Killer Curves

  Her elbows almost slipped off the marble counter.

  “He’s faster than lightning, that’s what they say. Least they used to.”

  So much for coincidence.

  Slowly, she turned her head. He sat on a bench under a window, his long legs crossed at the ankles, his unwavering gaze locked on her. Celeste felt the foundation of her world crumble and realized it was her legs, threatening to give way.

  He stood and ambled toward her. He wore jeans, tight and worn nearly threadbare over his narrow hips, and menacing black boots. As he got closer, she read the tiny insignia stitched into his blue oxford shirt. Chastaine Motorsports.

  Don’t say it. Don’t make me say that name.

  She could feel his scrutiny, studying every angle of her face. He knows. He knows.

  “Are you Celeste Bennett?”

  She nodded as she met his semisweet chocolate eyes. She would simply deny it. Deny, deny, deny.

  “I’m Beau. I appreciate your coming here on a Saturday and all, ma’am.”

  Aw, shucks, you just go ahead and ruin my life any ol’ time, honey.

  She tucked her handbag under her elbow, crossing her arms and tamping down the distress inside her. “I understand you are a collector.”

  “He’s also one of the best race car drivers that ever lived,” Sam offered.

  She managed a surprised look. “Is that so?”

  The corner of Beau’s mouth lifted in a cynical smile. “Well, not that ever lived.”

  Her gaze dropped back to the tiny checkered flags with a lightning bolt between them over his imposing, masculine chest. Chastaine.

  “What kind of art do you collect, Mr. Lansing?”

  He shrugged. “All different kinds.”

  Black velvet Elvises and rebel flags, no doubt.

  “The exhibit is on the fourth floor,” she said, turning toward the curved hall. “We don’t have any elevators in this part of the museum, so you’ll have a chance to peruse some of our magnificent works on the way.”

  He stayed in step with her. “Interesting setup, this winding hallway.”

  “It was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright to offer visitors an unbroken viewing area for all the art, and a dramatic vista of the entire museum from any point.” Celeste paused and looked up to the top of the atrium. “Did you come to discuss architecture, Mr. Lansing?” As if.

  His gaze stayed on her. “How long have you worked here?” he asked.

  “I don’t work here. I’m on the board of directors. And I’m a docent.”

  “A whatcent?”

  “A volunteer who can provide tours. Are you a fan of Sugimoto?”

  “Yep.” He turned toward an abstract oil as they rounded the second floor. “Mostly his early stuff.”

  “He’s been working on this particular exhibit for twenty years.”

  “I just like his paintings.”

  She gave him a patronizing smile. “He’s a photographer.”

  He tucked his hands into his front jeans pockets. “I meant his pictures.”

  Of course he’d be uneducated. Just like…She swallowed. “Then you’ll undoubtedly enjoy this display of his work.”

  As they turned the corner to the exhibit, he paused in front of the first work. “Now, how the heck did he get a photograph of Napoleon Bonaparte?”

  Maybe she could just bury him in artspeak before he could broach the subject he surely came to discuss. “Hiroshi Sugimoto’s work rekindles the dialogue that has existed between painting and photography ever since the invention of the camera.”

  He glanced at her with a questioning look as they moved to a picture of Henry VIII and she continued the spiel. “He isolated wax effigies from the staged vignettes in waxworks museums and photographed them in haunting illuminations, creating Rembrandtesque portraits.”

  He ran a hand over his jaw and nodded. “So he took black-and-white pictures of famous people in Madame Toussaud’s and reprinted them.”

  Basically, yes. “It’s a little more complicated than that. He traced all the figures back to the paintings on which most of them are based.” She nodded toward the image. “Notice the gemstones on the king’s robe are reminiscent of Hans Holbein’s most famous portrait of the king.”

  “Yeah.” He squinted at Henry. “I noticed that.”

  If she hadn’t been so bewildered at his unexpected appearance, she might have laughed.

  Celeste moved to the next piece, her favorite. In it, Anne Boleyn played a six-string lute. The artist had captured the sense of inevitable doom and surrender in the young woman’s expression. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

  “She sure is.” The faint southern tone in his voice played in her ears. Slowly, she turned to see him examining her with the same intensity she’d been giving to Henry’s bride.

  This game had to end. She felt her pulse speed up and nearly lost herself in the depths of his eyes. “What exactly do you want from me, Mr. Lansing?”

  Go ahead, mister. Say what you came to say. Because she would deny, deny, deny. Then run.

  Chapter

  Two

  Beau mentally reviewed his strategies. Plan A: Charm her. Plan B: Shame her. Plan C: Kidnap her.

  He was obviously about to hit the wall on Plan A.

  The temptation to blurt out the truth had rolled through him since he’d seen her shaking out her golden hair in the lobby. But in Beau’s world, timing was everything.

  Judging by her reaction when she first saw him, his news would be no shocking revelation. A blind man could see his appearance had upset her.

  “I don’t want anything, ma’am,” he lied in answer to her pointed question, letting his boyhood Virginia drawl slip in a bit more. “Just lookin’ to add a little urban sophistication to my life.”

  He had no doubt he’d found the girl he wanted. One look into those emerald eyes and he was sure. And her hair, honey-colored, thick and wavy, gave him the first real hope he had in days. But the elegant nose, the slender neck, the refined cheekbones were a surprise to him. He hadn’t expected a beauty. He hadn’t anticipated the royal posture or that rich-girl ability to keep her jaw parallel to the ground at all times.

  Her expensive musky perfume made him want to lean closer, smell more. Made him wish he had more than an hour or two to get what he wanted out of her.

  “Truth be told, ma’am, a friend of mine suggested I look you up.”

  She gave him a skeptical look. “Really? Who was that?”

  She had to know what was coming next. “Travis Chastaine.”

  Her creamy complexion paled as she lifted her chin and gave her head a negative shake. “I don’t remember meeting anyone by that name.”

  “He’s my boss.” Beau tapped the logo on his chest. “He owns Chastaine Motorsports, the team I drive for.”

  A thousand goose bumps rose on her arms. “I don’t follow racing, Mr. Lansing.”

  His gaze dropped over her and stopped on the ugly brown stain on her otherwise impeccable outfit. Suddenly he remembered the crash in the coffee shop. Of course—she’d had an advantage. She’d seen him first. He should have known her in the coffee shop. He should have recognized the eyes.

  “I think the waitress let you in on the truth.”

  She dropped a hand to her pants, a huge diamond flashing on her finger. He knew she’d gotten engaged. But it had been more than two years ago, and he’d never seen a wedding announcement.

  “I have no interest in playing games with you, Mr. Lansing. And you, I believe, have no interest in expanding your knowledge of art.” She held out her arms to the exhibits. “Make yourself at home. You have no need for a private tour. If you need anything, ask at the information desk.”

  As she took a step forward, his chest constricted the way it did when someone tried to shoot past him on the inside. He inched to the right, blocking her escape. Not so fast, darlin’. “Do you give all your guests such a warm welcome?”

  She narrowed cat green eyes at him. “Only those with
ulterior motives.”

  He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Guilty. I thought my amazing knowledge of the arts would impress you enough to agree to have lunch with me today.”

  “I don’t think so. Thank you.” She tried to sidestep him again, but he reached out and closed his fingers over her slender forearm.

  “Please,” he said. “I have to leave town tonight, and I need to talk to you.”

  Defiance darkened her eyes. He had seen that identical expression a hundred times before, he realized with a shock. He had the right girl, for sure.

  “If you’ll excuse me…” She gently extricated herself from his grasp and started walking down the gradual incline.

  Damn it, woman. This wasn’t how he wanted to do this, but she gave him no chance to use euphemisms and be diplomatic. He had to tell her outright.

  “Your father is dying.”

  She froze.

  “You are his only living blood relative.”

  For the first time, he saw her squared shoulders sag.

  She slowly turned back to him, pale as a ghost. “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “My father is Gavin Crawford Bennett the third. My two brothers are also blood relatives. As a matter of fact, I had cocktails with my father last night.” Her gaze turned icy, matching her voice. “He’s in perfect health.”

  She spun on her heel and continued her descent at a faster clip.

  He caught up in three long strides and gripped her elbow, speaking close to her ear so she could feel his breath on her. “I tried charm. I tried guilt. You don’t want to know Plan C.”

  Jerking herself free, she faced him. “Try your charm and guilt on someone else. Whoever you’re looking for, you’ve got the wrong person.”

  “Aren’t you Celeste Bennett?”

  She stared at him.

  “Your mother is Elise Hamilton Bennett, and your father…”

  She winced before he said the words.

  “…is Travis Chastaine.”

  The ice and fight disappeared from her eyes, and her teeth seized her lower lip so hard he thought she might draw blood. He stared at the spot, and the idea of kissing her planted itself squarely in his brain. He leaned closer, keeping his voice low. “Did you think you could go your whole life and never have to face this?”

  She crossed her arms and looked across the expanse of the museum. “That was the plan.”

  “Not anymore.”

  She swallowed hard. “What do you want? Why now? He’s never…my mother never…” Her voice caught and she looked at him with a plea in her eyes.

  “Let’s go someplace where we can talk.” He glanced at the coffee stain on her pants. “I know this little place down the street.”

  “Ten minutes. That’s all.”

  The hope he’d felt when he first saw Travis’s daughter sparked again. Maybe she wasn’t thrilled about anyone finding out she had a red neck to go with her blue blood, but it didn’t matter to him. She only needed to have a tender heart and a generous soul.

  And if she was anything like her biological father, she had both.

  Celeste realized before they crossed the lobby of the Guggenheim that the man simply drew too much attention. Heads turned, women’s eyes devoured him, people noticed him. They couldn’t slip into Drake’s for a quiet cup of coffee with Becca drooling all over him. They couldn’t stroll along Fifth Avenue and chance an encounter with someone from her mother’s gardening club or the Junior League or Daddy’s bank or…oh, God, nowhere was safe with him.

  When they stepped outside, he reached into his breast pocket and slipped on a pair of black Oakleys, his signature shades. They must pay thousands to have their logo touch those striking brows.

  “Let’s just walk through the park,” she suggested, already planning an escape route. She’d cross Central Park with him and slip off to her West Side apartment as soon as she was done with him.

  “You seem nervous,” he said as they navigated through the pedestrian traffic. “Do you have a jealous fiancé?” His gaze dropped to her left hand.

  Oh, damn. The ring. She stuffed her hand into her pocket and gave him a pointed look. “Do you want money? Is that what this is about?”

  He shook his head with a quick laugh. “Nope.”

  “Does…he?”

  “I’m not here to blackmail you.”

  She paused and studied her reflection in his Oakleys, wishing she could rip them off and see the truth in his eyes instead of the discomfort she saw in hers. “Then why are you here?”

  A Rollerblader whizzed by, nearly knocking her into him. He guided her off the path to an empty bench that faced away from the foot traffic. She sat at one end, crossed her ankles, and rested her bag on top of the coffee stain.

  He took the middle, stretching out his impossibly long legs and spreading his arms along the back of the bench. His fingertips nearly reached her, but if she moved any farther away, she’d fall off.

  “I’m here to ask you a question,” he announced.

  “About him?”

  “His name is Travis Chastaine. You have a hard time saying that, don’t you?”

  She set her jaw and looked straight ahead, the beauty of the morning sunlight on the silvery green leaves of the birch trees lost on her at the moment.

  “When did your mother tell you?” he asked.

  She closed her eyes. Instead of the earthy smells of Central Park, she remembered the musty dampness of the attic of her home in Darien, where she had gone to find one of her mother’s old gowns for her ninth-grade play. While looking for matching shoes, she’d found a metal strongbox with a flimsy lock. With one twist, a curious fourteen-year-old became Pandora.

  “My parents have no idea that I know.” At the thought of her parents—of her mother—resentment gripped her. She folded her arms and faced him. “I’m sorry, but you can’t do this. You can’t waltz into my life and demand personal, private information. You can’t just expose…this…to the world. There are legal documents that he signed thirty years ago to prevent this from ever happening.”

  “Documents?” He leaned toward her and his fingers grazed her shoulder, warming her skin. “What are you talking about?”

  “If you don’t know, then you haven’t done your homework,” she said, leaning away. “He took twenty-five thousand dollars in exchange for signing an agreement never to contact my mother or me.”

  Beau took off his sunglasses, his eyes questioning. “I don’t know anything about it.”

  If she went strictly by the honest look in his eyes, she would believe him. But how could he know a secret that fewer than five people in the whole world knew and not have all the facts?

  “My grandfather took great pains to avoid anyone hunting down my mother or me and demanding increased payoffs. He’s not supposed to even know my name.”

  “He doesn’t,” he said quickly. “He has no idea who you are or where you are.”

  She whipped her head in his direction and narrowed her eyes at him. “Then how did you find out?”

  “One night a long time ago, after a few too many beers, he told me he had a child. We were talking about how few blood relatives either one of us has, and he admitted that he’d had an aff—a relationship with a woman named Elise Hamilton years ago in Palm Beach, Florida, and she got pregnant. He didn’t even know if it was a boy or a girl, but somewhere, he had a child.”

  She looked at him questioningly. “So how did you find me?”

  “The Internet.” At her frown, he shrugged and twirled his sunglasses like they were cheap drugstore knockoffs. “Your mother uses both her maiden and married name. Finding a child about thirty years old took no effort at all.”

  “But you can’t be sure. You don’t have a birth certificate.”

  He reached over and lifted a lock of her hair. “Don’t need one. I can see it by looking at you.”

  The thought that they looked so much alike twi
sted her heart. Turning from him, she stood to leave. She’d had enough.

  He reached up and clasped her arm, forcing her to look down into his eyes. “Don’t you want to know about your father? Aren’t you curious?”

  “Not in the least,” she said, sliding her handbag on her shoulder and once again pulling out of his grasp. “My mother made a difficult decision and I thank her for it. That man…your boss…also made a decision. I’m sorry if he’s in ill health.”

  He shot up like a rocket. “It’s a little more than ill health. He’s got about six months to live.”

  The words stabbed her. Six months. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “As a matter of fact, there is.”

  Despite the summer heat, a chill ran over her arms and she rubbed them, stepping away from the sheer power of him.

  “You can save his life,” Beau said.

  She stared at him.

  “He needs one of your kidneys to live.”

  Stunned, she opened her mouth to speak, but no words came to mind. So she simply turned on her heel and walked away.

  Chapter

  Three

  Beau hadn’t expected it to be easy. Sighing in resignation, he headed straight for the address he had memorized.

  It took her an hour to get home. He checked his watch every five minutes, ignoring the stares of neighbors and passersby. He leaned his elbows on his knees as he sat on the top step of her elegant brownstone and waited. Although he would have taken her for the highrise-with-a-doorman type, this was still a majorly upscale neighborhood, he decided, as a poodle sporting a diamond collar and red nails strolled by and barely bothered to sniff. Then a flash of cream-colored silk caught his peripheral vision.

  She slowed her step when she spotted him, then she squared her shoulders and marched forward. Ah, the bulldozer gene. No doubt that one passed from generation to generation of Chastaines.

  At the bottom of the steps, she placed her hands on narrow hips and glared at him. “I should have expected you would appropriate my address from cyberspace.”

  “I tried to do this on neutral ground.” He took the two steps down to join her on the sidewalk. “You won’t stay still long enough to finish the conversation.”