Killer Curves

by Roxanne St Claire

  Feigning indifference, she opened the box again. The brilliance took her breath away, but she hid her reaction as she looked back at him. “Everything about this charade bothers me.”

  He simply raised a mocking eyebrow. “Listen, our dinner should be here in about an hour. I’ve locked everything and we won’t open the door for anyone we don’t know. But I sweated off about six gallons of water in my car today and I need a shower. Okay?”

  That wet, naked image flashed in her mind again. She stood up quickly. “Fine. If everything is locked.” Especially the bathroom door.

  He gave her a half-smile and for a horrifying second she thought he could read her mind.

  “Or…” He placed one finger under her chin and lifted her face toward his. “You could just come in there with me.”

  “Stop it.” She inched back. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “Incorrigible.” He laughed low and slid his hands into her hair at the nape of her neck. “Now that sounds like my little debutante.”

  Heat shot through her. He was going to kiss her. His lips were so close, she could almost taste them. Desire coiled through her. She wanted to kiss him so much that she had to force herself not to.

  Slowly he released his hold, but she didn’t move. For what seemed like an eternity, they didn’t speak, a torrent of vibrations zinging between them.

  Finally, he took a step backward. “I better take that shower,” he said huskily.

  Oh, God. It was going to be a long weekend in the bedroom on wheels.

  Beau twisted the lever and let ice cold water pound on him to eliminate the ache that seized the lower half of his body.

  Talk about a blowout. First, some moron who probably hated him, not her, scared the life out of her. Then, he’d made the most pathetic presentation of an engagement ring in the history of mankind. And to top it all off, he stared at her like a lovestruck teenager. Shit.

  A goddamn thousand women had thrown themselves at him in the last ten years and never, ever, not once, had he lost his cool. Now he was sporting a two-by-four the size of Wisconsin over a socialite who wasn’t even his type.

  She was trouble. Tee-rouble. Now someone knew her real identity, and it would only be a matter of time until it came out. Some fan had seen her and recognized her, he decided as he lathered his body. Someone from New York or Connecticut who knew her father.

  He could see her bottles of shampoo and bubble bath lined up on the marble ledge of the bathtub, and for one painful minute, he pictured her lounging in that tub, her breasts peeking through bubbles, her hair wet, her head back.

  Oh, man.

  “Beau?”

  He slapped the faucet down and shut off the water at the sound of her voice.

  “There’s someone at the door.”

  He grabbed the first towel he could reach, still damp and smelling like some sweet flower. He wrapped it around his waist, hoping to hide the evidence of his erotic thoughts. This was going to be a tough weekend.

  “Who is it?” he asked.

  “It’s Dallas Wyatt.”

  Just what he needed. He flung open the bathroom door, and she stood right in front of him.

  “Oh!” she stepped backward, her gaze dropping over his wet chest and down to the towel. “Maybe I’d better get the door.”

  “That’s okay.” He tightened the towel. “I’ll talk to him.” In a few strides, he reached the door and yanked it open. “What?”

  Dallas stepped into the motor coach. “Gotta minute, Beau?”

  “I’m busy.” Beau put his hand on his towel in a gratuitous masculine turf-protecting gesture that he hoped Celeste didn’t see.

  Dallas’s piercing gray gaze traveled beyond Beau to Celeste. “Hi.”

  “Have you two met?” Suddenly Beau found himself wondering exactly who she’d spent time with all day, who had a chance to talk to her. Damn it, now he was suspicious of everyone. Especially this bastard.

  Beau introduced them quickly and stared at Dallas, who looked exceedingly fresh after a day in the garage. With his streaky blond hair and square jaw, he looked every bit the male model he’d become since he started doing those ads for some designer cologne.

  Dallas looked past Celeste. “Is anybody else here?”

  An alarm bell rang in Beau’s head. Who else would be here? What did Wyatt know? “Not that we’re aware of.”

  “I need to talk to you,” he told Beau. “Alone.”

  “Cece can hear anything. What’s up?”

  Nodding and moving farther into the living room, Dallas’s gaze traveled over Beau’s wrapped towel. “Yeah. I heard you got…Congratulations.”

  Beau glanced at Celeste and noticed that she had, miraculously, put the ring on. “Yep,” he murmured, wiping a drip of water that trickled down his neck. “Gimme a minute, Wyatt.” He grabbed his canvas bag from the table where he’d left it and walked back to the bedroom. No way would he put her through the indignation of having him carry on a conversation half-naked.

  He shut the door behind him and reached into his bag and yanked out a pair of jeans. Sliding them over his wet body, he zipped them up and hurried back to where Dallas sat at the table in the kitchen, making small talk with Celeste who, of course, politely responded.

  Screw polite. “What do you want, Wyatt?”

  Dallas leaned back in the chair. “How well do you know Harlan Ambrose?”

  His sponsor? A shitty trick question, Beau decided as he leaned casually against the kitchen counter. “Well enough. Why?”

  He didn’t trust any Wyatt, on or off the track.

  “He came at me with a…mighty strange request today.”

  Beau waited, adrenaline already juicing up his veins.

  “He wants me to take you out on Sunday.”

  Beau contained the unholy curse that rose to his lips.

  “He wants to get rid of you, Beau.”

  “It’s impossible. Can’t happen. Don’t worry.” Beau walked to the door. “Good night.”

  “Nothing’s impossible, Beau.” Dallas stayed rooted to his seat.

  “Here’s some little-known info, Wyatt: I have a lifetime contract.” He put one hand in his jeans pocket and the other on the door handle. “Anyway, I’m sure you told him that you were way above anything as low as rubbin’ somebody out.”

  To his credit, Dallas smiled at the dig. “Why do you think I’m here and not the NASCAR offices? The whole Chastaine team would be blackballed if anyone got wind of this.”

  Beau stared at him, the truth of what he said knocking a hole in his gut.

  “But I don’t want to get messed up in it, Beau. Even for all the cash your friend Mr. Ambrose offered me.”

  “Is that so?” Beau scratched his neck and tried to look as though he couldn’t give a shit. “Guess he’s even more unethical than I thought.”

  “Guess so. He offered me a hundred grand.”

  Beau blew out an exasperated breath. “Why the hell would you risk your career for what you’d make with a tenth-place finish?”

  “A race.”

  “What?”

  “He offered me a hundred grand a race.”

  The irritation burned into full-blown suspicion. “Where would he get that kind of money? It’s over three million a year.”

  Dallas shrugged. “No clue. But I think it stinks.” He stood up, eye to eye with Beau. “I don’t want to lose a good competitor like you.”

  Yeah, right. “I’ll talk to Travis.”

  Dallas let out a bitter laugh. “I wouldn’t bother with that. He’s in on the deal.”

  The words sucked the wind out of Beau. He stared at Wyatt, a slow, steady throb starting in his temples. “You’re full of shit, Wyatt. There’s no way in hell Travis would ever be in on something like that.”

  “Travis Chastaine isn’t stupid, Beau. Sponsors are harder to come by than drivers. With enough bad finishes, he can terminate your contract for cause. Harlan told me that.”

  “Then Harlan’s smokin�
�� dope.”

  With a shrug, Dallas moved past Beau to the door. “I just thought you should know.”

  Beau yanked open the door. “Thanks for your concern. It’s touching.”

  Chapter

  Eleven

  Celeste stared at Beau after he locked the door behind Dallas. “He’s a con man.”

  “Dallas?” He looked surprised. “He’s just a prick.”

  “No. Travis. He’s a total con man.”

  “He is not.”

  Celeste spun on her foot and opened the refrigerator door, staring at its contents. Anything for a distraction from his bare chest and the jeans that he had forgotten to snap. “So far, all I’ve seen is a guy who took twenty-five thousand dollars after making an innocent girl pregnant, who made you change your name to appeal to fans, and cooked up a bogus engagement to fend off an admirer. Now he’s backstabbing you while you’re off trying to solicit kidneys.”

  She heard a little laugh buried in his sigh. “You’re not seeing the most attractive side of Travis.”

  “There’s an attractive side?” she asked, pulling out her favorite brand of bottled water.

  “There should be lemons in there for you. I ordered a bunch.”

  She saw the bag. Nice touch. “Thank you. Would you like some water?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” He sounded amused, and she glanced at him questioningly. He smiled. “I don’t think we have crystal and a silver platter, though.”

  Was he teasing or complimenting her? Either way, it made her self-conscious as she sliced lemons for ice water and handed him a glass.

  “Why would Dallas come over here and tell you that?” she asked.

  “ ’Cause he’s trying to scare me. It’s a mind game.” He held up his glass to his lips. “But you heard me; I have a lifetime contract.”

  He took a deep drink, closing his eyes as he swallowed.

  “A lifetime contract,” she repeated. “Whose lifetime?”

  He almost choked on the water. “Mine.”

  “How well do you know Travis? You think you know him—”

  He turned away toward the salon. “I know Travis better than anyone in the world.”

  Easing himself down on the long leather sofa, he propped his head up at one end and stretched out. Celeste stared, then looked down at her glass. Was he just going to lie there, shirtless and unbuttoned?

  She took a seat at the kitchen table, adjusting her chair so she could see him, aware that he watched her from under half-closed eyes. “If you know him so well, why don’t you know more about his past and my mother?” she asked.

  “Didn’t you tell me you had brothers? And half a soccer team of ex-boyfriends? You ought to know that guys don’t chat about old flames. Especially in the garages at NASCAR.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  He balanced the water glass somewhere in the vicinity of his solar plexus. Drops of condensation trickled toward his skin. “We met on a dirt track in South Carolina twenty years ago.”

  “What were you doing on a dirt track in South Carolina at seventeen?”

  He frowned. “I was trying my hand at the Friday night races. That’s how most drivers get started.”

  “Didn’t Travis say you were a wealthy kid named Garrett from Virginia?”

  “I was. I left when I was sixteen.”

  “Why?” She leaned forward on her elbows, mesmerized by him. By the glass, precariously placed in a most captivating place.

  “It’s a long, ugly story. Travis used to watch me race on dirt tracks and I guess we both saw something we wanted.”

  “What was that?”

  “He wanted someone who didn’t care if they got killed racing.”

  “And you?”

  “I wanted someone who didn’t care if I got killed racing.”

  She frowned in disbelief.

  “Seventeen-year-old kids are stupid,” he explained. “And I was the stupidest of all.”

  She imagined him as a cocky teenager, willing to risk his life to drive fast in circles. Evidently nothing had changed in twenty years. “How did you get into racing?”

  He leaned up and lifted the water glass to his mouth, his six-pack of abs tightening with the crunch. He finished the water and reached over his head and set the glass on the end table without even looking. “My dad was a racing fanatic.”

  “Was he a race car driver too?”

  “He was a surgeon.” At her look, he laughed a little. “I know. Not your basic NASCAR family. He was an orthopedic surgeon who spent every spare minute on his passion for cars and racing. He was a really gifted mechanic. Like Travis. Had me in go-carts and quarter midgets and at the little tracks before I could write my name.”

  “What happened?”

  “I learned to write my name. Had to. All those autographs.”

  She smiled though he hadn’t answered the question. “I meant what happened to your father.”

  He closed his eyes. “When I was fifteen, he was hit by a drunk driver. He was on his way to the hospital for an emergency call in the middle of the night. He was killed instantly.”

  The boy who didn’t care if he got killed racing suddenly made sense. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too.” He blinked and rolled off the sofa, landing on his feet in one smooth move. “Where the hell’s that dinner order? I’m on a strict diet, you know.”

  Her gaze fell over the solid planes of his chest, down to narrow hips. “It’s working,” she muttered.

  He grinned and locked his hands behind his neck, stretching from one side to another, tightening his substantial biceps. Looking away, Celeste stood to get more water. But in two strides, he was right next to her at the refrigerator.

  “Nice of you to notice, but it’s not a physique thing. It’s for stamina during five-hundred-mile races.” He lowered his voice. “Stamina is critical.”

  She turned and placed her palm dead center on his chest, trying to push him away. His muscle felt like stone, but she felt his heartbeat under her fingers. “Go put a shirt on. We’re not engaged, Garrett Lansing. Don’t forget it.”

  A glint sparkled in his eyes. “Then why are you wearin’ my ring, babe?” He chuckled just as someone tapped at the door.

  “Food Delivery!” a man called out.

  “Good thing.” Beau’s bold gaze slid down her face and settled on her chest, where she was certain her nipples were giving her thoughts away. “ ’Cause I’m mighty hungry.”

  Celeste made it through dinner, helped enormously by the fact that Beau had finally put on a T-shirt. During the meal she probed him about Travis. He’d found Beau, as lost as a teenage kid could be, whipped him back into shape, made him finish high school, and taught him how to be a championship race car driver. According to Beau, Saint Travis would never lie, cheat, steal, or break any other commandment. Except for a good cause.

  Celeste had her doubts.

  After dinner, she cleaned up the kitchenette while he spent a long time on the phone with Tony discussing the amount of nitrogen in a front shock. It occurred to her that if she hadn’t been there—and if someone hadn’t broken into the motor coach—he might have gone back to the garage area.

  While he was still on the phone, she mouthed good night to him and disappeared into the bedroom. Hours later, she still lay there, twisting in her sheets, listening to the gentle hum of the air conditioner. She got up and checked the lock on the back door again, and shimmied each of the windows to ensure they were tight.

  No light sneaked in under her bedroom door, so she assumed he’d finally solved the car problems and gone to sleep. She fluffed the pillow, straightened the comforter, then closed her eyes, but could only see the breadth of that man’s chest and the line of dark hair that curled down to the unsnapped button of his jeans. Where the fabric had been worn thin. Over a very defined, masculine bulge.

  She threw the covers off and checked the back door again. Then the windows.

  “Are you okay?” He was on the other
side of the bedroom door.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I keep hearing the doors and windows rattle.”

  She scrambled back into the bed and pulled the covers up. “I’m fine.”

  “Can I come in?”

  God, no. “Yes.”

  He opened the one door she hadn’t locked.

  “I can’t sleep,” she admitted.

  “Me, neither,” he said. “Someone put a pot holder on the sofa bed and called it a mattress.”

  She laughed. “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged and took a step into the darkened room. The jeans were on. The T-shirt off. “I’ll blame Kaylene,” he said. “She handles the travel arrangements.”

  “Then she’ll know you didn’t sleep with me.”

  His weight dipped the edge of the mattress, and Celeste’s mouth went dry.

  “I’ll never tell,” he promised. “I’ll just sit here on the edge of the queen’s bed and know what I’m missing. From a mattress standpoint.”

  The room was suddenly too small. She should ask him to leave.

  “So,” he said conversationally, “tell me about all these fiancés you’ve had.”

  She scooted up against the headboard. “Counting fiancés would be more effective than sheep, I promise.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  Tucking her knees into her chest, she sighed. “One was sweet but flat, like day-old champagne.” Mark. “One was brooding, dark, and intellectual.” David. “One was ambitious and domineering.” Craig.

  “All wrong for you.”

  She sensed him moving closer to her on the bed and instinctively pulled the covers higher. Tell him to leave.

  “You need tough, not sweet. Charming, not brooding. And definitely not domineering. Fearless and accommodating would be ideal for your personality.”

  She couldn’t help laughing. “Don’t forget arrogant.”

  “Why? Did you think I was describing me?”

  Her heart flipped. “Weren’t you?”

  “Not a chance, babe. I’m all wrong for you. Although I am tough, charming, and fearless. And accommodating.”

  “And arrogant.”

  “I am not arrogant.”

  She had to laugh. “You are so arrogant. You define arrogant.”