him to mock her, but he didn’t. Humph. And so she added, “At first I watched because it did my heart good to see you lose.”
His gray eyes flickered and she held her breath, wondering why it was that she felt such an overwhelming need to provoke him. But when he didn’t rise to the bait, she relented, giving him another burst of honesty. “But you didn’t lose, at least not all the time, and by the time I realized you might have a shot at the year-end championship, I was hooked. I’ve been watching ever since.”
He didn’t say a word, and Cece didn’t know what surprised her more, that he didn’t say something snide, snooty or just plain rude, or the fact that he appeared to be—yes—it very definitely seemed like he was about to smile.
“That’s why you looked giddy while I was showing you around.”
She didn’t take offense. “It’s not every day someone gets to meet people she’s only seen on TV.”
His smile grew and Cece found herself thinking she liked it, not because it made him look more handsome—which it did—but because it put such warmth in his eyes, genuine warmth, as if he might be a really nice person.
You of all people should understand…. Cece swallowed past a lump in her throat.
“I remember when I first met Richard Petty. I’ll never forget that day,” he drawled in his Southern accent.
“So you know what I’m talking about.”
He nodded, and a part of Cece could only think how bizarre it was to be here with him, talking to him after wanting to hate him for so many years.
But then his expression turned curious. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
She shrugged. “Truth be told, I didn’t think you’d keep me around for longer than a few hours.”
And that reminded Cece of what she’d been brought in to do—investigate, not make friends with Blain Sanders.
Who was currently a suspect.
She shook her head.
“What?” he asked.
“I need to get going,” she answered. “I’ve still got a job to do.”
She could tell the moment he remembered why it was they’d been brought together, too. The smile slid down his face like rain on a stormy day. And for a second she caught a glimpse of it, saw the unmistakable darkening of his eyes. Grief. He tried to hide it from her, but some things were impossible to conceal.
He’d lost a driver. Someone he’d known a long time. A friend. She knew all too well what that felt like.
“It was probably just an accident, Blain. I really doubt that letter you received is anything more than a worked-up fan.”
“I hope you’re right.”
But he didn’t believe her. So she said, “Think about it. Why send a threatening letter after you murder someone?” He winced at the term “murder,” and Cece cursed herself. One of the things about working at the Bureau was how jaded you became using certain words. “Blain, if someone were really trying to go around scaring race fans, or killing drivers, they would have sent a note to the press, not to you.”
He went silent for a second, his lips tightening. “You’re not telling me anything I haven’t heard already, Cece. It’s just a crazy race fan. One who didn’t like Randy and so he claimed to have killed him.” He met her gaze. “But I don’t believe it.”
And that was why he couldn’t be a suspect, Cece admitted—because killers didn’t fight for justice. Crazy people didn’t send themselves letters and then bring them to light. Supposing Blain was right—this whole thing really was a murder and some terrorist or crazed fan was out for blood—Blain had nothing to gain by going public. If he was a murderer, he’d have kept quiet. Nah. Supposing this wasn’t a wild-goose chase, Blain was innocent.
“Well, if you’re right, I don’t see how someone could have done it. The garage is locked down tighter than Fort Knox.”
“It is,” he agreed, following her gaze to the infield, where the garage stood like a million-dollar industrial complex.
“I suppose it needs to be that way.” She gave him a small smile. “To keep race fans out. Like me.”
It worked. He didn’t smile, but his expression lightened in the way the sky slightly brightened just before dawn. That was better.
What was better? she asked herself. Surely she didn’t care if Blain Sanders smiled?
Right?
Right?
“Yeah, fans like you,” he said, and for a brief second he smiled. Cece felt triumphant—but then the smile wafted away like so much smoke.
Triumphant?
“Look, I…” She gazed out over the grandstands, at the cars in their stalls, the race crews milling about, the security folks dragging some guy away…. “What the—”
Blain followed her gaze. Just then some man wearing a team uniform bent down to inspect his car.
“Oh, damn,” Cece said, furious with herself that she’d been so distracted by Blain that she hadn’t even noticed the commotion in the garage.
“Someone must have snuck in.”
“Yeah,” she said, turning to dash off. But why?
CHAPTER SIX
THEY RAN.
Cece kept ahead of him, though Blain managed to catch up to her from time to time. Their first stop was at the entrance to the infield tunnel, and it prompted Cece to reach for a badge Blain hadn’t even known she was carrying. The woman who guarded the entrance waved Cece through. Frankly, she hardly paid any attention to either of them, despite the fact that they’d run up to her, were wet and obviously in a hurry.
“Cece, wait,” Blain said as he moved to catch up.
But she didn’t slow down. By the time they made it through the fluorescent-lit tunnel, Blain was feeling out of breath and grudgingly impressed with Cece’s stamina.
“Which way?” she asked as they emerged into the rain again.
“This way,” Blain said, turning toward the two-story VIP suites blocking the view from the pit road. There was an opening near the end of the building, and Blain wiped the rain from his face as they entered the garage.
Cece stopped abruptly. Blain looked toward where the security personnel had been a few moments before. Gone. He inhaled deeply, his heart pounding to the point that he could see his shirt move in rhythm to the beat.
“Took him away,” Cece said, sounding far less out of breath than Blain.
They had. A lone security guard stood talking to Jeff Burks, crew chief of the number twenty-one
