Dangerous Curves. Pamela Britton
upper management I said no.”
A wolf whistle greeted her as she entered the “bull pen,” a maze of cubicles that housed the junior agents.
“Bite me,” she said to no one in particular as she slammed Bob’s office door with enough force to rattle the side window. She jabbed her spiked heels into the business-brown carpet as she stormed off to her office in another corner of the mostly glass high-rise, the muted gray light that dribbled in mimicking the fog outside.
Damn Bob. Of all the dumb, fool things to ask her.
She jerked open the door of her office before slamming it closed. For a long second she just seethed as she stared out the window.
Blain Sanders. A name from the past. A man who’d been responsible for more humiliating teenage memories than she cared to admit. Even now she felt the sting of a blush as she recalled some of her more embarrassing moments—trying to get an after-school job at the same place as he did, only to have him call her a stalker; slipping that ridiculous note that was supposed to be anonymous in his locker, only to have Billy Richards see her do it. And then, their senior year, she’d tried to get even with him by building a car that was faster than his. She’d succeeded at that, but then her dad died and her whole world had come crashing down.
Cece bent to grab some spare clothes from a filing cabinet drawer, trying to forget the memories, but like oil on top of water, they refused to be kept down; her dad’s car accident, her brush with the law, her mom’s death…some of the worst times of her life.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Cecilia Blackwell.”
She froze, her hands on some sweats, thinking maybe, just maybe, the voice had been part of a hair spray induced hallucination, because it was impossible for the day to get any worse then it already had.
Famous last words.
“I see you’re dressing different.”
But only one person called her by her full name like that, the syllables clipped like the snap of a 9 mm. She closed her eyes for a sec before opening them again to slowly turn and face the door.
Ten long years and a forgotten high school crush faced her.
Blain Sanders.
Terrific. Perfect timing.
“Well, well, well,” she mimicked, “if it isn’t the hometown hero.” And she used her coolest I’m-an-FBI-agent-even-if-I’m-dressed-like-a-call-girl voice. She hadn’t survived a year of coed training to blush when caught wearing next to nothing. Besides, he didn’t seem to care, merely met her gaze directly.
“You’re looking good,” he said, and she knew he was being sarcastic ’cause there was no way, no how that Blain Sanders found her attractive.
“Gee, thanks,” she answered, her mind screaming a different answer.
Get out.
Damn it. She’d fantasized about this moment, about meeting him again, but always in a chic black suit, black pumps and her hair pulled back in a smooth chignon. Instead she wore fishnet stockings—fishnets, for goodness’ sake—next to no clothes and a head of hair big enough to be spotted by the Space Shuttle while he…he looked like he’d stepped from the pages of People magazine.
She eyed him up and down in an impartial I’m-no-longer-affected-by-him way. Rain-colored eyes still looked just as striking against a fringe of long, dark lashes. Strong jaw. Wide shoulders and a body that hadn’t gained an ounce of fat in the ten years she’d gone up two sizes.
“Nice outfit,” he said. It was the same voice as before, only…different. This voice dripped Southern like a jar of maple syrup, not surprising since he’d spent the last ten years of his life working the stock car circuit. Blain—California born and bred—had apparently adopted redneck ways.
“You always dress like that?”
What the heck do you think? she almost snapped. Instead she flicked her teased-and-shellacked hair and said, “Well, the dress code is pretty lax around here. I do what I can to be comfortable.”
He lifted a brow. She placed her hands on her hips, giving him a stance à la Wonder Woman right down to the conical breasts.
“Of course I don’t dress this way,” she muttered. “I was doing an undercover gig on the East Side.”
“The FBI lets you walk around that way?”
“Didn’t someone tell you?” she snapped. “I’m not really FBI. Got the badge and gun out of a gumball machine. I was hoping for the Scooby-Doo necklace, but I guess it just wasn’t my day.”
His eyes darted to hers again. For half a heartbeat she thought she saw something drift through his silver gaze—interest, maybe—but she had to be seeing things. Blain Sanders. Mr. Celebrity. Mr. I Can Have Any Woman I Want. Mr. What’s Your Name Again Sweetheart So I Can Sign Your Junior High Yearbook would not be noticing her. It used to drive her crazy when she’d had that huge crush on him because nothing, but nothing she’d said or did—and oh boy, had she done some things—ever made him remember her name, much less show interest in her.
Nah. Imagining things .
“If you’re here to tell me you don’t want me on the case,” she said, “you’re wasting your breath. I don’t want it, either.”
He crossed his arms in front of him, his pecs beneath his shirt bulging like those of a beach-bound muscle man. “Actually, I came here to tell you that it was me who wanted you on the case.”
BLAIN WATCHED HER mouth gape in surprise, her startling green eyes grow wide. He’d forgotten the color of those eyes until that very moment; “antifreeze-green” he’d used to tease. She really did look ridiculous in that getup, or so he told himself because he id not, as a rule, find women in thigh-high boots attractive.
“Why the heck would you do that?” she snapped, the red hoop earrings she wore swinging with each jerk of her angry jaw, her boots squeaking as she shifted on her feet.
He shrugged, his eyes darting around the office. Wall of glass behind her, the California fog he didn’t miss much creeping through the streets. Bachelor of Arts degree on the wall to his left. No pictures on the opposite one, to his right. Not even those “love your fellow co-worker” posters. Nothing but bare walls, a low shelf and a CD player behind her black-and-gray desk conspicuously devoid of files and clutter. Man, she didn’t even have one of those little stuffed toys most women hung on their monitor. Typical Cece Blackwell. She was about as feminine as a case of motor oil.
“Hell-ooo,” she reminded him of her presence. As if he could forget.
“You’re the best person for the job,” he stated.
“Well, you can just un-request me.”
His eyes swung back to hers. “No,” he surprised himself by saying—surprised, because during the whole trip from North Carolina he’d told himself he’d made a mistake in insisting she be assigned the case. He must be more shaken up over Randy’s death than he’d thought, because requesting that Cece Blackwell work the case when all he had were some half-baked rumors about her success as an FBI agent was pure craziness. And yet here he was.
She’d changed, he thought, unable to stop himself from scanning her up and down. She looked like a woman. Granted, not the type of woman he’d be attracted to, but a woman nonetheless.
And that kind of perplexed him. She’d grown breasts since he’d last seen her.
“Excuse me, Blain, but I must have misunderstood you because I could have sworn you just said ‘it was me who requested you,’ which doesn’t make any sense because that would mean you were willing to work with me, something I know from experience would be the last thing on earth you’d want to do. So let’s go over this again. Did you or did you