“I…” He looked as if he didn’t know what to say. “I’m just not confident in your abilities.”
Hell of a time to realize that, she almost said aloud. Instead she said, “Okay, fine. Let’s just get this out of the way then, shall we?”
“Get what out of the way?” he asked, the sleeves of his shirt stretching as he recrossed his arms, cords of muscles swelling as those arms flexed.
“Time to have it out. To lay it on the table.”
He didn’t say anything, just continued to give her that scrunched-brow glare men gave you when you irked them.
“You don’t like me because I made a fool of myself by chasing you around when I was younger,” she admitted. “You don’t like me because I did some really stupid stuff back then, too. Stuff you still hold against me, obviously, or you wouldn’t be so quick to get rid of me.”
“Not true,” he said, his blue eyes seeming darker all of sudden. Or maybe it was the fluorescent lights. Despite the half-a-million-dollar rig, one of them appeared to be on the fritz. The light click-click-clicked as it struggled to stay on.
“You still consider me a risk. With all the baggage still floating around in your head, it’s a wonder you even mentioned my name to your stock car racing pals.”
“I told you. I knew you’d play straight.”
“What changed about that?”
This time it was his turn to straighten. “All right. Fine. Gloves off. The problem is you haven’t changed. You’re still the same Cece Blackwell. Outspoken. Unpredictable. Too much of a wild card.”
And that was when the tiny cork holding her temper popped free.
“You don’t know a damn thing, Blain Sanders.”
And the jerk just stared down at her, not even flinching. She took a step toward him, a small step, but enough to remind him that she wasn’t afraid of him, or any other man. “You just think you know who I am. Who I was,” she corrected. “You don’t have a clue about me. About how hard I struggled to finish high school while holding down a full-time job so I could help out my mom. About how hard I fought to be accepted by the popular kids in high school, you included.”
She resisted the urge to stab her finger into his chest, but only by curling her hand into a fist.
“You were so full of yourself,” she said. “So cocky and self-centered. I loved taking you down, even though a part of me did it because I wanted to get your attention, and because I needed to prove to myself that having more money than me didn’t make you better.”
“I didn’t have more money than you.”
“No, but your parents did.”
His eyes narrowed and he started to shake his head.
“But you know what?” she said before he could say a word. “I did match up. My Camaro was the fastest damn car in high school, even though I had to scrimp and save for every part I put on that thing. And in the end, what did I have to do? Sell it to help my mom pay the mortgage.”
His stony expression was suddenly tinged with surprise.
“That’s right. I had to sell it. My Camaro. A car that was everything to me. The last thing I had of my dad’s before he died. My last piece of him. And I had to sell it.”
“Cece, I—”
“No. Let me finish.”
But for a moment she couldn’t go on, so overcome by a ridiculous, unbelievable stinging of tears that she had to inhale to stop from crying.
You beat him? her dad had asked.
I blew his doors off, Dad.
Good for you, Tiger.
She couldn’t speak as the whole horrible time came rushing back to her again. Her dad’s death. Her mom’s financial spiral. That last terrible year of high school. And then her mom’s death two years later. Jeesh, no wonder she’d been running with the wrong crowd. For a split second Cece felt the emotions coalesce within her: grief, humiliation, sadness. She tried to shove the feelings back inside, but like oil on hands, it was hard to wash them away.
“We were so damn broke,” she found herself saying. “No life insurance. No money in the bank. Nothing. My mom and I tried as hard as we could to stay afloat, but life kept kicking us in the teeth. I swear that’s why she died a few years later. She just gave up—the doctors called it a heart attack. I called it a broken heart. Not just because of her grief for my dad, but because of her grief at the human race. Nobody cared that she’d just lost her husband. Nobody cared that we’d sold everything we owned, everything—cars, furniture, jewelry—to make ends meet.”
And this time it was she who crossed her arms, tipping her head back in the process, her stupid tears causing prisms in her eyes. “When she died I vowed never to put myself in that position. I have a job that I’m good at, money in the bank, and believe me, that’s something that I’m proud of.
“So from where I stand, Blain Sanders, I’m more than competent to do a little investigating. Chances are this is nothing, anyway. But you’re the one calling the shots, so if you want me to go home, I’ll go.”
She waited for him to say something, anything.
But he didn’t.
“Fine. I’m outta here,” she said, pushing past him and out the door. “Didn’t want to come, anyway.”
And the jerk let her go.
CHAPTER FIVE
HE SHOULD GO AFTER HER, Blain thought. Instead he heard the hollow thud of her footfalls on the center isle’s rubber mat as she left the hauler.
She’d had tears in her eyes.
Blain had never, not ever, seen Cece Blackwell cry. Hell, a few days ago he’d have sworn she was incapable of doing such a thing.
Her mom had died? He hadn’t heard about that.
Blain stood motionless for a few seconds more. In the end, his conscience made him move.
“Cece, wait,” he said.
Fat drops of rain had started to come down, the asphalt dotted with Dalmatian spots. Cece was already near the garage, the overhang protecting her. He quickly caught up with her, and the damnedest thing was, she’d gotten control of herself. Her face looked frozen in anger as he stared down at her.
“Cece, wait.”
She kept on going.
“I’m sorry,” he called out.
Still moving.
He caught up, stepped around her, staying her with a hand when she would have darted by him. “I didn’t know your mom had died.”
She
