Blain turned and slowly sat down on the couch. She told herself to stand there. No, that wasn’t right. She’d been trained to stand still while a victim assimilated facts. But for some reason she couldn’t disconnect from Blain, and so she found herself going to him, squatting down in front of him. To her shock, she saw his eyes were rimmed with red. Blain Sanders, the jock, the celebrity, her high school nemesis, moved to tears.
“Blain,” she said softly, taking his hand.
He didn’t pull away.
“I don’t know if I can do it, Cece.”
And she knew how much that admission must have cost him, even as a part of her took note of the nickname.
“I don’t know if I can send Lance out again knowing he might—”
Be killed.
He didn’t need to say the words. She gently squeezed his hand. “Lance takes that risk every day.”
“Yeah, but not like this.”
And it ate Blain up. She stared at him and marveled at a side of him she’d never seen. A softer side. Vulnerable. More human. He cared—genuinely cared—about his driver, and the shift from thinking of Blain as a self-centered jerk to a kind and caring human being stirred things she’d rather weren’t disturbed.
“Blain, I have a feeling that even if you tell Lance what’s going on, he’ll still want to race. It’s in his blood.”
Their gazes connected and Cece was rocked by how poleaxed she felt when their eyes met.
“It’s in my blood, too, Cece. I love this sport. I’d do anything to stay in it. But I can’t stand by and let it endanger people’s lives.”
“I know,” she said. She slowly rose to her feet, bending down to kiss him on the top of his head, an intimate, womanly gesture that took her by surprise. Only as she did, his head turned a bit and she ended by kissing his cheek, and the way it felt when her lips connected with his flesh…well, it made her want to kiss something else. She saw the desire that instantly flared in his own eyes, desire she’d caught a glimpse of last night.
No, she warned herself. She shouldn’t. But something crackled in the air between them, something instant and undeniable, and before she could think better of it, she’d kissed a little closer to his mouth. Cece could feel him tense. She drew back a bit. His breath drifted over her, and the intimacy of inhaling the scent of him, when for so many years she’d fantasized…
“Cece,” he said.
She stood still. This wasn’t a fantasy. This was a flesh-and-blood man.
He reached up and tugged her head down to his own.
“Blain, I don’t think this is a good id—”
He kissed her, pulled her to him, Cece settling on his hard thighs as if she’d done it a million times before—and in her dreams, maybe she had. Only this was so much better than her fantasies.
Then all thought fled. She opened her mouth, her heart thudding so loudly it whitewashed all other sound. And though she didn’t want it, though she didn’t expect it, excitement lit pinpoints of electricity through her body; it made her limbs shake, made her bite back a moan.
Kissing him was nothing like her fantasies. It was better than a fantasy. When he increased the pressure of his lips, she followed his lead and opened her mouth, and that was when it all erupted, when her body and her mind began to realize that this was an attraction unlike any she’d felt before.
She pulled away out of self-preservation, because she couldn’t, just couldn’t, deal with the reality of kissing Blain Sanders.
“That was a mistake,” she said, pushing herself off him, a part of her mind scrambled beyond repair.
“Cece, that was—”
“A mistake,” she repeated, shocked at what kissing him had done to her insides. Not to mention her unprofessional behavior in letting him—
“Look,” she said, trying to get control of the situation. Control. That was good. When feeling poleaxed one should always appear in control. “Obviously we’re both a little stressed. The race. Lance’s wreck. It’s only natural that we should gravitate toward each other.”
You’ve never gravitated to a witness before.
“I don’t think we should read too much into this…” mind-blowing kiss, she mentally finished. Toe-curling, breast-tingling, thigh-burning kiss.
Holy smoke.
“Cece, that wasn’t—”
“Professional.” She cut him off. She had to cut him off because she couldn’t handle this right now—whatever this was. “You’re right, and I’m sorry. I accept all the blame.”
“Like hell you will.”
She stiffened, not liking the sudden challenge she saw in his eyes. She’d seen that look on masculine faces before, though usually it was on a gun range. But it always meant confrontation.
“Okay then, fine,” she said in a rush, because she was starting to feel a bit panicked. “It’s all your fault. You shouldn’t have kissed me. I’d slap your face if I didn’t need to call in to the office.” She glanced at the digital clock on the wall. “Wow, look at the time. I need to get going.” And she was already backing toward the door. That alone should have alerted her to the seriousness of her reaction. Cece never, ever backed away from anything. “I’ll check in with you when I get to San Francisco.”
She spun away.
“Cece, wait—”
But she ignored him, the calm, cool FBI agent completely gone as, for the first time in her life, a woman emerged to take her place—a woman who suddenly felt about seventeen years old.
BLAIN FOLLOWED HER to the end of the hauler, but without making a scene, there wasn’t a whole lot he could do.
She’d looked panicked.
It was a new expression for Cece’s face. Never, not once when they’d been teenagers, nor anytime since, had he seen such a look. If their kiss hadn’t already thrown him, her reaction to it certainly would have.
“Trouble with the new girlfriend?” his Cup car crew chief, Allen, said from behind him.
Girlfriend? That’s what his crew thought?
Yeah. He supposed they did. Blain never brought women to a race—no time to baby-sit—but his gut twisted like spun rubber at the prospect of telling Allen Cece’s true purpose.
A purpose that had just been complicated by that kiss.
“No trouble,” he muttered.
“Well, if there is, I’m next in line to date her.”
Lance’s words had Blain turning toward the driver. He’d come up between the haulers, a beige butterfly bandage on his head. A look toward Cece revealed she’d made it almost to the end of the garage. It was now or never to go after her. Blain decided he’d leave her be…for now.
He shook his head, looked back at Lance. “They release you from the care center already?”
“Yup. I’m A-okay.”
“Kinda hard to injure a head that already has nothing in it,” said another one of his crew members. His white-and-orange team shirt was too big for his small frame, which made him look even more boyish when he grinned widely.
“This from a man who thought geometry had something to do with volcanoes.”
“I told you,” the dark-haired jackman said, “I just got geology and geometry confused.”
“And he thinks I’m the one with a faulty head,” Lance said, his eyes moving back to Cece. At least that’s what it looked like. Blain followed his gaze. Sure enough, it could only be Cece he was staring at because the Cup garage was mostly deserted. Only Cece could hold Lance’s eye.
Blain’s hackles rose and he found himself saying, “She’s not your type.”
Lance glanced back at him, lifting a brow as he said, “Hell, by the looks of things, she’s not your type, either.”
Lance crossed his arms in front of him, and Blain found it ironic that the man wore a white T-shirt with Sanders Racing scrawled across the left pocket, and yet he appeared to be challenging Blain over a woman. Unbelievable.
“Cece’s an old friend,” Blain said. “I’m not interested in her romantically.”
&nb
sp; Hah! You are, too, buddy.
“I don’t want to see her hurt,” Blain said. “We’ve all seen how you treat women around here.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” his crew chief said. “You do realize you sound an awful lot like you’re fighting over a girl?”
Blain ordered his shoulders to relax. Damn it. When had this thing gotten so out of control? When had his life gotten out of control?
His cellphone beeped.
Blain looked down, recognizing the number on the display as the home office for NASCAR.
This couldn’t be good.
IT WASN’T.
Blain stared around the plush conference room, various PR people, vice presidents and racing officials staring back at him from one of Phoenix International Raceway’s conference rooms.
“It’s not a gag order,” Barry Bidwell, president of the stock car racing association, said. “We just don’t want any wild rumors started.”
“Rumors, Barry?” Blain asked.
“Yeah, rumors.”
Blain had known the man since Blain was seventeen—a wet-behind-the-ears West Coast kid who had racing his blood. Back then he’d been Mr. Bidwell, and back then racing hadn’t been a billion-dollar industry. Which was why, Blain suspected, they’d flown in to see him today. Wouldn’t do to start a panic.
“The thing is, Blain, the FBI doesn’t even know if the letter we received is connected to Randy’s death.”
Blain just stared at him. The man had gotten heavy in recent years. The fat of good living clung to his jowls and neck. Thinning black hair looked to have been recently plugged near the front, his suit the kind Barry wouldn’t have been caught dead in twenty years ago. Hell, twenty years ago Barry couldn’t have afforded the thing. Back then he’d been a smooth-talking Southerner with a vision of what stock car racing could be. The only thing that remained of that man was the accent.
“And we don’t even know for sure that Randy’s death was murder,” Rick Vanhausen, the association’s PR guy, said.
Blain smirked a moment before saying, “Don’t hand me that crap, Rick. All you’re doing is delaying the inevitable. You know it wasn’t an accident. Cars don’t explode before they hit a wall. You know it and I know it.”
“All we’re doing is asking you to keep quiet. Not indefinitely,” Barry added quickly, raising his pudgy hands, “just for a few more days.”
“And you couldn’t do that over the phone?”
“We didn’t think you’d listen over the phone.”
And they’d have been right. In Blain’s present mood he’d have likely hung up on them. Damn it.
“And because we wanted to tell you face-to-face that we think it’d be a bad idea if you pulled out of tomorrow’s race.”
“What?” Blain asked, shocked that they would say such a thing. Whether he raced or not was his choice, not theirs.
“Look, we know what you’re thinking,” Barry said with a glance at Rick. “We know you’re probably scared. Worried about your new driver. But you can’t respond by running.”
Running?
“We don’t want you pulling out.”
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
“We control your licenses, Blain. It’d be a shame to lose them all simply because you don’t want to cooperate.”
“What?”
“Don’t,” Barry warned, holding up a hand. “Don’t say things that might make the situation worse.”
“Like what? Calling you all a bunch of assholes? You are.” Bastards. They couldn’t do this. They couldn’t. He wouldn’t let him.
“Just cooperate with us, Blain. Keep quiet about this—and that includes telling your driver. If word leaks out about what’s going on, we’ll hold you responsible.”
“Go ahead,” Blain said, the anger that had been seeping through a tiny gasket of control finally blowing. “And while you’re at it, why don’t you fine me, too?”
“We will.” Barry smiled. “By the time we’re done, you’d be lucky to have ten cents in the bank.” But then his face softened. “Blain, I hate to play hardball, but we really don’t have any choice. We need your cooperation, and we’ll do anything to get it.”
And as he looked from Rick to Barry, Blain began to shake his head. “You know, I’m beginning to think the killer sent me that letter because they knew you guys would sit on it. Don’t go breaking the almighty racing bank. Don’t go scaring off fans. Don’t go worrying the drivers and teams.”
“That’s not why we’re putting a lid on this,” Rick said.
“Bullshit,” Blain said, standing up. “You forget, boys, I’ve been around this business a long, long time. And that’s the problem with the association nowadays. It’s turned into a business. A frickin’ money-making machine. The last thing you want is for that money to stop pouring in.”
Voices erupted around the room, Blain too upset to care.
“If you don’t like it, Blain, you don’t have to play.”
Barry’s voice boomed out, deep and unmistakable, as was the unspoken threat: keep quiet or you won’t be allowed to race. Oh, yeah, the good ol’ boys were good at putting a chokehold on things. They could keep someone out of racing with the snap of their fingers. They’d been doing it to women for years, despite their public ERA attitude.
“Are you threatening me?” Blain asked.
Mr. Bidwell looked as unfazed as an elephant confronted by a lamb. “No,” he drawled. “I’m merely pointing out the possibilities. We need your cooperation. If you can’t give it, I suggest you go home. Indefinitely.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“Then work with us, Blain. It’ll only be for a few days.”
But, see, that was the problem. Somehow Blain doubted that. They would keep the lid on this for as long as they could. He knew it. The unspoken question they were asking was for Blain to do that, too. That’s why they’d flown out from Daytona now. It wasn’t because they were trying to play nice. It was because they wanted him to understand just how serious they were.
“Fine,” Blain said, furious, disgusted and, yeah, disillusioned. “I’ll keep quiet. For now.”
He left the last words hanging.
“Well, now, Blain,” Barry said. “We appreciate that,” he said in a cool, almost affable Southern drawl.
Bite me hovered on Blain’s lips. Instead he moved away from the table, doing his best not to break the conference room’s glass door as he exited.
“You think he’ll do it?” Rick Vanhausen said after the door had closed.
“He’ll do it,” Barry replied. “He doesn’t have a choice.”
CHAPTER TEN
BLAIN HADN’T CALLED.
Cece thought about it the whole way into work that Monday, the BART train filled to capacity as it zoomed up the Bay Area peninsula.
She’d waited for the phone to ring all Saturday night, and when that failed, all Sunday morning.
But he hadn’t called.
That bothered her. And that was bad. Very bad. She’d kissed him, and not only was it completely against the FBI’s code of ethics, it was dangerous. You couldn’t concentrate on an investigation if you were lusting after the case’s primary contact.
Jeesh, what a mess.
“I was hoping you’d come in today,” Bob said when she arrived at the office, her feet slipping to a halt as she passed his open door.
“Can’t keep away,” she said sarcastically. Technically she could have taken the day off after having to work all weekend, but she wanted to finish writing up some notes, then hand the case over to someone else.
Yeah, that’s right, she was quitting the case.
But the look on Bob’s face told her that might be harder than she thought.
“Come on in,” he said.
Cece knew it was coming. Their forensics department worked around the clock. It wouldn’t take them long to verify their preliminary findings.
Sure enough, Bob said without preamble, “Turns out your fr
iend was right. His driver’s death wasn’t an accident.”
If Cece hadn’t been sitting down already, she would have then.
“Ballistics indicates the load was put in the frame of the race car near the back end. That’s why nobody saw it.”
The frame. Made sense. After what she’d learned this weekend, it would be the only place a crew and tech inspection wouldn’t poke around. But she felt her muscles tense as the implications sank in.
“It’s an inside job,” she mused aloud. Unbelievable. After all her comments about it being a wild-goose chase, turned out Blain was right all along.
Bad. Very bad.
“From the report you filed—good work, by the way,” Bob mumbled, “that means only someone at the shop could have placed the explosives.”
“Who?” Cece found herself wondering, the faces of different team members floating through her mind. Was one of them out for blood? A terrorist? A serial killer?
“Why?” she asked aloud. “Aside from the terrorist angle, I can’t imagine an insider targeting a driver. The people in this industry are loyal to the sport.”
“A grudge, maybe?”
She leaned back. She knew crew members moved around a lot. Was it possible someone secretly had it out for Blain and his team? But then she began to shake her head. “The letter Blain received. It threatens to detonate another bomb at a racetrack. That doesn’t seem personal.”
“Maybe that’s just a diversion,” Bob said. “The point is that the investigation is at a whole new level now. When can you leave for North Carolina?”
“North Carolina?” Cece said instantly.
“We need you there ASAP.”
“Can’t someone from the Charlotte Bureau take over?”
“Negative.”
Cece tried not to panic. The last thing she wanted was to see Blain Sanders again.
“I just don’t think Mr. Sanders and I work well together.”
“That’s not what Sanders tells me.”
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