Her hair had collected drops of rain like blades of grass, the team jacket she wore darker on the shoulders. Her chest barely rose and fell.
“You coming?” he asked.
“No.”
His puzzled eyes must have asked the question he didn’t.
“I shouldn’t reveal my presence here,” she answered.
He looked as confused as he felt because she said, “I know I ran down here like I was, but in hindsight, announcing the fact that I’m an FBI agent might not be such a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because my boss doesn’t want people to know I’m here. And because this is still just an investigation. If I go around questioning people, it’ll raise flags.”
“So raise them.”
She reached out and touched Blain’s arm. He hadn’t put on a jacket, so it was bare and wet, and her palm was so warm it startled him.
“I was told to keep a low profile, Blain. Flashing my badge around is not low profile.”
He gazed at her in frustration.
“Look,” she said. “I sincerely doubt a bad guy would tinker with a race car in full view of race fans and television cameras.”
Blain turned back to where said bad guy had stood. Jeff laughed at something the security guard had just said and it made Blain irritated with the whole situation all over again. Man, this uncertainty drove him nuts.
“They took the guy into custody, Blain. I’ll get someone to call security and ask what all it was about, but not right now. I’d rather be more subtle.”
“Fine,” he said, glancing back at Jeff and the security guard. They were walking away, the crew apparently satisfied that all was well.
“I’ll call my office and fill them in on what just happened.”
He nodded.
She touched him again. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, Blain. I just don’t want to answer the inevitable questions that’ll be raised if word gets out that an FBI agent is snooping around the racetrack.”
And as much as he wanted her to do the exact opposite of what she suggested, Blain found himself saying, “Fine.”
She released his arm. “It’s probably nothing.”
He wiped a hand over his face, rain dripping off the edge of his palm. It probably was.
Damn, but he wished he could believe that.
“Let me make some calls and we’ll find out for sure.”
AND SHE’D BEEN RIGHT. Turned out some overzealous race fan had wanted to stuff a good luck sock into the frame of the car.
A sock.
Ridiculous, but not unheard of, and as Blain returned to his hotel room later that night, he found himself grateful that Cece had kept her head, that she’d been the calmer of the two, and that she’d been subtle in her handling of the situation. She’d impressed him. And she’d also made him think that maybe, just maybe, the feds were right. This was all a wild-goose chase.
He hoped so, he thought as he knocked on her hotel room door.
“Hey,” she said in a tired voice after the door swung wide.
“Here’s the information you wanted.”
“Thanks.” She took the papers from him as she leaned against the door frame. She looked beat. Exhausted. As if she’d worked nonstop since coming back to the hotel.
She probably had.
“Did you find out anything more about that guy?”
She nodded. “Nothing more than a race fan, complete with car-tire coffee table at home.”
Blain’s shoulders loosened. Maybe it was time to let it go. Maybe he had been overreacting.
“You finished working?”
She shook her head. “Looks like it’ll be a long night. I want to get this wrapped up by tomorrow.”
So she could leave. Head back to San Francisco.
He wished she didn’t have to go.
“Have you had anything to eat?” he asked.
“No. And I don’t really feel like going out to grab a bite, either.”
“There are other ways to get a bite than going out,” he said, pushing on her door so he could enter.
“What are you doing?” she asked after stepping aside.
“You need nourishment,” he said, sparing the room hardly a glance as he went to her nightstand and picked up the phone. “You’re no good to the investigation if you drop dead from starvation.”
He didn’t even hear her approach. Didn’t even feel her behind him until her arm brushed his own, the white T-shirt she wore transferring static to the hair on his arms.
“Don’t,” she said, grabbing the phone from his hand. Green eyes that looked a hell of a lot different than they had in high school peered up at him without an ounce of hostility. Beautiful eyes, he admitted to himself. Unusual and striking with their gold and silver flecks, flecks that matched her loose hair.
“I’m fine. Really,” she said, hanging up the phone. “I’ll eat something later on. Right now I need to concentrate on my files, and this list of names.” She held up the papers he’d given her.
Disappointment flickered through him.
“Hey,” she said, her eyes brightening. “I heard they ran qualifying. Who won the pole?”
And he felt like a kid all of a sudden, boasting to the cute girl next door as he said, “We did.”
She smiled up at him. Not that fake, sexy smile she’d used on him at the airport. Not the false smile she’d given him any number of times since, but a genuine, happy-for-him smile.
She was happy for him.
Why did that surprise Blain so damn much?
“That’s wonderful,” she said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “You must be thrilled.”
He was thrilled. And you know what? It felt good to share the information with her. Yeah, they might have started out on the wrong foot, but in the past twenty-four hours he’d developed a whole new respect for Cecilia Blackwell. She hadn’t tossed his concerns aside. Hadn’t treated his worries like they were nothing. So far she’d acted with absolute professionalism—well, aside from that incident at the airport, but overall, yeah, she’d done a good job. He respected her for that.
