Dangerous Curves

by Pamela Britton

“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.

  “Cece,” he whispered against them, his breath wafting back on him, mixing with her own. “Little spitfire.”

  And then he pressed his mouth against hers again, urging her to open, wanting to feel that warm heat of hers again, to taste her and know that she was there in his arms—and safe.

  When she started to kiss him back—really kiss him—he stopped thinking. No. That wasn’t true. He had one thought on his mind. To make love to her. And so he pulled the cushions from his rattan furniture, creating a makeshift bed on the sunroom floor, then laying her down on top.

  She smiled up at him, and Blain’s heart tipped sideways. For just a second, he had a memory of when they were teenagers. The same soft expression. The same piercing green eyes, the same challenge shining from their depths.

  You think you can beat my car? she’d asked.

  Piece of cake.

  Only she’d beaten him. And if he was honest, he’d found that fascinating.

  He reached up and touched her chin, something that was quickly becoming a habit, and he marveled at how soft her skin was, how utterly feminine. And those adorable freckles…

  “If you’d been killed today, I would have made it my mission in life to catch who’s doing this—to make them pay.”

  “But I wasn’t,” she said softly.

  “Thank God,” he murmured.

  Her look changed to one of tenderness and gratitude, and, he thought, perhaps even surprise. And then he did what he’d been longing to do: he covered her, his body protecting her, their faces inches apart. He sheltered her. Tried to keep her safe from harm.

  If only he could.

  When she reached up and stroked his cheek, he tipped his jaw into her hand, then lowered his head, bringing them closer together as he slowly, softly kissed her. And there was something different about kissing Cece. Something special. Something unique. It felt…right. As if he’d been kissing her since forever.

  She sighed, lifting her other hand to frame each side of his face. He pulled back and kissed her palm, making her eyes widen. He smiled, then bent and kissed her cheek, her temple, her ear…such a sweet ear, Blain thought, licking her lobe, then tasting the inside. She wiggled and he stopped.

  “No. Don’t stop,” she said.

  He bit back a smile, then nuzzled her ear some more, nipping, teasing, suckling. And she reciprocated, her hands skimming down his sides, one of them sneaking between their bodies. And when she touched him—Lord help him—when she touched him, he almost came unglued. He pulled back to catch his breath, the same breath he’d hissed out between clenched teeth as she worked him, stroked him, teased him.

  “Lord, Cece,” he said, closing his eyes.

  Her other hand lifted the edge of his shirt. He needed no prompting to tip back and take the thing off. But she wasn’t content with just the shirt. Her eyes never wavered from his face as she encouraged him to kneel alongside her, those nimble fingers of hers releasing the catch on his pants. He couldn’t move. Gasped as he felt her fingers touch him again when she lowered the zipper. Held his breath as she slowly worked his pants down, then his briefs.

  She stroked him with her tongue.

  Blain threw his head back.

  She glided her lips up his shaft.

  He looked down at her, cupped her head with his hands, showed her how to work him, how to use those lips of hers to make him come.

  But, no, this wasn’t right. He wanted to make love to her.

  “Get undressed,” he ordered.

  She lifted a brow. “No.”

  “No?”

  “In due time,” she said with a secret smile, her head lowering toward him again.

  “Cece, no,” he said.

  She looked back up at him, surprised by the expression on his face. There was firmness there, and determination.

  “I don’t want it to be like this.”

  And oddly enough, her heart seemed to stop beating at his words. “Like what?”

  “Sex,” he said, cupping her face again. “I don’t want this to be sex. I want this to be making love.”

  Her body went still.

  He reached down and pulled her up so they were kneeling face-to-face. His expression was utterly serious as he said, “Let me make love to you, Cece. Let me touch you and caress you and show you what I’m feeling inside. Let me show you how much losing you today would have hurt me.”

  She didn’t understand. Or maybe she did. Maybe she knew exactly what he meant, becaus
e she was feeling things that she’d never felt before, too. Things, she admitted with a touch of panic, she didn’t want to feel for him.

  For anybody.

  Heaven help her, she was falling in love with the guy.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  SHE LEFT HIM KNEELING there.

  And even as she did it, she felt horrible. And guilty. And damn it—something she hated to feel—panicked.

  “Cece,” he called out.

  But she needed air. Fresh air. Great big gulps of air.

  She opened one of the kitchen’s French doors, the humid North Carolina night feeling like a force of its own. It wasn’t quite dark yet; the crickets and frogs starting their evening serenade. Cece headed toward the lake’s rippling edge, the liquid-silver waves gently lapping at the pebbled shore.

  “Cece, wait.”

  He’d followed her. Damn it. If they were under surveillance, they’d be found out for sure, what with him half-dressed, shirt thrown on and untucked, no shoes on his feet.

  He caught her right at the shoreline. “What the hell is going on?”

  She looked up at him. The side of his face was bathed in color—gray and orange and muted blue. His eyes looked silver, or maybe that was light refracting off the lake. She didn’t know. All she knew was that she didn’t need this. She didn’t want to—feel. And that concerned her all the more. She wasn’t a coward. She wasn’t afraid of anything. And yet she sure feared the way she felt about Blain.

  She straightened her shoulders, determined to confront this problem like she did all others in her life. Directly and with no apologies. Still, it took her a moment to quell the urge to squeeze his hand, because the worry and disappointment she saw in his eyes made her heart do things it had no business doing.

  “I can’t.”

  “Can’t what, Cece?” he said with a tiny shake of his head.

  “I can’t do this.”

  Her words shocked him, she could tell. He rocked back a bit, his mouth compressing into a line. For the longest moment he didn’t say anything.

  “Because of your job?” he said. “Because if you’re worried about getting into trouble, don’t. We can wait until this is all over. I don’t mind.”

  And that made her heart melt even more. Man, he was the complete opposite of who she’d thought him to be. Why did he have to be so nice?