Dangerous Curves

“Where are you going?”

“Problem solved, so that means I can go on my tour, right?”

He just looked at her, then shook his head. And could that be…was the sky falling…might that actually be a bit of a smile on his face?

“Thanks for the help,” he said.

Her mouth fell open. An apology, too? From him?

“That was a good call,” he added.

She studied him through narrow eyes, watching to see if his own eyes flicked to the right as he searched the creative side of his brain. It was a way to glean if a person was telling the truth, and she unashamedly used it now.

His eyes darted left. “I checked that cord when I first realized we had a problem. Obviously, I must not have pushed it back in all the way.”

Ah, so this wasn’t actually an apology per se. Rather, it was a saving of face.

“I see,” she said, somehow disappointed. She turned away again, but he grabbed her arm this time, turning her back yet again. Gently, though.

“Wait,” he said, lifting his hand, his face in profile as he stared at the ground and shook his head. “That came out wrong. I wasn’t trying to make excuses. You were right. I was wrong. Good call.”

He really was trying to act grateful. How…bizarre. She’d never had a kind word from the man.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

He nodded and it was then she realized that he hadn’t let go of her arm. He must have realized it, too, because he suddenly released her like a hot exhaust manifold. She knew exactly how he felt because it seemed as if she’d been burned by one herself. She almost took a peek at her arm as she turned away yet again, Blain falling into step alongside.

“You know,” she said—and she couldn’t believe she was going to tell him this. She really couldn’t. “I once tore apart a carburetor only to discover that I was out of gas the whole time.”

“You did?”

She nodded, suddenly feeling as red as a Radio Flyer. Jeesh, why’d she tell him that embarrassing thing? “I was an hour on the side of that road. You wouldn’t believe the number of guys that pulled over to help.” She looked up at him, realizing as she did so that she’d tried to make him feel better. Him. Blain Sanders. The guy who had scarred her for life more times than she could count.

Had she lost her mind?

Thank God her cellphone rang then, because she needed a moment to tighten the screws in her head.

“Blackwell,” she answered, forgetting for an instant that she was supposed to be a civvy and not a special agent.

It was Bob, and as usual, he was to the point. “Got a new suspect for you if this thing pans out.”

“Oh?” she answered, turning away from Blain.

“It’s Sanders.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“IMPOSSIBLE.”

It was the first word that came to Cece’s mind, never mind that Blain’s brows rose like twin drawbridges at her tone of voice. She lifted an index finger in the universal sign meaning just one moment, and turned away to try and find a quieter area. Quieter? Hah.

“Blain right there?” her boss asked when she told him to hold on a sec. At least she thought that’s what he said. It sounded more like, “Brain dead?”

Yeah, she felt pretty brain dead at the moment. Here she was getting all excited about being in a stock car garage when what she should be doing was focusing on the job.

She walked to the end of the building, that ever-present cold wind poking rude fingers through her mesh shirt.

Note to self: no more cute shirts.

“Now what’s this you say?” she said, crossing to the fence.

“Someone at the airport saw Sanders make a call on his cellphone just before you two boarded.”

“So?”

“We looked into it. It was to the airline.”

She tipped her head back for a second, a part of her noticing those storm clouds had gotten closer. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Bob. He could have called the airline for any number of reasons. Besides, he’s the one that keeps insisting on an investigation. You told me yourself the president of the stock car association would rather this whole thing go away.”

“Yeah, but he wouldn’t be the first twisted mind to insist the Bureau investigate a crime he’d committed.”

“If a crime was committed,” she felt the need to say.

“One might have been.”

“What do you know that I don’t know?” she asked, instantly suspicious.

“Nothing, nothing. I’m just telling you to keep your eyes open.”

Ridiculous. The whole thing was ridiculous. She would like to have told Bob all the various reasons why she doubted Blain Sanders was the perp, starting with the fact that he’d been the most disgusted with her when she’d been arrested all those years ago. “Boy Scout” didn’t begin to describe Blain Sanders. But just then she saw the man of the hour himself round the corner of the building, waving her toward him.

“Will do,” she said.

But when Cece stuffed her phone in her pocket, she couldn’t help but shake her head. Blain, a suspect. Hah! And, dang it, what was wrong with these jeans? They were too tight to get her damn cellphone back in her pocket.

Blain Sanders, stock car stalker. The thought of him as a bad guy was almost laughable. A man who refused to drag race on the street because it was illegal would not threaten to blow up a racetrack, much less kill his own driver.

“Trouble?” he asked as she joined up with him again.

“Nah. Just some office stuff.”

The way his eyebrows arched like a cat’s back made her think he didn’t buy her excuse…not one bit, but that didn’t stop her from saying, “You ready to go?”

He stared at her for half a heartbeat—long enough that she found herself thinking how odd it was to be here with him. After all the times she’d watched him on a giant TV, after all the times she’d fantasized about meeting up with him again.

Fantasize?

No. Not like that. Well, maybe once.