Dangerous Curves. Pamela Britton
he was grateful just the same. “C’mon,” he said, “let’s get you into something warmer.”
She took a deep breath, only to shiver again. “Okay,” she said through teeth that chattered.
By the time they made it back to the hauler they were soaked, the droplets of rain so heavy they’d turned the pavement a glistening ebony. Cece rubbed her arms as she stood beneath the car lift that jutted out over the back of the rig. Blain handed her a team jacket a second later.
“Thanks,” she said as she slipped the thing on.
And Blain, a man who’d never looked at Cece as anything more than a means to an end suddenly saw her in a much different light. She was a woman who’d overcome tremendous odds to get where she had. He realized now that she had depths he’d never noticed before.
“You can keep it,” he said, looking back at the garage, at anything but her. “You’re going to need it by the looks of things.”
She followed his gaze as she zipped the jacket up. And suddenly it sounded as if someone had poured a wheelbarrow full of water on top of the hauler. It began to rain, seriously rain.
“Qualifying’ll be postponed,” he muttered.
“You think so?”
She had raindrops clinging to her blond hair and forehead, her tiny frame suddenly reminding him of high school. He had a memory of her getting out of the Camaro, of stalking up to him and challenging him to their first race. He’d accepted. She’d won. It still amazed him.
“Yeah,” he said. “C’mon, let me grab a scanner so I can keep track of what’s going on.”
And that was how Blain Sanders found himself showing her around. And he had to admit, she impressed him. Not so much because she was a fast study—because she was—but because she knew a hell of a lot about stock car racing. More than she let on, he realized.
“So now you know what I do thirty-six weekends out of the year,” he said as they halted beneath one of the track’s massive grandstands, their breath puffing out like dragons.
“Forty,” she said.
“Forty?”
“Well, sometimes it’s more than that, right? Depends on if you qualify for the Bud races, or go to Japan.”
He almost smiled. Yup. Just as he suspected. “How long have you been a fan?”
Rain dropped down the backs of the empty grandstands, well, not completely empty. A few diehard race fans sat beneath colorful tarps, hunched down, shivering and waiting in hopes the track got dry enough to run the practice, and then later, qualifying. It wasn’t going to happen.
“What makes you think I’m a fan?” she asked, looking up at him out of a face turned gray by the storm’s light.
“Cece, the way you talk is a dead giveaway. The average person doesn’t know the difference between a Ford template and a Chevy template, but you did.”
“I studied up,” she said with a shrug.
The smell of stale beer, cigarettes and spilled food was familiar but for one thing: the scent of Cece carried to him on the same breeze.
“Bull,” he said.
“All right,” she said. “So I’ve been following the circuit for about five years now.”
“Really?” He felt his left brow tug up.
She shrugged. “I didn’t mean it to happen. One night I was out with some friends and I looked up and there you were.” Cece remembered as if it was yesterday. “I nearly spat out a mouthful of beer.”
She boldly met his gaze, daring him to mock her, but he didn’t. Humph. And so she added, “At first I watched because it did my heart good to see you lose.”
His gray eyes flickered and she held her breath, wondering why it was that she felt such an overwhelming need to provoke him. But when he didn’t rise to the bait, she relented, giving him another burst of honesty. “But you didn’t lose, at least not all the time, and by the time I realized you might have a shot at the year-end championship, I was hooked. I’ve been watching ever since.”
He didn’t say a word, and Cece didn’t know what surprised her more, that he didn’t say something snide, snooty or just plain rude, or the fact that he appeared to be—yes—it very definitely seemed like he was about to smile.
“That’s why you looked giddy while I was showing you around.”
She didn’t take offense. “It’s not every day someone gets to meet people she’s only seen on TV.”
His smile grew and Cece found herself thinking she liked it, not because it made him look more handsome—which it did—but because it put such warmth in his eyes, genuine warmth, as if he might be a really nice person.
You of all people should understand…. Cece swallowed past a lump in her throat.
“I remember when I first met Richard Petty. I’ll never forget that day,” he drawled in his Southern accent.
“So you know what I’m talking about.”
He nodded, and a part of Cece could only think how bizarre it was to be here with him, talking to him after wanting to hate him for so many years.
But then his expression turned curious. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
She shrugged. “Truth be told, I didn’t think you’d keep me around for longer than a few hours.”
And that reminded Cece of what she’d been brought in to do—investigate, not make friends with Blain Sanders.
Who was currently a suspect.
She shook her head.
“What?” he asked.
“I need to get going,” she answered. “I’ve still got a job to do.”
She could tell the moment he remembered why it was they’d been brought together, too. The smile slid down his face like rain on a stormy day. And for a second she caught a glimpse of it, saw the unmistakable darkening of his eyes. Grief. He tried to hide it from her, but some things were impossible to conceal.
He’d lost a driver. Someone he’d known a long time. A friend. She knew all too well what that felt like.
“It was probably just an accident, Blain. I really doubt that letter you received is anything more than a worked-up fan.”
“I hope you’re right.”
But he didn’t believe her. So she said, “Think about it. Why send a threatening letter after you murder someone?” He winced at the term “murder,” and Cece cursed herself. One of the things about working at the Bureau was how jaded you became using certain words. “Blain, if someone were really trying to go around scaring race fans, or killing drivers, they would have sent a note to the press, not to you.”
He went silent for a second, his lips tightening. “You’re not telling me anything I haven’t heard already, Cece. It’s just a crazy race fan. One who didn’t like Randy and so he claimed to have killed him.” He met her gaze. “But I don’t believe it.”
And that was why he couldn’t be a suspect, Cece admitted—because killers didn’t fight for justice. Crazy people didn’t send themselves letters and then bring them to light. Supposing Blain was right—this whole thing really was a murder and some terrorist or crazed fan was out for blood—Blain had nothing to gain by going public. If he was a murderer, he’d have kept quiet. Nah. Supposing this wasn’t a wild-goose chase, Blain was innocent.
“Well, if you’re right, I don’t see how someone could have done it. The garage is locked down tighter than Fort Knox.”
“It