Dangerous Curves

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.”