“Well, well, well,” she drawled right back. “Blain Sanders at my feet. Just what I always wanted.”
He frowned, rolling the creeper around so he could sit up. “You get lost on the way out here?” he asked, grabbing a red rag that lay nearby, then tossing it aside.
“No,” she answered, smiling brightly, even though his question irritated the heck out of her.
“Get caught in traffic?”
“No,” she repeated quickly. Okay, so she’d been primping. It wasn’t often that she got to go undercover as a glamour girl. Usually she was playing the role of anything but, and she was woman enough to want to dress in cool clothes. “I just took my time.”
He frowned again, his gaze scanning her up and down. And even though he sat at a lower elevation, he must have noticed how cold she was because she could have sworn his eyes caught on her less than soft nipples. She blushed, but darn it, it was cold standing here in the shadows. A stiff breeze blew between the garages, tossing dust and grit and empty wax cups around. “I thought team owners didn’t work on cars.”
“This team owner does,” he grumbled, rising to his feet. “Especially when his crew chief is off running around and there’s a problem.”
She resisted the urge to step back. Blain was a big guy. In a lot of places, she found herself thinking before clamping down on that unprofessional and unwanted thought.
“Are you ready to give me a tour?”
He looked irritated. Really, really irritated. He glanced at the car, and the crew still gawking. He glared. The chicken heads ducked back behind the coop.
“In a minute,” he said. “We’re trying to figure out why the car doesn’t start.”
“Power?”
He shook his head.
“You sure?”
“Positive,” he said, the one word managing to convey his utter disgust that she’d even attempt to diagnose the problem. Geez-oh-peets, if ever she needed a reminder of why she didn’t like him, this was it. Funny, she’d forgotten how sexist he could be. That was why she’d taken great pleasure in waxing his doors when they’d been younger.
She glanced away, about to suggest something else, just to irk him. But the sight of a cord cocked at an odd angle as it sat atop the coil caught her attention, and despite herself, she squinted at it, because it sure didn’t look like it was on right. It wasn’t.
“Sooo,” she drawled, “I suppose the fact that that thing over there,” she pointed to a blue wire, “isn’t on right has nothing to do with it?”
It took a moment for her comment to register, and when it did, Blain actually started, shoulders stiffening, head jerking up.
“Of course, maybe you guys invented a new type of coil wire that I’ve never heard of.” She lifted a brow sarcastically. “Laser beam, maybe. Yeah, that must be it…lasers.”
Blain’s eyes narrowed.
Cece crossed her arms, feeling supremely smug as she stood there. Okay, it was luck that she’d just happened to glance at the coil, and luck that she’d chosen power as a possible diagnosis. But it was all she could do not to gloat as he looked in the direction she suggested, muffled an oath, then stormed over and popped the wire on right.
“Try it,” he muttered, straightening.
A crew member shot her an “I’m impressed” look, then came around the hood of the car, reached in and flicked the starter switch.
Cece just about jumped out of her boots as the engine roared to life. She almost glanced down to make sure the things were still on her feet.
“Holy shlamoly,” she cried, covering her ears.
Blain turned to her, shook his head, though she was positive he hadn’t heard her. Nobody could possibly hear her. She was a mouth with no sound coming out of it.
“Cut it,” he yelled over the cacophony, slicing his finger across his neck for added insurance.
Silence descended, silence so instant and so complete it was like walking outside after a rock concert.
“Thank you,” she said, pulling her fingers out of her ears. “I’ll send you the bill from my otorhinolaryngologist.”
“Your what?” Blain asked, and did she detect a hint of curtness in his voice? Could he be a bit embarrassed? Just a tad?
One could only hope.
“Ear, nose and throat guy,” she clarified.
The man that had started the car turned to her. “You just saved us a half hour of work.”
She smiled brightly. “Yeah? Fancy that.”
“Ee-yow,” the other crew member cried. “Blain, where’d you find this girl? Gorgeous and she knows something about cars.”
Gorgeous? Hardly. But she still blushed. Forever a dog in Cinderella’s clothing. “Thanks,” she said.
Blain glared at his crew again. They instantly went back to work.
“Wow. Impressive,” she said as Blain walked toward her. “Can you make them jump through flaming hoops with that look, too? I hear Circus Circus down the road is looking for new acts.”
His face didn’t loosen up one bit as he said, “You know, you are without a doubt the most irritating, frustrating, exasperating woman of my acquaintance.”
She smiled brightly, reached up and patted his smooth-shaven cheek. “Aw, gee, thanks.” She spun away.
“Where are you going?”
“Problem solved, so that means I can go on my tour, right?”
He just looked at her, then shook his head. And could that be…was the sky falling…might that actually be a bit of a smile on his face?
“Thanks for the help,” he said.
Her mouth fell open. An apology, too? From him?
“That was a good call,” he added.
She studied him through narrow eyes, watching to see if his own eyes flicked to the right as he searched the creative side of his brain. It was a way to glean if a person was telling the truth, and she unashamedly used it now.
His eyes darted left. “I checked that cord when I first realized we had a problem. Obviously, I must not have pushed it back in all the way.”
Ah, so this wasn’t actually an apology per se. Rather, it was a saving of face.
“I see,” she said, somehow disappointed. She turned away again, but he grabbed her arm this time, turning her back yet again. Gently, though.
“Wait,” he said, lifting his hand, his face in profile as he stared at the ground and shook his head. “That came out wrong. I wasn’t trying to make excuses. You were right. I was wrong. Good call.”
He really was trying to act grateful. How…bizarre. She’d never had a kind word from the man.
“You’re welcome,” she said.
He nodded and it was then she realized that he hadn’t let go of her arm. He must have realized it, too, because he suddenly released her like a hot exhaust manifold. She knew exactly how he felt because it seemed as if she’d been burned by one herself. She almost took a peek at her arm as she turned away yet again, Blain falling into step alongside.
“You know,” she said—and she couldn’t believe she was going to tell him this. She really couldn’t. “I once tore apart a carburetor only to discover that I was out of gas the whole time.”
“You did?”
She nodded, suddenly feeling as red as a Radio Flyer. Jeesh, why’d she tell him that embarrassing thing? “I was an hour on the side of that road. You wouldn’t believe the number of guys that pulled over to help.” She looked up at him, realizing as she did so that she’d tried to make him feel better. Him. Blain Sanders. The guy who had scarred her for life more times than she could count.
Had she lost her mind?
Thank God her cellphone rang then, because she needed a moment to tighten the screws in her head.
“Blackwell,” she answered, forgetting for an instant that she was supposed to be a civvy and not a special agent.
It was Bob, and as usual, he was to the point. “Got a new suspect for you if this thing pans out.”
“Oh?” she answered, turning away from Blain.
“It’s Sanders.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“IMPOSSIBLE.”
It was the first word that came to Cece’s mind, never mind that Blain’s brows rose like twin drawbridges at her tone of voice. She lifted an index finger in the universal sign meaning just one moment, and turned away to try and find a quieter area. Quieter? Hah.
“Blain right there?” her boss asked when she told him to hold on a sec. At least she thought that’s what he said. It sounded more like, “Brain dead?”
Yeah, she felt pretty brain dead at the moment. Here she was getting all excited about being in a stock car garage when what she should be doing was focusing on the job.
She walked to the end of the building, that ever-present cold wind poking rude fingers through her mesh shirt.
Note to self: no more cute shirts.
“Now what’s this you say?” she said, crossing to the fence.
“Someone at the airport saw Sanders make a call on his cellphone just before you two boarded.”
“So?”
“We looked into it. It was to the airline.”
She tipped her head back for a second, a part of her noticing those storm clouds had gotten closer. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Bob. He could have called the airline for any number of reasons. Besides, he’s the one that keeps insisting on an investigation. You told me yourself the president of the stock car association would rather this whole thing go away.”
“Yeah, but he wouldn’t be the first twisted mind to insist the Bureau investigate a crime he’d committed.”
“If a crime was committed,” she felt the need to say.
“One might have been.”
“What do you know that I don’t know?” she asked, instantly suspicious.
“Nothing, nothing. I’m just telling you to keep your eyes open.”
Ridiculous. The whole thing was ridiculous. She would like to have told Bob all the various reasons why she doubted Blain Sanders was the perp, starting with the fact that he’d been the most disgusted with her when she’d been arrested all those years ago. “Boy Scout” didn’t begin to describe Blain Sanders. But just then she saw the man of the hour himself round the corner of the building, waving her toward him.
“Will do,” she said.
But when Cece stuffed her phone in her pocket, she couldn’t help but shake her head. Blain, a suspect. Hah! And, dang it, what was wrong with these jeans? They were too tight to get her damn cellphone back in her pocket.
Blain Sanders, stock car stalker. The thought of him as a bad guy was almost laughable. A man who refused to drag race on the street because it was illegal would not threaten to blow up a racetrack, much less kill his own driver.
“Trouble?” he asked as she joined up with him again.
“Nah. Just some office stuff.”
The way his eyebrows arched like a cat’s back made her think he didn’t buy her excuse…not one bit, but that didn’t stop her from saying, “You ready to go?”
He stared at her for half a heartbeat—long enough that she found herself thinking how odd it was to be here with him. After all the times she’d watched him on a giant TV, after all the times she’d fantasized about meeting up with him again.
Fantasize?
No. Not like that. Well, maybe once.
Or twice.
“Yeah. And we’ll need to hurry if I’m going to show you around before the next practice.”
She nodded, stepping up her pace alongside him. “Is your car all fixed?”
“Yeah. Thanks to you.” But he didn’t seem all that relieved.
“More troubles?”
He glanced at her in surprise. Cece glanced away, ostensibly to check out what was going on the garage, but more because she felt suddenly weird gazing at him. He looked so worried.
“Our lap times at this morning’s practice weren’t as good as they should be,” he admitted.
“Yeah, but you practice again tomorrow.”
“Yeah, but qualifying is today. If the weather holds.”
Blain motioned toward the grandstands. Cece followed his gaze. She could see the leading edge of those giant, bubblelike clouds.
“We just can’t catch a break. Ever since…”
His driver had died. He didn’t need to complete the sentence. Cece could read the look in his eyes. Worried. Tense. Not like a suspect. Jeesh, she almost felt sorry for him.
Sympathy? For Blain Sanders? The man responsible for her one and only felony? Who’d given her such low self-esteem as a teenager that it’d taken a year of working at Bimbos before she’d started to think she might not be such an ugly duckling after all? Who’d blackmailed her into working this case? She must have bolts for brains.
They reached the rear of his car, but the moment they arrived, a white-coated racing official said, “Blain, I need to see you for a moment.”
Blain motioned for her to stay put, then followed the guy into the garage. Secret, confidential meeting. Must be important stuff. But that was okay because it gave her a moment to think.
Blain a suspect?
Not.
“You here with Blain?”
Cece jumped, turned.
And there he was. Lance Cooper. Blain’s newly hired driver. Tall, handsome, and with such a warm smile on his face, it completely contradicted Cece’s mental image of cocky race car drivers.
“Uh, yeah.”
His smile grew wider, his white teeth startling against his tan face. Must be professionally bleached, Cece thought, even as she found herself wanting to return that grin.
“The crew told me he was with a woman,” he said with a gleam in his light gray eyes. “One who fixed my car.”
“That was me,” she said, thinking that he seemed nice. ’Course, he was new to this particular level of racing so maybe it hadn’t sunk in yet that he was a “big star.”
“Thanks.”
“My pleasure,” she said, giving in to the temptation to smile. He reached out a hand to shake hers. Cece automatically took it, thinking his messy blond hair gave him an almost boyish look.
“How’d you figure out it was the coil wire?” he asked.
“Lucky guess,” she answered, realizing there was nothing boyish about the look that suddenly entered his eyes.
“Then lucky me.” And the way he said the words…mmm mmm mmm, he was flirting.
She felt her cheeks heat. And then he crossed his arms, a brow lifting as a piratelike grin spread across his face. Naughty, naughty man. Not that she was attracted to him—no, no, no, something about his looks didn’t quite appeal to her. Besides, he was Blain’s driver, and she had a feeling if Blain saw her flirting—
“Don’t you have an interview to do?” a disgruntled voice asked.
They both turned, and it was just as she’d thought. He looked peeved.
“Yeah, but they can wait,” Lance answered.
Blain didn’t say a word, just lifted a brow in a very analytical, Mr. Spock way, his meaning obvious.
“I’m going,” his driver said.
When Cece met Blain’s eyes it was to see him direct the same irritated gaze at her. “Follow me,” he said.
Yes, sir, she silently answered, resisting the urge to salute. What was up with him? She had half a mind to drop her little bomb that he was considered a suspect, but then decided against it. She’d probably give him a heart attack right on the spot, and then she’d have to give him mouth-to-mouth.
Mmm.
Stop it, Cece.
He led her toward a row of big rigs parked around the perimeter of the garage. Her interest was piqued. The race car haulers. Cool. She’d always wanted to see what they looked like inside.
She didn’t have time to examine them too closely, though, because his next words snapped at her like the sting of a rubber band.
“Lance Cooper is off-limits.”
That made her stop. And it was almost biblical the way the world suddenly darkened, a puffy storm cloud obstructing the sun.
“What do you mean, off-limits?” she asked.
He crossed his own arms, leaning toward her a bit. “No romantic entanglements.”
Unfortunately, that’s what she thought he’d meant, and it really torqued her, too, because the man had no business saying who she could and could not get involved with. No say at all. Not that she was getting involved with anybody. No way.
“Look,” she said. “I wasn’t flirting with him, if that’s what you think.”
“You were smiling.”
“So?”
“So, you’re not here to cozy up to my driver,” he said in a low voice, looking up for a second as a team member from a different crew came walking toward them. Without saying another word, Blain turned, heading toward his own hauler. With swift movements, he opened the dark-tinted glass door and stepped inside. Surprisingly warm air hit Cece in the face.
“Am I supposed to follow you, or is the lecture over?”
He stopped, and Cece didn’t like that he towered above her. Not at all.
“I want to continue this conversation in the lounge.”
“Ooo, the lounge,” she said sotto voce, which only made him more angry, judging by the way his eyes narrowed.
Cece sighed. What a disaster. Not even one day together and already they were at each other’s throats. Granted, she was provoking him a bit, but she wasn’t doing it intentionally.
The moment she climbed the steps of the big rig and passed into the heated—yes, heated—interior, she came to an abrupt halt. “Whoa.”
Sure, she’d seen the things on TV, but a thirty-inch screen in no way conveyed the enormity of what a hauler looked like on the inside. Fluorescent lights turned cabinets a blinding white. To her left a mini-kitchenette took up a good four feet.
“You coming?”
She hadn’t even realized she’d stopped. Cece shook her head, somehow amused by it all. Most men couldn’t keep their clothes in the hamper, but this place looked as spotless as the altar of a church. One of the bottom cabinets hadn’t been closed all the way. Cece peeked inside. An engine block lay there. Jeesh. They built cabinets for their motor parts.
A second later Blain opened the door of the lounge. Cece hardly had time to notice the black leather couch, mirrors and natural wood cabinets lining the perimeter. She and Blain were practically nose-to-nose when he turned back to her, his eyes nearly the color of the blue flames that shot out of exhaust pipes.
Dangerous Curves Page 4