An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
www.ellorascave.com
Killer Curves
ISBN 9781419917844
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Killer Curves Copyright © 2008 Regina Carlysle
Edited by Helen Woodall.
Photography and cover art by Les Byerley.
Electronic book Publication September 2008
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
KILLER CURVES
Regina Carlysle
Dedication
For Wendi Christner. For the laughs and the friendship. You’re a terrific writer and one of the neatest people I know.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Aston Martin: Aston Martin Logonda Limited
Berber: Mohawk Brands, Inc.
BMW: Bayerische Motoren Werke, Aktiengesellschaft
Dodge Ram: Chrysler LLC LTD LIAB CO
ESPN: ESPN Inc.
Harley: H-D Michigan Inc.
Pepsi: Pepsico, Inc.
Porsche Carrera GT: Dr. lng. H.c. F. Porsche AG Corporation
Subzero: Sub-Zero Freezer Company, Inc.
Chapter One
Her mouth felt like warm, wet silk sliding up the heavy length of his cock. What was her name? Was it Janie? Jill? Something like that? It pissed him off that he couldn’t remember. Must’ve been the liquor.
J.T. sprawled naked in the chair and looked down at her blonde head as it moved up and down, working him. That delicious mouth swallowed his length dragging a groan from his throat. He watched his fingers clench in her hair and lay his head back as the suctioning pull of her mouth devoured him with slow strokes.
This morning when he’d finally opened his eyes, he peered at the lush, naked stranger next to him and wondered what in the hell had possessed him.
Eying the half empty bottle of scotch near his elbow, he groaned. Yep. He knew the answer to that question. Too much whiskey and too many memories had propelled him toward the woman at last night’s party. They were always around and he’d been quick to make his selection from the bevy of groupies that showed up at this kind of thing.
He felt like a shithead for not recalling her name so he improvised. “That’s it, sweetheart. Suck my cock. Just like that. Ah, yeah, that’s goooood,” he finished on a husky moan.
A low hum rose up from her throat vibrating the head then she slipped her tongue against the slit at the end and flicked rapidly. “You’ve gotta be the ‘blow job’ queen, sweet thing,” he murmured. His balls drew up tight as the blonde groped at his sac, settled a thumb just beneath and pressed the throbbing nerve hidden there. Arching into her mouth, J.T. promised himself he’d make it up to her. The forgetting her name stuff.
It was bad of him and he only had the liquor to blame.
Despite the throbbing hangover that pulsed through his brain, the blow job was superb as she drew on his cock, milked him, stroked his tight aching balls. Almost there, he thought as her hand fisted at the base and flexed. Holy shit. “I’m coming. Hell, yeah, darlin’.”
She mewled, lapping against his hard flesh. She sucked and pulled.
J.T. felt the sensation rocket through his body, curling his toes against the Berber carpet on his living room floor. Tingles danced across his spine and over his scalp. His shout of release whipped through the air, drowning out the sound of the television in the background, shutting off his barely functioning brain for just a minute, sending him into oblivion.
When she sank against his thigh, he cupped her face and got a good look at her. Pretty, in a hard sort of way. Definitely suffering from a hangover if the bleary look in her blue eyes was any kind of indicator. Gently, he stroked a hand over her cheek and smiled.
“Hell of a way to wake up, darlin’.”
She smiled contentedly, licking her lips, as she flipped her long hair back over her shoulder. Her eyes widened as she caught a glimpse of the picture showing on the plasma TV hanging on the wall. “Hey! That’s you,” she said, pointing. She sighed. “God, J.T. you’re so fucking hot.”
Classic Speed was playing. J.T. flicked his gaze to the segment he’d seen a million times over the past three years. His heart thumped hard, crashing into his rib cage. He saw the familiar shot of Mark Salem and himself at the track in full gear. Smiling teammates gearing up for the time trial at the Miami 500. The ensuing chaos as Mark’s car slammed into a retaining wall at the track. The ball of flame, shouts. Carrie’s face, a mask of terror and grief as, Ted Dobbs, the crew chief held her to keep her from running toward the scene of destruction. All caught on film. Saved for posterity.
Carrie. Mark’s wife.
Jesus.
The sight of her threatened to bring him to his knees.
“I remember her,” the blonde said in a small voice. “She’s really pretty.”
“Yeah.” Pale hair, soft-looking. J.T.’s belly clenched.
“Some of the girls were talking about her the other night.”
He had to ask. “What were they saying?” He knew. Oh yeah, a guy didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure what a pack of groupies might have to say about Mark’s wife.
Naked, she stood bold as brass and shook her head. “Said she was as cold as ice in the sack and that’s why Mark took her to all the parties but always left with someone else.”
Mark had been an ass but J.T. kept it to himself. Any man who’d throw away a beautiful woman like Carrie would have to be blind and dumb as dirt. How many nights had he been witness to her embarrassment and hurt over Mark’s actions? How many nights, as the designated best friend, had he personally seen to it she’d gotten home? And every time, he’d stare into those sweet baby blues and wish she were his.
In one fluid motion, J.T. stood and reached for the jeans he’d discarded when the groupie he’d picked up the night before had sauntered naked into the room with the promise of easy sex. Suddenly, everything was just too much. The women. The booze. Trying to forget.
“Um…listen. It’s getting pretty late and I have to get some things done today,” he began, feeling like a lame ass.
“Yeah. That’s okay. I understand,” the woman said, turning toward the bedroom. “I need to be running along anyway.”
J.T. watched her go into the bedroom and spotted her purse on a chair near the foyer. Barefoot, he padded across the wide living room floor and plucked it up. Rummaging, he grunted when he found her driver’s license. He gave it a glance and tucked it away again. By the time, she came out, wearing last night’s little black dress, he felt more composed. “Last night was good, Jana. I enjoyed hanging out with you.”
Jana
. Her name was Jana.
At least he was gentleman enough to address her properly after a night of wild, monkey sex and the best head he’d had in months.
She strolled up and wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning in. “Hey, what’s going on tonight? Want to get together? We could party.”
Hearing the sounds of racecars roaring in the background, he suddenly knew what he had to do. It was time to face that sweet little ghost from his past.
It was time to see if he still loved her more than any woman he’d ever known.
J.T. smiled and shook his head. “Can’t do it, honey. Listen, why don’t you write your number and address on that pad over there. I have to leave town and I’m not sure when I’ll be back. Maybe we can hook up again when I’ve finished my business.”
Like never.
But he wasn’t going to tell her that. He’d place a call to his florist and send her something. It was the least he could do.
Two hours later, he felt a little more human. A shower, shave and a handful of aspirin could do that for a guy. He placed a call to his personal assistant. “Hey, Dor, I need a favor. I’m going to be out of town for a few weeks. Want to hang out over here? Housesit for me?”
Doreen, who’d been taking care of him for years, laughed. “It’ll be like a vacation for me staying at your place. I’d do it for free but you’ll have to pay me anyway.”
He rattled off a list of things and disconnected, anxious to get on his way now that he’d made his plans. Grabbing his duffel bag, he headed through the monstrous house wondering how in the hell a poor boy from the sticks of North Carolina deserved something so fine. It was weird what people would spend their hard-earned money on and fortunately for him, they paid big bucks to see him drive fast. Very, very fast.
Heading into the five car garage, his gaze skipped past the Aston Martin and the Porsche Carrera GT. Nope, the custom Harley wouldn’t do either. Decided, he tossed his duffel into the bed of his Dodge Ram double cab and climbed behind the wheel.
The silver bullet wasn’t built for speed but it was comfortable and inconspicuous. He didn’t want to deal with fans on this trip so it was best to keep things on the down-low. Low profile all the way.
J.T. Sims, former NexTrac Cup Rookie of the Year, former best friend of the world famous, now dead, Mark Salem didn’t want anything to distract him from his purpose. He was headed to the Texas Hill Country and a certain beautiful blue-eyed blonde.
He’d put off this confrontation far too long. It was time. Long past time he looked her straight in those gorgeous eyes and told her he loved her. She’d say it back, too. Eventually.
J.T. wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
* * * * *
Carrie Martin-Salem stood barefoot on the top rung of the three-step ladder, dust rag in hand and swiped at the top of a glistening cream-colored bookcase. Teresa was here for the weekly cleaning job but Carrie hated inactivity so she was pitching in. It was her house, after all. Besides, too much of doing nothing was bad for her brain. She shouldn’t have watched that damn Classic Speed segment several days ago but like a spectator at a train wreck, she’d sat curled up on her couch feeling devastated all over again. The sight of Mark and J.T. sent a wave of nostalgia crashing through her brain. The horrendous memories brought on other, warmer thoughts of the early years of her marriage to Mark. The first one or two had been especially good but then came the other women, the all night parties, the neglect so often felt by women who were married to superstars.
And then there had been J.T.
That cocky white smile, curling black hair and those melted chocolate eyes that had always seemed so full of compassion when he looked at her. From her years as Mark’s wife, it was her pain, and the warmth of J.T. she remembered most.
“Hey, Carrie, what do you want me to do with this box,” Teresa said as she walked into the living room of Carrie’s Texas home. Petite of stature as Carrie was herself, Teresa struggled under the weight of the shiny, oak box. With a huff, her friend deposited the thing on the plush ivory leather couch and planted her hands on her hips. “This was just setting in the middle of your bed. Do you want it somewhere in particular?”
With a sigh, she navigated the steps, her tennis shoes squeaking, then turned and settled her butt on one of them. “Feeling a little nostalgic over the past few days. That’s my picture box.”
“Ah, honey. You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Yeah, I know. I was a dummy and watched a replay of that show about the wreck. Funny, after three years, how the whole thing has the ability to send me crashing.”
Teresa was a no-nonsense woman just a few years older than Carrie’s own thirty-two years. They’d gone through high school together in their small hometown and while Carrie couldn’t get away fast enough, Teresa had stayed behind and built her housecleaning business, married, and started a family. When Carrie had returned to Texas a few years ago, they’d resumed their friendship. “Come on. Let’s take a break and have a cup of coffee,” Teresa said, dusting her hands off on denim-covered hips. “I just put some on.”
Not about to argue against solid common sense, Carrie followed the other woman through the massive house into the over-large kitchen. Despite its size, the Subzero freezer and gleaming stainless steel appliances, it was a homey room that featured warm oak cabinets, lots of big windows and growing plants. Copper pots gleamed spotlessly above the island in the room’s center. Reaching for two mugs, she poured the coffee then joined Teresa at the counter. Both women chose a high barstool and sat, elbows propped on the tiled countertop. Listlessly, Carrie lifted the cup and inhaled. “I know what you’re gonna say and don’t tell me I shouldn’t have watched. I just couldn’t help it. It’s kind of like watching a scary movie you’ve seen before. You know what’s going to happen but the ending still scares the hell out of you.”
Teresa reached over in a familiar gesture and stroked her hand. Compassion filled her green eyes. “I know. You’ve done okay since you’ve come back home. Seems like you’re comfortable in your own skin again. Dan still calling you? Maybe you should take him up on his offer. There’s not a damn thing wrong with a little dinner, and um, maybe a little wild sex for dessert.”
Dan Marshal was the president of the only bank in Mesquite Creek, Texas and one of the few available bachelors in the tiny, hill country town. He’d been pursuing her relentlessly for several months with her always saying no.
Carrie settled her forehead in her hands and groaned. “Yeah, he’s wearing me down and I’m thinking about it. My life has been a sexual wasteland for too long. It’s way past time I got back in the game.” She sighed gustily and focused her gaze out the huge windows overlooking her backyard pool. “He’s a nice man. Persistent.”
Teresa shook her head and regarded her steadily. “A nice man.”
“He is.”
“That’s not much of a recommendation. Hell, my grandpa’s a nice man.”
Okay. She had a point. Her first smile in days broke free. “Maybe that’s why I hesitate. I’m not looking for long term and Dan’s the kind of man who’ll think that way. After Mark, I feel skittish about stuff like that. An affair might be just what I need but the other? Commitment?” She shook her head. “No. That’s not for me. I’ve learned my lesson and I’m just not cut out for anything permanent. It’s not meant to be. Mark was larger than life. He made my blood heat. I gave him everything and he just—”
“Cheated? Threw all that love back in your face?”
Carrie sighed at the absolute truth of those words. Mark Salem was a dream of a man in the looks department and women clung to him like remora eels but the whole lifestyle was abhorrent. The groupies, the parties, and liquor. The drugs and the paparazzi. After his tragic death, she couldn’t run away from that life fast enough.
The only thing she missed from that old life was J.T.
God. J.T.
She missed him like crazy but her only contact had been through accounts of
his successes on the track. With the start of the racing season in early February, his sexy face graced the pages of newspapers and magazines. She’d even watched him roar to victory in the Pepsi 300 a few weeks ago. The pundits predicted another winning season for racing’s current poster boy. If possible, he was even better looking now than he’d been three years ago. His image, tall, dark, and rugged, that ever-present smile curving scrumptious lips, whipped through her memories. A stud in every way.
Back then, they’d raced for the same team and Mark had quickly taken the young driver under his wing. Together, they’d been unstoppable. Couple J.T. with Mark’s equally dark and pleasing persona, and it was a deadly combination to the droves of females who followed them everywhere.
Yet, they’d been different. Mark had an urbane quality that J.T. lacked. Mark’s young protégé had always been just a bit rough around the edges with that lazy southern drawl and go-to-hell attitude. Vastly appealing on many levels and Carrie hadn’t been immune.
“Hey, sugar, where’d you go?”
Carrie smiled and shook her head as she carried the empty mug to the sink. “Thinking too much, I guess.”
Teresa started to respond when the phone rang and Carrie answered on the second ring. She smiled and shot Teresa a look. “Oh, hi Dan. Nothing much. You?”
Five minutes later, Carrie hung up and glanced at her friend. “Saturday night. Dinner and drinks.”
Teresa grinned and pumped her fist in victory. “Yessss. It’s about damn time, woman. You’ve been living like a nun for too long but those days are almost over, thank God. Hallelujah! Pass the chocolate!”
“Don’t be thanking Him yet, darlin’. We have a date for dinner and drinks. That’s it. I’m still not sure where I want this to go.”
“You need this to go straight to his bed, Carrie. You’re the most uptight woman I’ve ever known.”
Carrie turned away, stilled. Yeah, she knew Teresa was joking but it wasn’t the first time she’d heard this accusation. Pain rolled in a low wave through her belly as memories, raw and hurtful paralyzed her with fear. What if Mark had been right? Was she a complete dud? Was she cold? Too serious? No fun? Mentally, shaking her head, she gave herself a little pep talk. She had as much heart and passion as anyone. She felt pain and anger, joy and excitement. There was nothing wrong with her. Nothing at all.
Killer Curves Page 1