Dangerous Curves

“I didn’t have more money than you.”

“No, but your parents did.”

His eyes narrowed and he started to shake his head.

“But you know what?” she said before he could say a word. “I did match up. My Camaro was the fastest damn car in high school, even though I had to scrimp and save for every part I put on that thing. And in the end, what did I have to do? Sell it to help my mom pay the mortgage.”

His stony expression was suddenly tinged with surprise.

“That’s right. I had to sell it. My Camaro. A car that was everything to me. The last thing I had of my dad’s before he died. My last piece of him. And I had to sell it.”

“Cece, I—”

“No. Let me finish.”

But for a moment she couldn’t go on, so overcome by a ridiculous, unbelievable stinging of tears that she had to inhale to stop from crying.

You beat him? her dad had asked.

I blew his doors off, Dad.

Good for you, Tiger.

She couldn’t speak as the whole horrible time came rushing back to her again. Her dad’s death. Her mom’s financial spiral. That last terrible year of high school. And then her mom’s death two years later. Jeesh, no wonder she’d been running with the wrong crowd. For a split second Cece felt the emotions coalesce within her: grief, humiliation, sadness. She tried to shove the feelings back inside, but like oil on hands, it was hard to wash them away.

“We were so damn broke,” she found herself saying. “No life insurance. No money in the bank. Nothing. My mom and I tried as hard as we could to stay afloat, but life kept kicking us in the teeth. I swear that’s why she died a few years later. She just gave up—the doctors called it a heart attack. I called it a broken heart. Not just because of her grief for my dad, but because of her grief at the human race. Nobody cared that she’d just lost her husband. Nobody cared that we’d sold everything we owned, everything—cars, furniture, jewelry—to make ends meet.”

And this time it was she who crossed her arms, tipping her head back in the process, her stupid tears causing prisms in her eyes. “When she died I vowed never to put myself in that position. I have a job that I’m good at, money in the bank, and believe me, that’s something that I’m proud of.

“So from where I stand, Blain Sanders, I’m more than competent to do a little investigating. Chances are this is nothing, anyway. But you’re the one calling the shots, so if you want me to go home, I’ll go.”

She waited for him to say something, anything.

But he didn’t.

“Fine. I’m outta here,” she said, pushing past him and out the door. “Didn’t want to come, anyway.”

And the jerk let her go.

CHAPTER FIVE

HE SHOULD GO AFTER HER, Blain thought. Instead he heard the hollow thud of her footfalls on the center isle’s rubber mat as she left the hauler.

She’d had tears in her eyes.

Blain had never, not ever, seen Cece Blackwell cry. Hell, a few days ago he’d have sworn she was incapable of doing such a thing.

Her mom had died? He hadn’t heard about that.

Blain stood motionless for a few seconds more. In the end, his conscience made him move.

“Cece, wait,” he said.

Fat drops of rain had started to come down, the asphalt dotted with Dalmatian spots. Cece was already near the garage, the overhang protecting her. He quickly caught up with her, and the damnedest thing was, she’d gotten control of herself. Her face looked frozen in anger as he stared down at her.

“Cece, wait.”

She kept on going.

“I’m sorry,” he called out.

Still moving.

He caught up, stepped around her, staying her with a hand when she would have darted by him. “I didn’t know your mom had died.”

She widened her eyes as if to ask, Yeah, so?

“I’m sorry.”

At last she spoke. “Fine. Apology accepted.”

She pushed past him.

“No, wait,” he said, catching her arm. “Don’t leave.”

She glared.

“Please,” he found himself saying, because the truth of the matter was, he did trust her to get the job done. She’d always been at the top of her class, even though he’d been shocked to learn just now that she’d held down a full-time job while doing it. How had she managed to do that? But he supposed it didn’t matter. He had a bad feeling about Randy’s death, and he was positive that if anyone could prove or disprove his theory, it was Cece. He didn’t know why he felt that way, but he did.

“I need you.”

She shivered, though she still glared.

“You cold?”

“No,” she lied, shivering again.

“You are.”

“No, I’m not.”

He grabbed her hand, to find her fingers were like ice. “Jeesh, Cece, you are freezing. C’mon back inside the hauler. I’ll get you a coat.”

But she didn’t move. He didn’t, either. The rain pinged atop the metal roof, but Blain was mesmerized by the expression in her eyes.

“You really want me to stay?” she asked, pulling her hand out of his grasp before tucking it beneath the crook of her arm.

“I do.”