Dangerous Curves
Authors: Pamela Britton
Tags: #Romance, #Contemporary Romance, #Love Story
| Dangerous Curves | |
| Number I of NASCAR | |
| Pamela Britton | |
| HQN Books (2014) | |
| Rating: | ***** |
| Tags: | Romance, Contemporary Romance, Love Story |
| Romancettt Contemporary Romancettt Love Storyttt |
Special Agent Lea Blackwell is smart, savvy and knows her way around a race car.
Heading up a team to investigate the murder of a NASCAR driver is right up her alley. The only problem is NASCAR star Blain Sanders, the man who requested her. Blain is well-heeled, well connected and drop-dead gorgeous-and he knew Lea when she was a drag-racing tomboy with grease under her nails.
But Lea has grown up since then, in all the right places. And while catching the killer is her main objective, she's not above making the man who ignored her as a teenager squirm a little.
Two people on a surefire collision course. But Lea and Blain are about to discover that the sweetest victory does not always come from winning...
“I know,”she said, bending to kiss Blain’s cheek. But the way it felt when her lips connected with his skin…well, it made her want to kiss something else.
No, she warned herself. She shouldn’t.This wasn’t a fantasy. This was a flesh-and-blood man.
“Blain, I don’t think this is a good id—”
He pulled her to him, kissed her hard, and Cece settled onto his hard thighs as if she’d done it a million times before—and in her dreams, maybe she had. Only this was so much better than her fantasies.
Raves for
Scandal
“A fairy tale that succeeds.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Sexy, lively, and irresistible…Britton strikes gold.”
—Romantic Times
(Top Pick)
“Sexy and sensual…this romance is laced with lots of humor.”
—Booklist
“Ms. Britton has gifted us with an outrageously captivating story that will steal your heart.”
—The Best Reviews
“Pamela Britton is no longer a rising star in the field of romance: she is a star, and an especially brilliant one.”
—Romance Reader at Heart
Tempted
“Passion and humor are a potent combination, and author Pamela Britton comes up with the perfect blend and does everything right.”
—
Oakland Press
“Much more than just great winter cruise reading. This is the kind of book that romance fans will read and reread on gloomy days.”
—Publishers Weekly
“This nonstop read has it all—sizzling sexuality, unforgettable characters, poignancy, a delightful plot and a well-crafted backdrop.”
—Romantic Times
(Top Pick)
“Britton invents great characters….Fans of Amanda Quick and her feisty heroines will also enjoy the exploits of Britton’s fearless heroine.”
—Booklist
Seduced
“It isn’t easy to write a tale that makes the reader laugh and cry, but Britton succeeds, thanks to her great characters.”
—Booklist
(starred review)
“The kind of wonderfully romantic, sexy, witty historical romance that readers dream of discovering…headed for your keeper shelf!”
—Amanda Quick,
New York Times
bestselling author
“What makes Britton stand out in the genre is her humor.”
—Pinnacle News
“This is a fabulous book!”
—Rakehell.com
“A roller-coaster ride by an author I can’t wait to read more of.”
—Marilyn at
Historical Romance Writers
“I’m in heaven: here is a humorous romp with an emotional crux that resonates more than once with me.”
—Mrs. Giggles at
Everything Romantic
Dangerous Curves
Dedicated to Doug and Robin Richert,
two of NASCAR’s finest.
I have to be honest in admitting that when I proposed writing a romantic suspense, I never realized the amount of research it would involve. The crime dramas on TV are nothing like real life, and so it’s with much gratitude that I thank the following people for answering all my tedious law-enforcement questions.
Mark Kolla and the gang at Sean and Donna’s wedding who graciously spent time helping me to straighten out my plot (in between drinking screwdrivers), and with a special thanks to my brother-in-law, Michael Mattocks, who never laughs at my silly ideas.
My pal in the FBI who asked not to be named (I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you).
Thank you!
Thank you, thank you, thank you for answering all my questions about bombs, protective custody and what it’s really like to be a female agent in an office full of men. You’re an angel.
Lastly, as always, to my wonderful husband, a man who knows intuitively when I need to be left alone, and who’s one heck of a plotting partner. I love you, Michael.
S
HE WAS FIVE FOOT SIX
of spandex-wrapped, thigh-high-boots-wearing, bustier-clad woman. And she wasn’t happy.
Shoving open the door of her boss’s office, Cece Blackwell had to fight not to yell the words, “What do you mean I’m assigned the NASCAR case?”
The glare of fluorescent lights arched perfectly off her boss’s prematurely bald head as he turned to face her, black brows—the color his hair should have been, if he’d had any—lifted above light gray eyes.
“I can’t believe you’d do this to me,” she added, placing her hands on her leather-clad waist, Cece so screaming mad she felt ready to lob her Carmen Miranda red earrings at him. Or maybe her matching bracelets. Yeah. They’d be easier to slip off.
“I won’t do it,” she huffed. “I won’t.” And darn if she didn’t feel like stomping her feet like her neighbor’s three-year-old daughter.
Bob’s chubby-cheeked face remained blank. It was one thing she despised about him. No, envied, this ability he had to remain unruffled no matter
what the circumstances. He was like one of those mimes you saw in the park, able to keep a straight face even as some dog doo-dooed on his leg. The talent was helped by the fact that he had wrinkle-free skin near impossible to glean the age of. Cece supposed Mother Nature had blessed him with such a complexion as a way of making up for the no hair thing.
But instead of addressing her concerns, Bob eyed her up and down. “You been working that organized crime ring?” he asked in his Bronx accent. “That’s why you dressed like that?”
“You know I was,” she said, referring to the rent-me-by-the-hour outfit she wore: rhinestone-studded black bustier, Band-Aid-wide leather skirt and the pièce de résistance, black thigh-high boots.
“The operative word being
was,
Bob,” she gritted out between Screaming Red lips.
“Was
because they called me off the streets and told me I’d be working a new case, one that you know I have no desire to work. So tell me it isn’t true,
Bob,
in which case I’ll go change out of this hoochie wear, because if you tell me it
is
true, I quit.”
“It’s true,” he said.
“I quit.” She turned on a stiletto heel and jerked open the door.
“Cece, wait.”
“Talk to the hand, Bob, ’cause the ears aren’t listening.”
“Damn it, Cece, you don’t stop, you’re fired.”
She whirled to face him, hand falling off the handle. “I’m fired?
I’m
fired?” she raged, stabbing at herself with her finger, one of her fake press-on nails popping off and arcing through the hair like a boomerang. “You’ve got some nerve, you know that, Bob? You know about my past with the owner of that race team. You know every damn detail. And yet you’re still assigning me this case? That’d be like—” she searched for the right words “—that’d be like me assigning you to work with your ex-wife.” Bob winced. “I won’t do it.”
“You have to,” he said, his face stern.
Her eyes narrowed. “No, I don’t.”
“This ain’t no multiple choice, Cece. We need your expertise with explosives.”
“Oh, yeah? Just like you needed my expertise working that organized crime ring? I’ve spent four weeks dressed like this. Four weeks and I’m this close to finding out the name of the guy who sold Mantos those explosives. You want me to walk away from that? I don’t think so. Find someone else with the expertise.”
“We want
you.
”
Cece tottered over to Bob’s desk, not caring that her breasts all but fell out as she leaned over the papers strewn on it. “Look, Bob, I’ve had a really bad day. Some man offered me a hundred bucks if I’d let him sniff my underwear. Another asked me to do a threesome. An evangelist talked my ear off for an hour because he was convinced he could save my
soul. To say I’m in no mood for this would be an understatement. My feet hurt, I have a rub spot on the back of my knee and I’m convinced a bird pooped in my hair, only, see, I can’t tell because makeup decided to turn my hair into their version of the Burning Bush, sans the flames, although there’s so much hair spray in this mess—” she pointed at her teased and cemented blond hair “—I could give Michael Jackson a run for his money.” She leaned even closer, her bonded hair not budging an inch. “Don’t do this to me.”
“It’d just be for a few days.”
“This close to busting Mantos,” she repeated, making tweezers out of her scarlet-red nails.
“Just think about it.”
“Okay,” she said straightening, looking up to the ceiling and tapping a red nail on her chin as if contemplating the color of a toupee for Bob. “Thought about it,” she said, piercing him with a glare. “No.”
Bob flung himself back in his chair, tossing a Snappy Lube pencil onto his desk. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why we work so well together.” She turned toward the door.
“I could force you.”
“Don’t bother,” she called over her shoulder.
“I’m your boss,” he added.
“Then act like it and tell upper management I said no.”
A wolf whistle greeted her as she entered the
“bull pen,” a maze of cubicles that housed the junior agents.
“Bite me,” she said to no one in particular as she slammed Bob’s office door with enough force to rattle the side window. She jabbed her spiked heels into the business-brown carpet as she stormed off to her office in another corner of the mostly glass high-rise, the muted gray light that dribbled in mimicking the fog outside.
Damn Bob. Of all the dumb, fool things to ask her.
She jerked open the door of her office before slamming it closed. For a long second she just seethed as she stared out the window.
Blain Sanders. A name from the past. A man who’d been responsible for more humiliating teenage memories than she cared to admit. Even now she felt the sting of a blush as she recalled some of her more embarrassing moments—trying to get an after-school job at the same place as he did, only to have him call her a stalker; slipping that ridiculous note that was supposed to be anonymous in his locker, only to have Billy Richards see her do it. And then, their senior year, she’d tried to get even with him by building a car that was faster than his. She’d succeeded at that, but then her dad died and her whole world had come crashing down.
Cece bent to grab some spare clothes from a filing cabinet drawer, trying to forget the memories, but like oil on top of water, they refused to be kept
down; her dad’s car accident, her brush with the law, her mom’s death…some of the worst times of her life.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Cecilia Blackwell.”
She froze, her hands on some sweats, thinking maybe, just maybe, the voice had been part of a hair spray induced hallucination, because it was impossible for the day to get any worse then it already had.
Famous last words.
“I see you’re dressing different.”
But only one person called her by her full name like that, the syllables clipped like the snap of a 9 mm. She closed her eyes for a sec before opening them again to slowly turn and face the door.
Ten long years and a forgotten high school crush faced her.
Blain Sanders.
Terrific. Perfect timing.
“Well, well, well,” she mimicked, “if it isn’t the hometown hero.” And she used her coolest I’m-an-FBI-agent-even-if-I’m-dressed-like-a-call-girl voice. She hadn’t survived a year of coed training to blush when caught wearing next to nothing. Besides, he didn’t seem to care, merely met her gaze directly.
“You’re looking good,” he said, and she knew he was being sarcastic ’cause there was no way, no how that Blain Sanders found her attractive.
“Gee, thanks,” she answered, her mind screaming a different answer.
Get out.
Damn it. She’d fantasized about this moment, about meeting him again, but always in a chic black suit, black pumps and her hair pulled back in a smooth chignon. Instead she wore fishnet stockings—
fishnets,
for goodness’ sake—next to no clothes and a head of hair big enough to be spotted by the Space Shuttle while he…
he
looked like he’d stepped from the pages of
People
magazine.
She eyed him up and down in an impartial I’m-no-longer-affected-by-him way. Rain-colored eyes still looked just as striking against a fringe of long, dark lashes. Strong jaw. Wide shoulders and a body that hadn’t gained an ounce of fat in the ten years she’d gone up two sizes.
“Nice outfit,” he said. It was the same voice as before, only…different. This voice dripped Southern like a jar of maple syrup, not surprising since he’d spent the last ten years of his life working the stock car circuit. Blain—California born and bred—had apparently adopted redneck ways.
“You always dress like that?”
What the heck do you think?
she almost snapped. Instead she flicked her teased-and-shellacked hair and said, “Well, the dress code is pretty lax around here. I do what I can to be comfortable.”
He lifted a brow. She placed her hands on her hips, giving him a stance à la Wonder Woman right down to the conical breasts.
“Of course I don’t dress this way,” she muttered. “I was doing an undercover gig on the East Side.”
“The FBI lets you walk around that way?”
“Didn’t someone tell you?” she snapped. “I’m not really FBI. Got the badge and gun out of a gumball machine. I was hoping for the Scooby-Doo necklace, but I guess it just wasn’t my day.”
His eyes darted to hers again. For half a heartbeat she thought she saw something drift through his silver gaze—interest, maybe—but she had to be seeing things. Blain Sanders. Mr. Celebrity. Mr. I Can Have Any Woman I Want. Mr. What’s Your Name Again Sweetheart So I Can Sign Your Junior High Yearbook would
not
be noticing her. It used to drive her crazy when she’d had that huge crush on him because nothing, but nothing she’d said or did—and oh boy, had she done some things—ever made him remember her name, much less show interest in her.
Nah. Imagining things.
“If you’re here to tell me you don’t want me on the case,” she said, “you’re wasting your breath. I don’t want it, either.”
He crossed his arms in front of him, his pecs beneath his shirt bulging like those of a beach-bound muscle man. “Actually, I came here to tell you that it was me who wanted you
on
the case.”
B
LAIN WATCHED HER
mouth gape in surprise, her startling green eyes grow wide. He’d forgotten the color of those eyes until that very moment; “antifreeze-green” he’d used to tease. She really did look ridiculous in that getup, or so he told himself because he
did not, as a rule, find women in thigh-high boots attractive.
“Why the heck would you do that?” she snapped, the red hoop earrings she wore swinging with each jerk of her angry jaw, her boots squeaking as she shifted on her feet.
He shrugged, his eyes darting around the office. Wall of glass behind her, the California fog he didn’t miss much creeping through the streets. Bachelor of Arts degree on the wall to his left. No pictures on the opposite one, to his right. Not even those “love your fellow co-worker” posters. Nothing but bare walls, a low shelf and a CD player behind her black-and-gray desk conspicuously devoid of files and clutter. Man, she didn’ t even have one of those little stuffed toys most women hung on their monitor. Typical Cece Blackwell. She was about as feminine as a case of motor oil.
“Hell-ooo,” she reminded him of her presence. As if he could forget.
“You’re the best person for the job,” he stated.
“Well, you can just un-request me.”
His eyes swung back to hers. “No,” he surprised himself by saying—surprised, because during the whole trip from North Carolina he’d told himself he’d made a mistake in insisting she be assigned the case. He must be more shaken up over Randy’s death than he’d thought, because requesting that Cece Blackwell work the case when all he had were some half-baked rumors about her success as an FBI agent was pure craziness. And yet here he was.
She’d changed, he thought, unable to stop himself from scanning her up and down. She looked like a woman. Granted, not the type of woman he’d be attracted to, but a woman nonetheless.
And that kind of perplexed him. She’d grown breasts since he’d last seen her.
“Excuse me, Blain, but I must have misunderstood you because I could have sworn you just said ‘it was me who requested you,’ which doesn’t make any sense because that would mean you were willing to work with me, something I know from experience would be the last thing on earth
you’d
want to do. So let’s go over this again. Did you or did you not just say that you requested me for this case?”
“I did.”
She gave him a look, one he remembered from their youth. It usually meant a shovelful of sand or a sharp-tipped acorn was about to be thrown his way.
“Why in the heck would you do a stupid thing like that?”
“Like I said. You’re the best.”
“And just how do you know that?” she asked.
His gaze snapped up. “People back home talk.”
She smirked, painted red lips compressing. “I haven’t talked to anyone back home since my mom died.”
“Not even Mr. Johnson?”
She closed her eyes, obviously recognizing the name. Mr. Johnson, ex-cop-turned-P.E.-teacher who had taken a shine to Cecilia Blackwell all through
high school, especially when she’d chosen to pursue a career in law enforcement. He was also a big race fan, which was how Blain had kept up with Cece’s life—though in an inadvertent way, because he wasn’t interested in her.
He looked her up and down again.
Not interested at all.
“We talk on a regular basis,” Blain admitted.
“I’m going to kill him,” she said, and this time Blain eyed the column of her neck. Her skin looked soft there. Funny. The memories he’d carried of little Cecilia Blackwell were that of a grease-covered kid. One who’d had puppy love dangling from her stray dog eyes. Not the woman standing before him now. Taller. Long blond hair. Hourglass figure.
“Why? The old guy’s proud of you. You’re the only student of his that’s gone any further than the local police department.”