Dangerous Curves

And then he remembered.

She lifted both brows this time, her expression turning to one of wry amusement. “It’s coming back to you, isn’t it?”

It felt like a welding torch had been lit near his face.

“So I’m sure you can understand why I thought you didn’t like me.”

She settled back in her seat. There wasn’t much room between her and the seat in front of her, but she somehow managed to cross her legs, the look on her face a mix of smug and amused.

“Look,” he said. “If I said something like that it was probably because I was sick and tired of you blabbing all over the school that your Camaro was faster than my Nova.”

“It was.”

“And because you told Gina Sellers that you wanted to ask me to the prom.”

Her eyes widened.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know about the crush you had. And so I was pretty certain that you weren’t really interested in Jeff Mayer in any other way than getting closer to me.”

Those green eyes of hers flickered with something. Humiliation? “You didn’t know that for certain.”

“Oh, yeah? Then why’d you dump him when I told him I didn’t want him bringing you around?”

“I didn’t dump him, he dumped me…because of you.”

His body flicked back.

Her eyes narrowed. “You didn’t know that, did you?”

And there was too much anger in her eyes for it not to be true. “He told me the opposite.”

She leaned toward him, and the smell of her perfume hung between them for a second before a passing draft carried it away. It was a scent completely at odds with the image he’d carried around of her for years—acne medicine and car parts—not that he’d spent much time thinking about her. She smelled flowery. Almost feminine. Not like a tray of used motor oil.

“Look, Blain, I told you this was a really bad idea. You and I are like oil and water, always have been, always will. Why don’t we just give this up right now?”

He stared across at her, at this new Cecilia Blackwell. Calm. Controlled. Not the pimple-faced girl he remembered. And though he’d never have admitted it to her when they were younger, he’d always admired the way she’d tackled challenges. Whenever she’d put her mind to something—souping up her Camaro, getting the best grades, whatever—she’d always been good at it. Always.

“No,” he said, coming to an instant decision. “From what I hear, you’re good at what you do. I want someone I can trust. You’re it.”

He thought she might say something else. Saw the word clearly in her eyes: fool. But she didn’t say that. Instead she said, “Fine. Let’s get down to business then, shall we?”

She leaned over and pulled out a brown partition folder from an overnight bag-type thing she’d stuffed under the seat in front of her. There was a yellow label on it that said Escrow File: 937 Orchard Road. Her old address from home, he recognized. How bizarre to remember that.

She straightened, the plane jerking back from the gate just as she did so. Her left breast brushed his right arm.

He felt scalded.

“Sorry,” she murmured, hardly noticing.

He narrowed his eyes. No blush. No embarrassment. The Cece Blackwell he remembered would have had a hard time meeting his eyes.

This Cece glanced up at him boldly as she said, “I’ve put together a list of things I need to accomplish this weekend—learning the ins and outs of a race car garage, for one. Plus examining security, that sort of thing.” Suddenly, a ray of light that shot out from around the terminal illuminated her face and eyes. It turned those eyes Caribbean green. He’d been there last year with a woman whose name he couldn’t recall.

“When’d you have time to do that?” he asked.

“Last night,” she said without looking up, her leg swinging again.

“In a hurry to get me out of your hair?”

“Eeyup,” she responded as she opened the file, lifting her hand to the bridge of her nose, almost as if she were pushing up a pair of nonexistent glasses. When she realized what she’d done, she gave him a look.

“Contacts,” she murmured.

He’d wondered what had happened to the glasses.

“According to what you told my superiors, you’re suspicious about Randy Newell’s death.” She looked at him, her face serious. “If it’s too hard to discuss the death of your friend, just let me know.”

“Do it.”

She turned back to the file. “Forensics is looking at the debris right now, but so far you’re the only one who thinks something looked suspicious about the wreck.”

He nodded, remembering yet again the way Randy’s car had exploded. Just detonated. Fuel cell rupture. That’s what they claimed. It happened. Rare, but it happened.

And Randy had been inside.

“I have to be honest. I don’t see how someone could blow up a race car. They’d have to put the explosives inside the vehicle, but your tech inspection would’ve uncovered that. And what would be the motive? Terrorist act? If so, we’d have known by now. One thing about terrorists, they love to claim their work. And so if not that, maybe revenge? Revenge against who? You? Your driver?”

He felt her look over at him.

“Blain?”

He met her gaze, though he had to repeat her words in his head to remember what the question was.

“You all right?”

He told himself he was fine.

She grabbed his hand. “Blain?” she asked again.

He stared down at that hand. Her nails were short. No-nonsense. Not a lick of polish. Typical Cecilia.

“I’m fine,” he said hoarsely, trying to focus on her, on the plane, on anything other than the sudden memory he had of Randy standing in the winner’s circle after they’d won their first race together.

She tilted her head toward his, forcing his attention. “I lost my partner a few years back.” She shook her head, still clasping Blain’s hand, squeezing it gently before she released it. “I still think about him every day.”

His breath hitched unexpectedly at the sadness in her eyes. She truly did seem to understand. “Actually,” he said gruffly, suddenly uncomfortable with his feelings, “I just don’t like flying.”

She drew back, her pretty eyes widening. And then her lids narrowed, her lips compressing just before she said, “Liar.”