Killer Curves

by Roxanne St Claire

  “I came to talk to Gavin.” Of course.

  “He’s not home yet. I don’t think his plane lands until six or six-thirty.”

  Craig shook his head and looked at his Rolex. “He was in at two this afternoon. I saw him at the office before he left for an afternoon meeting. He told me to meet him here at five o’clock.”

  With an unnaturally bright smile, Elise slipped off her gloves. “He must have gotten tied up, then. Come inside and have something cool to drink, and we can try to reach him. It’s not like him to miss a meeting with you, Craig.”

  She saw his jaw tighten. Craig Lang hated to have anyone in his way of anything. He would do so well in business and politics. “Would you like to stay for dinner, Craig?”

  “No, thank you. I have other plans.”

  Elise waited, watching his impassive face for a clue to how he felt. Had he no emotion over the breakup? Had his elation at the country club that night been over the connection he’d made to Gavin and not Celeste? He seemed tense, but not emotionally distraught.

  He turned to leave. “Please let Gavin know he can reach me on my cell phone.”

  She impulsively laid her hand on his arm. “I know it can be difficult, but sometimes these things are for the best.” She was so damn glad Celeste hadn’t married this man. “I know it’s hard to realize that when you have a broken heart.”

  His eyes sparked, glinting with surprise. “I don’t have a broken heart, Elise.”

  Of course he didn’t have a broken heart. Marrying Celeste had clearly been a career decision, a means of maintaining the lifestyle he required. When he left, she bent to retrieve her tools and inhaled the delicate fragrance of the French Lace one more time, hating herself for having been no better than Craig Lang when she married Gavin.

  Chapter

  Nine

  Heading for the area where Kaylene told her she’d find the motor coach on Thursday night, Celeste decided the infield of Pocono Raceway really was like a small city. It buzzed with action and people who virtually moved into the track for the weekend. Music boomed from portable stereos and engines howled. Small groups of fans and tourists hoping for a glimpse of their favorite driver loitered around the edges of the area reserved for teams and families. She showed her pass to a guard, thinking about the wholesale changes she’d made to Saturday night’s event.

  She’d countered the catering manager’s condescension about the package deal they usually gave Chastaine with a money-is-no-object attitude, and categorically deep-sixed the original decoration scheme. Once she found the video library, she came up with the finishing touch. She felt good about the event, humming an old Springsteen tune as she approached the door of the coach with the number and markings Kaylene had described.

  It was unlocked. Beau must be inside, she thought, anticipation crackling through her as she stepped up and into the main living area. In the dim light, she could see her suitcase on a leather sofa, where someone had delivered it.

  “Hello?” She found a light switch and looked beyond a galley kitchen to the door that she assumed led to the bedroom.

  “Anybody home?” she tried again, running a finger along the granite edge of the countertop as she walked through. Behind a door outside of the bedroom was a room with a toilet and sink. Across from it, behind a different door, was a glass-enclosed double-headed shower and an oversize, mirrored bathtub with built-in Jacuzzi jets.

  This was not your basic double-wide, that was for sure.

  The bedroom, decorated in muted pastels, plush carpeting, and pale oak cabinetry around a queen-size bed, appeared untouched. Shrugging, she returned to the salon, lifted her suitcase from the sofa and carried it into the bedroom.

  As she unpacked, she considered the inviting marble bath just a few feet away. But what if Beau came in while she was in there? She tested the lock on the bathroom door. It seemed pretty secure. Not that Beau was the type of man to come barreling in the bath, demanding to see her naked.

  A shiver skipped over her as she remembered the look on his face when she’d caught him staring down her undershirt. Lust. Unmistakable, unadulterated lust. Mirroring, no doubt, the look he saw on her face when he kissed her. A familiar tug low down reminded her of her body’s insane response when his tongue brushed her lip.

  Oh God, she was going to lose this battle. Just give in, Celeste. Take what you want for once in your life.

  She ran hot water, poured in some peach-scented bath gel, figured out how to work the Jacuzzi jets, then found a Tricia Yearwood CD amid the collection of hard rock, and slipped it into the sound system. The occasional shout of a passerby, a few children’s voices, and the intermittent scream of engines from the track were drowned out by the opening ballad.

  She took fresh clothes into the bath, then locked the door. Oh, yes. This was just what she needed. She undressed, dimmed the lights, and climbed into a mountain of inviting bubbles.

  An unbidden image of Beau Lansing stepping in next to her flashed in her mind. She squeezed her eyes shut, but there it was. Beau. Wet. Bare. Muscular. Aroused.

  “Control yourself, Celeste,” she chastised in her best Elise Hamilton Bennett voice.

  Finding a volume control near the tub, she turned Tricia up and slid lower. A single switch launched a surge of the powerful water jets, and for the first time since she’d started on her clandestine adventure, Celeste relaxed.

  Then the music stopped.

  She sat upright in the bath and reached to adjust her volume control. Nothing. Someone had turned the CD player off in the living room.

  Beau must be home.

  Hating the thrill that accompanied that thought, she stopped the Jacuzzi jets and listened, half waiting for his Hi, honey, I’m home, or something equally annoying and cute.

  But only silence greeted her. Maybe the stereo system had malfunctioned?

  Slowly she stood, bubbles clinging and popping all over her body.

  “Beau?” she called.

  She heard a muffled noise, then a bump. Hangers scraping over the rod in the closet. A drawer opening.

  The first drops of fear formed around her neck. Silently she stepped out of the tub, listening.

  Then she saw the brass doorknob move. Not hard, not desperate. A test of the lock.

  Up. And down. And up again.

  Her lips formed Beau’s name, wanting to be reassured that he stood out there. Her pulse started a slow, rhythmic beat in her ears. She heard something scratch, then a scrape of something against the door. Like an animal trying to get in.

  Her gaze froze on the lock, her breath trapped in her chest.

  Silence. Then, the unmistakable scuff of a match being struck. She sucked in a breath as the pungent odor of sulfur drifted under the door. Paralyzed, she tried to scream, but no sound came. The first acrid fumes of fire reached her nose.

  Fire. Black fear hammered in her chest and ears.

  Celeste looked up at the narrow slits of glass that lined the top of the walls, the odor of smoke stronger now. Could she climb up and squeeze out of one? Could she even open one for air? Impossible.

  She would fling open the door and take her chances.

  Then a flash of something on the floor caught her eye. A golden flame licked under the door and she jumped back, a scream caught in her throat. Instinctively she grabbed a washcloth and dropped to her knees, snuffing out the fire. As she lifted the cloth, a half-burned piece of paper dangled from the end of it. A blackened edge dropped off, and she froze, holding the washcloth in the air with her image—her own smiling face—hanging like a burn victim from a rescue helicopter.

  Her legs started to shake so hard she wobbled and nearly fell, and she grabbed the edge of the tub.

  She recognized the charred glossy paper immediately. It was from a feature story House Beautiful had done on Elise’s home. She’d been there the day the photographers came, and Elise had talked her into posing with her in the gazebo, surrounded by prize roses. Most of her mother’s face was burne
d off, but Celeste’s was clear.

  Hastily scrawled block letters in thick black marker blotted out the pink roses at the bottom of the picture:

  YOU DON’T BELONG HERE.

  She dropped it as if it had burned her.

  Someone knew who she was. Someone standing inches away from her, ominously silent with a pack of matches and ugly intent.

  Naked, wet, terrified, and trapped, Celeste opened her mouth to scream for help.

  Chapter

  Ten

  “Beau? You in there, buddy?” A man’s voice outside the motor coach, accompanied by three hard raps on the door, stopped her from screaming.

  Celeste recognized the southern tones of the round-faced mechanic, Tony Malone, and relief numbed her limbs. Whoever stood on the other side of her bathroom door was also trapped.

  She tried to call his name, but her voice came out scratchy from fear. She cleared her throat and tried again. “To-ny!”

  He couldn’t have heard her. But someone in the motor coach did. She listened to the retreating footsteps. Not on the tile floor of the kitchenette and not moving toward the main door. The intruder moved deeper into the trailer, into the bedroom.

  “Beau! I gotta talk to you man!” Three more insistent knocks outside, then a muffled curse. “All right. I’ll catch ya later, pal.”

  No, she wanted to scream! Don’t leave! She listened, sniffing for more smoke, but the pungent smell had subsided. Was someone waiting out there for her?

  YOU DON’T BELONG HERE.

  Rigid goose bumps rose over her exposed skin. Who knew? Had Travis confided his secret to someone else? Or did someone think she might be seeking him out for money or fame? Who would carry a picture from a two-month-old magazine around?

  Who knew that Celeste Bennett was in a motor coach on the infield of the Pocono Raceway?

  “Anybody in here?” His voice was like honey, like pure, liquid gold.

  Beau. Gorgeous, impossible, trustworthy Beau.

  “I’m in the bath!” Her voice sounded maddeningly weak and helpless. She had to warn him that someone was in the bedroom.

  She heard his footsteps, then heard him sniff. “You smokin’ in there?”

  She turned the lock on the handle and inched the door open.

  He wore a Chastaine ball cap and a curious expression, his racing suit unzipped almost to his waist with the edges of a cobalt blue twenty-three peeking out. A thin sheen of perspiration clung to his face.

  She opened the door wider and reached for him, grabbing his neck and pulling him close to her face.

  “Wow.” He pulled back and devoured her bubble-covered body, a flash of raw sexual response darkening his gaze. “I missed you too.”

  “Someone is in here!” she whispered frantically.

  He frowned, searching her face. “What are you talking about?”

  She squeezed his arms. “He went in there.” She looked toward the bedroom, taking in her garment bag, now unzipped and draped over the bed, and the dresser drawers, which hung like open jaws. A sickening sense of invasion seized her.

  Beau eased her back into the bathroom. “Don’t move.”

  She grabbed a towel and held it in front of her, then leaned out to watch him step into the bedroom and stand perfectly still for a moment. In one swift movement, he leaped to the back corner of the room, beside a built-in dresser. She hadn’t even noticed the small steel door in the corner. Of course there would have to be a second exit. For safety. For fire.

  He turned the handle and swung it open. “It was unlocked.”

  Twisting the lock after he closed it, he moved around the room, his gaze penetrating every corner. He yanked the closet door open. Her clothes hung on a half dozen hangers. He lifted the bed skirt, revealing a solid wooden platform to the floor. He snapped the bedclothes back in place and muttered a curse. “I’ll arrange for extra security. Sometimes these people just go berserk. We’ve had some real nutcase fans before—”

  “It wasn’t a fan.” She held out what was left of the magazine page and he took it from her quivering hand, then he sucked a quick breath in as he read the words at the bottom.

  “Someone knows who I am,” she said. “Someone came in here and lit this on fire and put it under the door.”

  His eyes widened as he ran a hand through his long hair. “Whoa.”

  “Have you told anyone?” she demanded.

  He shook his head. “No one.” He looked down at the page again. “Could someone have recognized you? Someone from the media or your family? Where have you been all day?”

  “I went straight to the Hospitality Center first, working on Saturday’s event. Then I came back here. I haven’t seen any cameras or reporters and no one was inside the VIP area when I returned to the motor coach.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t get it. Why wouldn’t someone just confront you? Why break in here and try to scare you?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, “but they sure succeeded.”

  That warm gaze sliced over her again, lingering on the towel she held in front of her. “You want to get dressed?”

  For the first time, she realized he’d seen her naked, and embarrassment flooded through her. “Yes, of course.” She closed the door and quietly slipped into drawstring pants and a T-shirt, foregoing underwear. She didn’t want to be alone in that bathroom one second longer than necessary.

  When she opened the door, he reached out and pulled her against his chest, the smell of oil and garage oddly comforting to her. His heart beat steadily, and she imagined, just a little quicker than usual.

  “Don’t worry,” he said in a gentle voice. “I won’t let you alone for a minute until you’re safe at home.”

  She stiffened, flattening her hands against him and leaning back. “Home? What are you talking about?”

  “You can’t stay here alone. But I have to practice and qualify and race, so I can’t be with you every waking second.”

  “I don’t need you with me every waking second,” she insisted, although the idea had a definite appeal, especially when he held her like this. She pulled herself from his grasp. “And I’m not backing away—that’s exactly what this jerk wants. I have a job to do.”

  “Are you out of your mind? This joker is certifiable.” He snapped the paper angrily between his fingers.

  She shook her head. “I’m not leaving.” She saw the fight start in his eyes, so she flipped her trump card. “Anyway, don’t you still want my kidney?”

  He glared at her, leaning closer, and lowering his voice to a threatening level. “Not if someone is going to scare the bejesus out of you while you hang out and decide if Travis is worthy of it.”

  She turned and walked toward the kitchenette. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

  He was right behind her. “Then what do you call it?”

  “Research.”

  “I’ll tell you everything you want to know about him. By phone. From someplace where you’re safe.”

  “No. I won’t quit.”

  He slammed the scorched page on the granite countertop. “You’re being stupid.”

  “I’m not stupid,” she argued. “Can’t we just keep our eyes and ears open and try to figure out who knows who I am?”

  “How would we know? We’re obviously dealing with a pretty devious character.”

  “I’ll know,” she said with certainty. “I’ll know by the way someone looks at me.” For a moment, she remembered the look in Travis’s eyes when he confronted her on the track. “Were you at the garage all this time? Was anyone missing during the last half hour?”

  He rubbed the stubble on his cheek as he thought about her question. “Guys come and go constantly. I wasn’t paying any attention. We were working on the car setup for qualifying tomorrow.”

  “Was Travis there?”

  He looked at her sharply. “Every minute.”

  She dropped onto the leather sofa, determination replacing the helplessness she’d felt fifteen minutes ear
lier. “I’ll figure it out. I know I will.”

  Beau began a systematic inspection of all the windows, testing the locks with determined pushes.

  “Can we really get a guard outside?” she asked.

  “Of course. A lot of drivers have them. Like I said, some of these so-called fans can be vicious.”

  “But this wasn’t a fan,” she said softly.

  “You don’t know that. Maybe some guy who hates me or some woman with fantasies found this magazine in their hotel room, recognized you, and decided to be clever.” He paused long enough to tower over her. “Until we figure out what to do, I’ll stay as close to you as possible.”

  He wore the same expression as the other night—a softening of his eyes, a hardening of his jaw. It did things to her. Wild, thrilling things.

  She shrugged nonchalantly. “I don’t really have a choice, do I? I mean, we’re engaged.”

  He snapped his fingers. “That reminds me.” He reached into the pants pocket of his racing suit. “I have something for you.” When he pulled out a small black box, her heart constricted.

  A teasing light brightened his eyes. “I figured it would ruin my reputation to have my fiancée running around the track without the right equipment.” He flipped the lid and light glinted off the diamond. “I know you’ve had a few of these, so you’re probably a connoisseur. Consider this a provisional.”

  An intelligent response escaped her. “A provisional?”

  “The car you have to accept until you get the one you want.” He winked and handed her the open box.

  She stared at the amazing round solitaire perched on a platinum band. A thousand white sparks danced over its perfect surface.

  It was nearly as big as the lump that formed in her throat. Another meaningless engagement ring. She snapped the box shut. “Do I have to wear this?”

  “In public, at least. If that won’t bother you too much.”