Killer Curves

by Roxanne St Claire

  “I’m beginning to get the picture,” she said, squeezing tighter around him and tilting backward.

  “Uh-uh.” He clutched her bottom. “The car.”

  “I have nowhere else to go.”

  “Go here.” He put his hands on her hips and drove her harder over his erection. She squeezed everything at once. Her eyes, her arms, his neck, his hips, his…good God, he was hard. She buried her mouth into the flesh of his neck to stop the senseless noises she made. The friction built in steady waves.

  “See how easy it is, babe?”

  She was too far gone. She rubbed him until a steady throb built faster and faster between her legs. “Beau…you can’t do this.”

  “I told you.” He laughed, wicked and deep. “I can.” He moved in a deliberate cadence while she straddled his hips and demolished his erection. Denim against denim, woman against man. He gripped her solidly with one hand and moved the other around her waist and up the length of her body. A feather-light touch crossed her hardened nipple, then he tenderly squeezed it, eliciting a delighted gasp.

  “A bra,” he whispered with a choke in his voice. “Now she wears a bra.”

  His hand slipped into her blouse, under her silken bra to graze her nipple.

  She moaned.

  “I love this.” He spoke into her lips, and a strange white light started flashing behind her eyes. “I love doing this to you, Celeste.”

  “Oh, please,” she whispered into his neck. She loved it too.

  “Don’t stop, baby. You’re almost there.” She felt impossibly light in his arms, her breath tumbling out in short, hard spurts as the kisses and friction intensified. He whispered sexy and hot, each word taking her closer to where he demanded she go. Come on, angel. Come in my arms.

  “Beau…” His name caught in her throat. “I…can’t stop.” She rubbed and moaned and clung to him as he got so hard, she thought he might come with her. Then she screamed into his neck as every blood vessel between her legs burst with pure pleasure.

  The throbbing ebbed as everything gradually returned to where it belonged. Her muscles relaxed. Her breath slowed. She slid her quivering legs back to the ground. If he let her go, she’d dissolve.

  He held her with one strong arm and with his free hand, stroked the hair that had fallen into her eyes.

  Three fiancés, three men who’d said they loved her and wanted to marry her, and she had her first official orgasm with a virtual stranger in an open garage at a race track. Fully clothed. “Evidently I inherited a genetic predisposition to get turned on by the smell of motor oil.”

  He looked up to the ceiling. “Thank you, God.”

  She searched her numbed brain for the words to make him stop teasing and understand. “Beau. I’m not here to solve my…physical problems.”

  He traced her chin with his thumb. “No, baby, but you have a truckload of emotional ones. I suspect they’re closely linked.”

  She closed her eyes and hung on to his neck, still not sure she could let go and stand on her own. “You really are a frustrated shrink.”

  “Frustrated, yep.” The front of his jeans still bulged from the same desire that just rocked her. He met her lips with his open mouth in a tender kiss and pivoted her away from the car.

  “Y’all got a million-dollar motor coach on the infield for that sorta thing, ya know.”

  Celeste jumped away from Beau like a teenager caught kissing the quarterback under the bleachers.

  “I forgot something,” Travis grumbled as he pointed at the car. “You lean on that hood and screw up the ride height and you can kiss your collective asses good-bye, instead of each other.”

  “We were just leaving,” she said, thankfully finding her Elise Hamilton Bennett voice.

  Travis looked sharply at her, the high-handed tone evidently not lost on him. “Didn’t look that way to me, missy.”

  “Well, we were, Chas.” She threw the final dig over her shoulder as she went out the door.

  Olivia measured the scotch with a careful, steady hand. One perfect ounce. Then another. That’s all she would allow herself. Then she’d have time to sneak one last cigarette before Harlan showed up. He’d called from the airport over an hour ago, his flight predictably delayed. She had half an hour until his helicopter landed, and then he had to deliver Creighton Johnston to his hotel. Plenty of time for two ounces of Glenlivet and one Virginia Slim Ultra Light menthol.

  She swallowed the first shot and let it burn a delicious trail down her throat. DJ whimpered and cozied up to her feet. “Come here, my sweet boy,” she cooed and scooped up the Yorkie for a wet kiss. “You know the drill, don’t you, baby? Mama’s gonna take a walk and have a smoke. Of course you’ll come with me.”

  She attached DJ’s leash and poured shot number two down her throat. It didn’t burn as much. She always liked that second drink. It promised such a delightful numbing.

  And tonight she needed to be numbed.

  “It’s not that I begrudge the man his happiness,” she told DJ, running her fingers through his silky fur, still seeing Beau kiss that pretty girl. “After all, he saved my life.” It was just that she’d gotten so used to the idea of him being permanently single. And she could dream that it was because of what happened five years ago.

  But deep inside, she knew the truth.

  At the thought, she poured one more half shot. Well, three-quarter. Careful, Livvie Wolowicz, you’ll be drunk as your daddy before Harlan gets home.

  But Livvie liked her scotch. She’d given it up—mostly—as she made her climb toward greatness in NASCAR. She kissed DJ as she chuckled. “That’s right. Those drivers aren’t the only ones who start on the dirt tracks with Friday night racing,” she told the dog. “We professional girls start there too. And work our way up to the big leagues.”

  DJ looked at her, his shiny eyes full of love and sympathy. Her baby didn’t care that she’d slept her way up the racing rungs. It got them where they were today. DJ’d been with her since the time that everything had changed. Since that awful night on Beau’s bathroom floor with blood everywhere and pain so intense she thought she was dying.

  She downed another shot. “Fuck it,” she mumbled and lifted the bottle again. DJ looked startled. “Sorry, my love button. I know you hate when I swear.”

  She remembered Beau’s face that night. How soothing he’d been when he’d wrapped her in sheets and towels and carried her to the medical center on the infield. He’d stayed right with her the whole time and demanded they airlift her to a hospital. He didn’t even get mad at her. Most men would have gone ballistic when they realized they’d been lied to, that she’d never used the birth control she’d promised.

  But she had been so sure that when he saw her grow with their child, he’d do the right thing. Livvie wanted Beau’s baby…and, oh God almighty, Livvie wanted Beau.

  Even though he told her he needed freedom, space, and racing—no wife, no kids. He would have married her once he realized they’d made a baby.

  It didn’t matter. She would never have kids now. After four abortions, she figured God just punished her by ripping the only baby she ever wanted right out of her womb and taking most of her plumbing with it. “But I have my darling DJ.” She kissed the dog. “You’re all that matters to me now, sugar.”

  She’d been unfair with her parting shot today. He hadn’t done anything to deserve that remark about what his heart was made of. His heart was made of pure gold. He’d covered for her all over NASCAR after she lost the baby and kept introducing her to the right people at the right parties, including Harlan Ambrose. And she’d acted like a brat today.

  Tilting the glass, she sucked down her last half shot. “Where would you be living today, DJ, if it weren’t for Beau Lansing?” DJ’d been a consolation prize for the baby, presented to her with a blue ribbon around his little puppy neck when she got home from the hospital. A gift from Beau meant to erase the pain of his heartfelt breakup speech.

  What the hell happened to
all that bullshit? Some rich purebred, that’s what happened. Beau Lansing wouldn’t settle for a girl who grew up in Charlotte and gave blow jobs for fun after the races. Sure, he acted like he never knew her ugly past. But even if it was dressed up with silicone tits and professionally colored hair, trash was trash.

  Steadying herself, she pulled her black Ferragamo bag from the front closet and lovingly touched the leather. She might be trash, but at least she was rich trash. With a smile, she reached in for her cigarette case and lighter.

  “Come on, pooch. Let’s get our nic fix so I have enough time to brush my teeth before Harlan gets here.”

  She let DJ lead, and the dog took his usual path behind the other Chastaine coaches. The bright track lights had long ago been extinguished, and the sounds of a few revelers and late-night parties drifted over the infield. As DJ stopped next to a darkened coach to do his business, Olivia waited, feeling the heaviness of the scotch seep into her limbs.

  Suddenly she saw two people walking toward Beau’s motor coach three parking slots away. They were close to each other, softly talking, but not touching. Instantly, she scooped up the dog and shielded herself in the dark.

  Fuck it all—she was trapped. If she even moved, they’d surely see her.

  She stayed in the shadow, running a rhythmic hand over DJ’s head and quietly shushing him. She watched Beau climb the three steps to the motor coach door, unlock it, and go inside while his girlfriend waited.

  Go in already! she wanted to scream, so she could escape with at least a shred of dignity. She saw the lights of the main room go on, then the bedroom. Finally, Beau came back and said something to her and she went in the motor coach.

  She could see their shadows move, and a knife twisted in her heart. Would she have to watch their silhouettes kiss and tumble back to the bedroom, where they would…? Oh, God. Beau had been the most amazing lover she’d ever had. Hot and insistent and unrelenting when he made her come.

  After he broke up with her, she lived for the possibility of having him one more time. But he never conceded, no matter how obvious she’d made it that she’d settle just for sex. DJ struggled for freedom, ready to explore the infield more.

  “Wait, pumpkin,” she whispered to the dog as he lapped her face with his darting tongue. “Just a minute, sweet thing.”

  She couldn’t resist. It was too easy. The blinds weren’t completely shut. She took a few steps closer to see one figure walk back to the bedroom. No passionate kiss, no tearing of clothes. After a moment, the bedroom light went out. But one of them still moved about the salon. It was Beau. What was he doing? She stood on her toes to peer into the slats.

  She sucked in a breath when she saw him open the sofa bed. Then the light clicked off.

  Well, wasn’t that interesting? Beau and his blue-blooded sweetheart, the girl who was clearly hiding something with her vague answers about her background, were not sleeping together. A fight in the garage? Not likely, by their hushed, intimate tones. Beau Lansing wouldn’t have a lovely companion in his motor coach and not satisfy both of them.

  Olivia gently set DJ back on the ground and turned away with a sense of resolve. She reached for her key ring as she approached her own motor coach, fingering the master key Harlan had given her. It fit every one of the Chastaine coaches.

  Something didn’t fit, and she’d better find out what it was—if only to protect Harlan. Livvie Wolowicz might have an ugly past, but she had a very bright future. If some imposter from New York had any intention of ruining it, Harlan would want her stopped as soon as possible.

  Chapter

  Fifteen

  The note said, simply, “I left early. C.”

  Beau stood in the motor coach, his blood still pumping from an hour of hard racing, and stared at the handwriting. She bailed?

  He shot into the bedroom and flipped open the closet door. Her clothes were still there. He blew out a relieved breath, touching the empty hanger where a long black dress had been for two days. She’d left for the party.

  Too bad. He had been looking forward to the intimacy of getting dressed together. Even though she’d change in the bathroom, it would have been…comfortable. Fun, even.

  Shit. How could a guy who just drove the fastest car in practice find himself musing about party prep with some chick? He yanked his T-shirt off and headed for the bathroom. When did this happen?

  Maybe last night, right around the time he annihilated her. When she lost control of her body and gave him a glimpse of her soul.

  Oh, brother. He flipped the water on and gave his shaving cream a violent shake. He had Dallas Wyatt on his ass and Dash Technologies making ugly noises about his future, and he was elevating a dry hump in the garage to a religious experience?

  He had to think about the race. About his strategy. About the groove he needed to find and the thinking he’d have to do to win. The car was perfect. The crew was primed. It was all in the hands of the driver—whose gray matter was being held hostage by raging hormones.

  He glanced at the flowered cosmetic bag that she’d left open on the countertop. A green plastic box and a tube of lipstick stuck out of the top. Next to it, a tiny glass bottle of perfume lay on its side. He picked it up, sniffed, then quickly replaced it and started shaving.

  Son of a bitch. All he wanted was her kidney.

  He nicked his cheek. Banging his razor on the porcelain, he swore and tossed it on the counter.

  If he scared her off, she’d run, and he’d lose Travis. Celeste Bennett was no fame seeker who screwed celebrities for the notch in her bedpost. She was all class. A lady who would demand and deserve a far better world than the NASCAR racing circuit and a guy who risked his life every Sunday afternoon for kicks.

  Wasn’t that what she was telling him when she locked the bedroom door last night? She was a lady. Even if she really had screamed when she came in his arms.

  He swore as his body reacted to the memory, then steamed in a shower until the hot water was gone. He dressed quickly in all-black linen and powered down one of Celeste’s designer waters. There was still an hour until the event started.

  But maybe she needed him over there.

  The Hospitality Center hummed with several simultaneous Saturday night affairs. Beau wasted some more time at the front bar rehashing the afternoon practice with a couple of other drivers, but after ten minutes, he lost interest in the conversation.

  He really should see how she was doing.

  As he opened the ballroom door, he knew immediately that he had the wrong place.

  No Chastaine Motorsports event ever had music, dramatic lighting, or fiber-optic laser centerpieces. In the empty room, Bruce Springsteen belted out “Glory Days” from hidden speakers, twenty round tables were bathed in colored spotlights, and a current of excitement crackled in the air. Definitely the wrong room.

  But the shimmering confetti strewn over the floor and on the tables was made up entirely of red sevens and yellow lightning bolts. And it was his car that kept appearing on the video screens, flying around different race tracks.

  He approached one of the monitors suspended from the ceiling. Each video segment opened with white letters on a black background. BACK TO BASICS followed by footage of the Dash Chevy winning at Bristol. BLASTS FROM THE PAST showed Travis flying over the finish line at Daytona, then accepting his Winston Cup championship trophy. LIGHTNING STRIKES featured a montage of his own car coming in under the checkered flag. It closed with DASH AND CHASTAINE…A WINNING COMBINATION. All punctuated by the beat of the Boss.

  Holy hell, Celeste Bennett had worked magic.

  Bruce Springsteen suddenly stopped midphrase.

  “You’re early.” He turned at the sound of her voice, and his mouth dropped open again. Not magic; this was witchcraft. Beguiling, mesmerizing, deadly witchcraft.

  “What do you think?” she asked, her eyes lit with an expectant sparkle as she waved the audio remote like a wand around the room.

  Think? He couldn�
��t think. He couldn’t breathe.

  Her simple black gown looked completely different on her than it had on the hanger in the closet. Clingy and sexy, it touched every curve exactly the way he wanted to. She had shimmery makeup on her eyes and lips, and a satisfied smile that was nearly as sublime as the one he’d put on her face the night before.

  He finally exhaled. “Shit.”

  She let out a musical laugh. “Is that good or bad?”

  He took a step closer, resisting the urge to manhandle her to imperfection and kiss all that shiny stuff off her lips just for the bone-deep pleasure of it. “It’s good. It’s very, very good.”

  “I think you’ll like the video,” she said, glancing at the monitor, then back to him. “I was just running through it before the guests arrive.”

  He wanted to compliment her on the room, to praise her creative genius. He wished he’d brought her flowers or champagne, or knew how to take her hand and kiss it with European sophistication. But everything about her, all her grace and elegance and exquisite beauty, just paralyzed him. Oh, man. He was in such trouble.

  “Do you think Travis will be happy with it?”

  “Oh, yes, I do.” Until he sees the bill. “Harlan and the big guy from Dash too.”

  “I decided to pull out all the stops,” she said with a smile.

  His gaze lingered over the strapless gown. “You certainly did.”

  He took her hand and noticed that she wore the ring. It was the only piece of jewelry she wore.

  “Well, I’ll be goddamned…” Travis stood in the double doors, as frozen as Beau had been, and just as stunned. “This probably sucked up the whole tire budget for the year.”

  Before Beau could bark at him to shut up, he saw the twinkle in Travis’s green eyes, which matched the one in Celeste’s. He knew that look. He saw it when he had a good finish. When he climbed out of a car in Victory Lane. Approval. Travis never offered it lightly.

  Celeste dropped Beau’s hand and approached Travis, her head at that poised angle, a confident look on her face. “Think of it as an investment,” she said, laying a hand on his sleeve. “A wise one.”