Dangerous Curves (8 page)

“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.”

B
LAIN 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 friend 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.”

He’d spoken to Blain? When?

She felt color enter her cheeks. “He was probably just being nice.”

But Bob was shaking his head. “I need you, Cece. Sanders told me you were great this weekend. Top-notch. He also made it perfectly clear that he still wants you on the case.”

“But, Bob—”

“No ifs, ands, or buts, Cece. Look, I know you don’t like the man, but obviously you’re able to put that aside. That’s what a good agent’s supposed to do. You’re needed in North Carolina, and you’ll leave today.”

I
T WASN’T HARD
to get places when one worked for the FBI. Private jets were available to whisk agents wherever they wanted. Turned out a couple of West Coast agents were headed east the next day and so Cece was able to hitch a ride on a flight to Charlotte, her cast-iron stomach suddenly corroding on the inside. What would she say to Blain? What was she going to do when she saw him?

Ask him why he hadn’t called.

No, she told herself. She wouldn’t do that. What she needed to do was act like a mature adult. Meet Blain somewhere and tell him she wanted off the case. Frankly, he was the only one who could get her removed, because as long as he kept insisting she hang around, she’d be stuck.

So when the plane touched down, she was glad they were meeting in just a few hours. She’d taken the coward’s way out and asked someone in her office to call and make arrangements for a rendezvous in the Best Western’s lobby. But that didn’t stop her hands from shaking when she arrived. Nor as she unpacked a half hour later, the hotel room just like a thousand others she’d stayed in. Queen-size bed
jutting out from the middle of the wall, generic prints above it, nightstands to left and right. The only thing different was the color, a sort of avocado-green that brought to mind the seventies.

Someone knocked.

She wasn’t expecting anyone other than the maid with some extra towels, so she didn’t even think twice about opening the door, other than using her standard FBI caution.

“Hello, Cece.”

She found herself standing there for a full three seconds before saying, “Blain,” in shock, her heart taking on the rhythm of the mambo. “I—”
don’t know what to say
“—wasn’t expecting you.”

“I was here early, thought I’d come up.”

“How’d you get my room number?”

“Your boss.”

She’d kill him. Of course, Bob didn’t know her breathing would go all haywire just seeing Blain standing there, and that she’d feel half-dressed in her pink halter top and black slacks, wishing for the matching jacket still in her closet. Nor that she’d find herself wishing for her radio and her badge and for her hair to be up—all the things she suddenly realized were part of her day-to-day armor.

Blain stripped that away with a glance.

“Mind if I come in?”

Yes. Yes, she did mind. A lot.

“Actually, why don’t I meet you downstairs?”

“Your boss told me Randy was murdered.”

She’d assumed Blain had been told, and against her better judgment, she found herself looking for signs of how well he’d taken it.

Not good.

It was there in the tension on his brow, the way his pupils were slightly dilated. In the way those eyes kept shifting around, his hands in the pockets of his dark gray slacks as he looked anywhere but at her.

She stepped back from the door.

“C’mon in.”

Damn it, Cece—have you no control?

Apparently not, she admitted as she watched him walk into her room, that sweet, masculine odor of his making her realize yet again that she had feelings for this man she likely shouldn’t have.

“It was quite a shock,” he said, turning to her near the bed. “In spite of your warning.”

“I’m sorry, Blain,” she said as the door closed behind him with a prison-cell click that made Cece’s heart take off like a jet.

“I’ve had days to think about this,” he said. “But I still can’t believe someone killed him.” And when he finally met her gaze, there were a million unanswered questions in his eyes. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” she replied honestly, crossing her arms in front of her, for the first time having to push away emotion to concentrate on her job. “But I promise you, we’ll find them.”

Which was the perfect opening for her to tell him
that it wasn’t
her
who would
find
anything. That she wanted off the case. That he had to tell her boss that…only she hesitated. And it was then that she realized she didn’t want to leave. Suddenly, resigning seemed like such a cowardly thing to do in light of Blain’s obvious need. But then she took stock of the way her heart pounded in his presence, of the way she couldn’t seem to stop herself from noticing how tired he looked, how sad…upset. And how she wanted to reach out and touch him.

“Blain, look, I have something I need to tell you.”

He stiffened a bit, his chin lifting as if he was bracing for even worse news.

“I want off the case.”

“No,” he said quickly, simply.

“Yes,” she said equally quickly.

“You can’t.”

She tightened her arms across the front of her, another thing her training told her was a defense mechanism. “Don’t try and pull that blackmail shit on me, Blain Sanders, because I know you better now and I don’t believe for a second that you’d go so far as to destroy my career.”

He stared down at her, his eyes like those of a frightened child asking for help.

“Don’t quit on me, Ceec.”

And despite what she told herself not to feel, she still noticed the pull, the tug of sympathy.

Damn it.

“I really don’t have a choice, Blain. But I can still
keep an eye on things from San Francisco. I just can’t be involved with the actual investigation.”

“Why not?”

Because I’ve got the hots for you. Because that can lead to trouble. Because once upon a time I was preoccupied while on the job and it got my partner killed.

She’d never allow that to happen again.

“I just think it’s for the best.”

He stared at her for a second longer, his eyes blinking once before he said, “Fine.”

Fine?

“I was getting tired of keeping my hands off you, anyway.”

He wh—

What?

“This way we can pick up where we left off in Las Vegas.”

Oh, no—

“Blain, I don’t think—”

He closed the distance between them. She moved away. At least she did so in her mind. In reality she stood rooted to the spot.

And that was when he kissed her.

And, damn it, she kissed him back, arched into him so quickly that her breasts bumped his chest, the connection sending instant heat to the aroused parts of her body. When he tipped his head and increased the pressure of his mouth, she opened for him, the hot, sweet taste of him sending her blood pumping even more.

She realized she wasn’t going to stop him, realized she wanted him. If she were honest, she could admit to wanting him for years.

She’d resigned from the case. He’d made his interest known. Now she could take him up on the offer, even as a part of her wondered if this was just a way for him to forget about Randy’s death.

So she touched him, moved her hand between them and stroked the length of him. He moaned, and she marveled for a moment that this was the same man who’d all but shunned her as a teen. Now
she
had the upper hand—no pun intended. She didn’t hesitate to use it, either. She touched him again. He pushed into her. She got tired of the barricade between them so she pushed her hand down his pants, frustrated by the cotton briefs he wore, but then he began to caress her breasts and so she decided she could wait a bit, even encouraged him to touch her some more by leaning into him.

She pulled her mouth away. “Take your pants off.”

He didn’t need any more urging, stepping out of his shoes a second later, his pants dropping from his waist. She got her first glimpse of a taut stomach last seen during teenage years.

His briefs came next.

He wanted her.

Blain Sanders wanted her.

“Your turn,” he said as he pulled his cotton polo over his head.

A one-night stand. Sexual therapy. Whatever they would later call it, the time for fun and games was over. She could end it all now. Instead she pulled her shirt out of her waistband.

She liked the way his eyes stayed with her as she unbuttoned her top. And after she had slipped her arms out of the cotton sleeves, she liked the way he watched her undo her bra. The way he seemed to grow more erect as she stepped out of her shoes, then began to undo her pants. She felt the moisture begin to build between her legs and she slowly slid the fabric down. He looked momentarily surprised when he saw the gun strapped to her calf.

“Protection,” she said.

“Not the kind of protection I had in mind.”

She smiled a bit, though her fingers trembled as she removed the weapon. She flicked her hair behind her and went to him, and the moment she did, he touched her breasts.

The intimacy of him stroking her flesh made her burn all over again. He didn’t move, didn’t lean toward her, just touched her. His fingers felt almost raspy, the tips tracing lazy circles around her nipples so that they tightened and tightened. Just two fingers, that was all he used, but they teased her until she felt ready to jerk him toward her, to pull him on top of her, to let him thrust into her over and over and over again.

Cece tried to lead him to the bed, admitting that she’d dreamed about the moment for too long to
wait, but he took control and pulled her toward the bathroom—though what he intended to do in there, she had no idea.

She soon found out. He opened the glass shower door, reaching in to turn on a spray of water. Ahh.

He turned back to her and Cece liked the way his eyes roamed over her. He could have been touching her with a sex toy and her reaction would have been no less heated. She would have taken him in hand except he leaned down and kissed her again, his tongue filling her mouth, hot flesh meeting hot flesh so that Cece found herself tilting her head, opening for him and kissing him back in a way that made it clear how ready she was to do whatever he wanted. Whatever. Mist from the shower covered them, cold at first. Cece’s nipples grew taut. He must have felt it because he bent down and suckled one, and man, she had to smother a groan, her head falling back so that her hair nearly touched the small of her back. The shower spray grew hot and so did Cece, especially when Blain released her nipple and began to kiss her in other spots. Like the side of her ribs.

She gasped.

The curve of her belly.

She moaned.

The apex of her thighs.

She wanted, oh, how she wanted, to open for him, to allow him intimate access. Instead she guided him up, her gaze no doubt as glassy as his own when she
said, “Later,” then reached in to adjust the water temperature.