pushed past him.
“No, wait,” he said, catching her arm. “Don’t leave.”
She glared.
“Please,” he found himself saying, because the truth of the matter was, he did trust her to get the job done. She’d always been at the top of her class, even though he’d been shocked to learn just now that she’d held down a full-time job while doing it. How had she managed to do that? But he supposed it didn’t matter. He had a bad feeling about Randy’s death, and he was positive that if anyone could prove or disprove his theory, it was Cece. He didn’t know why he felt that way, but he did.
“I need you.”
She shivered, though she still glared.
“You cold?”
“No,” she lied, shivering again.
“You are.”
“No, I’m not.”
He grabbed her hand, to find her fingers were like ice. “Jeesh, Cece, you are freezing. C’mon back inside the hauler. I’ll get you a coat.”
But she didn’t move. He didn’t, either. The rain pinged atop the metal roof, but Blain was mesmerized by the expression in her eyes.
“You really want me to stay?” she asked, pulling her hand out of his grasp before tucking it beneath the crook of her arm.
“I do.”
An air-ratchet went off in the distance, the high-pitched whir ending right as she asked, “Why?” and blinked away raindrops that clung to her lashes. “Give me the real reason you’re so insistent I help you out.”
He debated whether to tell her the truth, and decided he should. “Sonoma drags.”
She looked puzzled. “The grudge matches?”
“It was the last time we raced. Do you remember?”
She nodded.
He shook his head a bit. “I thought you were anxious to beat me because it was me you were racing, but afterward, when you’d won, you got out of the car…and do you remember what you did?”
She shook her head.
“You didn’t look at me—you looked up.” Blain would never forget her face at that moment. Ecstatic, triumphant…and sad. “You whispered, ‘This one’s for you, Dad.’ I saw it.” And he’d been stunned. “I never forgot that day,” he said. “It wasn’t me you wanted to impress. You’d set your sights on winning that race in memory of your father.”
Blain looked off, his gaze moving to the racetrack. “I feel the same obligation to Randy. Every time I think about what happened, I vow to get to the bottom of his wreck. You of all people should understand that kind of promise.” He could tell from the look on her face that she did. “Something’s not right, and I need your help to figure it out. Will you help me?”
She shivered again. He thought she might refuse, but then she said, “Fine” in a way that sounded almost resigned.
His shoulders slumped in relief. “Thanks, Cece.”
“Yeah, well, don’t thank me yet.”
But he was grateful just the same. “C’mon,” he said, “let’s get you into something warmer.”
She took a deep breath, only to shiver again. “Okay,” she said through teeth that chattered.
By the time they made it back to the hauler they were soaked, the droplets of rain so heavy they’d turned the pavement a glistening ebony. Cece rubbed her arms as she stood beneath the car lift that jutted out over the back of the rig. Blain handed her a team jacket a second later.
“Thanks,” she said as she slipped the thing on.
And Blain, a man who’d never looked at Cece as anything more than a means to an end suddenly saw her in a much different light. She was a woman who’d overcome tremendous odds to get where she had. He realized now that she had depths he’d never noticed before.
“You can keep it,” he said, looking back at the garage, at anything but her. “You’re going to need it by the looks of things.”
She followed his gaze as she zipped the jacket up. And suddenly it sounded as if someone had poured a wheelbarrow full of water on top of the hauler. It began to rain, seriously rain.
“Qualifying’ll be postponed,” he muttered.
“You think so?”
She had raindrops clinging to her blond hair and forehead, her tiny frame suddenly reminding him of high school. He had a memory of her getting out of the Camaro, of stalking up to him and challenging him to their first race. He’d accepted. She’d won. It still amazed him.
“Yeah,” he said. “C’mon, let me grab a scanner so I can keep track of what’s going on.”
And that was how Blain Sanders found himself showing her around. And he had to admit, she impressed him. Not so much because she was a fast study—because she was—but because she knew a hell of a lot about stock car racing. More than she let on, he realized.
“So now you know what I do thirty-six weekends out of the year,” he said as they halted beneath one of the track’s massive grandstands, their breath puffing out like dragons.
“Forty,” she said.
“Forty?”
“Well, sometimes it’s more than that, right? Depends on if you qualify for the Bud races, or go to Japan.”
He almost smiled. Yup. Just as he suspected. “How long have you been a fan?”
Rain dropped down the backs of the empty grandstands, well, not completely empty. A few diehard race fans sat beneath colorful tarps, hunched down, shivering and waiting in hopes the track got dry enough to run the practice, and then later, qualifying. It wasn’t going to happen.
“What makes you think I’m a fan?” she asked, looking up at him out of a face turned gray by the storm’s light.
“Cece, the way you talk is a dead giveaway. The average person doesn’t know the difference between a Ford template and a Chevy template, but you did.”
“I studied up,” she said with a shrug.
The smell of stale beer, cigarettes and spilled food was familiar but for one thing: the scent of Cece carried to him on the same breeze.
“Bull,” he said.
“All right,” she said. “So I’ve been following the circuit for about five years now.”
“Really?” He felt his left brow tug up.
She shrugged. “I didn’t mean it to happen. One night I was
