Killer Curves

  “The spot on the wall where I’ll hit. It calls to me. It teases me.” A few more steps then he stopped, just under a giant billboard with the NASCAR logo on it. He touched the wall. “Here’s the son of a bitch that wants me.” He slapped his hand against it. “Right here.”

  Without warning he slid to the ground and tugged her down with him, gently pulling her sideways onto his lap. “Just stay here with me for a minute and let’s own this spot. Then every time I come around this turn—two hundred times in four hours, I’ll think of you.”

  “Is that psyching out the track?” she asked, aware of the thin material that separated them.

  He eased her into a comfortable position and wrapped his arms around her. “No. But I’ll try anything to change my luck.”

  She put her hand under his blazer, on the soft linen fabric of his shirt. “Ah, the dreaded curse.”

  “There is no curse,” he said, rotelike.

  Under her fingers, she could feel the steady hammering of his heart. “Deep down inside, do you believe in it?”

  “I believe that something is working on me every time I get in a race car.” He tucked his hand under her hair, gently nuzzling her into the crook of his neck. “I don’t think it’s Gus Bonnet’s ghost, though.”

  “How long do you think it will last?”

  “Until I forget the look on Travis’s face when he said ‘Gus Bonnet is dead.’ ”

  She pulled out of the protection of his arm to look at him. “Because you knew you’d be blamed?”

  “Because I loved Gus Bonnet.” He looked beyond her, over the infield and the track. “He raced with heart and brains and guts. He got it. He understood why we do this, but he kept it all in perspective.”

  Her heart caught at the wistful note in his voice. “You didn’t hit him, did you?”

  “No. But I got under him enough to make him aero loose. To ruin his ride with my draft and push him into the wall,” he explained.

  “But doesn’t that happen all the time?”

  “Sure. But most spinouts don’t end in death.” He closed his eyes, dropping his head against the wall. “When I passed him, I looked in my rearview, and I saw that twenty-three shoot up the track like a cannon. I knew it. Shit. I knew it. It was the worst kind of crash.”

  “I’ve heard rumors that he really took liberties with the safety rules. That he didn’t wear the right harness and that his seat belt was installed wrong.”

  “Tell that to the hundred thousand people who will wish me dead tomorrow,” he said with a cynical smile.

  “That bothers you, doesn’t it?”

  He shrugged. “Not as much as you think. If they were silent, then I’d be in trouble.”

  She didn’t believe him. No one could stand being booed by thousands of rowdy spectators. It was heartless. She nestled back into his shoulder. “I’ll cheer for you,” she whispered.

  He kissed her head. “Thank you.”

  “Have you psyched out the track yet?”

  “Forget the track. I’m sitting in the dark with a beautiful woman who I have a serious crush on.” He touched her lips with his fingertip and let it travel down her throat, over her breastbone, and settle into her cleavage. “And once again, she is tempting fate by skipping underwear.”

  “I have underwear on,” she countered.

  “Really? Let’s see if I can find it.”

  She closed her eyes and sighed. Why fight it? He was going to find it.

  He moved his hand over her shoulder, down her ribs, and over her hips. Then he gathered the fabric of her gown and slowly started to lift it over her legs. He could have it off in a New York minute—right there, right on the racetrack at Pocono. Lord, she was no better than…her mother.

  “Celeste, I got a problem.” His husky voice raised the hairs on the back of her neck as he pulled the skirt higher, exposing her calves, her knees, then her thighs.

  She shifted gently, assuming his problem would be making its presence known right under her any minute. “Only one?”

  “Okay,” he laughed softly, “I got a lot of problems. But where you’re concerned, I have two problems.”

  “What are they?”

  “I need two things from you.” The skirt was nearly at her hips.

  “My kidney.”

  “That’s one.”

  He let the silky fabric fall in a pool against her stomach, her bare legs completely exposed to him. He tickled under her knee, then began tracing a line up the inside of her thigh with his index finger. She stopped breathing.

  His lips curved into a sexy sliver of a smile as he burned a path to the most tender flesh of her upper thigh. He snapped the inner lace edging of her black panties.

  “Gotchya.”

  She sucked in a little air and shifted on his lap as his finger continued to make its way up her body. Over the dress, he traced a line up her tummy, glided it over one breast, then the other, and finally settled into the bare skin of her cleavage.

  “What else do you need?”

  “This. I need this.” He moaned softly and pulled her against him, nuzzling his face in her hair.

  Reaching her hand around his neck, she kissed him, opening her mouth and taking his tongue.

  He twisted her hair with one hand and with the other, he gently caressed her breast through her dress. Her nipple throbbed at the touch. Underneath her, his erection intensified, sending a thrilling reminder of what he did last night right through her.

  The ache built in her again and she pushed against him. “You have no qualms…” Her breath caught in her throat as he dipped her back to press a heated kiss on her breastbone. “…about reducing me to a blithering idiot anywhere, do you?”

  “None,” he agreed, nibbling the flesh just above the bodice of her dress.

  “No privacy. No walls. No bedroom necessary.”

  “When I have you in a bedroom, babe, you won’t know what hit you.” Once again, he took her lips in a slow, deep kiss, moving his tongue in and out of the chamber of her mouth in a perfect imitation of what he planned to do. When he had her in a bedroom.

  Which would happen sometime before dawn.

  She shuddered and responded by imitating the action with her tongue.

  They both knew they were headed straight to the trailer, and right now, she couldn’t care less about the sins of the mother. She wanted to commit a few of her own. A lot of her own.

  His hand took a long, lazy trip over her body again, back to the warm, wet silk between her legs.

  This time, one long finger slid inside her panties, and she sucked in another delighted gasp. “When I have you in a bedroom,” he whispered, tracing a circular path over her mound, then duplicating the act with his tongue over her mouth, “I’m gonna make you scream again.” He slid the finger into her and she moaned at the exquisite sensation.

  “With my hands…” Slowly he pulled out. “And with my mouth…” Then two fingers claimed her. “And with my tongue.” He repeated the whole sequence and she squeezed helplessly against his hand.

  “And then you know what I’m going to do?” He turned into her neck, lightly licking her throat and jaw, then dipping his tongue into her ear, causing cascades of chills to tumble over her whole body. “Do you know?” he repeated softly.

  She shook her head, unable to speak.

  He circled his finger inside her. “I’m going to make love to you, Celeste. I’m going to climb on top of you and enter you all…the…way.” With each word, he delved deeper. He found her throbbing center and mercilessly circled his thumb over her. “Imagine that, Celeste,” he whispered. “Imagine how that’s going to feel.”

  She did. Rocking against him, lost in the fantasy, lost in his voice and hands, she imagined his powerful, masculine body on top of her, filling her with the unyielding erection that strained against her bottom right now.

  “That’s what I’ll do when I have you in a bedroom,” he promised. He slid his fingers in and out of her slippery opening, her bre
ath ragged and tangled in her throat as the achy, needy desire swelled inside her.

  He held her securely with one arm, covering her face and throat with kisses while she collided against his hand, moaning softly, then whispering his name as she climaxed effortlessly, magically.

  Dizzy and spent, she fell against him, her ears ringing with the rush of blood. “Oh, my God, Beau.”

  “Shhh.” The command was harsh, and his whole body tensed up, yanking her from a haze of pleasure.

  Loud and insistent, the blood still sang in her head, ringing like a siren. Beau sat up straight and looked beyond her. The siren screamed louder. It wasn’t in her head. It was real.

  In an instant, they were on their feet, peering toward the orange flames in the distance.

  “Shit,” he muttered, peering across the infield. “That’s the VIP area.”

  In a flash he tugged her to the golf cart and floored the little machine in the direction of the flames. All around them people emerged from motor homes and trailers, anxious to witness the drama. Celeste clung to a safety bar as he banged on the steering wheel and pumped a floor pedal in a frustrated attempt to gather speed.

  Barreling down the center access road, he swore viciously and stared at the flames. “That’s right by the Chastaine coaches.”

  Crowds quickly filled the road and an emergency vehicle flew up behind them as they neared the VIP area. He veered out of its way and parked, grabbing Celeste’s hand.

  “Can you run?” He didn’t wait for an answer but pulled her along toward the orange flames leaping into the air.

  She choked on the acrid fumes of fire and smoke. The only sound louder than the deafening sirens was the pounding of her heart.

  She knew. Oh, God. She just knew what they were going to find.

  Squeezing her eyes against the smoke, she tripped on her heels, stumbling. He stopped and put his arm around her. “Come on,” he urged her. “It’s one of ours.”

  Panting with each shallow breath, she followed him as they wound through the parked motor coaches and gathering crowds. As they turned the last bend, they froze, side by side. Celeste couldn’t speak or move.

  Their motor coach was engulfed in flames.

  “There’s Beau!” somebody called.

  “Is anyone in there, Beau?” someone else asked.

  “No.” He shook his head, dropping her hand and walking slowly toward the intense heat of the fire as it leapt toward the black sky. Windows cracked in miniexplosions, and the door bowed out like a freshly popped bag of popcorn. “It’s empty!” he shouted to the gathering crowd of familiar faces in various states of undress.

  Tony stood staring at the fire, and Travis came jogging over, his expression of fear melting to near joy when he saw Beau.

  Firefighters were everywhere, shouting orders, yanking huge hoses between trucks. The sirens still blared as Celeste joined Beau. She stood in stunned silence, staring at the burning motor coach.

  You don’t belong here. Get out of here before it’s too late.

  She’d been warned.

  The rain shower of fire hoses soaked the motor coach and those around it, swiftly eliminating the worst of the flames. Two men in orange fire suits pounded on the burning door of the coach with an ax. With a sudden burst, the door blasted off and billowing clouds of smoke poured out.

  “It was me,” Celeste said, grabbing Beau’s arm tighter with each wheezing choke that seized her lungs. “It was because of me.”

  “Stop it!” Beau barked, urging her back, away from the flames. “It wasn’t because of you. Stop it.”

  Someone—something—tickled her legs. She gasped as a tiny brown dog barked up at Beau.

  “DJ!” He scooped the dog up in his arms. “What are you doing out here?”

  Suddenly someone hollered, “We got a casualty in here!”

  “Oh, God,” Beau whispered into the dog’s fur, a horrified expression on his face as a firefighter burst through the doorway holding a woman’s lifeless body in his arms. “Livvie.”

  Chapter

  Eighteen

  Beau ran toward the firefighter, only to be shoved away as paramedics brought a stretcher. A circle of onlookers formed, blocking Celeste’s view. Tears and smoke burned her eyes as she clung to the strong arm Travis wrapped around her.

  “It’s my fault,” she turned into his shoulder, her body quaking.

  “Shush, now,” Travis murmured, backing her toward another trailer. “Just hush, girl, it’s nobody’s fault. Just calm yourself. Calm.” His big hand stroked her head as he led her up the stairs of another trailer. A woman came over, also wiping tears and smoke from her eyes, and Travis said something to her, but Celeste could only hear her own shuddering breaths.

  We got a casualty in here.

  Celeste squeezed her eyes shut as Travis eased her onto a couch similar to the one in Beau’s motor coach. But she could still see the charred chartreuse silk falling off Olivia’s body. The three-thousand-dollar Versace. Oh, God.

  She felt physically sick.

  “Sit here, now,” Travis said, kneeling in front of her on one knee, his look of heartfelt concern belying the gruffness in his voice. “Get a hold of yourself. I gotta go back out there. Billy’s wife, Nancy, is here.” His powerful hands gripped her shoulders as though he could force her to sit straight, settle down, and behave. It suddenly struck her as a very fatherly gesture, and without thinking, she put her arms around him and let a sob choke her.

  “It’s okay, missy,” he mumbled, awkwardly patting her back. “We’ll get through this.”

  She pulled away, wiping her eyes, wanting to tell him the truth. “Oh, Travis. You don’t understand. This is my fault—”

  “Stop it, Cece,” he demanded. “If anyone’s to blame for rilin’ that woman up, it’s me and you know it. I dreamed up the whole farce just to get rid of her.”

  “No,” Celeste shook her head. “No, you don’t—”

  “We don’t even know what happened,” he insisted. “Wait here. Don’t go out there. I’ll get Beau. I’ll talk to the medics. Good Christ, I gotta find Harlan.”

  He stood up and looked at the other woman, who held the blinds open with two fingers and surveyed the chaos outside. “Keep an eye on her, Nan. She’s carryin’ a shit-loada guilt that she don’t need.”

  Travis left, and Celeste fell back on the couch and closed her eyes to erase the ugly images from her brain. Why did Olivia go to the motor coach? What started the fire?

  She was certain Olivia knew her real identity. But who was the man who’d called on her cell phone? Did Olivia have a partner, an accomplice, maybe even a lover?

  Did Olivia set the fire or did someone else? Was it an accident, suicide…or murder?

  The footsteps she’d heard in the motor coach that night hadn’t been a woman’s. And the strange caller on her cell phone was certainly a man.

  “You want a glass of water, honey?”

  Celeste opened her eyes. “No…yes. I don’t know.”

  “Well, of course you do,” the woman said in a no-nonsense tone, opening cabinets furiously. “That smoke’s killing my lungs too.”

  “What’s going on out there?” Celeste asked, still too wiped out to go to the window and look.

  “They just took her…body away. The fire’s out and some firefighters went back inside.” Nancy handed her a glass and said, “Look, you might not know all the history yet. That woman’s done just about everything possible to wreck Beau’s life and career. Well, she’s gone and done it now. I’m sorry about what happened to her, but she isn’t gonna get a whole heck of a lot of sympathy. ’Cept it’ll probably screw up the season for the rest of us.”

  Celeste stared at her. “She’s dead.”

  Nancy’s expression turned grim. “And that sucks. But everybody saw how drunk she was at the dinner. I wasn’t at your table, but I heard she lit into you.”

  “But”—Celeste frowned at the woman, trying to comprehend the harshness—“she’
s dead.”

  Nancy walked back to the window, lifting the edge of the blind. Flashing red lights lit the room with syncopated rhythm. “She hasn’t got anyone but herself to blame. Beau’s a free man. And she is—was—married. You can’t take this as something you did.”

  Tony Malone pushed open the motor coach door and walked in, a grave expression on his usually smiling face. He was followed by Billy, then some of the other crew. More of the crew huddled outside the door.

  Travis’s coach had become the natural gathering place for the team. Celeste listened to the hushed whispers. The rumors and conjecture. The pity—some genuine, some bitter—and the concern for what would happen to their racing team, what would happen the next day. She stayed on the sofa, willing her head and heart to stop aching, longing for Beau to come back to her.

  Finally he did, his skin darkened by soot, his eyes red-rimmed from smoke. Without a word, he took her hand and guided her to the back bedroom.

  “Where have you been?” she asked as they sat on the bed.

  “Getting what I could out of the motor coach. Talking to Harlan.”

  “How is he?”

  Beau shrugged. “He’s looking for someone to blame.”

  “Then he should look at me.” At his harsh look, she shook her head. “Come on, Beau. We know the truth. This was my fault.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “But she was in there because she knew who I was.”

  “You don’t know that.” He took her hands and pulled her close to him. “She was a pathetic lush who never got over a couple of bad cards she was dealt. I had a thing with her years ago. It ended. That shit happens to people all the time. They don’t go breaking and entering and dropping lit cigarettes until a fire starts.”

  “Is that what happened?” It seemed too simple an explanation.

  “From what we can piece together, Harlan left her in their motor home to sleep it off. When he went back to the Hospitality Center, she must have gone to our motor coach for some reason. To confront me—”

  “Or me. Don’t be naive, Beau. She was looking for proof of who I really am. Maybe she wanted to wait until I got back and surprise me.”