Dangerous Curves

by Pamela Britton

  “That’s my job.”

  “And I don’t like it.”

  He didn’t, damn it. He wanted her back at his house, safe, with a full regiment of agents protecting her.

  “What if there’s more than one bad guy?” he added, glancing over at her.

  He caught a look of what-of-it unconcern. “We don’t have any reason to assume there’s more than one. In fact, there’s a lot more evidence to support the theory that it’s not a group.”

  “Such as?”

  “There still haven’t been any claims by terrorist organizations that this is their work, though that might change now that it’s gone public. Those groups are always quick to jump on the bandwagon. Plus, if it had been a terrorist cell, they’d have been a lot more professional in the way they put the load together yesterday. Al Qaeda operatives don’t use alarm clocks for timers.”

  “If you’re trying to reassure me, it’s not working.”

  “Actually, it should. I’d rather deal with one person than a group of religious fanatics.”

  One or twenty, the point was someone might have killed her yesterday.

  And him.

  But he didn’t have time to point that out because right then they arrived at his shop, and both Cece and Blain stiffened when they saw the media circus camped out in his parking lot. On a normal day there were tourists around, race fans dropping by the industrial complex in hopes of catching a glimpse of people they deemed “celebrities.” Today, however, the parking area was filled with news vans and satellite trucks, people milling about as Cece pulled into Blain’s reserved parking spot.

  “Great,” he said.

  “Let me get out first.”

  He shot her a glare. “Why? So you can get shot at first?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Blain, we’re surrounded by people. Nobody’s going to get a clear shot at me.”

  She smiled the cocky, nothing-to-worry-about smile he’d come to expect from her. Still, he noticed that she put her hand beneath her jacket as she stepped out of the car. A gun? Blain was pretty certain it was.

  Damn.

  How could he so hate what she did for a living and yet still admire her brash attitude?

  “Step back from the car,” she said as people rushed forward. “Mr. Sanders won’t be giving a statement today.”

  Her door slammed with a pop of air pressure, and Blain watched as Cece came around the front of the car. When she opened his door for him, she was in full FBI protection mode, her face expressionless, her eyes scanning, scanning, scanning.

  It amazed him.

  Especially when she glanced down at him, saying, “It’s safe to get out of the car now, Mr. Sanders,” in as impersonal a voice as he’d ever heard from her.

  His lips formed a bemused smile almost against his will. He couldn’t help feeling like a sitting duck as he straightened. But Cece treated it all like another day at the office, and for her, it probably was.

  As for him, he rushed into the building. It was weird the way she seemed to relax the moment the door closed, leaving the press milling around outside. But he noticed she still peeked out the glass double doors once or twice.

  “Thanks,” he said, feeling somehow out of kilter, like his timing chain was off a notch or something. And then it dawned on him that this was the first time he’d ever seen her in protective mode, and he had to admit it was a whole new side of her.

  “Doesn’t look like any race car shop I’ve ever seen,” she said, turning toward the lobby.

  He forced his mind to address her question. No, it didn’t, at least from the front. The sprawling five-acre facility wasn’t as plush as some of the multi-race teams’, but the chrome-and-glass building looked more like an office than a fabrication shop. He’d had the architects hide the shop at the back of the building, more so prying eyes couldn’t see into it than for aesthetic reasons.

  “Gotta look successful to be successful,” he said.

  She pulled her gaze away from the trophy case that lauded some of his team’s more recent wins. “Well, by the looks of things, you’re pretty successful.”

  He had been, though it’d been a long haul to get where he was. And now it might all go away.

  “Thank God you’re here,” Linda said, her brown hair held back by its customary sixties-style headband. “The phones have been ringing off the hook.”

  To his surprise, Cece didn’t eye Linda up and down. In fact, she seemed coolly unaffected by his receptionist’s model-type looks.

  “Linda, this is Cece. She’s an FBI agent.”

  Despite how frazzled she appeared, Linda eyed Cece closely. She nodded a curt greeting.

  “Nice to meet you, Linda,” Cece said.

  The secretary turned back to Blain. “Steve Oxford is here,” she said.

  Blain couldn’t conceal his surprise. “Already?” he asked, silently cursing. He’d expected to have at least an hour.

  “He was in a hurry.”

  Bad news. A CEO flying out to see you when you hadn’t won a race was always bad news.

  “In the conference room?”

  Linda nodded, her eyes on Cece.

  “Might as well get this over,” Blain said.

  “You want me to sit in?” Cece asked.

  “Sure. You know as much about what’s going on as anybody.”

  But judging by the expression on Steve’s face, Blain should have taken the meeting alone. He had always thought the man looked like retired military. Though Steve had to be nearing sixty, he still had the square face, square jaw and buzz cut. But the hard glint in his eyes was more pronounced today, giving Blain a pretty good idea this wasn’t going to be pleasant. He shut the glass door to the conference room, glad the vertical blinds had been closed already.

  “Blain, maybe we should keep this private,” Steve said after he’d been introduced to Cece.

  But Blain shook his head, settling himself in a dark green chair that he rolled out from under the glass-covered conference table. “Cece’s a big part of the investigation, and since you’re no doubt here because of what’s going on, I think you’ll want her input.”

  “Is she in charge?” Steve asked, the fluorescent lights revealing his skepticism.

  Blain felt his eyes narrow. Something about the way Steve had said that…

  “I’m not in charge, Mr. Oxford, but I’ve been in on things since the very start.”

  “I’m sure you have,” Steve said, in such a placating tone of voice he sounded like a used-car salesman. “But maybe it’d be better if you called your boss and asked him to join us.”

  If Cece had been a dog, Blain was certain that her hackles would have lifted.

  “The agent presently in charge of the investigation is busy,” Cece said. “I can stand in for him.”

  “Well, maybe we should reschedule the meeting until he’s not busy.”

  “That would be a waste of time for all of us, Mr. Oxford,” Cece said tersely. “Speaking of which, I really need to get to a briefing that’s scheduled for an hour from now, so if we could hurry this up…?”

  Blain wanted to smile. Steve had always been a pretentious S.O.B., but Blain had never pegged him as sexist. Apparently the gloves were off for this meeting, however, because Blain saw unmasked irritation cross the man’s face.

  “Very well, then,” he said as if he’d given his approval, when, in fact, he’d had no choice. “But I’ll expect a written transcript of what we discuss here today.”

  It was a blatant attempt on Steve’s part to put Cece in her place—as if she were nothing more than a glorified secretary for the FBI.

  But Blain should have known she’d be able to handle herself. “I’m sure Blain’s personal assistant would be happy to come in here and take care of that for you,” she replied curtly.

  Good for you, Blain privately conveyed to Cece with the hint of a grin. Oh, yeah, she knew how to put men in their place.

  “No need for that. What I’ve got to say will only take a mi
nute.”

  Then why the hell had he wanted Cece to take notes, Blain almost asked him, but he tried to keep it professional, even though he was fighting the urge to clock Steve Oxford in the face.

  “As you know, Blain, Star Oil has been with you for four years now—”

  “Cut the crap, Steve. You’re ditching me because of all this nonsense, aren’t you?”

  If Steve seemed surprised by his aggressiveness, it didn’t show. He just leaned back in his chair, unbuttoning his suit coat. “We are.”

  Mother f—

  Blain bit back the oath. Sure, he’d suspected the news, but he’d been hoping Steve would deny it.

  And as his hopes went sailing out the conference room door, so did the leash on Blain’s temper.

  “This is bull, Steve. Complete and utter bull.”

  Blain caught a glimpse of Cece’s eyes widening before she glanced at Steve to see his reaction.

  “Actually, Blain, it’s not,” Steve snapped back just as aggressively. “You know as well as I do that things haven’t been the same since Randy’s death.”

  “It’s only been a month. Give us some time to pull it together.”

  “But to be honest, this started before Randy died.”

  “What started?” Blain huffed.

  “The losses. Poor qualifying. Poor finishes. Our tracking service claims we’ve only gotten two hours of network exposure.”

  He’d known the number was low—his own tracking service had come up with much the same. “Every team goes through ups and downs.”

  “Yeah, but the words murder and terrorists haven’t been associated with their names.”

  And there it was out in the open. Blain’s fears coming true. “So you’re pulling your support because you think consumers will view Star Oil negatively.”

  “It’s subliminal, Blain. Any advertising firm will tell you that. Plus, word is you’re going to be grounded, in which case our logo won’t see any air-time at all.”

  “Who told you that?”

  Steve smiled tightly. “Barry Bidwell.”

  Which made Blain sit up in surprise. Rumors were one thing, but if Steve was telling him the truth…

  “He told me he’s coming over to speak to you about it today.”

  So then the message he’d left wasn’t his way of reminding Blain that he’d promised to keep quiet.

  “Mr. Oxford,” Cece said, “don’t you think your withdrawal is a bit precipitous?”

  “I take it you didn’t know about that?” Steve asked Blain, blatantly ignoring Cece.

  “I only just got in.”

  “We might catch the perpetrator today,” Cece interjected.

  Steve turned to her, his expression clearly one of impatience. “Miss Blackwell, with all due respect, this has less to do with Randy’s death and more to do with performance.”

  “Bullshit,” she said, which caused Steve’s eyes to widen—Blain was looking right at him when it happened. “This is a blatant crap-out by a major sponsor who’s too much of a coward to stand by a race team that’s proved itself over and over again, and that needs your support now more than ever.”

  “Cece,” Blain warned, even as part of him wanted to lean across the table and kiss her soundly. “I think what Mr. Oxford is saying is that his mind is already made up and nothing we can say or do will help our cause.”

  Steve’s steely eyes had narrowed so much Blain wondered how he could see out of them.

  “You’re right,” the man said tersely, his square face red after Cece’s attack. “We have made up our mind. However, I’d appreciate being brought up to date on the investigation so we can address this issue with the press. Miss Blackwell, if I could have the name of your superior for that update.”

  “Miss Blackwell could update you herself,” Cece said, and Blain could tell she was livid…absolutely, positively livid. On his behalf. “But since Star Oil no longer has a vested interest in the case, I won’t be able to share that information.” She leaned forward, tugging her lips up in a sarcastic smile. “In other words, I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

  Color spread into Steve Oxford’s wide neck. “Fine. I’ll call your superior myself.”

  “You do that,” she said, tipping her chin. “But he’s only going to tell you what I just told you.”

  “And while I’m at it,” Steve added, “maybe we’ll have a little conversation about you and your unprofessionalism.”

  “Go ahead. Maybe they’ll fire me. I’d kinda like to go home instead of handling bomb threats.”

  Steve pushed himself to his feet, the buttons on his jacket catching on the table. “Blain, our attorneys will be in touch.”

  “I’m sure they will,” Blain said.

  And that was it.

  All the years of sponsorship. All the friendships he’d made within the company—all gone—like that.

  “That arrogant, sexist son of a—” Cece got up from her chair, splayed her hands. “How can he pull his support like that?”

  “Racing,” Blain said with a shrug.

  “Well, racing sucks,” Cece said, pressing her palms flat on the glass. “And I don’t know how you put up with it.”

  “Actually,” Blain said, “I’ve been pretty lucky. Star Oil has been with me for almost five years. That’s longer than a lot of teams get to spend with one sponsor.”

  “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” Cece asked, swiping an irritating strand of hair out of her face. “I’m supposed to just pat you on the back and say ‘tough luck, Blain’?”

  She crossed her arms as he came over to her side of the table. On the walls around them were pictures of his race cars, most of them with the Star Oil logo painted on the hood. Cece looked like she wanted to toss them out after Steve Oxford.

  “Cece, you amaze me.”

  She raised her brows. Blain lifted his hand to stroke the freckles he remembered from their childhood, but she darted away before he could do it.

  “No touching,” she reminded him.

  “At least not here,” he said in a low voice.

  “Not anywhere,” Cece corrected even as her stupid body warmed at his words. He’d just been fired by his sponsor. She’d just lost complete control of herself in front of said sponsor and acted in a way she probably shouldn’t have, and yet all she could think about was that she wished Blain would try to touch her again. Jeesh.

  “And what do you mean, I amaze you?” she asked, pressing her lips together as she peered up at him suspiciously.

  His smile widened a few notches. “When we were first reunited you practically spat on my shoes, and now here you are defending my team and my abilities to a man most people are afraid of.”

  “Afraid of that overfed pile of pig meat?” She raised her chin. “I’ve eaten men like him for breakfast. Sexist—”

  Blain bent down and stopped her words with his mouth.

  “Hey,” she said, jerking back. “No fair.” But her lips tingled.

  “Thank you,” he said, his silver eyes suddenly serious. And this time when he lifted his hand, she didn’t move. “Thank you,” he said again in his soft drawl, his thumb brushing her cheek. “I appreciate your righteous indignation.”

  That almost made her smile, except she wasn’t really liking the way his finger made her feel. She didn’t really want him to go on touching her. She didn’t really feel the urge to tug his head down so he could kiss her again—

  “Mr. Sanders, you have Mr.—oops,” Linda said, Cece glancing over at the conference room door just in time to see the flashy brunette stiffen, the woman’s eyes narrowing as she took in the scene.

  Blain’s hand dropped, but he didn’t blink as he said, “Mr. Oops?”

  Linda’s lips tightened. Cece watched them go as flat as a heart monitor. Ah…so that was it. Not that she blamed Linda for having a crush on her boss. “Mr. Bidwell is on line three,” she said.

  Blain finally looked her way. “Great,” he muttered
sarcastically. “I’ll take it in here.”

  “That’s the president of the racing association, isn’t it?” Cece asked after Linda-of-the-big-boobs left.

  “It is,” Blain said.

  “You think he’s calling to tell you you can’t race?”

  “I think there’s a good chance that he is.”

  “But…they can’t do that!”

  “Yes, Cece, they can.”

  “It’s not fair.”

  “That’s—”

  “Racing,” she finished for him. “I know. But it sucks.” And at the look of resignation on his face, Cece found herself touching his jaw, despite telling herself no, no, no. “We’ll break this case, Blain. Soon. You’ll be out there racing again before you know it.”

  “Yeah, with no sponsor.”

  “Are you kidding? Once this is all done, you’ll have sponsors lining up at the door.”

  He smiled, but it wasn’t a very convincing one. “From your mouth to God’s ears, Cece.”

  “I mean it, Blain. We’ll catch this guy. I promise.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  BUT SAYING THE WORDS was a lot easier than doing it, especially when it was obvious Agent Ashton really didn’t want her investigating, something that became more and more apparent after her cellphone beeped later that day, the preprogrammed display revealing the big cheese of the Charlotte office himself. Damn.

  “I just got off the phone with Steve Oxford,” Agent Ashton said without preamble.

  Cece sank down in the conference room she’d appropriated as her own little office. Jeesh. What’d Oxford do? Race out and go tell Mommy?

  “Agent Blackwell, would you say that you acted professionally this morning?”

  It was a leading question. Cece hated leading questions. “I would say that I acted honestly, Agent Ashton.”

  “And so professionalism does not go hand in hand with honesty—is that what you’re telling me?”

  “No—”

  “Because I have to say I don’t find it very professional to tell a civilian that his company was ‘crapping out.’”

  Cece winced. Yeah, yeah, yeah. He had a point. “The man treated me like a junior secretary,” she said, but she knew it was a weak excuse at best.