Dangerous Curves. Pamela Britton
would have the wood on her.
She spun away from the window overlooking a bunch of jets, their engines revving with high-pitched whines. The smell of airplane fuel mixed oddly with pizza, the drone of flight attendants on the overhead speaker a constant buzz. On the landing strip a 747 braked, the roar of its reversed engines barely masked by the windows. To think, Blain Sanders usually flew around in his own jet. Must be nice.
“I should have resigned,” she mumbled to herself.
Money was tight in the Blackwell household. Hell, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d left town on a vacation. And yet here was Blain with his own jet, his own race team and countless other things Cece had only dreamed about.
Her overnight bag clocked her in the back as she turned again. She ignored the way the strap dug a furrow in her shoulder, just as she ignored the direction her thoughts had taken. A baby cried to her right. A teenaged couple fought over a wallet-sized CD player. And wherever she looked, race fans strolled or sat, all on their way to the track. They wore T-shirts, ball caps and jackets with team logos splashed across them. She spotted every sort of paraphernalia imaginable, from the ridiculous—tennis shoes with car numbers emblazoned on the sides—to the truly ridiculous—a suitcase shaped like a race car. Apparently a number of people, mostly men, didn’t mind embarrassing themselves in public.
She’d taken only two steps when she saw who she was looking for: Blain-the-Blackmailer Sanders.
He strode toward their gate with the air of a man on a mission, or maybe someone who needed to relieve himself. Either way, he moved along at an impressive clip. He wore a tan leather jacket over a cream-colored turtleneck. His eyes scanned left and right, his big body parting the crowd like the prow of a ship. He reminded her of someone from Special Ops, not the owner of a race team. Women’s eyes lingered. Men looked up, only to hastily look away. Blain seemed oblivious to it all.
Cece waited for him to spot her, but when his gaze slid over her and kept right on going, she stiffened. He didn’t recognize her.
He stopped five feet away, his expression growing impatient. Checked his watch. Frowned. Looked up again.
Well, well, well. Granted, she wasn’t in her hoochie-wear, but she didn’t look that different. The face was the same even if the secondhand Ann Taylor suit—in basic black—and white cotton shirt were not. She’d pulled her hair back in a chignon, too, her face free of makeup. Okay, well, maybe not completely free. She’d dusted a bit of blush over her cheeks and a wisp of brown powder in the corner of her eyes, something one of her female co-workers had assured her would make them look bigger. All right, all right, and maybe she’d put mascara on, too. But that was it. Goodness knows she wasn’t trying to impress Blain Sanders.
Speaking of which… “If you’re looking for me,” she called out, “I’m right here.”
She watched him turn, watched his eyes zip right past her again, only to suddenly return with a snap. What ho? Did the lightbulb go on over his head?
It had.
He blinked, staring at her as if still disbelieving.
“What? You think I look better dressed as a prostitute?”
Someone walking by gave them a sharp glance—a man, Cece noted. Race fan, she cataloged immediately. Midthirties. About five-eight. Beer gut his most prominent feature.
You’re not on the job, Cece. Chill out.
But she was always on the job, thanks to Mr. Sanders here, and that irritated her all over again.
“Hey,” the man said. “You’re Blain Sanders.”
Cece stiffened.
“You really are,” the guy repeated.
The decibel level of his voice made Cece glance around. Well, if they’d been trying to be inconspicuous, that plan had been shot to bits.
The man came forward, pudgy hand extended. “Mr. Sanders,” he said in a voice that sounded Bronxish. “I’m your biggest fan.” He pointed to his chest. “See?”
Oh, jeesh, the man had the pylon-orange Star Oil logo emblazoned across his chest, the words Star Oil Racing sprawled in fancy white script across the shirt’s black background.
“I can’t believe it’s really you.”
“It’s really me,” Blain said, and was it her imagination or did his Southern voice sound anything but hospitable?
“I mean, I’ve watched you for years. Even before you were with Star Oil. Since the time you were with Mark Miller’s team when you won your first championship.”
Oh, great. A bona fide groupie. Just what they needed.
“I mean, this just makes my day.”
Great, Cece silently said. You go to Las Vegas with Blain. Have a terrific time.
Blain’s look clearly said stay put. That gave her pause. Had her expression been so transparent?
“Nice to meet you,” Blain said taking the fan’s hand.
The man grinned from ear to ear before looking her way, and Cece saw the moment he remembered that it was her prostitute comment that had drawn his attention in the first place.
She stiffened, about to set him straight, because it was obvious the guy thought her a working girl. Only a sudden thought came to mind, one of those thoughts she knew she should ignore, but she didn’t because, jeesh, where Blain Sanders was concerned, you needed to get your licks in where you could.
“Blain darling,” she drawled in a British accent. If she was going to be a prostitute, she was going to be a classy prostitute. “You said you’d get me a drink.” She sidled up to him, placing her hand in his arm so she could walk her fingers up his biceps. “I’m thirsty,” she pouted, looking up at him in what she hoped was a sultry fashion.
She saw his left eyelid twitch just before his light blue eyes narrowed.
Okay, so maybe this wasn’t exactly professional. And maybe she shouldn’t be such a cat, but she had a score or two to settle with the man, and some of that settling was going to happen right now.
“Don’t make me wait,” she added huskily.
“Oh, man. I’m sorry. You’re busy,” the man said. “Nice meeting you.”
“Oh, no, don’t go,” Cece piped up before he could leave. “Blain adores having a chat with fans. At least I believe he does, but I’m afraid it’s been a while since I last saw him. You know how it is.” She smiled. “He’s so busy he doesn’t have time for a girlfriend.” She glanced up at Blain. His eyes promised a slow death. “That’s where I come in,” she added, just out of spite. She turned back to the fan, brightening. “I say, would you like my card? I’m on call for Blain this week, but I could check my schedule for the next.” She was proud of the way schedule came out. Shhedual. Very British.
The man apparently fell for it, at least judging by the way his mouth hung open. Blain made a noise, some sort of guttural growl. Very cavemanish.
Cece shifted her bag as if about to search through it.
“No, no,” the man said, suddenly looking about as comfortable as a furrier at an animal-rights convention.
She paused, eyes wide. “No? Oh, well. Too bad. We might have had a good time, you and I.” She smiled mischievously, turning to Blain again and batting her eyelashes at him. “I’ll just leave you two alone, then. Blain can, ah, catch up to me later.”
The fan choked. Cece hooked a hand around the back of Blain’s neck before he could move out of reach.
“Come here, darling, and give me a kiss.”
Blain tried to draw back, his expression clearly warning don’t you