Dangerous Curves

And that reminded Cece of what she’d been brought in to do—investigate, not make friends with Blain Sanders.

Who was currently a suspect.

She shook her head.

“What?” he asked.

“I need to get going,” she answered. “I’ve still got a job to do.”

She could tell the moment he remembered why it was they’d been brought together, too. The smile slid down his face like rain on a stormy day. And for a second she caught a glimpse of it, saw the unmistakable darkening of his eyes. Grief. He tried to hide it from her, but some things were impossible to conceal.

He’d lost a driver. Someone he’d known a long time. A friend. She knew all too well what that felt like.

“It was probably just an accident, Blain. I really doubt that letter you received is anything more than a worked-up fan.”

“I hope you’re right.”

But he didn’t believe her. So she said, “Think about it. Why send a threatening letter after you murder someone?” He winced at the term “murder,” and Cece cursed herself. One of the things about working at the Bureau was how jaded you became using certain words. “Blain, if someone were really trying to go around scaring race fans, or killing drivers, they would have sent a note to the press, not to you.”

He went silent for a second, his lips tightening. “You’re not telling me anything I haven’t heard already, Cece. It’s just a crazy race fan. One who didn’t like Randy and so he claimed to have killed him.” He met her gaze. “But I don’t believe it.”

And that was why he couldn’t be a suspect, Cece admitted—because killers didn’t fight for justice. Crazy people didn’t send themselves letters and then bring them to light. Supposing Blain was right—this whole thing really was a murder and some terrorist or crazed fan was out for blood—Blain had nothing to gain by going public. If he was a murderer, he’d have kept quiet. Nah. Supposing this wasn’t a wild-goose chase, Blain was innocent.

“Well, if you’re right, I don’t see how someone could have done it. The garage is locked down tighter than Fort Knox.”

“It is,” he agreed, following her gaze to the infield, where the garage stood like a million-dollar industrial complex.

“I suppose it needs to be that way.” She gave him a small smile. “To keep race fans out. Like me.”

It worked. He didn’t smile, but his expression lightened in the way the sky slightly brightened just before dawn. That was better.

What was better? she asked herself. Surely she didn’t care if Blain Sanders smiled?

Right?

Right?

“Yeah, fans like you,” he said, and for a brief second he smiled. Cece felt triumphant—but then the smile wafted away like so much smoke.

Triumphant?

“Look, I…” She gazed out over the grandstands, at the cars in their stalls, the race crews milling about, the security folks dragging some guy away…. “What the—”

Blain followed her gaze. Just then some man wearing a team uniform bent down to inspect his car.

“Oh, damn,” Cece said, furious with herself that she’d been so distracted by Blain that she hadn’t even noticed the commotion in the garage.

“Someone must have snuck in.”

“Yeah,” she said, turning to dash off. But why?

CHAPTER SIX

THEY RAN.

Cece kept ahead of him, though Blain managed to catch up to her from time to time. Their first stop was at the entrance to the infield tunnel, and it prompted Cece to reach for a badge Blain hadn’t even known she was carrying. The woman who guarded the entrance waved Cece through. Frankly, she hardly paid any attention to either of them, despite the fact that they’d run up to her, were wet and obviously in a hurry.

“Cece, wait,” Blain said as he moved to catch up.

But she didn’t slow down. By the time they made it through the fluorescent-lit tunnel, Blain was feeling out of breath and grudgingly impressed with Cece’s stamina.

“Which way?” she asked as they emerged into the rain again.

“This way,” Blain said, turning toward the two-story VIP suites blocking the view from the pit road. There was an opening near the end of the building, and Blain wiped the rain from his face as they entered the garage.

Cece stopped abruptly. Blain looked toward where the security personnel had been a few moments before. Gone. He inhaled deeply, his heart pounding to the point that he could see his shirt move in rhythm to the beat.

“Took him away,” Cece said, sounding far less out of breath than Blain.

They had. A lone security guard stood talking to Jeff Burks, crew chief of the number twenty-one car.

“We can go talk to Jeff,” Blain said, setting off again.

But Cece didn’t follow. He stopped, turned. Her hair had collected drops of rain like blades of grass, the team jacket she wore darker on the shoulders. Her chest barely rose and fell.

“You coming?” he asked.

“No.”

His puzzled eyes must have asked the question he didn’t.

“I shouldn’t reveal my presence here,” she answered.

He looked as confused as he felt because she said, “I know I ran down here like I was, but in hindsight, announcing the fact that I’m an FBI agent might not be such a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because my boss doesn’t want people to know I’m here. And because this is still just an investigation. If I go around questioning people, it’ll raise flags.”

“So raise them.”

She reached out and touched Blain’s arm. He hadn’t put on a jacket, so it was bare and wet, and her palm was so warm it startled him.

“I was told to keep a low profile, Blain. Flashing my badge around is not low profile.”

He gazed at her in frustration.

“Look,” she said. “I sincerely doubt a bad guy would tinker with a race car in full view of race fans and television cameras.”