Dangerous Curves

by Pamela Britton

  WHAT THE HELL had just happened?

  Blain stared at Cece’s hotel room door as if he could will the thing back open.

  “Say, aren’t you—”

  “Blain Sanders,” Blain finished numbly, his gaze dropping to the handle.

  “That’s what I thought,” the guy said, holding out his hand.

  Blain turned, taking the guy’s hand, but his smile was automatic, the handshake routine.

  “Good luck this weekend.”

  Yeah. Sure. “Thanks,” Blain said, looking back to Cece’s door.

  He’d been used.

  He kept staring at it, remembering the cool way she’d dismissed him. It made him feel…damn it, used. That was all there was to it.

  He knocked.

  No answer.

  “Cece,” he said, knocking again.

  Still no answer. Was she ignoring him? Taking a shower? On the phone?

  The elevator doors opened down the hall. An older couple got out. Blain nodded to them, wondering what the hell to do. He could stand around like an idiot and keep on knocking, but he had a feeling she wouldn’t open the door.

  He shook his head and turned away. But when he stepped outside the Best Western a few minutes later, he paused. Maybe he should go upstairs and try talking to her again because, damn it, he didn’t like being used. He would go back.

  WHEN CECE HEARD the second knock, she almost didn’t answer it.

  Blain. Again.

  Who else could it be? Well, maybe her long-lost towels. Towels that she could really use now that the shower incident was over, she thought, pulling on her clothes.

  Jeesh. What a mess.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming,” she said as the knock sounded again.

  And she had to admit, her heart started pounding when she opened up the door.

  It wasn’t Blain. It was flowers. Cece could barely speak for a second, so surprised was she.

  “Uh, you Cecilia Blackwell?”

  “I am,” she found herself saying.

  Flowers.

  From Blain. Be still my heart.

  No, Cece. It’s over. Right. Right?

  “Miss Blackwell?” the guy said again, holding the things out.

  “Oh, yeah, sure.”

  Flowers, she thought, the scent of them filling her nose. Roses, lilies and various other blossoms emitting a heavenly smell.

  “Might want to put them in some water.”

  “Thanks,” Cece said, handing the guy a buck from her pocket while juggling the vase.

  And when the door closed she found herself thinking, geez, what the heck was she supposed to do now? Not only was Blain a damn nice guy, but he was the type to send a girl flowers.

  She hadn’t been sent flowers in years.

  She set them down on one of the bed stands, staring at the things. What the heck did she do now? Call him? He hadn’t called her the other day. She never had asked him why. It might have sounded too needy.

  Tick, tick, tick, tick.

  The sound penetrated the stillness of the room. Cece looked around, wondering if the bathroom light was on a timer or something. But the sound didn’t come from the bathroom…it came from the nightstand. She approached, looking at the clock near the vase. Digital. Was it in the drawer?

  It was when she leaned down that she realized where the sound was coming from.

  The vase.

  But no sooner had she ID’d the sound than she thought no way. That’d be ridiculous. Nobody used old-fashioned timers for bombs anymore.

  Still, she peeked gingerly between the stems.

  A brick of C4 sat beneath chopped-off stems.

  “Holy shit,” she said aloud, jumping back. And then she ran out of her hotel room and to the nearest fire alarm as if tongues of flame were at her heels. Because maybe in a couple of seconds there would be.

  THEY EVACUATED THE HOTEL. By the time the bomb squad arrived, Cece had calmed down. To her shock, Blain had shown up spouting something about coming back to talk to her. She’d been too busy to spend much time with him, though he’d looked a bit panicked.

  Now she sat in the conference room of the FBI’s Charlotte Bureau, one Agent Henry Ashton sitting across from her.

  “You certain you didn’t tell someone at the racetrack you were with the FBI?”

  Someone had sent her a bomb. Or was it meant for Blain? Too hard to tell at the moment.

  “Hell, Agent Ashton, who would I tell?”

  Ashton frowned, glancing down at his papers. “It says here that Las Vegas Motor Speedway Security took someone away. Maybe you spoke to them?”

  Had their suspect seen her rushing through the tunnel with Blain? Maybe overheard them?

  Jeesh. She didn’t know.

  Agent Ashton sensed her self-doubt, Cece could tell. “Look,” she said. “I don’t know if someone overheard me or not. I doubt it. I’m a seasoned agent. I don’t make mistakes.”

  Except when you’re distracted.

  Except when you want to be kissed.

  Except when you have the hots for a case’s lead contact.

  Oh, jeesh.

  She put a hand to her forehead.

  “You don’t look very convinced,” Ashton said.

  “I’m just jet-lagged.”

  “Is that why you didn’t find it odd to be receiving flowers when you’d only just arrived?”

  “No.” Not when I’d just booted a guy out of my hotel room after bopping his salami.

  What a mess.

  Agent Ashton just continued to watch her. He had beady eyes. She hated men with beady eyes.

  “Obviously, Agent Blackwell, you’re a target. You and Mr. Sanders, since we can’t be certain the killer didn’t know he wasn’t in the hotel room, too. He was there prior to the incident, was he not?”

  The sly way his little rat eyes narrowed when he said it made Cece sit up. “He was,” she admitted.

  “And that confuses me. I thought you were set to meet him in the hotel lobby.”

  “He arrived early,” she said, trying to sound as coolly professional as she could, given that she’d just had a light-duty explosive sent to her room.

  “I see,” Ashton said, and his weasel eyes glowed as if he were about to steal a giant egg from a nest.

  “Mr. Sanders was in a hurry to discuss the latest details of the case.”

  “Ah,” Ashton added in a tone of voice that made it clear he understood, which made Cece wonder if he’d had agents already tailing Blain, agents who might have been listening in….

  Ah, crap. So that was why they weren’t pointing the finger at Blain anymore. He was being watched. Closely watched, it would appear.

  “And so given the fact that you and Blain were…together—” Cece was almost positive she didn’t imagine the pause before the word “—we can’t rule out the possibility that he might be a target, too.”

  “I understand,” she said, suddenly overcome by a bad, bad feeling.

  “Agent Blackwell, I have to be honest with you. I don’t understand why Mr. Sanders is so insistent you work the case.”

  “Neither do I.”

  The response took him by surprise, his little eyes changing to the size of a ferret’s, or maybe a beaver’s.

  “Frankly, I wouldn’t be averse if you sent me home.”

  Away from Blain. Away from distraction.

  Away from the way he makes you feel.

  “I would love to do that, too, Agent Blackwell. However…”

  However? she thought, straightening. However what?

  “We can’t ignore the fact that you and Mr. Sanders have come to the killer’s attention.”

  “I know.”

  “Therefore you’d make good bait.”

  “Bait?” she asked, actually jerking in her chair. How embarrassingly unprofessional.

  “Obviously, one of the best ways to nab the killer would be to draw him out,” he explained, as if she were a rookie agent who’d graduated at the bottom of her class.
“We can handle the investigative details of the case, but I’m of the opinion you and Sanders would be better served up as bait.”

  Bait. Oh, great!

  “Agent Ashton, with all due respect, I really think I should just go back to San Francisco.”

  “And why is that?”

  Good question. She stared at him. Really good question.

  “Mr. Sanders and I—” nearly boinked this afternoon “—don’t always see eye to eye.”

  “Are you telling me you wish to quit the case because of professional differences?”

  No. Not really. Well, maybe.

  “Because if you are, I would remind you, Agent Blackwell, that you are an agent. According to these records, an exemplary agent, although I’ve noticed the West Coast is a bit more lax in rating their operatives. But be that as it may, your help is needed here. Now, are you going to give it, or go back home?”

  Shit and shinola. The man was good. Really good. He had her backed into a corner.

  “Sir, surely there’s a better solution? And why can’t I help investigate?”

  “Because we need you with Sanders.”

  Double shit.

  “You can help protect him at his residence.”

  His residence?

  “I…his residence?”

  “Yes. We’ve asked, and he’s given his approval. You’re to be housed with him,” Ashton said, giving her an arch look, as if he knew she and Blain had been bumping and grinding in her hotel room.

  Maybe he did.

  “It’s secluded,” he added, “off the shore of a lake. Easy to guard, with nothing but water in the back. And with the two of you staying under one roof, it’ll save us manpower.”

  Two of you under one roof.

  Cripes. What a mess. She’d almost had full frontal sex with Blain Sanders, then a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am farewell, then almost become Cecilius Blackwellius courtesy of a bomb straight out of a Looney Tunes cartoon.

  “When do I leave?” she asked in resignation.

  “Right now.”

  Great, Cece thought. Really great. Luxurious accommodations compliments of Blain Sanders. And just what the hell was she going to say to him when she did face him again?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  IT WAS A QUESTION that plagued her the whole way to Blain’s home, one Agent Thurman driving her there, the lush green North Carolina landscape sliding by the window like movie scenery. Her anxieties only increased when she passed through a wrought-iron gate. In her experience, only truly elaborate homes were to be found on the other side of gates, though why it should make her more anxious to discover that Blain had an elegant mansion was anybody’s guess.

  And it was elegant. Cece and her new friend goggled at the sight of it. She knew this for a fact because she was staring right at the middle-aged agent when his eyes bulged like a fly’s. Then she turned to follow his gaze and her eyes probably bulged, too.

  An acre of stucco and glass perched on the edge of a grassy knoll that had obviously been professionally landscaped. Nobody but landscapers could successfully mix daisies and calla lilies. And okay, so it wasn’t really an acre, but she wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t half an acre. A blacktop road brought you right up to the front door, with the house on your right. Cece got out of Agent Thurman’s standard-issue Ford Taurus, the squeak of the car door breaking the silence of the serene and peaceful Villa Sanders. And that’s what it looked like. Red tile roof, beige stucco, lush landscaping that seemed all the more tropical for the North Carolina humidity pressing against her face like a wet rag.

  Wow.

  “Sanders said to go on in,” Agent Thurman said, heading for the front door after chirping his car alarm. Who did the man think would rob him out here? A hard up squirrel? By the looks of things, even the squirrels had it good around here. “I guess we go in the front door.”

  Cece glanced over at Agent Thurman, tempted to say, “You think?” Only something about the agent’s voice, about the way he’d said…

  “And I gotta tell you, I can’t wait to see the inside of this place.”

  There it was—confirmation. “You a race fan?” she said.

  “I am.”

  Well, really, was it much of a surprise? This was the heart of stock car country.

  But she wouldn’t have figured Agent Thurman to be the type. For one thing, he wasn’t exactly young, just a few years shy of her boss’s fifty years, by the looks of it. But his eyes sure glowed like a teenager’s as he opened Blain’s front door with a key Blain must have given to him, pulled out a piece of paper and disarmed the alarm that beeped in electronic rage. Cece followed him inside, her steps slowing to a snail’s pace as she took it all in.

  Holy shlamoly.

  The foyer alone was as big as her apartment. Vaulted ceilings with windows above and around the door let in so much light it reminded Cece of a cathedral. Marble floors were done in—what else?—checkered flag. To her left was a living room, the white carpet looking like it’d been poured from a bucket of paint, it dripped down the sunken floor so smoothly. Cream-and-white upholstery with matching drapes, cherry side tables—luxury everywhere she turned, which, at the moment, was to the right. She and Agent Thurman stepped into a less formal family room packed with racing memorabilia plus a flat screen TV nearly as big as her bed back home, wraparound couches in mocha-brown, and a white Berber carpet that must have been hell to keep clean.

  “Here it is.”

  Cece found herself blinking at Agent Thurman’s words, having zoned out on her surroundings. He’d moved off to the left, through an arched entry that led to what must be a trophy room.

  Agent Thurman looked like he’d found the mother of all drug stashes, the kind agents dream of finding, except this wasn’t drugs, this was race stuff.

  “I’ve heard about this room.”

  All right, she couldn’t help herself. She wanted a look-see, too. Cece stepped through the arch and was brought up short by wall-to-wall trophies. But it wasn’t just trophies. The room was full of other goodies, too, from a shelfful of different colored helmets to a brightly painted hood to, of all things, a tire propped against a wall, rocks still embedded in the rubber.

  “Look at that,” Agent Thurman said in awe. “That’s the championship trophy right there.” He walked over to a case, his awed face reflected back in the glass. Cece resisted the urge to follow. Photos caught her attention. They were on a wall beneath the shelf of helmets. Dozens of Blains looked back at her. Blain wearing a headset as he stared out at a racetrack. Blain in the winner’s circle—Blain in a lot of winner’s circles—Blain dressed in a tux as he accepted the year-end trophy. Blain with various drivers, celebrities, even TV personalities.

  She shook her head, admitting to herself that she was impressed. She’d known he was something of an icon, but nothing brought that home like this room did.

  Her hands had started to shake. Whether it was seeing Blain’s face again, or because of the sudden realization that he was far, far out of her league, she didn’t know.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Agent Thurman nodded, lifting his hand in a half-hearted gesture as he acknowledged her words. Cece crossed the room, heading for the back of the house and, hopefully, the rest room. She needed to splash cold water on her face. Really cold.

  But the back of the house was a kitchen. Seriously, the whole back of the damn house belonged to a kitchen—well, and a sunroom off one end—but the rest had so much red tile Cece felt like she was standing in Mexico. Brushed aluminum appliances reflected fuzzy half-arcs of light. Windows to her right gave her a view of Lake Norman, which sparkled like a fizzy soda beneath the setting sun. Cece’s heels clicked on the tile floor as she crossed to the sink, turning on the spigot so she could splash her face.

  Why did her hands shake?

  Sure, she’d known Blain was a celebrity. A familiar face to race fans. Team owner. She’d known he’d come a long way from their little town, known he had more
money than she’d earn in a dozen lifetimes.

  Yet it hadn’t hit home until that moment.

  She dabbed at her face with a towel hanging by the sink (no paper towels here). Her hands still shook, damn it. Fingers curled into her palms as she took a deep breath and stared out at the lake through the window above the sink. Green lawn stretched almost to the shore, a pier bobbing and swaying like a cork atop the water. She bet if she went out on the balcony, she’d hear the water’s rhythmic swish-swoosh-swish of tiny waves.

  “Cece.”

  She jumped.

  Oh, jeez. Blain came toward her, the look on his face one she’d never seen before.

  “Lord, Cece, you have no idea how worried I’ve been.”

  He tried to pull her into his arms, and she wanted to go…she really did. But she shook her head instead, saying, “We’re not alone,” in a low voice.

  He seemed to understand, though the regret in his eyes did something surprising—it tore at her heart.

  And then she said more loudly, “I’m fine, Blain, really.”

  “You’re fine?” he asked quietly. “You didn’t look fine when you were running around that hotel lobby.”

  “I was dealing with a bomb threat,” she said.

  “I know.” All he did was stare at her and she could see the myriad thoughts zooming through his mind. They flickered one by one through his eyes like slots on a game wheel. Worry, anger, relief.

  “It was nothing, Blain. They took the thing away before it could explode. And now we have some solid evidence to examine.”

  He continued to stare. Cece grew increasingly uncomfortable.

  “How do you do it?” he finally asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Shut ’em off.”

  “Shut what off?”

  “Your emotions.”

  “I don’t shut them off.”

  “Well, you sure are acting like this is nothing out of the ordinary,” he said, “because I’ve got to tell you, Cece, hearing there was a threat, knowing the target was probably you—”

  “It was nothing—”

  “And the way you brushed me off in the lobby.”