Dangerous Curves (9 page)

She wanted it cool, not hot—they both burned already. But Blain didn’t give her time to get it just right. He came up against her, shoving her hair aside so he could suckle her neck, taking her beneath the cool stream of water so that they both gasped. Then she felt his hand slip between her legs, the slickness there made even more fluid by the cascading water. She touched him back. Their mouths met, water dripping down their faces to blend with their kiss, and when he stroked her, she stroked him back, her shoulders coming into contact with the cold tiles, hair growing wet and heavy on the ends. She hardly noticed. His finger, it’d found the spot…that sweet spot that made her spread her legs, made her wish he would bend his knees, push himself inside of her.

“Cece,” he growled.

She realized that she’d guided him to her opening, that she was encouraging him to enter her, but he took control yet again, turning her before she could say a word. His erection found her rear crevice, and she wondered…but, no, he let his erection rest there as he reached around and found the spot again.

Her turn to gasp, her turn to take control as she reached behind her and spread herself so that her cheeks fully sheltered him. He groaned, then groaned again, squatting a bit so that he could rub himself fully along her valley. Cece pressed into
him. They were both panting now, sexual excitement building inside Cece to the point that she never wanted it to end. She wanted to hover on the brink of her orgasm, wanted to revel in his harsh breaths, in the way his hard cock glided up and down her valley. If she bent over, he could enter her from the rear….

His finger found her entrance again. He pushed inside of her.

Cece climaxed.

She didn’t mean to. Damn it. She didn’t want to, but she lost herself to the knee-buckling shock of her orgasm. Blain’s own breaths sounded harsh. He groaned and Cece knew he was coming, too, could feel his muscles spasm just before he went rigid behind her.

His hand slid out of her. She noticed then that his other hand lay flat against the wall to her right. His tan arm flexed as his elbow bent, as if he momentarily lost strength.

Water cooled their bodies. Maybe a little too cool. Blain slowly straightened. Cece did too. He turned her, his hands coming around to slide down the small of her back. And though she’d just been satiated, though she’d just had one of the best orgasms of her life, she wanted him to pick her up, to thrust himself inside of her.

He looked into her eyes. “That was…”

Her cell phone.

He looked toward the bathroom door.

Her cell phone rang on.

“Do you think you should get that?”

Not when I’ve got something better to do.
But the professional in her couldn’t quite bring herself to say that.

“Yeah,” she said.

“B
LACKWELL,
” Cece answered, a towel the size of a dishrag clutched in front of her, which made her wonder why she even bothered since it was a bit like covering a nude painting with a Band-Aid.

“Agent Blackwell, this is Agent Ashton from the Charlotte Bureau.”

All thoughts of coitus—or almost-coitus—fled as Cece felt her spine go vertical.

“Good morning, er—” she peeked out the window “—afternoon,” she quickly corrected.

“Good afternoon,” the man said in a drawl that rivaled Blain’s. “Thought you might like to come down and give us your thoughts on the Newell murder.”

Murder.
The word had the cooling effect of an Arctic breeze.

“What time?” she said.

“Around four, which should give us some time to finish searching Sanders’s shop.”

“Fine,” Cece said, wrapping the conversation up as Blain came into the room. He had a full-size
towel, and a lot less to cover up. Cece clutched the dishrag to her chest once she’d hung up, feeling the unmistakable burn of post-coitus embarrassment.

“Um.”
Um?
“That was the Charlotte office. They want me to come down later today.”

He nodded. Cece glanced longingly at the beige-and-brown bedspread to her left. Maybe Blain wouldn’t notice if she jerked the thing from the bed.

“Will they tell you if they turned up anything from my shop today?”

“Probably not,” she said, deciding to act professional, despite the fact that her hair hung over one shoulder, wet, cold drips sliding down her breasts. “Once I tell them I’m off the investigation.”

“Why are you clutching that towel like that?”

Because I’m suddenly horribly embarrassed,
she wanted to tell him.

“I’m cold,” she lied.

He reached for the towel around his waist as if he was going to whip it off and hand it to her.

“No,” she quickly said. “Let me, ah, get my own towel.”

She could tell he recognized her embarrassment. And why wouldn’t he? He probably had a lot more experience with this sort of thing than she did. Between his fame and good looks, no doubt he had babes coming out of his ears.

Why had she let this happen?

When she came back, she felt about as professional
as it was possible to be with a bath towel wrapped around one’s middle.

He’d gotten dressed.

Thanks for the quickie, babe. I feel better about Randy already. Gotta dash now.

“Look,” he said, “I should probably get back to the shop and talk to the investigators.”

He
was
leaving. Damn it. The words heaped humiliation on top of the embarrassment like one too many tires atop a retread heap.

“Okay, sure,” she said. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.” Like a moan of pleasure. Or a grunt of satisfaction. Or flesh pounding into flesh…

Stop it!

She was a mature, sexually active adult. This sort of thing was old hat for her. Well, not old hat, but she was used to awkward goodbyes, and it was definitely time for him to say goodbye.

“I’ll catch up to you later,” she said.

Where? In another shower?
a voice inside her head asked.

“When?” he demanded.

“Later,” she said with a wave. She took a deep breath of damp Blain—not a good idea. “Thanks. I had a great time.”

He blinked down at her, his face going a bit slack before he said, “Er, you’re welcome?”

She smiled brightly, and when he didn’t move, grabbed his hand and tugged him to the door. “I’ll be in touch,” she said.

“Cece—”

“Shh. Don’t say a word,” she said, touching his mouth with her hand. “I know. It was good for me, too.” She stood up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Drive carefully.” She opened the door, gently but firmly shoving him out of it. He resisted, but a couple across the hall came to her rescue. Blain saw them, too, glanced back at her bath towel, and quickly stepped away from the door.

She shoved it closed in his face.

And that was that. She’d quit the case. All done.

Done Blain Sanders.

She rested her head against the door and groaned. The head-resting became head-banging as she chastised herself for her moment of weakness.

Technically, they hadn’t actually “done” it. Close enough.

And he’d let her, though she had a feeling it was only because he’d needed to forget about his friend for a while. But just the thought of that made the embarrassment increase tenfold. Great. A therapy fuck.

W
HAT THE HELL
had just happened?

Blain stared at Cece’s hotel room door as if he could will the thing back open.

“Say, aren’t you—”

“Blain Sanders,” Blain finished numbly, his gaze dropping to the handle.

“That’s what I thought,” the guy said, holding out his hand.

Blain turned, taking the guy’s hand, but his smile was automatic, the handshake routine.

“Good luck this weekend.”

Yeah. Sure. “Thanks,” Blain said, looking back to Cece’s door.

He’d been used.

He kept staring at it, remembering the cool way she’d dismissed him. It made him feel…damn it,
used.
That was all there was to it.

He knocked.

No answer.

“Cece,” he said, knocking again.

Still no answer. Was she ignoring him? Taking a shower? On the phone?

The elevator doors opened down the hall. An older couple got out. Blain nodded to them, wondering what the hell to do. He could stand around like an idiot and keep on knocking, but he had a feeling she wouldn’t open the door.

He shook his head and turned away. But when he stepped outside the Best Western a few minutes later, he paused. Maybe he should go upstairs and try talking to her again because, damn it, he didn’t like being used. He would go back.

W
HEN
C
ECE HEARD
the second knock, she almost didn’t answer it.

Blain. Again.

Who else could it be? Well, maybe her long-lost towels. Towels that she could really use now that the
shower incident was over, she thought, pulling on her clothes.

Jeesh. What a mess.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she said as the knock sounded again.

And she had to admit, her heart started pounding when she opened up the door.

It wasn’t Blain. It was flowers. Cece could barely speak for a second, so surprised was she.

“Uh, you Cecilia Blackwell?”

“I am,” she found herself saying.

Flowers.

From Blain. Be still my heart.

No, Cece. It’s over. Right.
Right?

“Miss Blackwell?” the guy said again, holding the things out.

“Oh, yeah, sure.”

Flowers, she thought, the scent of them filling her nose. Roses, lilies and various other blossoms emitting a heavenly smell.

“Might want to put them in some water.”

“Thanks,” Cece said, handing the guy a buck from her pocket while juggling the vase.

And when the door closed she found herself thinking, geez, what the heck was she supposed to do now? Not only was Blain a damn nice guy, but he was the type to send a girl flowers.

She hadn’t been sent flowers in years.

She set them down on one of the bed stands, staring at the things. What the heck did she do now? Call
him? He hadn’t called her the other day. She never had asked him why. It might have sounded too needy.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

The sound penetrated the stillness of the room. Cece looked around, wondering if the bathroom light was on a timer or something. But the sound didn’t come from the bathroom…it came from the nightstand. She approached, looking at the clock near the vase. Digital. Was it in the drawer?

It was when she leaned down that she realized where the sound was coming from.

The vase.

But no sooner had she ID’d the sound than she thought
no way.
That’d be ridiculous. Nobody used old-fashioned timers for bombs anymore.

Still, she peeked gingerly between the stems.

A brick of C4 sat beneath chopped-off stems.

“Holy shit,” she said aloud, jumping back. And then she ran out of her hotel room and to the nearest fire alarm as if tongues of flame were at her heels. Because maybe in a couple of seconds there would be.

T
HEY EVACUATED THE HOTEL.
By the time the bomb squad arrived, Cece had calmed down. To her shock, Blain had shown up spouting something about coming back to talk to her. She’d been too busy to spend much time with him, though he’d looked a bit panicked.

Now she sat in the conference room of the FBI’s Charlotte Bureau, one Agent Henry Ashton sitting across from her.

“You certain you didn’t tell someone at the racetrack you were with the FBI?”

Someone had sent her a bomb. Or was it meant for Blain? Too hard to tell at the moment.

“Hell, Agent Ashton, who would I tell?”

Ashton frowned, glancing down at his papers. “It says here that Las Vegas Motor Speedway Security took someone away. Maybe you spoke to them?”

Had their suspect seen her rushing through the tunnel with Blain? Maybe overheard them?

Jeesh. She didn’t know.

Agent Ashton sensed her self-doubt, Cece could tell. “Look,” she said. “I don’t know if someone overheard me or not. I doubt it. I’m a seasoned agent. I don’t make mistakes.”

Except when you’re distracted.

Except when you want to be kissed.

Except when you have the hots for a case’s lead contact.

Oh, jeesh.

She put a hand to her forehead.

“You don’t look very convinced,” Ashton said.

“I’m just jet-lagged.”

“Is that why you didn’t find it odd to be receiving flowers when you’d only just arrived?”

“No.”
Not when I’d just booted a guy out of my hotel room after bopping his salami.

What a mess.

Agent Ashton just continued to watch her. He had beady eyes. She hated men with beady eyes.

“Obviously, Agent Blackwell, you’re a target. You
and
Mr. Sanders, since we can’t be certain the killer didn’t know he wasn’t in the hotel room, too. He was there prior to the incident, was he not?”

The sly way his little rat eyes narrowed when he said it made Cece sit up. “He was,” she admitted.

“And that confuses me. I thought you were set to meet him in the hotel lobby.”

“He arrived early,” she said, trying to sound as coolly professional as she could, given that she’d just had a light-duty explosive sent to her room.

“I see,” Ashton said, and his weasel eyes glowed as if he were about to steal a giant egg from a nest.

“Mr. Sanders was in a hurry to discuss the latest details of the case.”

“Ah,” Ashton added in a tone of voice that made it clear he understood, which made Cece wonder if he’d had agents already tailing Blain, agents who might have been listening in….

Ah, crap. So that was why they weren’t pointing the finger at Blain anymore. He was being watched. Closely watched, it would appear.

“And so given the fact that you and Blain were…together—” Cece was almost positive she didn’t imagine the pause before the word “—we can’t rule out the possibility that he might be a target, too.”

“I understand,” she said, suddenly overcome by a bad, bad feeling.

“Agent Blackwell, I have to be honest with you. I don’t understand why Mr. Sanders is so insistent you work the case.”

“Neither do I.”

The response took him by surprise, his little eyes changing to the size of a ferret’s, or maybe a beaver’s.

“Frankly, I wouldn’t be averse if you sent me home.”

Away from Blain. Away from distraction.

Away from the way he makes you feel.

“I would love to do that, too, Agent Blackwell. However…”

However?
she thought, straightening.
However what?

“We can’t ignore the fact that you and Mr. Sanders have come to the killer’s attention.”

“I know.”

“Therefore you’d make good bait.”

“Bait?” she asked, actually jerking in her chair. How embarrassingly unprofessional.

“Obviously, one of the best ways to nab the killer would be to draw him out,” he explained, as if she were a rookie agent who’d graduated at the bottom of her class. “We can handle the investigative details of the case, but I’m of the opinion you and Sanders would be better served up as bait.”

Bait. Oh, great!

“Agent Ashton, with all due respect, I really think I should just go back to San Francisco.”

“And why is that?”

Good question. She stared at him. Really good question.

“Mr. Sanders and I—”
nearly boinked this afternoon
“—don’t always see eye to eye.”

“Are you telling me you wish to quit the case because of professional differences?”

No. Not really. Well, maybe.

“Because if you are, I would remind you, Agent Blackwell, that you are an agent. According to these records, an exemplary agent, although I’ve noticed the West Coast is a bit more lax in rating their operatives. But be that as it may, your help is needed here. Now, are you going to give it, or go back home?”

Shit and shinola. The man was good. Really good. He had her backed into a corner.

“Sir, surely there’s a better solution? And why can’t I help investigate?”

“Because we need you with Sanders.”

Double shit.

“You can help protect him at his residence.”

His residence?

“I…his residence?”

“Yes. We’ve asked, and he’s given his approval. You’re to be housed with him,” Ashton said, giving her an arch look, as if he knew she and Blain had been bumping and grinding in her hotel room.

Maybe he did.

“It’s secluded,” he added, “off the shore of a lake. Easy to guard, with nothing but water in the back. And with the two of you staying under one roof, it’ll save us manpower.”

Two of you under one roof.

Cripes. What a mess. She’d almost had full frontal sex with Blain Sanders, then a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am farewell, then almost become Cecilius Blackwellius courtesy of a bomb straight out of a Looney Tunes cartoon.