Killer Curves

by Roxanne St Claire

  “You want arrogant?” He made a husky sound, deep in his throat, closing more space between them. “If I were arrogant, I’d kiss you right now.”

  “And if I had a brain, I’d tell you to leave.”

  “Why?”

  “Because…” She considered a multitude of lies, none of which he’d buy. “You’re driving me crazy.”

  “Driving is my specialty.” He leaned close enough for her to see the angles of his face. The hint of beard was gone, leaving smooth, clean skin. He smelled woodsy and spicy and just like she wanted a man to smell.

  Decorum warred with desire, and decorum was losing.

  That single lock fell over his forehead, nearly kissing his eyebrow, and she couldn’t stop herself. She reached up and moved it to the right. “Things are complicated enough, Garrett.”

  “I like complicated. That’s why I play chess at two hundred miles an hour with forty-two other guys every week.” One inch closer. “Complicated can be fun.”

  “You’re moving too fast.”

  “That’s my only speed.”

  Heat bubbled through her veins. He put his hands on her knees, pressing them down gently. Then he closed the space between them and kissed her. She felt her breath catch.

  Instantly, he deepened the pressure, locking his hand around her neck. She tasted toothpaste and lemon water and felt his tongue dart over her teeth. A spark shot through her. Oh, God. She was on a bed with him.

  Where was her brain?

  He sucked her tongue into his mouth, sending a heat flash through her body. It seared her right between the legs and ignited an ache of desire.

  The sins of the mother, warned a little voice inside her.

  In a trailer. Marbled and mirrored, but a trailer just the same.

  He burrowed his hands into her hair, gliding his mouth lower to kiss her throat, burning her skin. She closed her eyes and gave into the pleasure. He dragged his hand from her hair, over her collarbone, pushing the blanket away to caress her breast.

  Her heart walloped as he groaned in pleasure when his hand closed over her.

  “Beau,” she whispered, moving his hand to her waist. “I don’t want to be a Beau Babe. Please don’t tempt me.”

  He exhaled slowly, obviously working for control. “You’re not a Beau Babe,” he told her, tugging her T-shirt back down over her exposed waist. “You’re a lady.”

  She scooted deeper into the bed and smiled. “If this is ladylike, I’d hate to see improper.”

  He climbed off the bed and went to the door. “You’ll love improper. It’s my other specialty.”

  He was out the door with a low, arrogant laugh.

  Chapter

  Twelve

  Travis winced as hot coffee burned the roof of his mouth, his focus on the garage entrance. Where the hell was Beau? It was nine o’ damn clock in the morning and nobody had seen his ass since seven last night. He’d never been absent from the garage area at a race for this long in his life.

  It was that damn girl.

  “Where in God’s name is Beau?” Tony Malone shouted from under the hood of the Chevy. “He was all over me to do this carb adjustment and I ran the sims five times. I need him.”

  “Beau’s been slammed.” Nick Tomacelli chuckled as he selected an air gun for the tires. “Big time.”

  “He wouldn’t even open his door last night,” Tony reported. “I banged on it for ten minutes.”

  Nick knelt next to the right front tire and rapped it with his knuckles before starting his adjustments. “I’da never picked that one for Beau,” he said. “That man goes for a major set of cans and reduced capacity IQ.”

  Tony snorted. “Yeah. Or at least an accent thick enough to make you wonder if she has an IQ.”

  “That’s cause smart women threaten him.” Billy Bassinger climbed out of the driver’s seat, holding a steering wheel in his hands. “That’s what my wife thinks.”

  Tony shook his head. “Nah. He just has a commitment thing.”

  With more force than necessary, Travis threw the hot coffee in a trash bin and sucked air over the burn in his mouth. “Do ya think we can shitcan the Jerry Springer Show and get back to this car?”

  Tony and Nick looked at each other over the hood. Billy pretended to study the steering wheel.

  “Put twenty-four pounds in that right front,” Travis told Nick. “Not an ounce more. I’ll go find Romeo.”

  Travis left the garage and pulled his ball cap way over his eyes. He’d created a monster with this bogus engagement. For cryin’ out loud, they didn’t have to hole up on the infield for fourteen hours playin’ house. Olivia Ambrose wasn’t waitin’ for him in the garage.

  He sighed, bone tired from Tuesday’s hellacious dialysis. And the lack of sleep caused by Harlan Ambrose’s call late last night. The arrival of Harlan’s boss, the CEO of Dash Technologies, could signal something very, very bad. He’d better tell Beau’s girlfriend to set another place at the dinner. He hoped that tight-ass Creighton Johnston liked rubber chicken and boring speeches.

  He tugged at the long sleeves of his shirt, hoping no one could see the dialysis marks. Even once a week, it swelled his arms. And now the stupid doctor said he had to go three times a week. The season was shot. Now he had to carefully skate over the thin ice of Harlan Ambrose to ensure Beau had a ride for one more year. Certain things had to fall in place before he could rest in peace. Literally.

  He glanced around the access road and spotted Beau and Cece standing outside the Hospitality Center. He walked in their direction, eyeing the two of them. Beau stood a good five inches taller than the girl, leaning close enough to take a bite of her. Travis didn’t know a good goddamn about body language, but a blind man could read Beau’s story. He had it bad.

  She stepped back and made one of those sophisticated hand gestures he’d noticed right away. Even from thirty feet away, Travis could see the rock on her finger sparkle in the sun. Son of a bitch. Had Beau gone and made it official?

  She put her hands on her skinny hips and lifted her head. Something seized his belly. The ramrod posture, the angle of her chin, and the curve of her lips. It reminded him of…someone. It had been a long time since the thought of her did anything more than annoy him.

  But watching this girl…He got pissed and hurt and scared all over again. She had that rich-broad way about her, that haughty manner that good breeding bought. She thought she was better than all of ’em. Amused by them, probably, and no doubt half in love with Beau. But once the thrill of playing on the wrong side of the tracks wore off, and whoever paid her American Express bills yanked her chain, she’d be history.

  The last thing Beau needed was a coldhearted woman who would leave him black and blue. Travis’s gaze traveled over her slender frame. She sure as hell wasn’t a hot chick with major cans, as Nick so poetically put it. And that’s what scared him.

  “Ahem,” Travis said pointedly as he approached them. They both turned at the sound. “Do you think you could manage to detach yourselves long enough to get some work done around here?”

  “I’m on my way,” Beau said. “I just wanted to walk Cece to the Hospitality Center.”

  “Good morning,” she said to Travis.

  He spoke to Beau. “If she ain’t capable of walkin’ herself, then maybe I’m payin’ too much for her services.” He looked at her long enough to see unflinching challenge in her eyes. “Did you get everything pinned down for tomorrow night?”

  She nodded. “I think you’ll be very pleased.”

  “Well, I better be, ’cause I just found out the head honcho of Dash is flyin’ in for this race and he’ll be at the dinner. Put him at my table.” Travis looked back at Beau. “They’re pullin’ out all the stops, son. You better get over to the garage and make sure your setup suits you. That man ain’t comin’ to town to watch somebody else pop the cork at the finish line.”

  Beau laid a possessive hand on Cece’s shoulder. “I gotta go, darlin’. Keep your cell phone on a
nd don’t go anywhere but here and the pit at two o’clock for qualifying. Don’t go back to the motor coach.”

  Travis looked pointedly at the engagement ring. “Did her collar come with a leash, or was that extra?”

  Cece shot him a dirty look, then turned on her heel and walked toward the Hospitality Center.

  “Cut it out, Travis,” Beau said. “You really don’t understand.”

  Travis took off his hat and wiped his brow. “What I don’t understand is the fact that you ain’t been in the garage for hours and we got a race to qualify for and win this weekend. I’m sure the ring’ll do the job with Olivia, but this ain’t a honeymoon. Tony needs you to run some sims on the carb adjustment.”

  They passed a coffee cart and Beau tilted his head toward it. “I need to talk to you first.”

  “Talk while we work today.”

  Beau shook his head. “No. I need some answers. Privately. Now.”

  The demand in Beau’s voice irked Travis. “Well, shitballs, Beau. If you took a break from the horizontal dancin’ with Miss New York City, you could talk to me all you want.”

  Beau paid for two cups of coffee and handed one to Travis. “Do me a favor. Stop talking about her and start talking to her. You might like her.”

  Travis took a sip of coffee, noticing that all joking was gone from Beau’s face. The hot liquid stung the already blistered roof of his mouth and Travis blew into the cup.

  They sat down at an empty table and Beau leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I want it straight, Travis. No bullshit.”

  “What’s on your mind, Beau?”

  “Dallas Wyatt paid me a visit last night.”

  “Woulda paid to be a fly on the wall to hear that conversation.”

  “Well, let me recap for you. Harlan offered Dallas a hundred grand a race for the rest of the season if he’d take me out on Sunday.”

  That bastard Ambrose—he was even a bigger asshole than anyone gave him credit for. “Don’t fall for it. He’s tryin’ to psyche you out.”

  “You sure? Someone’s been working overtime to put me on permanent disability.” His eyes narrowed at Travis. “You got any idea who it might be?”

  Travis swore under his breath. “Look, just let me handle Harlan and we’ll get through this year. Then…” Then I’ll be dead. But he wasn’t checkin’ out unless he knew Beau could race next year, with or without Dash Technologies.

  “You know what I think?” Beau pointed his plastic stirrer at Travis. “I think you’re stringing Ambrose along. You want him to believe you’ll do anything he says, but if we win some races, then you’ll do exactly what you want.”

  “Might be, Beau. But you know I wouldn’t let someone take you out.” Travis dug his fingernail in the edge of the cup, studying the coffee before he looked at Beau. “Listen, I’ll be six feet under before the season’s halfway over next year. But you…” He shook his head and swallowed. No need to get choked up. “You got a future, Beau.”

  Beau kicked his chair back and stood. “Nope.”

  “You do,” Travis insisted.

  “Of course I do. But so do you.”

  Travis sighed. He couldn’t stand it if Beau tried to fight the inevitable. “You know the facts and I’ve already faced them. I had a good life—”

  Beau held his cup over the trash, a dark threat in his eyes. “Stop it, Travis. I’ve never known you to be a quitter.” He slammed the cup in on the last word.

  Damn. Beau was deep in denial. Better not to push it, so close to qualifying. The boy’s head had to be on as right as possible to get a good run out of him.

  “Just trust me, okay?” Travis said, repeating the words he’d told Beau a million times. They’d worked for the last twenty years. He pushed himself up from the table and hoped Beau didn’t notice the effort it took. “You don’t know everything, boy.”

  “Neither do you,” Beau said softly as they started to walk.

  Travis stopped, the shooting pains in his arms moving to his gut. Something told him that Beau wasn’t talking about racing.

  “No, son, I don’t. But I know some decisions can wreck your life faster’n Dallas Wyatt can wreck your car. And you can’t fix the damage in the garage.”

  “This time, you gotta trust me.”

  Travis didn’t like the determination in Beau’s voice. Something was very odd about the effect this girl had on Beau. Travis adjusted his ball cap and looked toward the garage. Long ago, he’d found using reverse psychology could be real effective.

  “Maybe you’re right, Beau. Maybe it’s better if you ain’t alone in this world. Go ahead and marry her. I don’t care.”

  Beau froze in his spot, a look of horror and surprise on his face just before he let out a hearty laugh. “I’m not gonna marry her, Travis. Why the hell would I do something so stupid?”

  “You wouldn’t be the first stupid guy. Some broads kill brain cells just by bein’ in the same room with you.”

  Beau shook his head in vehement denial. “You’re all wrong, Travis. She’s not my type.”

  “Yeah,” Travis said as they entered the garage. “I noticed.”

  Celeste finished everything before two o’clock. The hospitality staff had given her a crackerjack video editor with an astounding knowledge of racing history. Together, they’d strung together a reel with music, subtitles, and plenty of drama. She met with the chef in catering to go over a new menu, then changed the seating arrangement to accommodate the “head honcho” Travis had mentioned. She even squeezed in a visit to the in-house florist to cancel Kaylene’s order and design something different. It wasn’t going to be cheap, but dazzling never was.

  By the time she made it to the Chastaine pit, she’d almost forgotten the scare of last night. She let herself get lulled into security, taken with the noise and spectacle around her.

  Finding a seat in the VIP section above Pit Road, Celeste looked down on the activity below. Dressed once again in the matching yellow and red jumpsuits, the Chastaine crew hustled around mountains of tires and tools, the car poised in its slot, ready to shoot onto the track. There were fewer people in the grandstands and in the limited seating above Pit Road.

  You’ll love improper. It’s my other specialty.

  She couldn’t even sleep last night, he’d gotten her wound so tightly. And all day, no matter how she tried to push it away, the memory of his kiss, of his touch, kept teasing her. He made her think wild, wicked thoughts…about doing wild, wicked things.

  He emerged from under the stands deep in conversation with Tony Malone. Trying to look nonchalant, she studied the breadth of his shoulders in the racing jump-suit and watched his hands as he explained something to Tony. His hands were beautiful. Strong. Powerful. She remembered the thrill shooting through her body when he covered her breast with that hand.

  Dear God, someone needed to slap common sense into her. She wasn’t here to have an affair with the driver; she was here to discover the man who fathered her. But every time she looked at Beau, every time he smiled or moved with the speed and grace of some sleek animal, wanton feminine hormones took over, and her nerve endings blazed with need.

  She forced herself to look away and find Travis. He leaned against the pit cart, rubbing his forearms as he talked to one of the crew.

  She remembered the vintage NASCAR interview that she’d watched just moments ago in the editing booth. Travis wasn’t so crass then. Colorful and dynamic, but not offensive. He’d cried when they handed him the trophy, and her heart had folded in half at the sight of his tears. Hard to call a man crass after seeing him cry.

  Hard to call a man crass after reading a love letter he’d written.

  The melodic ring of her cell phone startled her. She’d completely forgotten Beau had turned it on this morning and instructed her to leave it on.

  She looked at the readout and recognized her mother’s cell phone number. Without thinking, her gaze traveled to Travis while the phone finished its tune. A moment later, she chec
ked her voice mail, holding the phone tight to one ear in an effort to hear her mother’s crisp message.

  “Please call me, honey. It’s of the utmost importance.” That could be anything from a change in her lunch schedule to a fight with Daddy.

  “Tryin’ to call me, babe?” Celeste jumped at the voice in her other ear.

  She stabbed the cell phone off. “Checking my messages.”

  “A crisis at the Guggenheim?” Under his lightning bolt baseball cap, Beau’s dark sunglasses hid his eyes. “A heist of the Sugarmoto exhibit?”

  “Sug i moto. With an i.”

  “Do you think there’s a Complete Idiot’s Guide to Art?” he asked. “Then we’d be even.”

  She fought a smile. “You don’t strike me as the type who cares to be even with anyone.”

  “True. I like to have an advantage.”

  “I bet you do.” She looked back toward the track. “When are you up?”

  “Soon. About ten more cars. And speaking of having an advantage, our friend Dallas has the pole at the moment, so he’ll start the race from the front row, on the inside. Unless I wipe out his qualifying time.”

  “He’s won this race four times. He’s formidable at Pocono. I don’t think anyone can beat him,” she said.

  Beau pulled his Oakleys down his nose. “I liked you better when you didn’t know so much about racing.”

  She turned away from the intensity in those eyes. “Anyone can read the statistics. Fords do very well on this track. Not Chevys.”

  “Is that a challenge, Miss Gearhead?”

  “As if you need one,” she said, laughing.

  “Beau!” From below, Travis’s voice bellowed. “Let’s go.”

  He flipped off his baseball cap, then slipped it on her head. “Wear my colors, babe.”

  She watched him disappear down the stairs and into the pit, the damp warmth of his hat encircling her head. It felt good. She pulled the hat down the way she’d seen Beau and Travis do. Twisting the engagement ring around her finger, she surveyed the track, inhaling the fumes and letting the summer sun warm her bare arms.