Killer Curves

by Roxanne St Claire

  She heard footsteps approaching the door. Spinning on slippered feet, she scurried down the hall through the butler’s pantry and into the kitchen, her heart speeding. Clasping her trembling hands, she stood in the darkened room and listened as Gavin walked Craig to the front door. A few seconds later, his study door slammed closed.

  Make it look like a clean, simple suicide.

  Running to the bathroom, Elise barely reached the toilet before the bile rose into her throat. Afterward, she lifted her head and saw her sunken eyes staring back from the mirrored wall. God, she was so damn sick of hating herself. If she stayed in this house one more day, one more minute, she’d be the one committing a nice, clean suicide.

  She knew what she had to do. First she would call Noelle MacPherson. She didn’t care if the girl believed her or not—it would be off her conscience.

  Then, it was time for Elise Hamilton Bennett to find her long-lost dignity.

  “You’re a match.”

  The echo of Beau’s words kept Celeste awake, deep into the night, long after he’d hung up with the doctor’s office.

  She was a match for Travis’s kidney.

  Throwing off the covers, she pulled on a pair of jeans with the ribbed tank she’d slept in the night before, then tiptoed into the kitchen in search of herbal tea. Beau didn’t seem like the type of guy to own chamomile, but she was desperate for something to put her to sleep.

  Soft lights lit the cherrywood cabinets and illuminated the hallway that led to his bedroom. Was he still up, barefoot and shirtless?

  Her whole body hummed like a hot wire. Not only because she felt like a walking hormone just being in the same house with him, but also because she’d been wracked with guilt about not coming clean to the detective about her real identity. And Beau’s ominous news that Olivia had evidently gotten through to Celeste’s father—or at least initiated a return phone call—left a black pit in her stomach. And she hadn’t been able to reach her mother all day.

  She definitely needed something to calm her.

  Since the doctor’s call late that afternoon, Celeste had avoided Beau, hiding in her room and trying to decide what to do. Trying to make sense of the mess she’d made. Trying to figure out why this whole thing felt like an out-of-body experience.

  Because it was. She’d started off as one person—Celeste. Good, responsible, a little uptight, and in control. Then she just morphed into someone else. Cece? Bad, irresponsible, sexually wanton, and out of control.

  But maybe change wasn’t a wholly bad thing. She didn’t not like being Cece. Quite the opposite. She kind of…loved it. She spied a box of orange pekoe and sniffed for freshness. Not much scent left, but it might do the trick. Now, where was the teakettle? The light from his hallway teased her. Maybe he’d like to share a cup of tea with her.

  She walked down the hall to his bedroom.

  Yeah—sure she wanted tea.

  “Beau?” she called softly as she peeked into the open doorway. The room was huge, with an enormous bed in the middle and a sleek flat-panel TV on one wall. All very simple and masculine, but no Beau.

  Where was he? She continued into his office, which was empty. Maybe he went to work out? But the gym was silent. She opened the glass doors to the patio, and as soon as she stepped outside, she heard music from another building, several hundred yards away, and saw light through a window blind.

  It was an unattached garage, she realized as she reached it. She could practically see the pounding bass of the music vibrating the walls. Feeling a little like Goldilocks invading the bears’ cottage, she turned the handle and opened the back door.

  She saw Beau immediately. Well, half of him. But half of Beau Lansing, with those jean-clad hips, long legs, and deliciously bare feet visible from under a bright yellow car, was better than all of most men.

  As Tom Petty wailed about an American girl, Beau’s left foot kept the beat of the driving rhythm. A row of bare bulbs hung from the ceiling, and one whole wall was covered with red shelves and a sea of tools. Ragged posters of muscle cars decorated the other walls. Not a NASCAR logo, a trophy, or a Beau Lansing calendar in sight.

  She crouched near his legs. “I smell motor oil,” she said, just loud enough to be heard over the music.

  His foot stopped moving.

  Her heart stopped beating.

  Slowly, the upper half of him emerged. His white T-shirt, smeared with dark stains, clung to his muscles. She felt him take her in, his gaze lingering over her thin tank top. Her chest tightened, and she knew her nipples had betrayed her with a full stand to attention.

  “Shit,” he mumbled softly. “You and motor oil can be trouble.” Without a word, he walked to the stereo and turned down Tom Petty. She could have sworn she saw his jaw clench.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, looking at the canary-colored car with a menacing black stripe. “What is this?”

  “This is my deepest, darkest secret.” He knocked on the hood of the car. “Now you know the ugly truth about me, and could use it to ruin what’s left of my good name.”

  “So you have a muscle car in a garage—what’s the big secret?”

  He stuck his hands in his pockets. “It’s not just any muscle car, I’m afraid.” He sighed dramatically. “It’s a Chrysler.”

  She remembered his disparaging remark about his stepfather’s Chrysler—evidently the bottom rung of the car ladder. “I wouldn’t worry too much about the make. The color alone will ruin you.” She grinned.

  “Lemon Twist? It’s a classic. And this isn’t just any old Chrysler, sweetheart. This”—he lovingly stroked the hood—“is a 1973 Plymouth Barracuda three forty with a slapstick console shifter, dual exhaust with cool chrome tips, and a go-wing—a go-wing, sweetheart—on the decklid. Restored to an inch of its life.”

  “Really.” Just looking at him did unholy things to her insides. But listening to him gush over the car and caress it like a woman was almost too much for her. “And I thought it was just an ugly, outdated, yellow Chrysler.”

  He scowled at her, hurt darkening his eyes.

  “Is it fast?” she asked quickly, to take the sting out of her insult.

  “It’s a street car with a three forty, Celeste,” he said, as though that explained everything. “It’s fast as hell.” He reached out for her hand. “But it’s not about speed. This is a masterpiece. It’s timeless. It’s pure.” He pulled her into his chest and his breath tickled in her ear as he whispered, “The ’Cuda three forty is the original machine that made the hair on the back of millions of boys’ heads stand up and jump for joy.”

  Precisely what hers was doing.

  “And what are you doing to this timeless classic?” She plucked at a grease mark on his T-shirt, lingering longer than necessary on the warm fabric.

  “Trying to get my two-pronged ballast resistor to fit a four-pronged configuration.” He smiled. “And talkin’ to my dad.”

  A shiver waltzed down to her toes. “What were you talking about?”

  “You.” He said it so quietly she wasn’t sure she heard him. Then he guided her around the car, opened the driver’s side door, and held out an inviting hand. “Here. You can be the first person other than me to sit in it since I found this jewel three years ago.”

  The seat felt cool, and the rich aroma of leather and the unmistakable scent of Beau mixed as sweetly as perfume. As he walked to the other side, his admission echoed in her head.

  You. What was he telling his father about her?

  He closed the door, and they were cocooned in black leather. Turning, he broke into a wicked smile. “I was telling my dad how much he would have liked you.”

  She decided it was best to humor a man who spoke to the dead and looked like the devil. And read her mind on top of it. “You think he would have?”

  “Yep. He loved classics. He loved anything with perfect lines and subtle grace.”

  He was making her dizzy.

  “He loved things that weren’t fake. Re
al, genuine, American beauty.”

  She laughed a little, putting both hands on the steering wheel and looking ahead. “That’s funny, because I’ve always felt like a fake. Like an intruder in the world I grew up in, and here…here I am completely fake. Like some new woman who never existed before. Fake name. Fake engagement. Fake job.”

  He ran a finger over her arm. “You’re real to me. And I like this new woman. She’s a risk taker.”

  That’s something Celeste Bennett had never been called before. But Cece was. A slow smile broke across her face. “Does this machine run without a two-pronged resistor thingy?”

  “Sure. You want to take a ride?”

  “I do,” she said impulsively, holding out her open palm.

  He stared at her hand. “What do you want?”

  “I want the keys.” She poked his ribs with her outstretched fingertips. “Let me drive it. Let me have the whole ’Cuda three-forty experience.”

  “I…I…No one’s ever driven it but me. And, besides you’re a girl.”

  She threw her head back with a laugh. “You got that right, Garrett. C’mon, give me the keys.”

  His frown deepened. “You can’t drive like that. Barefoot and…” His gaze dropped to her chest.

  “You need balls and a bra to drive this thing?”

  He couldn’t help laughing. “You got the balls, baby. I’ll get the keys.”

  He opened his door and a zing of anticipation shot right through her. Celeste would never drive the ’Cuda 340.

  But Cece sure would.

  Chapter

  Twenty-four

  At least he’d convinced her to let him get it out on the road, Beau thought as he approached the last turn to Honeymoon Hill. Since it was a Monday night, the four-mile drag strip tucked into the woods of eastern Volusia County would be deserted, so she could drive safely. And later, he’d find a quiet spot to park.

  She’d hardly said anything since they left the garage, listening to him talk about the restoration and how his dad had owned the same make and model car when Beau was twelve. Every time he stole a glance at her face, lit only by the reflection of the headlights in the dark night, anticipation tightened around him. Man, she got him going. His hands itched to get on the woman’s body under that tank top.

  At the bottom of the hill, he stopped the car. “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.”

  After they switched places, he talked her through a quick lesson, and she adjusted her seat to get closer to the dash. She turned and grinned as she buckled the seat belt. “How fast can I go?”

  “Nothing intersects this road for three or four miles. Take her WFO when you’re ready.”

  “WFO?”

  “Wide…ahem…open. It’s an old racing term.”

  She laughed and lightly goosed the gas. The 340 growled. “Oooh!” Her eyes gleamed and she gave him a brash grin. “WFO, huh?”

  “Put it in first, honey.”

  She studied the gearshift for a second. Then she gently put it into gear, hit the throttle again, and kicked up gravel as they rumbled up the gentle incline.

  “Okay, put some weight on ’er now,” he instructed.

  They sped up to thirty, forty, fifty. The wind whistled past the windows while the engine purred in perfect harmony.

  Celeste laughed with delight, her hair whipping around her face. God, she was beautiful.

  Fifty, sixty, seventy.

  “This is fun!” she called over the noise, her hands holding the steering wheel tight.

  He felt the first hint of a g-force. “Open her up, baby.”

  “WFO?” She stomped on the accelerator. “Here we go!”

  He couldn’t wipe the smile from his face as the ’Cuda devoured the bumpy asphalt. “You’re doin’ great!” he hollered.

  “For a girl!” she shot back.

  Laughing, he watched her steal glances at the speedometer, mouthing the speeds to herself. Seventy, eighty, ninety.

  “Oh my God,” she squealed in excitement. “A hundred, Beau!” She spit out a hair that had blown into her mouth, not willing to go one-handed on the wheel. “I’m going a hundred!”

  He didn’t dampen her thrill by telling her it was half his speed on most straightaways. He knew the exhilaration the first time you felt the pure pleasure of speed. And it was a kick just to watch her. Every one of his senses slammed into high gear, as stimulated by her as she was by the speed she’d just discovered.

  He let her go another mile, then they were getting to the crest of Honeymoon Hill. “Okay, baby, bring her down now.”

  As the speedometer dropped, she moaned, “Oh, I don’t want this to end.”

  Neither do I.

  They reached the crest of the hill and she stopped, shifted into park, then turned to him, her eyes on fire. Without a word, she wrapped her fingers around his neck and pulled him to her for a fierce kiss. Her hands were still vibrating from the wheel, her tongue hungry for him. When she finally pulled away, her face was flushed with satisfaction. “I want to do it again.”

  “Okay.”

  He kissed her with the same force, charged by her demand and his own pent-up desire. He couldn’t think, he wanted her so bad. Right here. On this hill. In this car. He pulled her closer, probing her mouth with his tongue, caressing her as a potent hard-on swelled against his jeans. Unable to stop, he fondled her breasts, her precious nipples so hard he thought they’d burst through the flimsy material. She bit his lip gently, encouraging him.

  “This is the very best make-out spot in Florida,” he said, his breathing rough with arousal. “And the very, very best make-out car.”

  Her tongue traced his lips. “You are definitely doing it justice.”

  “But we’re in the wrong seat, darlin’.”

  In a flash, he was over the console and into the back. “Come on,” he tugged at her. “You gotta be in the backseat. It’s the rule.”

  He helped her climb back and straddle him as he lay back. The tight squeeze gave him contact with her entire body. He ran his hands over her backside, then around the front.

  She raised her arms, allowing him to pull her tank top up and off. He took a minute to drink in the beauty of her woman’s body, then gave in to the overpowering need to suckle her, lifting his mouth to taste the sweet tip of one breast while his hand explored the curve of the other.

  Her head back, her breasts thrust toward him, their hips moved together in a natural rhythm. His head spun with the flavor of her skin and the urgency of his need for her. He had no idea he could want anyone so much.

  “Celeste.” He had to be sure it wasn’t temporary insanity. He had to hold everything in check until she gave him a full green flag. “You know what you’re doing, right?”

  She slowed her hips to a slow, seductive rock, sliding over his erection with a clear purpose. “I most certainly do.”

  “You’re absolutely sure?”

  Her eyes twinkled in a tease. “I believe the boys at Chrysler had exactly this in mind when they created the backseat.”

  Oh, God. She definitely got it.

  She took his mouth for another heated kiss, trailing her tongue and lips down his neck and filling his senses with her soft skin and sweet-smelling hair. “I know just what to do,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with desire. “To make sure we get the whole ’Cuda experience.”

  She pulled up his T-shirt and he ripped it off as she kissed his chest, tasting and teasing every inch.

  When she flattened her palm on top of his jeans, he groaned out loud. Then she opened the fly and slid inside. At the feel of her slender fingers wrapped around him, he jerked forward. Holy hell, he could come in her hand.

  “Wait.” He tried to sit up in the cramped space. “Wait, baby. The condom’s in the glove compartment.”

  She laughed softly. “Standard issue with this car, no doubt.” Then she eased him back with a smile. “We don’t need it. For the moment.” She stroked him gently, then a little harder. A little faster.
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  Sweat broke out on his brow as he worked for control, but he was dying—and headed straight for heaven.

  She pushed his jeans down and he shimmied out of them and freed himself. She nibbled on his chest, kissed his stomach, licked his navel. She curled her tongue over the top of him, sweetly hesitant at first before her mouth closed over him. And then she wasn’t hesitant at all.

  At the insane pleasure of her lips and tongue and teeth on him, he tunneled his hand into her hair and ground out her name. He’d never forget this moment, this woman—this heart-stoppingly classic, sexy woman who knew exactly what the backseat of a Barracuda 340 was made for.

  Celeste reveled in the hot, salty taste of him. She loved it. Loved flying through the night at a hundred miles an hour, loved devouring him in her mouth, loved his shattering admissions that he adored her.

  Slowly, agonizingly, he pulled her up toward him and kissed her hard on the mouth, the flavor of his sex mixing on their tongues. “Baby, baby, you gotta stop. I don’t want to come in the backseat of a car with you.”

  “How about on the hood?” She winked at him.

  “You’re the girl of my dreams, you know that?”

  The words tugged at her heart, and she dropped her head against his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heartbeat.

  “Come on,” he whispered. “Let’s get some air.”

  Outside the car, Celeste pulled her top back on, then inhaled the rich, earthy smell of Florida pines. But the deep breath did nothing to help her regain her composure; her legs wobbled on the soft ground from the erotic knot between them. Beau opened the passenger door and came to the front of the car, holding his discarded T-shirt.

  In one move, he lifted her up on the hood.

  “It’s still hot,” she whispered at the first touch of warm metal beneath her jeans.

  “So am I.” He reached behind her and laid his shirt out. She placed her feet on the front bumper and he slid right between her legs and ran a sneaky hand under her top, making her breath catch.

  The only sounds were the staccato rhythm of the crickets and their soft breathing.