Killer Curves

Beau put a hand on Tony’s shoulder and pushed him into the same line of vision. “Look at that mounting point.”

  Tony let out a low whistle as he squinted under the skin of the car. “Son of a bitch, Beau. At that height, you have no freakin’ center of gravity. No wonder you spun. I thought you said the throttle stuck.”

  “It did,” Beau spat out as he pushed himself up. “The bar was just an insurance policy.”

  He marched toward the shop and slammed his fist against the door to the offices, then stormed past walls of glass to Travis’s office. There, Travis, Harlan, and Wag sat huddled around a tiny conference table. Beau made no attempt to keep the fire out of his eyes as he glared at Travis.

  “Beau!” Travis shot out of his chair. “Wasn’t expecting you today.”

  Beau looked at their guilty faces. “Obviously.”

  Moving around the table, Travis prodded Beau out of the room with a single finger poked in his chest. “Somewhere private, boy,” he ordered.

  With a withering glare at Wag, Beau followed Travis to the lobby and out the main door.

  “When the hell are you gonna get rid of him?” Beau demanded as soon as they stepped into the late afternoon sunlight. “Get over there and look at my damn track bar. That spin was no accident. Or if it was, it was caused by Wag’s sheer stupidity.”

  Travis put his hands in the pockets of his khakis and leaned on one leg, saying nothing. His silence just riled Beau more.

  “Go look at it, Travis!”

  “I’ll look later. I’m in a meetin’ with the sponsor, in case you failed to notice.”

  “Oh, I noticed. Is Harlan Ambrose in on this? Is he making the team decisions now?”

  Travis stared at him. “You’re the one out hiring sponsor relations people without even talkin’ to me.”

  “This isn’t about sponsorship.” He nudged Travis’s shoulder. “Come on. I want to show you this. This is about who sets up that car and who runs this team.”

  Travis shook his head and refused to budge. “This is about sponsorship, boy.” He chewed his lip, reminding Beau of the woman he’d just left. “Harlan’s mighty unhappy and he’s lookin’ for a way to salvage this season.”

  “Wag won’t salvage it. He’s ruined it.”

  “Look, Beau. You ain’t on Harlan’s list of most favorite people right now. His hussy wife practically strips when you walk into a room, and the fan-o-meter ain’t exactly off the charts these days, either.” Travis locked his arms across his barrel chest. “Harlan likes Wag. They go way back. And we gotta keep the man who writes the checks happy, Beau. That’s the business.”

  Beau slammed his fist into his open palm. The sudden movement pinched his sprained neck and the pain shot down his back. “How ’bout the man who drives the car?”

  “You tell me what you want, Beau. I’ll bust my nuts to get it if I can.”

  Beau massaged his neck as he considered the offer. “I want Wag delegated to some other job. I want Tony Malone as my crew chief.”

  Travis frowned. “Tony’s never been a crew chief before, Beau.”

  “You have. Help him.”

  At Beau’s sharp glare, Travis shrugged. “Possibly. Okay.”

  “I’m going to make some changes in the pit crew. I want to handpick who sets up that car before and during a race.”

  “No problem.”

  Travis’s edge was softening. It was time to hit him with the last stipulation. “And I want you to be nice to her.”

  “Who?”

  “You know who.” Beau forced himself to use her silly pseudonym. “Cece Benson.”

  “What the hell is it with her?” Travis demanded. “She ain’t your kinda girl, Beau. She’s a stuck-up snob, I know her type. What do you want with her?”

  “That’s my business. Just take it easy on her and give her a chance.”

  Travis blew out a disgusted breath. “I don’t give a rat’s ass if you want to jump her skinny bones every night. But a sponsor job? It’s askin’ for trouble, and we sure as shit have enough. She don’t need to work for us; just bang her on your own time.”

  Beau narrowed his eyes in warning. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Travis snorted. “Like hell I don’t. I know all about pussy like that one.”

  In an instant, Beau had the collar of Travis’s shirt in his hand, and he saw the stunned look on the older man’s face as their noses nearly touched. “Don’t ever talk like that about her again.”

  Travis shook off Beau and the fire in his green eyes matched the heat in his voice. “Don’t ever lay a hand on me again.”

  They stared at each other and Beau could practically taste the hostility suspended in the air between them. He needs to know the truth. And for one long minute, he considered telling Travis just that.

  If you tell him who I am, I will leave immediately. With all my organs in their proper place.

  He had no doubt she’d make good on that threat.

  “Just give her a chance,” Beau finally said. “A couple of weeks.”

  “ ’Cause you’ll be done with her by then, eh?”

  “It isn’t like that.”

  “Whatever.” Travis turned to go back in the building.

  “I’ll give her a shot. Until I can find somebody else for what I need.”

  Beau stared at Travis’s back. There isn’t anybody else for what you need.

  On Monday morning, Celeste followed Beau’s directions to Chastaine Motorsports. She turned into the parking lot, tiny stones spitting up from the tires of her rental car, and eyed the single-story pastel-colored building with sloping Spanish tile roof. Then her gaze froze on a six-foot god leaning against the side of his truck.

  He had both hands tucked into those worn jeans and another version of a Gus Bonnet T-shirt stretched across the expanse of his chest. His eyes were, of course, hidden behind his Oakleys. Celeste felt her breath hitch as she realized he was waiting for her.

  He guided her toward an empty parking spot next to his truck with no more than a tilt of his head and an inviting half smile.

  The matinee idol that fans love to hate. That’s what the racing writer of the Orlando Sentinel had called him in that morning’s paper. But “matinee idol” was far too tame for a guy who looked that provocative in broad daylight.

  When he came around to her side of the car and opened her door, the July heat hit her with a blast and the heavy Florida air suffocated her.

  “Mornin’.” And that faint drawl just about did her in. “I’m the one-man welcoming committee.”

  Glancing up, she managed a cool smile. “You’re determined to babysit me, aren’t you?”

  He pulled the sunglasses down just enough for her to have no doubt that he watched her legs as she slid out of the driver’s seat. “I prefer to think of it as adult day care.” He closed her door behind her, staying close enough for her to smell the soap and a hint of his raw, masculine scent. “Come on, you can see your office and drink in the view. Brace yourself.”

  “For my office or the view?”

  “Both.”

  Through a tiny lobby, down a hall of glass-enclosed offices with blinds that kept her from seeing if they were occupied or not, he stopped at the last door. He pushed it open and sunlight poured in from a single window. The only items on the desk were a computer and phone.

  “Not exactly Madison Avenue, but you’re close to the coffeemaker and”—he indicated the window with a flourish—“you’ve got an unobstructed vista of the shop.”

  The enormous industrial structure stood fewer than fifty feet away, its white roof and metal siding gleaming in the sun. “Breathtaking,” she said.

  “Actually, it is. We put all our money into the shop, not the offices, obviously.”

  Rounding the desk, she dropped her handbag on the surface, fluttering some phone messages. She glanced at them before telling him, “I want to spend some time with Travis today. Could you arrange that?”

  “Not on Mond
ays. We have the crew meetings and we watch the race replay and reverse engineer the wreck, and there’s a conference call with NASCAR. You might catch up with him over in the shop sometime before we leave for Pennsylvania. He never comes over here. Never.”

  At the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall, Beau leaned out the door to see who it was. He coughed back a laugh. “Whadya know? Here’s Travis now.”

  Like a distinct change in the weather, she felt his presence before she actually saw him. He stepped into the office with no greeting, hands shoved into khaki pants, a red pullover with a Chastaine logo strained across his stocky breadth.

  “Hey, Travis.” Beau moved aside as the other man took over the space. “Nice of you to come over.”

  “Nice is my middle name.” He directed his forceful stare at Celeste.

  She drank in his face and features. Time and weather had given him a few creases, but she could easily see what a handsome man he must have been. Powerful-looking. Rugged and real. A man of the earth, she thought, not afraid of dirt or noise or speed. Not characteristics she could ever imagine appealing to her fastidious mother.

  “You findin’ your way ’round, miss?”

  Her throat tightened inexplicably. Good God, she wasn’t going to go weepy, was she? She couldn’t forget that he’d taken money instead of responsibility, and signed papers to relinquish his child forever. “So far.”

  He grabbed a pink phone slip from her desk and read it. “Do you even know who Dale Hazelhurst is?”

  She recalled the words on the message. “I know that he works at Dash.”

  “She,” he said with disgust in his voice. “Dale’s a gal. Now, don’tchya think you better get a little more familiar with our business before you just pick up the phone and start shootin’ the shit with the sponsors?”

  “Come on, man.” Beau stepped forward. “She needs to know how to put on a party next week and she can do that with her eyes closed.”

  She gave Beau a warning look. This was her battle.

  Travis shifted his weight from one foot to another. “Hell, she can’t go socializin’ with the sponsors and not know her way around a track.”

  “What areas concern you, Mr. Chastaine?”

  “Travis, give her a day to get settled and talk to the sponsors. Give her a chance.”

  “I’m givin’ her a chance,” Travis barked. “I didn’t even get to do a goddamn interview, since you pretty much made my hirin’ decision with your…on your own, boy.”

  Oh, so he thought the Beau Babe got the job on her back. Travis Chastaine was in for a big surprise. “What would you like to know?” Celeste asked again, a whisper of impatience in her voice.

  “The basics, for starters.” He crossed his arms and cocked his head. “Like how many cars’ll be on the track next week? What makes are they? Who won this race last year? What kind of track is it? What’s a splash ‘n’ go? How many men in a pit crew—”

  “Stop it, Travis!” Beau stepped in front of Travis, looking ready to swing. “What are you trying to prove?”

  Travis ignored him, his challenging gaze on Celeste.

  “There will be forty-three cars on the track,” she said, sending back an equally challenging look. “They’re made by Chevy, Dodge, Ford, and Pontiac. Dallas Wyatt won Pocono last year, from way in the back—thirty-first, I believe. And that raceway is an unusual trioval track. Three turns, two and a half miles, fairly flat.”

  Both sets of eyes stared at her in disbelief.

  “And what else?” She pointed a finger directly at Travis. “Oh, yes. Splash ‘n’ go refers to a gas-only pit stop, and no more than seven pit crew members are permitted over the wall.”

  Dead silence.

  She picked up the message from Dale Hazelhurst. “I have a few calls to make, gentlemen. Are we almost finished with the test?”

  She finally looked at Beau, whose brown eyes glistened with satisfaction. He punched Travis lightly on the shoulder. “See? I told you she was great for the job.” Then he grinned at Celeste. “Nice work, babe.”

  “Don’t call me that,” she said softly.

  Travis dropped into the guest chair across from her desk, a grin threatening under his mustache. “Not Pontiac,” he said. “They pulled out a while back.”

  Damn. She knew that.

  He chewed on his lower right lip, probably trying to hide the smile, but the gesture yanked at her heart. “What do you know about the sponsors?” he asked.

  She settled into the chair behind her desk. “I’m going to have to learn the players, but I understand you want to stage an event on Saturday. I can do that.”

  “That’s right. I don’t want to hafta think about nothin’ but my car. You worry about all the other shit.”

  “Like decorations, menus, speeches, entertainment, and the audiovisual equipment?”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever. There’ll be a hundred or so people there. Impress them. Beau tell you about the problems we’re havin’ with Dash?”

  “A little. I know that it’s silly season and that’s fraught with questions about next year’s contracts.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Beau beam like a proud parent.

  “I’ll worry about the car and the contracts,” Travis said. “You worry about makin’ them folks feel loved and attended to. Especially Olivia. Make friends with her.”

  Celeste nearly snorted. That would take a miracle. “Of course.”

  “But don’t you go flauntin’ your relationship with Beau in front of her.”

  Celeste sent a disdainful glance in Beau’s direction and then leaned forward, both elbows on the desk. “I don’t have a relationship with Beau. We met by coincidence and I learned of the job here. I wanted it. Believe me, I have no ulterior motive.” Oh, what a lie. What a rotten, bold, burn-in-hell-for lie.

  For a long moment, Travis said nothing, leaning back on the back legs of the chair and casually locking his arms behind his head. “You know, Beau, if we play this right, it might work to our advantage. If Olivia thinks you’re really serious this time, she just may give up her pathetic manhunt. With that woman off your ass, Harlan might let up. Might even free up a few more dollars for the rest of the season too.”

  Good God, he wanted to use her as a pawn. He wanted her to be a shill girlfriend to fend off the sponsor’s wife. “Excuse me?”

  “Good thinking.” Beau spoke at the same time.

  “Yeah. It is.” Travis slammed the chair back down and examined Celeste. “You’re so different than anyone else he’s ever…” His gaze dropped over her neck and chest and he shrugged. As though anything was possible. Even with that little chest. “We’ll start to slip out the word that Beau’s finally settled down and he’ll be takin’ the big walk down the aisle at the end of the season.”

  She choked on a laugh. “Are you saying we pretend to be engaged?”

  “You could probably handle that,” Beau said dryly. “Might even have an extra piece of hardware lying around.”

  She glared at him.

  Travis stood, a smug smile across his face. “I like this plan.”

  “I hate this plan,” she said, pushing herself out of her seat. “And I refuse to participate.”

  “But it stays in this room,” Travis insisted to Beau, as if she weren’t there. “If Harlan gets wind that this is a sham, we could be nailed. Your ride could be history and you’d probably lose the few fans you got left. As far as everyone is concerned, especially the media, you two are madly in love.”

  Celeste burned Beau with a look. “An engagement is not in my job description.”

  Travis laughed, a low rumble from his massive chest. “It is now. Babe.”

  “My name is Cece.”

  One of Beau’s fabulous eyebrows shot up.

  “Yeah?” Travis chuckled and pointed a thumb at Beau. “Well, his is Garrett. I changed that years ago so people’d think he’s one of us instead of a rich Virginia kid.”

  He’s a scam artist, she thought, sick
ened by the realization. Made up names, made up relationships. Of course he’d scammed Grandfather Hamilton out of twenty-five thousand dollars; he used people.

  Beau followed Travis to the door, but stopped in her doorway and winked. “Don’t worry. It won’t really count as number four.”

  No, it wouldn’t—because she’d never agree to the charade.

  When Celeste’s blood temperature finally dropped to a slow simmer, she began returning phone calls and planning an event for the following Saturday. She learned that someone named Kaylene Dixon had already booked the function room at the track in Pennsylvania and handled some of the preliminary planning.

  Celeste studied a digital map of the Pocono Raceway on her computer screen as the distinct clip of high heels echoed outside in the hallway. When they stopped suddenly, Celeste turned to see a woman at her office door. And what a woman she was.

  “Well, hell’s bells, there’s another girl in the place.” Massive blond hair surrounded a fiftyish face, blue eyes, and a smile brighter than the Florida sunshine. She stood with her hands on hips that were a good two inches narrower than the hair that nearly reached them. Cloying waves of Poison perfume rolled off her.

  “Hello.” Celeste stood and offered her hand. “Are you Kaylene, by any chance?”

  “The only one.” The five-second power handshake surprised Celeste. “Sweetie, you can’t imagine how happy I am to welcome you to the frat house.” She threw herself into the guest chair and let her arms hang open, like the weight of her world had just been lifted from her petite shoulders. “I have been rantin’ at that daggum man to git me some estrogen around here. I ’bout busted my gut when he called last night to tell me you was comin’ here.”

  Good God, it was Granny Clampett in Dolly Parton’s body.

  “Did you find everything you need, sweetie? Like the bathroom?” She hooted a sharp laugh. “I was over here early this mornin’ with Beau, but I had to get on the phone for the last blasted half a day doin’ the travel plans for the next race. Though I gotta admit it’ll be easier now that I don’t have to find you a hotel room.”

  Kaylene kept right on going before Celeste could ask what she meant.