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Dangerous Curves
“It’s in my blood, Cece. I love this sport. But I can’t stand by and let it endanger people’s lives…”
“I know,” she said, bending to kiss Blain’s cheek. But the way it felt when her lips connected with his skin…well, it made her want to kiss something else.
No, she warned herself. She shouldn’t. This wasn’t a fantasy. This was a flesh-and-blood man.
“Blain, I don’t think this is a good id – ”
He pulled her to him, kissed her hard, and Cece settled onto his hard thighs as if she’d done it a million times before – and in her dreams, maybe she had. Only this was so much better than her fantasies.
Praise for Pamela Britton
“Passion and humour are a potent combination, and author Pamela Britton comes up with the perfect blend and does everything right.”
— Oakland Press
“Pamela Britton is no longer a rising star in the field of romance; she is a star, and-an especially brilliant one.”
—Romance Reader at Heart
dangerous CURVES
pamela britton
Dedicated to Doug and Robin Richert,
two of NASCAR’s finest.
Acknowledgements
I have to be honest in admitting that when I proposed writing a romantic suspense, I never realised the amount of research it would involve. The crime dramas on TV are nothing like real life, and so it’s with much gratitude that I thank the following people for answering all my tedious law-enforcement questions.
Mark Kolla and the gang at Sean and Donna’s wedding who graciously spent time helping me to straighten out my plot (in between drinking screwdrivers), and with a special thanks to my brother-in-law, Michael Mattocks, who never laughs at my silly ideas.
My pal in the FBI who asked not to be named (I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you). Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you for answering all my questions about bombs, protective custody and what it’s really like to be a female agent in an office full of men. You’re an angel.
Lastly, as always, to my wonderful husband, a man who knows intuitively when I need to be left alone, and who’s one heck of a plotting partner. I love you, Michael.
CHAPTER ONE
SHE WAS FIVE FOOT SIX of spandex-wrapped, thigh-high-boots-wearing, bustier-clad woman. And she wasn’t happy.
Shoving open the door of her boss’s office, Cece Blackwell had to fight not to yell the words, “What do you mean I’m assigned the NASCAR case?”
The glare of fluorescent lights arched perfectly off her boss’s prematurely bald head as he turned to face her, black brows—the color his hair should have been, if he’d had any—lifted above light gray eyes.
“I can’t believe you’d do this to me,” she added, placing her hands on her leather-clad waist, Cece so screaming mad she felt ready to lob her Carmen Miranda red earrings at him. Or maybe her matching bracelets. Yeah. They’d be easier to slip off.
“I won’t do it,” she huffed. “I won’t.” And darn if she didn’t feel like stomping her feet like her neighbor’s three-year-old daughter.
Bob’s chubby-cheeked face remained blank. It was one thing she despised about him. No, envied, this ability he had to remain unruffled no matter what the circumstances. He was like one of those mimes you saw in the park, able to keep a straight face even as some dog doo-dooed on his leg. The talent was helped by the fact that he had wrinkle-free skin near impossible to glean the age of. Cece supposed Mother Nature had blessed him with such a complexion as a way of making up for the no hair thing.
But instead of addressing her concerns, Bob eyed her up and down. “You been working that organized crime ring?” he asked in his Bronx accent. “That’s why you dressed like that?”
“You know I was,” she said, referring to the rent-me-by-the-hour outfit she wore: rhinestone-studded black bustier, Band-Aid-wide leather skirt and the pièce de résistance, black thigh-high boots.
“The operative word being was, Bob,” she gritted out between Screaming Red lips. “Was because they called me off the streets and told me I’d be working a new case, one that you know I have no desire to work. So tell me it isn’t true, Bob, in which case I’ll go change out of this hoochie wear, because if you tell me it is true, I quit.”
“It’s true,” he said.
“I quit.” She turned on a stiletto heel and jerked open the door.
“Cece, wait.”
“Talk to the hand, Bob,’ cause the ears aren’t listening.”
“Damn it, Cece, you don’t stop, you’re fired.”
She whirled to face him, hand falling off the handle. “I’m fired? I’m fired?” she raged, stabbing at herself with her finger, one of her fake press-on nails popping off and arcing through the hair like a boomerang. “You’ve got some nerve, you know that, Bob? You know about my past with the owner of that race team. You know every damn detail. And yet you’re still assigning me this case? That’d be like—” she searched for the right words “—that’d be like me assigning you to work with your ex-wife.” Bob winced. “I won’t do it.”
“You have to,” he said, his face stern.
Her eyes narrowed. “No, I don’t.”
“This ain’t no multiple choice, Cece. We need your expertise with explosives.”
“Oh, yeah? Just like you needed my expertise working that organized crime ring? I’ve spent four weeks dressed like this. Four weeks and I’m this close to finding out the name of the guy who sold Mantos those explosives. You want me to walk away from that? I don’t think so. Find someone else with the expertise.”
“We want you.”
Cece tottered over to Bob’s desk, not caring that her breasts all but fell out as she leaned over the papers strewn on it. “Look, Bob, I’ve had a really bad day. Some man offered me a hundred bucks if I’d let him sniff my underwear. Another asked me to do a threesome. An evangelist talked my ear off for an hour because he was convinced he could save my soul. To say I’m in no mood for this would be an understatement. My feet hurt, I have a rub spot on the back of my knee and I’m convinced a bird pooped in my hair, only, see, I can’t tell because makeup decided to turn my hair into their version of the Burning Bush, sans the flames, although there’s so much hair spray in this mess—” she pointed at her teased and cemented blond hair “—I could give Michael Jackson a run for his money.” She leaned even closer, her bonded hair not budging an inch. “Don’t do this to me.”
“It’d just be for a few days.”
“This close to busting Mantos,” she repeated, making tweezers out of her scarlet-red nails.
“Just think about it.”
“Okay,” she said straightening, looking up to the ceiling and tapping a red nail on her chin as if contemplating the color of a toupee for Bob. “Thought about it,” she said, piercing him with a glare. “No.”
Bob flung himself back in his chair, tossing a Snappy Lube pencil onto his desk. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why we work so well together.” She turned toward the door.
“I could force you.”
“Don’t bother,” she called over her shoulder.
“I’m your boss,” he added.
“Then act like it and tell 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 not just say that you requested me for this case?”
“I did.”
She gave him a look, one he remembered from their youth. It usually meant a shovelful of sand or a sharp-tipped acorn was about to be thrown his way.
“Why in the heck would you do a stupid thing like that?”
“Like I said. You’re the best.”
“And just how do you know that?” she asked.
His gaze snapped up. “People back home talk.”
She smirked, painted red lips compressing. “I haven’t talked to anyone back home since my mom died.”
“Not even Mr. Johnson?”
She closed her eyes, obviously recognizing the name. Mr. Johnson, ex-cop-turned-P. E.-teacher who had taken a shine to Cecilia Blackwell all through high school, especially when she’d chosen to pursue a career in law enforcement. He was also a big race fan, which was how Blain had kept up with Cece’s life—though in an inadvertent way, because he wasn’t interested in her.
He looked her up and down again.
Not interested at all.
“We talk on a regular basis,” Blain admitted.
“I’m going to kill him,” she said, and this time Blain eyed the column of her neck. Her skin looked soft there. Funny. The memories he’d carried of little Cecilia Blackwell were that of a grease-covered kid. One who’d had puppy love dangling from her stray dog eyes. Not the woman standing before him now. Taller. Long blond hair. Hourglass figure.
“Why? The old guy’s proud of you. You’re the only student of his that’s gone any further than the local police department.”
And Blain felt grudging respect for her. Most of their former classmates had never left town. Not so Cece. Like him, she’d struck out on her own. He admired that, no matter how much it irked him to admit it.
“Besides,” he added, “who cares how I found out? What’s important is that I know you’ll be straight with me.” He clenched his hands, trying to stifle emotions he didn’t want her to see. “The president of our association refuses to postpone the next few races because we don’t have proof that the wreck that killed my driver was no accident. All I have is a threatening letter that mentions a Cup race two weeks from now. Your bosses seem to think it’s probably just a nutcase. NASCAR seems to think the same thing. I’m not so certain.”
Blain had to look away for a second, hoping she didn’t see how hard he fought for control at the memory of Randy.
Got a tire going bad.
They were the last words he’d said.
“I heard he was your driver,” Cece said.
“He was.” And his best friend. And his business partner.
“Sorry about your loss,” she said, crossing her arms in front of her.
Not for Cece the show of sympathy most women would give him: the concerned touch, the sympathetic hug. No. She just tilted her head as she said, “But it still doesn’t change the fact that this is a bad idea.”
“I’m not going to beg.” And he wouldn’t, damn it. She owed him this.
“You don’t have to. My answer is no.”
He straightened and pulled out his trump card. “I’ll tell your boss about the felony.”
She paled beneath the makeup covering up the freckles he remembered. About the only thing still the same.
“What felony?” She tried to brazen it out.
“The one you got for stealing that car when you were seventeen. The one sealed now because you were a minor, but the one I’m sure you didn’t tell the FBI about, since you were hired by them.”
He found himself looking down at her, those wide green eyes. Pretty eyes, he’d always thought, despite the fact that he’d always teased her about them.
“Bastard.”
He crossed his arms again and shrugged.
“You know damn well I didn’t steal that car. Tommy Pritchert set me up to take the fall. I just happened to be driving the wrong car at the wrong time.”
“Tell that to your boss.”
She looked as if she wanted to throttle him. “You know well and good I can’t do that.”
“No. But I can.”
And now she looked as if she wanted to bludgeon him.
“Did it ever occur to you that my successes as an FBI agent might be severely overrated?”
“Yeah.” He took another step toward her. A hint of something tickled his nose. “You wearing perfume?” he asked in shock.
She tilted her head. “What of it?”
You build that car? he’d asked after she’d roared into the high school parking lot when they were seventeen.
What of it?
Same response. Same woman.
Or was it?
“Nothing,” he answered—the same response he’d given her back then. “And even if Mr. Johnson has exaggerated, I remember the way you found out who’d keyed your car. You thought I’d done it, but instead you discovered that—”
“Rick Carpenter had done it,” she finished.
“Yeah. My point being that the way you discovered who’d done it was pure genius.”
“So let me get this straight,” she said in a clipped voice, straightening, one hand held out, palm up. “You decided I’d be perfect for this case based on an idea I got off Columbo?”
“It worked. No one expected you to give a ’69 Camaro away as bounty, but you did.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t give it away. I only let someone drive it for a week. The kid offered to buy it afterward and I let him. I’d beaten you enough times that I was through with it anyway.”
Her words rankled—still, after all these years. Man, but she knew how to push his buttons. Even after he’d left the small town they’d grown up in he’d thought about the way she’d smoked his doors whenever they’d raced. Four championships and numerous awards later and he still couldn’t believe she’d built a car that had beaten his. But he shouldn’t let it rankle, he reminded himself. It was all the more reason to insist she work the case. No other agent this side of the Mississippi would have her knowledge of race cars. She was a pro. Plus an expert on explosives.
“Look, Cece, I don’t know anybody else with the experience to solve this case. You’re the closest thing to an ally that I’ve got and I need your help.”
And for a second the wreck replayed in his mind again. Blain’s knuckles ached, he clenched his fingers so hard. “I need your expertise. You’ll give it to me, even if I have to blackmail you to do it.”
She stared up at him, and he was surprised at how close he’d gotten. Age had changed her, he realized. Her cheekbones were more prominent. Lips fuller, her mouse-blond hair lighter, too.
“Fine,” she snapped, her green eyes firing like spark plugs. “But don’t blame me when it doesn’t work out. You’ve no idea what it’s like to work with someone you despise.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to say he didn’t despise her, but something made him hold back, something that made him feel uncomfortable and on edge at the same time.
But then, he always felt that way around Cece Blackwell.
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