Dangerous Curves. Pamela Britton
tugged his head down, puckered her lips. He didn’t go willingly, but he couldn’t resist without causing a scene. She closed her eyes, realizing too late that she really didn’t want to kiss him, either.
“Mmm, yummy,” she purred just before their lips connected.
Wow.
She didn’t know where that word came from, but touching lips with Blain was like dropping a bottle of nitro on the ground.
Blam.
Blain must have felt it, too, because his lips suddenly turned as hard as wheel hubs.
Cece jerked away, having the presence of mind to cover her confusion with a “Ta-ta,” then turning on the heel of her black pump to saunter away, never mind that her nerves pinged an alarm at the way that kiss had made her feel…and the look of promised retribution in his eyes.
“Diet Coke,” she said the moment she took a seat at the chrome and black vinyl bar not far away, tugging a bowl of Chex Mix in front of her. She’d been working too hard. That’s why kissing him had felt so…well, odd. Working undercover made you for get things like what it’s like to lay one on a sexy man.
Blain, sexy?
Well, yeah…sort of. Maybe.
She lobbed her thoughts away as she set her purse down next to the single-legged bar stool. It was a struggle to sit down while looking ladylike, but she managed, her reflection peeking out at her from between the necks of liquor bottles. Tightly drawn back ash-blond hair, glowing green eyes. She almost smiled at herself—almost, because from behind her suddenly appeared her nemesis. Blain.
Here we go.
“Don’t you ever do that again,” he drawled, and boy-oh-boy, did he look mad.
She swiveled, her legs brushing his. He glanced down, jerking back as if she’d said, “Boo.”
“Don’t do what, Blainy-poo?” she asked, tempted to run her foot up his shin just for kicks.
“You’re not a prostitute, which is exactly what that man thought.”
She kinda liked his accent, she decided, her eyes catching on his lips. They glistened from their kiss. She felt her gaze sharpen, disconcerted by the sudden lurch her stomach gave.
“What do you care what that guy thought?”
“I’m a celebrity and I don’t like the possibility of some race fan getting on the Internet and telling people I’m into call girls.”
She let out a quick “Oh, pul-leez” as her left leg darted out involuntarily, almost as if it were determined to touch him of its own volition. His eyes followed the motion. She stopped. His eyes darted back up.
What was this? Was Blain Sanders looking at her legs? “A guy like that doesn’t even own a computer.” She swung her leg again. He glanced down.
He was looking at her legs.
“You might be surprised at how savvy race fans are. But that’s not the point. The point is you shouldn’t have kissed me,” he said. Cece noticed that his eyes turned a deep, almost violet blue when angry.
She straightened as a new and unexpected discovery rolled through her. Blain Sanders was checking her out. He didn’t want to check her out, she could tell, but he was definitely getting a fix on her.
She almost laughed because she would never, ever have thought the great man himself would stoop to eyeing her of all people.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t have.”
But far from looking pleased at his small victory, he leaned toward her, and she could tell that she’d pushed him to the very edge of the short little pier he’d been standing on.
“Make sure it doesn’t happen again,” he snapped.
Oh, yeah? They would just have to see about that, Cece thought. Because there was one thing Mr. Blain Sanders didn’t know. After her first year of college, when she’d realized men were looking at her in a way they’d never looked at her before, she’d used that knowledge to her advantage. Cece Blackwell had put herself through college working for Bimbos, a restaurant that prided itself more on the perkiness of its servers’breasts than on the freshness of its cuisine.
And the only thing she enjoyed more than McDonald’s French fries was making men squirm, probably because most of her life men hadn’t given her the time of day. Then she’d turned nineteen and voilà, sex goddess. It’d been darn disconcerting when the cutest guy on campus had asked her out. Who’d have thunk? But she’d never forgotten what it felt like to be the campus dog. So when she’d turned into Sleeping Beauty, she’d been smart enough to have fun with some Prince Charmings. Blain Sanders was no prince, but it’d be fun playing with him.
She’d make sure of it.
“IF ANYONE IN THE GARAGE asks how we know each other, just tell them we’re old friends,” Blain said as Cece Blackwell sat down next to him in one of the compact seats that filled the jet’s interior. He looked over at her in time to see one side of her mouth tip up.
“What?” he asked.
“We were never friends,” she said, her arm brushing his.
“Yeah, but we can’t tell them the truth. NASCAR doesn’t want people to know an FBI agent is sniff ing around.”
“And why did you hate me so much?” she asked.
It took him a moment to follow her question, but not before he found himself asking, “Huh?”
“Why didn’t you like me in school?”
He took his own seat, staring at her for a second as he replayed what she’d said, and then tried to frame his answer. “I didn’t hate you,” was all he could think of to say.
“Oh, you were never flat-out mean to me, but you didn’t like me. That much was obvious.” She reached beneath her to search for her seat belt. The movement opened up the shirt beneath her black jacket, giving him a glimpse of a white, frilly lace bra. Frilly? Since when?
“Look, Cecilia, I hardly knew you. How could I hate you?”
“Good point. But if that’s true, why did you tell Jeff Mayer that he could do better than me when he and I started dating?”
What was she talking about…?
She lifted a brow as if trying to prod his memory. “We were at a convenience store and you saw me with him. I’d wandered off to another aisle and you must have thought I couldn’t hear you, but I could.” She tilted her head, a lock of blond hair slipping from behind her ear. “You told him the reason I lived in a double wide was because of the size of my ass.”
He’d said what?
She smirked.
And then he remembered.
She lifted both brows this time, her expression turning to one of wry amusement. “It’s coming back to you, isn’t it?”
It felt like a welding torch had been lit near his face.
“So I’m sure you can understand why I thought you didn’t like me.”
She settled back in her seat. There wasn’t much room between her and the seat in front of her, but she somehow managed to cross her legs, the look on her face a mix of smug and amused.
“Look,” he said. “If I said something like that it was probably because I was sick and tired of you blabbing all over the school that your Camaro was faster than my Nova.”
“It was.”
“And because you told Gina Sellers that you wanted to ask me to the prom.”
Her eyes widened.
“Yeah,” he said. “I