cheeks, which made her silky complexion even prettier.

  “What’s a lot?”

  “Three.”

  “Three?” He choked in surprise. “Yep. That’s a lot.”

  She folded her napkin in a perfect rectangle and laid it next to her plate. “You sound like my mother. And the wedding planner at the Plaza.”

  “How recent
ly was the last casualty?”

  “Last week.”

  “Oh.” He pushed his chair back on two legs and regarded her. “You know, I think I see a pattern here.”

  Crossing her hands on her lap, she looked directly at him, all humor gone from her eyes. “No pattern. I just haven’t met the right guy.”

  All his competitive nerve endings fired up. “What are you looking for?”

  She shrugged. “I’ll know him when I meet him.”

  And wouldn’t he be one lucky bastard? “Someone like your father?”

  “Which father?”

  He grinned at the quick comeback and seized the opening. “I’m encouraged to hear you think of Travis as your father.”

  “Only on paper.”

  “And by blood.”

  The waiter arrived at that inopportune moment to clear their plates. Beau watched her in silence, while she kept her eyes down.

  When they were alone, she looked up at him. “I’ll make the decision—the right decision—in my own time. Don’t try to guilt me into it.”

  “Just let me explain a few things to you. It doesn’t have to alter your life, Celeste. I’ve looked into this operation. You won’t be in the hospital very long and nothing will change.”

  Her face was impassive. “I’m not ready to discuss the details. That’s not why I’m here.” She moved her chair back from the table. “I want to know what the man who…who fathered me…is really like.”

  “I don’t get this. Does he have to pass some kind of personality test?” Feeling the rising heat of his temper, he clenched his teeth. “Do you have to like him enough to save his life?”

  Irritation flashed across her face. “I don’t know what to do about his illness. I just want to know my background. Is that so hard to understand? I’ve spent sixteen years wondering who I am and where I belong.”

  He couldn’t imagine that. She belonged anywhere she wanted to, and looked like she could own the place.

  The waiter brought their check and Beau handed him a credit card without looking at the bill. “So what happens when you figure out he can be an SOB with a lousy temper and a closed mind? What happens if you don’t like him, Celeste? Does that mean he’s not worthy of your help?”

  She leaned forward. “I’ve spent my life being a good girl, Beau. Doing the right thing, doing what would make my parents happy. Hoping against hope that would be enough to erase that look of condescension in my father’s eyes and that look of guilt in my mother’s. But I’m not doing that anymore.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m not going to make one more decision based on not wanting to disappoint someone. Him or you or anyone.”

  “Well, good for you, Celeste.” He slapped his napkin on the table. “Just remember there’s a big difference between disappointment and death.”

  “Okay, start my lesson now,” Celeste requested as they drove back to the Ramada to get her bags and take her to the apartment. A lesson in racing would keep her attention off the bridge they’d have to cross and give her something else to think about besides Travis.

  “What do you want to know?” Beau asked. “The cars, the tracks, the rules?”

  The driver. “Better start with the sponsors. I met a couple of people at the race. I take it the distinguished-looking gentleman with the trophy wife is the head guy at Dash?”

  “Yep.” He nodded. “Harlan Ambrose is the second in command at Dash, but he’s the top dog for us. He has some multisyllabic title that translates into ‘next in line to be CEO.’ He has authority over the marketing fund, which includes the quadrillions they spend on us.” He tapped on the brake and glanced at her. “Close your eyes now, darlin’.”

  She complied and pictured the clipped salt-and-pepper hair and no-nonsense expression of Harlan Ambrose. The glitzy wife didn’t fit him. “What about his arm candy?”

  “Olivia Ambrose. She’s a thorn in my life, I’m afraid.”

  She opened her eyes at his bitter tone. An ex, perhaps?

  He hit the gas and the truck rumbled over the metal planks of the bridge. “She’s not making me particularly popular with her husband.”

  “She’s very attractive,” Celeste said, remembering her sculpted cheekbones and the auburn tresses that hung in a sleek blunt cut over toned shoulders. “I especially liked that tattoo on her ankle.”

  “You were supposed to be watching the race.”

  “I was simply observing the native wildlife.” She watched him instead of the bridge. That was so much easier on the eyes. “I didn’t really talk to her. She was ice cold to me.”

  “I’m not surprised.” A devilish grin lifted the corners of his mouth. “No doubt she caught our kiss.”

  Her stomach dropped at the memory. “So she’s a big fan with a crush on you, and doesn’t try to hide it.”

  “If only it were that simple. She’s the sponsor’s wife and she’s…demonstrative.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who autographs the bosoms of Beau Babes.”

  Instead of laughing at her tease, his reply was serious. “I don’t do anything to encourage her.”

  He wouldn’t have to. She looked over at his movie-star-perfect profile, at the brawny arms and the stray locks that fell over the collar of his white polo shirt. The guy was drop-dead gorgeous, had a body a girl could eat with a spoon, a sexy job, and his own fan club. Good thing she was immune to all that.

  She shifted in her seat. “They left for the hospitality suite before your accident.”

  He snorted. “It wasn’t an accident. And I’m sure Harlan blew a gasket. As you can tell from the way we decorate our cars, sponsors are everything in motorsports. They hold the purse strings and they start to really tighten them over the next month or two.”

  “What happens then?”

  “Silly season.”

  She chuckled. “What’s that?”

  “When everything gets crazy. Owners start worrying about losing sponsors next year and drivers start worrying about losing their ride—their permanent job for the upcoming season. Everybody gets nasty and aggressive. Drivers get hurt. Tempers flare. Cars wreck.”

  “I thought that was called stock car racing.”

  “Very cute. Trust me, it gets ugly when you pass the midpoint of the season. Which occurred yesterday.”

  “Are you worried about losing your ride?”

  “Not particularly.”

  Unless something happened to Travis, she thought. “And the sponsorship?”

  “Dash is making noises about how important it is that we win a few races.”

  She looked across the highway at the silhouette of the massive Speedway and realized they’d crossed the bridge and she’d never even noticed. “You would have won yesterday,” she mused.

  “There’s next week. And now that I’ve got a good luck charm, I’m looking forward to Pennsylvania. Ever been to the Pocono mountains? It’s real pretty up there in the summer. You’re gonna love it.”

  “Am I going?”

  “Of course. We’re having the annual Chastaine sponsorship appreciation dinner. And you’re in charge of it.”

  “I am?”

  He shot her an I-told-you-so look. “You wanted the job, darlin’.”

  Chapter

  Seven

  Beau left Celeste at the apartment and drove the short distance to the Chastaine headquarters. Teased by the trace of her subtle perfume, which lingered in his truck, he thought about the woman who’d left it there. Engaged and unengaged. Three times.

  Easy to see how she’d get engaged—not that she was his type. He preferred women with a little meat on their bones and a lot of passion in their soul. Women who threw their head back when they laughed and screamed when they came. Celeste Bennett was thin to the point of fragile, and someone had drummed out the Chastaine passion and replaced it with impeccable manners.

  She wasn’t his kind of woman at all, even if she did have a knockout face and those sweet little breasts that would fit right in the palm of his hand. He
cursed the physical response that accompanied the mental image. She wasn’t his type. She was his problem, and the last thing he needed was to complicate matters further by trying to get into her pants.

  The parking lot of the Chastaine headquarters, a group of stucco buildings on the outskirts of Daytona, was nearly full. Travis’s Corvette was in its usual spot, and Wag’s brand-new Suburban sat right next to it. Gearheads knew nothing of Sundays. Hell, it was normally race day. Why would they stay home with their families when they could gather around a wreck and relive the idiotic decisions that caused it the night before?

  He found half the crew in the back of the garage, babying the demolished Chevy off the hauler for closer inspection. Wag and Travis were absent from the festivities, but he caught the eye of his chief mechanic, Tony Malone.

  “Hey, dog.” Tony’s chubby cheeks widened into a friendly grin as he slapped Beau’s shoulder. “Can’t resist a good funeral, huh?”

  “Long as it’s not mine, Malone.”

  The back of the hauler stood wide open like a giant mouth about to throw up the crumpled red and yellow metal that had damn near carried him into Victory Lane. He didn’t even want to look at it.

  He hung back as it rolled down the ramp, listening to the creative cursing of the team. If Wag were here, he’d have had to kill the bastard for his stupidity. Ordering an adjustment on the goddamn track bar after they’d achieved perfection.

  “That was one helluva spin, Beau,” Tony said as they lifted what was left of the hood. “You just about had Dallas too.”

  Beau said nothing as he studied the crushed engine, bent springs, and snapped hoses. He moved around the right side and crouched down to see the track bar. Sucking in a breath, he stared at the arm that connected the rear end to the chassis.

  “What the—” He reached forward and grabbed the steel bar, unable to comprehend what he saw. “Hey, Tony, c’mere.”

  In an instant, the mechanic was on the ground next to him. “ ’Sup?”

  “Who’s had their hands on this car since the race?” Beau demanded.

  “Postrace inspection techs, mostly. Some of the crew. Why?”