Dangerous Curves

He barked a laugh—just one little laugh—but it was the first since watching Randy’s car fragment into a thousand pieces.

He opened his mouth, about to thank her, but a voice came over the P.A. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please. We need everyone to exit the plane. Immediately.”

Blain looked up, wondering what the hell was going on.

“Bomb threat,” Cece said, her eyes instantly and completely serious.

CHAPTER THREE

“IT WAS JUST a coincidence,” Cece told Bob from the privacy of her Las Vegas hotel room via a Bureau cellphone. She and Blain were staying at the Rodeo, a western-themed resort meant to make someone think she was in the Wild West…or a B movie. Knotty pine furniture and a lodgepole pine bed filled the room. Various horses and cowboys galloping to save helpless calves were depicted in the prints hanging on the wall.

“I’m sure of it,” she insisted. “Why would Blain’s bad guys call in a bomb threat?”

“I agree it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense,” Bob said. “But we have to treat this as if it’s not a coincidence.”

Her hand tightened around the palm-size phone. “I know, I know, but I still think the whole thing is a wild-goose chase. If someone wanted to blow up a racetrack, or an airplane, why not just do it? Why tell someone you were going to do it beforehand?”

“That’s what you’re there to investigate.”

“The letter about Blain’s driver was probably sent by some crackpot redneck mad at Blain for owning the car that beat his favorite driver,” Cece muttered. “Not a real murderer.”

“Look, Cece, it was a threat, and these days we have to take all threats seriously, including today’s. I’ll let you know what we find.”

She inhaled, knowing he was right. They’d taken a lot of heat for 9/11. Didn’t want to be caught with their pants down again. And, hell, these days a shopping list could get someone in trouble—if it had fertilizer and Clorox on it.

“When do you want me back?”

“As soon as you’re done making your report.”

The sooner the better, Cece thought. She didn’t like the way being around Blain made her feel. For a second there on the plane she’d been overcome by memories of her old partner, of the look on his wife’s face when she’d broken the news to her, and his kids’ faces at the funeral….

“Got that, Cece?”

“Roger,” she answered, stabbing the Off button without saying goodbye. This was no time to dwell on the past.

A knock sounded. Cece turned to the door. Blain. She’d told him to meet up with her the moment he’d settled into his room. Apparently that was now.

She crossed to the door, opening it.

“What’d he say?” Blain immediately asked, striding in without so much as a hello.

She shook her head, looking up and down the hall before stepping back into her room and closing the door.

“He said he’ll look into the threat,” she summarized.

Blain stopped in front of her one window, the Las Vegas strip stretching out behind him. Blinking lights flicked on and off, visible even in late morning. It was a warm day, despite it being early spring… not that you’d guess it was spring by the mud-brown mountains surrounding the city.

“Does he think it might be the same person who sent me the letter?”

“Look, Blain, it’s too early to tell. He’s going to have someone look into it. Meantime, I’m here to check things out.”

He didn’t seem pleased. Well, she wasn’t exactly thrilled, either.

“Are you ready to leave?” he asked.

She nibbled on her lower lip, crossing her arms in front of her. “I’ll meet up with you later. I need to change.”

His eyes narrowed. She caught a look of suspicion just before he asked, “Into what?”

She shrugged. “Something a little more racelike. Remember, I’m not here in an official capacity. Well, I am, but we don’t want your fellow trackies to know that.”

“Trackies?” he asked with a lifted brow.

“What else should I call the people you work with?”

“How about crew members?”

“Whatever,” she said, lifting a hand in dismissal. “Just let me get changed. Unless you want me to show up in a business suit, toting an FBI badge.”

He shook his head. “Just remember there’s a dress code in the garage.”

This time it was her brows that lifted.

He nodded. “No sleeveless shirts. No open-toed shoes. No bare legs.”

She snapped her fingers in mock regret. “Damn. I guess that means I can’t wear my thigh-highs.”

His eyes narrowed further.

She rolled hers. “Relax, Blain. I promise not to embarrass you. I’ll look the part. Just let me do my job.”

AND SHE DID LOOK THE PART, judging by the raised brows she received from certain members of the male persuasion. As she walked toward the garage, she tried not to feel self-conscious. All those years at Bimbos and she still felt uncomfortable when gawked at—made her think she might have a piece of tissue trailing from her heel.

Perfect.

She’d decided on a chic yet revealing mode of dress—not for Blain’s sake, although that might have been fun, but so she blended in better. And so she wore a black chemise covered by a black mesh, long-sleeved shirt, powder-blue jeans hugging her legs like giant tube socks, a black stripe of leather running down the side. Of course, tucked into her black half-boots was a.22 handgun. Still, she felt very sexy in an Annie Oakley kind of way.

Unfortunately, Nevada weather in the spring was like a woman who couldn’t make up her mind, and so Cece damn near froze in the getup. Off in the distance what looked to be a thunderstorm was brewing, dark clouds gathering over the granite mountaintops. Terrific. And she’d forgotten a jacket.

A guard wearing a bright yellow coat eyed her up and down, the word SECURITY emblazoned across the front as if someone might mistake him for a race car. The obnoxious color wasn’t very flattering to his Hispanic face, a face that lit up when he saw her.

“Good afternoon,” he drawled flirtatiously as she paused near the entrance he “guarded.” Yeah, right. The guy didn’t even have a gun. “May I help you?” he added.

On a normal day Cece would give him one of her patented Death Star FBI agent looks. But this wasn’t a normal day. Undercover. One of Blainy-poo’s friends. So she smiled back, flicking her long blond hair over her shoulder à la Dallas Cowboys cheerleader.

“Good afternoon,” she answered with a smile, flashing him the hot pass credential she’d picked up at a trailer outside the racetrack.

“Go right on in,” he said, waving her by.