Dangerous Curves (13 page)

“Colonel Mustard in the library,” she muttered to herself.

The apartment was on the second floor, and so she had a good view of the space where Blain’s fancy import was parked. No sign of her fellow agents. Not surprising. Their primary focus was Blain, not her. And so she was careful as she headed toward her car,
her hand poised over the pistol she carried beneath her jacket, her heels clicking down concrete steps to the street.

The pistol turned out to be useless, because things happened so fast Cece didn’t have time to react. A car made a sudden, screeching halt at the back of Blain’s vehicle just as she took the last step. She pulled her weapon, but it wasn’t exactly FBI policy to shoot at reckless drivers, and—damn it—she couldn’t see through the car’s tinted windows.

One window rolled partway down.

Cece removed the safety.

Something flew out of the car.

Bad guy.

“Damn it!” she yelled in outrage, squeezing the trigger at the same time she dove to the ground.

If felt like a giant stomped on the earth. Cece landed hard. A thousand earthquakes, a hundred rock concerts, a million degrees of heat.

And then silence.

But only for a second. Then the din of car alarms, someone screaming—

The screamer was her. She howled in outrage as she came to her knees, looking for her weapon, diving for it, but when she came up, it was too late.

Gone.

The perp was gone.

She pushed to her feet, ran a few steps. No use.

And then she saw Blain’s car, or what was left of it. The shiny new import was nothing more than a
burning hulk, the cars on either side of it partially decimated, too.

“Oh, shit,” she said. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Frustration made her want to toss her weapon to the ground. Instead she took a deep breath, her knees aching where they’d hit the pavement, and reached for her phone.

I
T REALLY RANKLED
to be brought home by Agent Ashton. Cece felt like a teenager who’d been caught drinking on prom night. It didn’t help that the man was thoroughly, completely pissed. They’d had words. There’d been the mention of writing her up. She had a feeling the only thing that stopped him was his need for bait, otherwise she’d have been sent packing.

“Disobey me again, Agent Blackwell, and I’ll have you suspended.”

The words had been dropped into the dense silence that had filled the car. Cece wanted to tell him to go ahead and suspend her. But she was in the wrong. She’d almost gotten killed today. If she’d been in that car…

But she hadn’t been, even though the killer had obviously thought Blain was. And if either of them had, all that’d be left of them now would be atoms floating in the atmosphere. The realization that someone might have killed Blain today twisted her insides into knots.

“I understand,” she said, doing her best to stay calm.

Agent Ashton’s watery blue eyes held her own for a second, his age-spotted hands clenching the steering wheel in such a way as to let Cece know that he was envisioning her neck.

“Go,” he said.

She went, opening the car door so quickly, her hand slid off the handle so that it snapped back and pinched her skin. Damn. That hurt. No, damn the whole day. Damn the whole week. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. The bad guys weren’t supposed to get one off on her. She should have been more alert. And dammit, she shouldn’t have left Blain’s side.

Cece walked up the brick path to Blain’s front door, wondering how many agents were watching her, and what they were thinking. Probably that she’d blown it. And that she couldn’t apprehend a suspect to save her life.

Damn it.

She opened the door.

Blain stood in the hallway.

A very unhappy Blain.

A very
angry
Blain.

Oh, crap, just what she needed.

“Tough day at the office?” he asked in a calm and level voice.

It was so completely the opposite of the tirade she’d been expecting that she found herself nodding.

He opened his arms.

Cece went still. No, that wasn’t true. Her mind spun in a million different directions, only to settle on one thought; she, Agent Cecilia Blackwell, was feeling really, really sorry for herself.

“Come here,” he said gently.

And from nowhere came the urge to cry. It was totally ridiculous, that urge. Why the heck did she want to start bawling? She was a tough-as-nails FBI agent, one who’d worked her way up to the top of her class, who—until this case—had proven herself over and over again to her fellow agents.

She went into his arms, her eyes stinging by the time she got there. And the man she wanted to forget, the dratted man she’d spent a decade despising, just folded her up in his embrace. It felt good to have that sheltering security. Felt good to have someone to lean on.

He shook.

Cece could feel the tremors rack his body. She pulled back.

The worry she saw in his eyes took her breath away. Yes, he was livid. She could see that. But he was also very, very scared.

“Blain,” she said, part question, part concern.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. She knew it was because he didn’t trust himself to speak.

And the comforting lilt of his Southern drawl washed over her as he said, “Shit, Cece, next time you ask me for the keys to my car, I’m goin’ to have to tell you no.”

Something tumbled end over end inside of her for a moment. “Oh, Blain.”

He bent down, and this time when he tried to kiss her, she didn’t move. She couldn’t have moved if she tried. This man, this crazy, silly man—who up until a few weeks ago had had the world at his feet—was shaking, his emotions for her were so strong.

But she had to pull back. Couldn’t kiss him. She was in enough trouble as it was. The last thing she needed was Internal Affairs on her ass, so she drew back gently—almost as gently as the words she murmured. “Don’t worry, Sanders. I could still blow your doors off driving a race car.”

He seemed to know what she was doing, even though she could see the disappointment in his eyes. He didn’t want to let her go. She didn’t
want
him to let her go. But he had to.

“Oh, yeah?” he asked softly, slowly releasing her.

“Yeah,” she replied, reluctantly stepping away.

For long seconds he just stared. Cece wondered if he might pull her into his arms again, or maybe place her carefully in a chair…do something that made her feel girly—because, damn it, she needed that right now.

But he didn’t. Instead he whispered, “Prove it.”

She lifted her brows, gratitude surging through her because, bless him, he obviously understood that a show of sympathy would shatter her control.

“How? You got a couple of ’69 Camaros in your
garage that I don’t know about?” she asked with a cocky tilt of her chin.

“No, but I’ve got something else,” he said, his finger drifting down her cheek in a way that conveyed a world of tenderness.

“What’s that?” she asked, her voice suddenly hoarse.

“Come here.” He tugged on her hand.

Cece wanted to cry. She wanted to turn him back to her and sink into his arms. But instead, she followed him up the steps.

“Here.”

He led her into a game room that overlooked the lake, the pewter waters gleaming like molten lava beneath the setting sun. The room’s walls glowed orange with reflected light, which was probably why she didn’t initially see the thing as she walked into the room; that, and because a cherrywood pool table with a stained-glass lamp hanging above it blocked her view.

“Put your money where your mouth is, Ace,” he said with a grin.

She followed his gaze, an unexpected huff of laughter escaping her when she saw the arcade-size video game in one corner.

“You have your own personal SEGA?”

“I do. And this ain’t just any video game,” he said, his Southern accent poured on. “This here is the actual, real-deal, SEGA Daytona USA video game, complete with interconnected game modules and
built-in hydraulics so I can bump, nudge and draft you right off the racetrack.” He leaned toward her, lifting one side of his mouth up along with a brow. “If you’re up to it.”

She almost laughed. She almost cried. She wanted to kiss him on the spot.

“You’re on,” she said.

He smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

And as Cece adjusted her seat, familiarizing herself with the controls, she found her hands shook just a little less. Her heart began to thud more regularly, and her breathing returned almost to normal.

“Ready?” Blain asked as he started the game.

“Ready,” she affirmed.

“Just remember you’re on my turf now, baby. No more zipper racing. No more straight tracks. Left turns from here on out.”

“Won’t make any difference,” she said, glancing up at the game’s giant screen, a part of her still stunned to be sitting here next to Blain, playing a video game when not two hours ago she’d been knocked flat by a car bomb.

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“Prepare to qualify,” the game’s electronic voice said a moment later, and Cece all but laughed at the burst of adrenaline she got.

She kicked his butt.

He took it like a man, though, promising to get even with her when they actually raced. And he almost
did pull his car even with hers—once—Cece giggling like they were in high school again as his car “bumped” hers from behind, causing her seat to jump beneath her in an almost realistic way.

“No way,” she told him as she swerved her wheel, all thoughts of bad guys, bombs, and Internal Affairs gone from her mind. “You’re staying behind me, buddy. Right where you belong.” Her face actually hurt, she was grinning so hard.

“You’re hogging the track,” he complained.

“Wuss,” she said, feeling him nudge her again. “You’re going down.”

And he did.

“Ha,” she said as she crossed the finish line in front of him. “Beaten again,” she said, bounding up from her seat and doing a wiggle dance of victory.

“You do that when you bring down bad guys, too?” he asked from inside his “car,” but there was a twinkle in his eyes as he said the words.

“Only if they’re lucky.”

“You’re the lucky one for beating me,” he said.

“No. I’m just better,” she answered back.

“Luck,” he said again.

“All right, wise guy,” she said. “If you think I’m so lucky then let’s race again.”

“Only if we make it a little more interesting.”

“Interesting how?”

“How about a little wager?”

“Ah. I see.” God help her, her body quickened as
if Blain had promised his touch—and by the look in his eyes, that’s exactly what he’d done.

“That desperate, soldier?” She felt bold enough to tease.

“I’m just saying we should make our last race a little more interesting.”

“What do you want?” she asked, crossing her arms and trying to assume a stern expression of don’t-you-dare-suggest-what-I-think-you’re-going-to-suggest.

“If you win the game I’ll give you something you want.”

“You don’t
have
anything I want.”

“Not even hot passes to the Daytona 500 next year?”

Ooo, that was low. “Well, maybe that,” she admitted.

“And if I win, I get something I want.”

“And that would be?” she asked in her best raised eyebrow, schoolmarm look of pubescent admonishment.

“Dinner with you downstairs in my sunroom.”

That was all? Cece felt an unexpected stab of…disappointment.

“Fine,” she said, heading back to her car.

And that was when Cece realized she’d been had. Royally, thoroughly had, because the Blain Sanders she’d raced up to now was not the same Blain Sanders she raced now. This Blain beat her qualifying by six spots. And when the race started, he overtook her in a matter of seconds.

“Hey,” she said, concentrating on the big screen as she tried to find him in the field. “Where’d you learn that move?”

“I’ve had this game for nearly two years.”

She darted a glance over at him, the screen in front of him tinting his face an alien blue-green. “Why, you—”

“Careful,” he said with a glance at her screen.

She crashed, her seat doing the video game equivalent of a demolition derby wreck, it vibrated and pitched so much.

“Why, you sneaky, slime-mongrel of a male!”

He laughed, and Cece wanted to laugh, too, never having heard his uncensored version. Eyes as blue as a Montana sky glittered and sparkled, his tan face wreathed in a smile.

Thank you,
she wanted to tell him.

“C’mon,” he said, the moment passing. “I’ll make you some dinner.”

And she found herself smiling back, and even laughing a little bit. You gotta love a man with a sense of humor.

Love?

Well, not that kind of love.

So when he took her downstairs, she didn’t mind. And when he led her to the kitchen, she didn’t mind that, either. But when he took her to the sunroom, she had a moment’s thought that this didn’t seem right. There was a perfectly good kitchen table…

He turned back to her in the glass room, the last of the sun’s rays ebbing though the blinds, which had been closed earlier against the North Carolina sun.

And then he kissed her.

“Blain,” she protested in shock, trying to draw away.

“Oh, no,” he said, and even though she could see the remnants of laughter in his eyes, her heart still thudded as if she’d just come face-to-face with an AK-47. “Time to pay up.”

“You said dinner.”

“I said dinner in case one of your buddies had a listening device trained on us.”

“You—”

He kissed her again.

“They’ll still hear us,” she whispered against his lips.

“The walls are glass,” he said in a low voice. “And so there’s no place for listening devices.”

“You think.”

“I know. I checked earlier.”

“Oh, and so now you think you’re James Bond? You think you know what a listening device looks like? We have things that let you hear into a house from a quarter mile—”

He kissed her again.

“Blain,” she protested, drawing back. Again.

Only this time he didn’t say a word. This time he lifted a hand to her face, touched it gently, the look in his eyes changing so quickly it was as if he’d become a different man.

“Let me kiss you, Cece,” he said. “Let me
hold
you. Let me try and forget for a moment that someone tried to kill you today, and that if that had happened, the world would have lost one of the bravest women I’ve ever known.”

Oh. Oh, oh, oh.

“Will you?” he asked. “Will you let me hold you? Will you let me make love to you?”

She stared up at him, and Blain could see the indecision in her eyes.

“But if someone finds out—”

“They won’t.”

Her eyes searched his, and he knew how hard this must be for her. He knew Cece well enough to know that her job was everything to her. Asking her to risk it was tantamount to asking him to risk his race team.

“I don’t think I can,” she said softly.

Yup. By the book—that was his Cece.

His Cece.
He liked the way that sounded. And he liked the way staring at her made him feel. At home. One. With his soul mate.

“Please,” he said, brushing his hand against her face. “Let’s worry about the future tomorrow.”

He expected her to balk again, expected her to turn away. To his surprise, what she did was close the door to the sunroom, her shoulders squaring as she faced him. There was hardly any light in the room, just a muted gray glow that perfectly captured the green in her eyes. It amazed him that a woman
so small could face down bad guys. But that was the first of many things that amazed him about Cece—her loyalty, her determination, but most of all, her courage.

That courage had almost gotten her killed today.

His hands started to shake once more. He covered it by gently pulling her toward him. He saw the brief flare of concern that must have followed a thought that they shouldn’t be doing this. He didn’t give her time to reconsider, just bent down and captured the world’s softest lips.