Dangerous Race (5 page)

Ed waited in the lobby and they piled into his black Crown Victoria waiting at the hotel curb. The soft, tan leather seat enveloped Tracey, but the comfort did little to dispel the growing knot of apprehension blossoming in her gut.

The tension between Mac and her didn’t get past Ed, but thankfully he didn’t ask any questions. Instead, he filled the strained silence with conversation about the competition.

Tracey tried to listen, tried to ignore the feeling that Mac was watching her. She stared out the window and watched Middle America whiz by. Old buildings dotted new construction, and families, couples and people went about their seemingly carefree lives, but she never took her peripheral vision off the man next to her.

Fifteen uncomfortable minutes later, they pulled up to the six-story glass medical building. Chills streaked down Tracey’s spine as she walked through the cold entryway, reminding her why they were there. Another ten minutes passed before a secretary seated them in a sterile office.

Tracey smoothed a wrinkle in her trademark cargo pants and willed her rattled nerves to disappear. Why all the fuss? Everyone knew Joe had a bad heart. The autopsy had been routine, hadn’t it? Anxiety made her belly ache. The wall clock ticked loudly, marking the seconds like a time bomb.

A balding man wearing a white lab coat entered, followed by another man who Tracey immediately recognized. A short man with curly brown hair and soft brown eyes.

The knot in her stomach tightened painfully.

Tracey hadn’t seen Detective Hahn since the investigation of her accident four years ago. He hadn’t found the man who’d tossed the deadly oil balloon. It was as if the guy had vanished off the face of the earth.

“I’m Dr. Praytor,” the first man said. He shook hands with everyone, then dropped a file on the metal desk and sat down.

“We haven’t met,” Hahn said, extending his hand to Mac.

Ed introduced the two as they shook hands. “I asked Mac to take Joe’s place for the race,” he explained, shaking the detective’s hand next. He almost made it sound as if Joe had simply taken some vacation time and would return in a couple of weeks.

She took a steadying breath.

Hahn nodded and turned his focus on her. “How are you doing, Trace?”

Tracey smiled grimly. “A lot better than the last time you saw me.” She’d never forget that visit. She’d been in rehab for six months when Hahn had delivered the bad news. The case was going down as unsolved. She’d stood, anger and frustration burning through her. Her bad leg had folded quicker than wet paper, and she’d crashed to the ground in a raging fit of pain and disillusionment. That episode had set her back weeks.

“I’ll say. You look great.” He grinned. The gap in his front teeth still reminded her of David Letterman.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Tracey began. “It’s nice to see you, Detective, but your presence is making me nervous.” She looked at Dr. Praytor. “I thought Joe had a heart attack.”

“He did,” the doctor said.

“So what’s wrong?” Mac asked, beating her to the same words.

“His heart attack wasn’t natural.”

A mushroom cloud of something dark and dangerous exploded in Tracey’s center. “What does that mean?” she asked.

“Joe’s heart attack happened as a result of
Digitalis purpurea.
”

“How about that in English?” Mac said.

Tracey pressed her brows together. “Digitalis what? Wait. I thought Digitalis was heart medication.”

“It is, but it comes from a toxic plant, foxglove,” Dr. Praytor said. “Depending on the dosage, it’s deadly. Especially if the recipient has a bad heart.”

“Where…how could he have ingested it?” The heavy silence made her uneasy. “I mean people don’t just
get
it. Someone must have…”

Tracey’s stomach roiled and her breakfast threatened to make an appearance. Closing her hand over her mouth, she shut her eyes. A chair scraped and someone’s strong hand palmed the back of her head, pressing her down.

“You’re as white as a sheet. Put your head between your knees.” It was Mac’s low voice. His other hand massaged her back and his heat sent a wave of warmth rippling through her. “Take it easy,” he coaxed softly. “Breathe easy.”

No part of this was easy. It was all totally unreal.

The sensation of his touch was too intense, too much to handle, and Tracey sat up, fought the dizziness and shoved her hair out of her face, forcing Mac to back off. “What exactly did you find?” she asked the doctor.

“Joe had four pills in his stomach. They hadn’t completely dissolved in his system before they killed him,” Praytor said. “He already had heart problems, so he didn’t stand a chance.”

Tracey shook her head. That wasn’t right. “Those were aspirin. They couldn’t hurt him. He got them from m—” She swallowed convulsively and chills streaked down her spine. It was her fault. “Me. I gave him the aspirin. He said he had a headache.” Her mumbled words faded as the nauseous feeling returned. She’d killed Joe by handing him those pills.

Detective Hahn’s eyes opened wide. “Do you still have those tablets?”

Tracey nodded and reached for the pillbox in her pants pocket. “I always have them in case my leg starts cramping.”

“You haven’t taken any since Joe?” Hahn asked.

“No.” Tracey looked around the room. “I put them in my race suit on the day of Joe’s…when I ran my qualifying. After everything that happened, I forgot they were there. I’ve been wearing a different race suit because I tore the other one jumping over the pit wall. I found them last night when I went through the pockets. I’ve been taking aspirin from the first-aid kit.”

Hahn took the container. “How many aspirin do you usually take before a race?”

“Two. Just two.”

“But Joe took four be—”

“Because he said he had a raging headache,” Tracey said.

The detective handed the pillbox to the doctor. “Can you analyze this and tell me what we have?”

“I’ll send it to the lab now and get back to you ASAP,” Praytor said, nodding.

“Let me ask you,” Hahn said, as the doctor headed for the door. “If Trace had taken two of these pills, would they have killed her?”

Praytor shrugged. “Well, it depends. If her heart is strong and she’s in general good health, I doubt they’d have killed her this time. She’d probably experience some heart palpitations.”

“That would be enough to keep her from driving though, right?” Mac asked.

“Absolutely,” Praytor answered. “She would have had shortness of breath, possible blurred vision. If she’d been driving, she might’ve lost control of the car.”

“She could’ve crashed again,” Hahn said.

It wasn’t the idea of crashing again that scared Tracey as much as the reality of losing so many months of her life afterward. And now she didn’t have Joe to pull her through the devastation.

“Thanks, Dr. Praytor.” Hahn continued, rubbing his jaw, “If I think of anything more I’ll call you.” The doctor nodded and hurried from the room. “Was that pill case ever out of your sight since the last time you took some aspirin?” Hahn asked.

She shook her head…then remembered. A chill shimmied down her back. “I lost it.” The words barely came out. “Matthew handed them to me. He found them outside the office door. I didn’t think anything about it.”

“Matthew Rivers?” Hahn made notes in a small pad. Either the detective had a good memory or he was already suspicious of the people around her.

“You can’t possibly think that he did this…That’s ridiculous. Out of the question.” She’d known Matthew too many years. But maybe someone set it up so he’d look guilty.

Her stomach flipped. “What does this mean? I mean, beside the fact that Joe was murdered.” And she could’ve prevented it.

Detective Hahn looked at Ed and Mac before he focused on her. “I think someone wants you dead.”

Tracey strode down the hotel hallway with Mac at her heels. She heard him inhale and threw her hand out for silence. “I told you to forget about it,” she seethed. “There is no way in hell.” She turned abruptly and he stopped short to avoid running into her. “I repeat. No. Way. In. Hell. Will I drop out of the race. I don’t want to hear one more word about it and if you, or Ed, mention it again…I’m going to…to…” What? What could she do? Frustration burned through her hot and deep. She threw her hands in the air and let out a guttural roar, then continued toward her room.

“Jesus, Tracey, just consider it. Someone tried to kill you four years ago, and probably that same person succeeded in killing Joe. Those pills were meant for you. How can you stay in the race when your life could be on the line? Again.”

Why was he calling her Tracey? No one called her that. Sure, she thought of herself as Tracey but it seemed strange coming from Mac. It seemed…intimate. She mentally groaned at that stupid thought.

“That is exactly the reason why I have to continue, Mac. If I quit now, this psycho goes free and we never find out who killed Joe. Obviously whoever it is doesn’t want me to drive in this specific race. Now, I don’t know why, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of winning.” Tracey reached her room and turned around. “I’ve been here two weeks already. I’ve started this race and you better believe I’m going to finish it.” She poked a finger against his hard chest. “That’s not all. I’m going to win it!”

Mac stared at her with those smoky eyes that seemed to vanquish thought from her head. “And what happens if you die trying, Tracey?” His low voice, soft and serious, surprised her. “Then what’s it worth?”

Tracey stared up at him, momentarily speechless. Usually he matched her word for word. Tone for tone. She couldn’t stand the concern on his face and slipped her card key in the slot. She waited for the green light, then opened the door as she faced Mac one last time. “It’s worth knowing that I didn’t back down. That maybe if I continue, we have a chance to catch this bastard. That…”

Mac’s gaze shifted over her shoulder and his eyes narrowed. The muscle in his jaw flexed tight.

A prickly feeling raced down Tracey’s spine and her heart started pounding like the pistons in her car. She turned and saw what had Mac’s attention. “Oh, my God.” Fresh despair hit hard.

Her room was trashed. Completely and totally demolished. Furniture was tossed over, clothes lay strewn about and ripped linens showed where the mattress had been sliced, pulled apart and thrown across the room.

She took a step, but Mac held her shoulders and moved past her.

“Wait,” he whispered. He walked in slowly and checked the bathroom and closet before allowing her entry.

“That son of a bitch,” Tracey seethed. “I don’t believe this. I…” She stopped when she saw the mirror. The scrawled words written in her own, albeit rarely used, lipstick sent an arrow of fear slicing through her chest.

Die, Stupid Bitch!

Mac watched Tracey’s face drain of all color and he followed her gaze. Anger erupted in a hot flash. “Son of a…” he muttered. “Let’s go,” he said, taking her arm and dragging her into the hallway. He pulled out his own card key, opened his door and ushered her in before him.

Tracey tried to turn around. “My stuff, I need to go through my—”

“Not yet,” Mac said, pressing her to sit down on the bed as he reached for the phone. He whipped out a card from his pocket and punched in the numbers. “The police need to see the room and go through it as is. Maybe they can find something.”

Mac relayed the situation to Detective Hahn, then called the hotel manager and arranged for Tracey to be moved into the room adjoining his. Finished, he hung up the phone, satisfied that he had everything under control.

Tracey stood, crossed the room and turned to him, a she-panther on the attack. She stared him straight in the face with dark blue laser eyes. Her jet-black hair framed her face in one of the rare times she wore it down. “Who the hell made you the boss of me? What makes you think you can waltz in here and take over? I’m not some kind of frail flower that needs the ever-present guidance of a man.”

Damn it. All of his decisions had rubbed her the wrong way. Why had he expected this to be any different? “You’re in shock, Tracey. Sit down and calm down.” He winced, as the words seemed to strike her as a hard slap.

“Sit down and calm down!” She practically screamed the words. “You want me to be calm after some nut-job killed Joe and ransacked my room? You want me to be calm when what should be the greatest time of my life is falling apart faster than a car going into the wall at two hundred?” She strode across the room and faced him head-on, jabbing her finger into his chest for the second time. “Listen up real good, Mac.” She spit his name as if she hated him. “I will not sit down. I will not calm down. Not until we find this wing nut and put him behind bars.”

Mac took her hand, gripped it in a solid hold. He understood her anger, but he was only human and tired of being the butt of her rage. “Tracey…I know you’re upset. You have every right to be, but I’m not the bad guy here. I’m only trying to do what’s best.” He drilled his gaze into her furious eyes. For a minute neither one of them moved. For sixty long seconds, everything stopped.

She had a power, a magnetism to her personality. Maybe it was the intense blue of her eyes that reached out and captured him? Or maybe it had to do with a resolve, a focus he saw in those sapphire depths.

He’d never met anyone like her. In fact, Mac made a point to steer clear of women as tough and strong as Tracey, which was probably the reason he’d never been serious about any of them. He’d even started calling her by her given name instead of Trace, only because it struck him as more feminine. Trace was strong and brave. Tracey had a soft side, a vulnerability.

The fury in her eyes dissipated until only a haunted look remained. Was that why he had the ridiculous urge to pull her to him? Because it was the first time she looked vulnerable? It was her toughness, her courage, that scared the hell out of him, made him look deep inside himself and face the things he wasn’t.

He struggled against the urge to wrap her in his arms and tell her everything would be all right. God, he wanted to feel her body against his and touch every inch of her golden skin.

All week, she’d argued with everything he’d said. When he’d asked her to take the car for one more lap, she’d brought it in. If he asked her to bring it in, she stayed out another lap. He couldn’t win. Not with Trace Bradshaw. The I’ll-prove-I’m-better-than-you woman who drove herself, literally, to the edge.

How the hell had Joe managed her?

She blinked and took a ragged breath. Against every grain of better judgment he had, Mac drew her in. The smell of lavender washed over him. Settling his arms around her, he bowed his head and his cheek brushed her soft ebony hair. He wanted to run his fingers through it, get lost in it. Lose himself in her. It was nuts. Totally insane.

She didn’t move or breathe it seemed. Just stood still and let him hold her.

Mac waited for her to pull away furiously. Expected in-your-face Trace to shove him aside and give him another earful. Instead, she surprised him and circled her arms around his waist. He waited for the breakdown, but that didn’t happen either. She stood there, silent, barely holding him, fighting emotion and refusing to cry.

He shouldn’t be doing this. He had no business comforting her. She had more bravery in her pinky finger than he had in his whole body. But he couldn’t manage to pull away.

Gradually, she gripped him tighter, seemed as though she was using strength to keep from crying. Instinct had him bringing her more closely against him too. He buried his face in her silky straight hair and sweet lavender scent.

Time ticked by, long minutes of holding her—of getting used to the feel of her—before she finally pulled away. Mac stared into her watery eyes and he wanted to ease her pain. He had no idea what to say since she’d taken every word out his mouth the wrong way. Maybe this wasn’t a time for words.

Her soft skin begged to be touched and Mac didn’t hold back. Gently, he grazed his knuckles along her smooth jaw, lifted her face so she’d meet his gaze. The uncertainty in her eyes kicked him right in the gut. That vulnerability she’d been so good at hiding radiated as brightly as a sunburst and drew him in like a fish on a reel. He bent his head, slowly, to kiss her. Her eyes fluttered closed and any sanity that might have remained in his big fat head disappeared the second his lips brushed against hers.

She could’ve moved back or pushed him away, but she didn’t and he kept the gentle pressure against her lush mouth, coaxing her, teasing her. It had been years since Mac had played with fire, but he recognized the danger.

Only a second of indecision passed before she circled her arms around his neck and opened for him. The invitation sent his blood rushing faster. He moved his lips over hers a little harder. Took a little more. When she kissed him back, he flicked his tongue past her teeth for a quick taste.

Bubble gum. She tasted of bubble gum and smelled lavender sweet, a combination of woman and innocence that not only surprised him, it sent his body into unexpected overdrive. She matched him like the fighter she was, giving exactly what she got. He kissed her deeper, more thoroughly. His tongue moved back and forth, in and out of her mouth, colliding with hers in a slick tango until a soft moan purred in her throat. The sweet sound revved his pulse even more.

A knock at the door obliterated the moment.

Tracey jumped back and slapped a hand across her lips as if they’d been burned. Mac’s sure had.

He ran a hand down his face and took a deep breath, shocked to have done something he’d sworn not to do. He turned. “Yeah,” he muttered, opening the door.

The hotel manager stood at attention with several security officers surrounding him. “I ran up as soon as I got the message, Mr. Reynolds. I can assure you that nothing like this has ever happened before at my hotel.”

That didn’t do anybody much good. Mac looked back at Tracey. With her arms crossed in front of her chest and her feet spread shoulder-width apart, she’d completely recovered from their kiss and looked ready to take on the world. Except for her eyes.

Her haunted eyes gave away her fear. Of him or her stalker?

Late afternoon, while heavy gray clouds threatened the sun and made the already ominous day darker, a couple of dozen drivers sat in different sections on the track ready for their admirers to be set loose. Fan Appreciation Day was mostly fun for Tracey. Fun and grueling. After three or four hours of smiling, making small talk and signing autographs, she usually went home and passed out.

Not surprisingly, with so much going on, she wasn’t in the moment. Learning the circumstances of Joe’s death and finding her room destroyed certainly hadn’t helped. But then neither had Mac. Only one other guy had kissed her the way Mac did, and he’d dumped her when she’d needed him most. Remembering Mac’s mouth on hers had her lips tingling. Truth be told, if she’d realized how bad a kisser Eddie had been, she might’ve dumped him first. Comparing Mac to Eddie was like comparing a vintage bottle of scotch to flat soda.

Tracey sat up straight and exhaled hard. She and Mac simply wouldn’t talk about it. Not ever. She wouldn’t think about being in his strong arms, tasting those full lips, or inhaling the leather scent that surrounded him.

Oh yeah. This was a great start.

Right now, she was getting slightly dizzy watching him pace the long table in front of her. He looked dangerous as he scoped out the area with hawk eyes. “Damn it, Tracey. I don’t like this,” he grumbled.

She
didn’t like that she’d kissed him hours ago, but she was surviving. “You’d better learn to live with it, Mac. It’s part of the process. You know that,” she replied. “Ed knows it too. Publicity is in the contract.”

“Publicity might be in the contract, but there are exceptions to every rule.” Mac leaned over the table and leveled her with hard eyes. His shoulders spread a mile wide in front of her. “You shouldn’t be out in public. It’s dangerous.”

Tracey looked away from that damn dimple on his chin and didn’t let his intense stare rattle her. “So far this wing nut seems too wimpy to do anything in person. He strikes when it’s quiet. He’s chickenshit. I’ll bet you twenty bucks he won’t show today. It’ll be way too crowded.”

“So all of a sudden you’re a criminal analyst. You have no idea what this guy will do,” Mac shot back.

Tuning out the hard edge in his voice, Tracey avoided the exacting look in Mac’s eyes. She studied the two massive hunks of men stationed on either side of her table. “You and Ed made sure I had enough security to rival the President. I’ll be fine. Why don’t you go…I don’t know…measure the track. That’ll keep you busy.”

“The track is two and a half miles long, Tracey. It was measured around the time it was built.” He paced in front of her again, a wild animal trapped in a cage.

“Right.” He was still calling her Tracey. Had been since the visit with the detective and it still sounded odd. She preferred people calling her Trace. It gave her distance…at least emotionally, and she liked having that invisible barrier. Every time Mac said her real name it sent a jolt through her lonely heart. She straightened her shoulders and huffed away the feeling.

Tilting her head, she gazed past him to the swarm of people milling behind security gates. “You better move over, boss, or you’re going to be trampled by the masses.”

A volunteer hurried toward Tracey. His excited smile made it seem as if his head would explode off his shoulders. “Get ready, Trace,” he called to her. “I was talking to the crowd and you’re going to have a ton of autographs to sign. One guy in particular said he’s got something extra special for you. He said he’s your biggest fan and he’s been waiting four years to meet you.”

It couldn’t be who Tracey thought it was. “What does he look like?” she asked.

“Tall and real skinny. His hair is flattened on his head and looks like he’s been swimming in oil.” The volunteer waved and moved off.