Dangerous Curves. Pamela Britton
the perimeter of the garage. Her interest was piqued. The race car haulers. Cool. She’d always wanted to see what they looked like inside.
She didn’t have time to examine them too closely, though, because his next words snapped at her like the sting of a rubber band.
“Lance Cooper is off-limits.”
That made her stop. And it was almost biblical the way the world suddenly darkened, a puffy storm cloud obstructing the sun.
“What do you mean, off-limits?” she asked.
He crossed his own arms, leaning toward her a bit. “No romantic entanglements.”
Unfortunately, that’s what she thought he’d meant, and it really torqued her, too, because the man had no business saying who she could and could not get involved with. No say at all. Not that she was getting involved with anybody. No way.
“Look,” she said. “I wasn’t flirting with him, if that’s what you think.”
“You were smiling.”
“So?”
“So, you’re not here to cozy up to my driver,” he said in a low voice, looking up for a second as a team member from a different crew came walking toward them. Without saying another word, Blain turned, heading toward his own hauler. With swift movements, he opened the dark-tinted glass door and stepped inside. Surprisingly warm air hit Cece in the face.
“Am I supposed to follow you, or is the lecture over?”
He stopped, and Cece didn’t like that he towered above her. Not at all.
“I want to continue this conversation in the lounge.”
“Ooo, the lounge,” she said sotto voce, which only made him more angry, judging by the way his eyes narrowed.
Cece sighed. What a disaster. Not even one day together and already they were at each other’s throats. Granted, she was provoking him a bit, but she wasn’t doing it intentionally.
The moment she climbed the steps of the big rig and passed into the heated—yes, heated—interior, she came to an abrupt halt. “Whoa.”
Sure, she’d seen the things on TV, but a thirty-inch screen in no way conveyed the enormity of what a hauler looked like on the inside. Fluorescent lights turned cabinets a blinding white. To her left a mini-kitchenette took up a good four feet.
“You coming?”
She hadn’t even realized she’d stopped. Cece shook her head, somehow amused by it all. Most men couldn’t keep their clothes in the hamper, but this place looked as spotless as the altar of a church. One of the bottom cabinets hadn’t been closed all the way. Cece peeked inside. An engine block lay there. Jeesh. They built cabinets for their motor parts.
A second later Blain opened the door of the lounge. Cece hardly had time to notice the black leather couch, mirrors and natural wood cabinets lining the perimeter. She and Blain were practically nose-to-nose when he turned back to her, his eyes nearly the color of the blue flames that shot out of exhaust pipes.
“If you can give me one good reason why I shouldn’t send you home, you better speak up.”
One good reason? Only one good reason?
She almost lit into him. “Excuse me, but you’re the reason I’m here.”
He didn’t look happy to be reminded of that. “I wanted you here to do some investigating, not flirt with drivers.”
She stepped past him and sat down on the couch, her jean-clad rear sliding on the surface like a kid on a playground toy.
“Put a sock in it, Sanders.”
Okay, not very professional. Not very polite, either, but the time for pleasantries was over. She lifted a hand, interrupting whatever it was he’d opened his mouth to say, probably something rude.
“All I did was talk to the guy.”
“It was more than talking.”
“No, it wasn’t,” she said.
“But I don’t blame him for getting the wrong impression, dressed as you are.”
What?
She drew herself up. “What bothers you more, Sanders? That I look good in this outfit? Or that your driver thinks I do?”
Blain looked as if he’d swallowed a gallon of brake fluid.
“Go on,” she said. “Admit it. I’m not what you expected and it’s driving you nuts.”
He crossed his arms again.
“I’ve changed. And you don’t like the new me.”
He met her gaze for long, long moments before saying, “This isn’t working.”
Cece met that gaze head-on. “You’re right. It’s not.”
“I’ll call your boss—”
“On a personal level,” she interrupted, suddenly standing. There was no place for him to go, and so he was forced once again into close proximity with her. It was a tactic she’d learned at the academy. Invade a man’s space and you’d get his attention, and maybe his respect.
“It’s no secret we don’t like each other,” she said softly. “And it’s no secret that I don’t want to be here. But the fact of the matter is you were right to bring me on board. I’m the best person for the job. Don’t let your personal feelings for me get in the way of what’s right.”
“What personal feelings?”
“The ones that make you dislike me.”
“I don’t dislike you,” Blain said. “I…” He looked as if he didn’t know what to say. “I’m just not confident in your abilities.”
Hell of a time to realize that, she almost said aloud. Instead she said, “Okay, fine. Let’s just get this out of the way then, shall we?”
“Get what out of the way?” he asked, the sleeves of his shirt stretching as he recrossed his arms, cords of muscles swelling as those arms flexed.
“Time to have it out. To lay it on the table.”
He didn’t say anything, just continued to give her that scrunched-brow glare men gave you when you irked them.
“You don’t like me because I made a fool of myself by chasing you around when I was younger,” she admitted. “You don’t like me because I did some really stupid stuff back then, too. Stuff you still hold against me, obviously, or you wouldn’t be so quick to get rid of me.”
“Not true,” he said, his blue eyes seeming darker all of sudden. Or maybe it was the fluorescent lights. Despite the half-a-million-dollar rig, one of them appeared to be on the fritz. The light click-click-clicked as it struggled to stay on.
“You still consider me a risk. With all the baggage still floating around in your head, it’s a wonder you even mentioned my name to your stock car racing pals.”
“I told you. I knew you’d play straight.”
“What changed about that?”
This time it was his turn to straighten. “All right. Fine. Gloves off. The problem is you haven’t changed. You’re still the same Cece Blackwell. Outspoken. Unpredictable. Too much of a wild card.”
And that was when the tiny cork holding her temper popped free.
“You don’t know a damn thing, Blain Sanders.”
And the jerk just stared down at her, not even flinching. She took a step toward him, a small step, but enough to remind him that she wasn’t afraid of him, or any other man. “You just think you know who I am. Who I was,” she corrected.