Dangerous Curves

“Thank you,” she drawled in a sexy alto she hadn’t used since her days at Bimbos.

The Frankenstein heels of her boots sank into fresh tar as she headed toward the garage. Four white buildings were lined up like dominoes along the homestretch, the lesser mortals (i. e., race fans) kept out by the tall wrought-iron fence with giant don’t-try-to-climb-this spikes at the top. The buildings were nice in a single-story, no-frills kind of way. Some cars were in their garage, others half out as if they’d stalled and come to a rolling halt. It wasn’t race day, which really bummed her out. Yup. Her guilty little secret. She was a closet race car fan.

She paused midway between the fence and the garages and took it all in: the smell of burnt oil and high octane fuel. Compressors and air wrenches whirring in the distance. The crack, crack, crack of a motor idling. Crew members in their multicolor team shirts darting around.

Little darts of electricity lifted her skin into goose pimples. Dang. She’d always wondered what it was like on the inside.

She found Blain’s car parked in a garage stall at the very end of the second building; the pylon-orange stars painted on the trunk lid were hard to miss. The front end of the vehicle was jacked up off the ground, and two men stood near the front, peering into the motor compartment as if a girlie flick played inside.

“Excuse me,” she said, trying not to gawk as an ex-driver-turned-famous TV commentator walked past her, clipboard in hand, gray hair plastered in place like an elderly Ken doll.

A head peeked around the lifted hood, another from the other side, like two wide-eyed chickens peeking around a coop. She looked down as the sound of a creeper’s wheels grinding against smooth concrete caught her attention. A pair of feet emerged from beneath the car—big feet in brown leather shoes. Legs. Black pants. Blain.

The thought was confirmed when a taut chest encased in a team orange, polo-style shirt turned into a tan face with angry eyes.

Uh-oh.

“Well, well, well.” He glared up at her. “Look who decided to show up.”

“Well, well, well,” she drawled right back. “Blain Sanders at my feet. Just what I always wanted.”

He frowned, rolling the creeper around so he could sit up. “You get lost on the way out here?” he asked, grabbing a red rag that lay nearby, then tossing it aside.

“No,” she answered, smiling brightly, even though his question irritated the heck out of her.

“Get caught in traffic?”

“No,” she repeated quickly. Okay, so she’d been primping. It wasn’t often that she got to go undercover as a glamour girl. Usually she was playing the role of anything but, and she was woman enough to want to dress in cool clothes. “I just took my time.”

He frowned again, his gaze scanning her up and down. And even though he sat at a lower elevation, he must have noticed how cold she was because she could have sworn his eyes caught on her less than soft nipples. She blushed, but darn it, it was cold standing here in the shadows. A stiff breeze blew between the garages, tossing dust and grit and empty wax cups around. “I thought team owners didn’t work on cars.”

“This team owner does,” he grumbled, rising to his feet. “Especially when his crew chief is off running around and there’s a problem.”

She resisted the urge to step back. Blain was a big guy. In a lot of places, she found herself thinking before clamping down on that unprofessional and unwanted thought.

“Are you ready to give me a tour?”

He looked irritated. Really, really irritated. He glanced at the car, and the crew still gawking. He glared. The chicken heads ducked back behind the coop.

“In a minute,” he said. “We’re trying to figure out why the car doesn’t start.”

“Power?”

He shook his head.

“You sure?”

“Positive,” he said, the one word managing to convey his utter disgust that she’d even attempt to diagnose the problem. Geez-oh-peets, if ever she needed a reminder of why she didn’t like him, this was it. Funny, she’d forgotten how sexist he could be. That was why she’d taken great pleasure in waxing his doors when they’d been younger.

She glanced away, about to suggest something else, just to irk him. But the sight of a cord cocked at an odd angle as it sat atop the coil caught her attention, and despite herself, she squinted at it, because it sure didn’t look like it was on right. It wasn’t.

“Sooo,” she drawled, “I suppose the fact that that thing over there,” she pointed to a blue wire, “isn’t on right has nothing to do with it?”

It took a moment for her comment to register, and when it did, Blain actually started, shoulders stiffening, head jerking up.

“Of course, maybe you guys invented a new type of coil wire that I’ve never heard of.” She lifted a brow sarcastically. “Laser beam, maybe. Yeah, that must be it…lasers.”

Blain’s eyes narrowed.

Cece crossed her arms, feeling supremely smug as she stood there. Okay, it was luck that she’d just happened to glance at the coil, and luck that she’d chosen power as a possible diagnosis. But it was all she could do not to gloat as he looked in the direction she suggested, muffled an oath, then stormed over and popped the wire on right.

“Try it,” he muttered, straightening.

A crew member shot her an “I’m impressed” look, then came around the hood of the car, reached in and flicked the starter switch.

Cece just about jumped out of her boots as the engine roared to life. She almost glanced down to make sure the things were still on her feet.

“Holy shlamoly,” she cried, covering her ears.

Blain turned to her, shook his head, though she was positive he hadn’t heard her. Nobody could possibly hear her. She was a mouth with no sound coming out of it.

“Cut it,” he yelled over the cacophony, slicing his finger across his neck for added insurance.

Silence descended, silence so instant and so complete it was like walking outside after a rock concert.

“Thank you,” she said, pulling her fingers out of her ears. “I’ll send you the bill from my otorhinolaryngologist.”

“Your what?” Blain asked, and did she detect a hint of curtness in his voice? Could he be a bit embarrassed? Just a tad?

One could only hope.

“Ear, nose and throat guy,” she clarified.

The man that had started the car turned to her. “You just saved us a half hour of work.”

She smiled brightly. “Yeah? Fancy that.”

“Ee-yow,” the other crew member cried. “Blain, where’d you find this girl? Gorgeous and she knows something about cars.”

Gorgeous? Hardly. But she still blushed. Forever a dog in Cinderella’s clothing. “Thanks,” she said.

Blain glared at his crew again. They instantly went back to work.

“Wow. Impressive,” she said as Blain walked toward her. “Can you make them jump through flaming hoops with that look, too? I hear Circus Circus down the road is looking for new acts.”

His face didn’t loosen up one bit as he said, “You know, you are without a doubt the most irritating, frustrating, exasperating woman of my acquaintance.”

She smiled brightly, reached up and patted his smooth-shaven cheek. “Aw, gee, thanks.” She spun away.