Carpenter had done it,” she finished.
“Yeah. My point being that the way you discovered who’d done it was pure genius.”
“So let me get this straight,” she said in a clipped voice, straightening, one hand held out, palm up. “You decided I’d be perfect for this case based on an idea I got off Columbo?”
“It worked. No one expected you to give a ’69 Camaro away as bounty, but you did.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t give it away. I only let someone drive it for a week. The kid offered to buy it afterward and I let him. I’d beaten you enough times that I was through with it anyway.”
Her words rankled—still, after all these years. Man, but she knew how to push his buttons. Even after he’d left the small town they’d grown up in he’d thought about the way she’d smoked his doors whenever they’d raced. Four championships and numerous awards later and he still couldn’t believe she’d built a car that had beaten his. But he shouldn’t let it rankle, he reminded himself. It was all the more reason to insist she work the case. No other agent this side of the Mississippi would have her knowledge of race cars. She was a pro. Plus an expert on explosives.
“Look, Cece, I don’t know anybody else with the experience to solve this case. You’re the closest thing to an ally that I’ve got and I need your help.”
And for a second the wreck replayed in his mind again. Blain’s knuckles ached, he clenched his fingers so hard. “I need your expertise. You’ll give it to me, even if I have to blackmail you to do it.”
She stared up at him, and he was surprised at how close he’d gotten. Age had changed her, he realized. Her cheekbones were more prominent. Lips fuller, her mouse-blond hair lighter, too.
“Fine,” she snapped, her green eyes firing like spark plugs. “But don’t blame me when it doesn’t work out. You’ve no idea what it’s like to work with someone you despise.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to say he didn’t despise her, but something made him hold back, something that made him feel uncomfortable and on edge at the same time.
But then, he always felt that way around Cece Blackwell.
CHAPTER TWO
THEY WERE SUPPOSED to meet at the San Francisco airport and fly to Las Vegas together for the Snappy Lube 500, a race Cece had heard about, but never seen live and in person. She’d been tempted to catch an earlier flight just so she could avoid him, but had decided that would be a cowardly thing to do—and she wasn’t a coward.
Damn Bob.
And damn Blain for blackmailing her into this. It figured that her sworn enemy would have the wood on her.
She spun away from the window overlooking a bunch of jets, their engines revving with high-pitched whines. The smell of airplane fuel mixed oddly with pizza, the drone of flight attendants on the overhead speaker a constant buzz. On the landing strip a 747 braked, the roar of its reversed engines barely masked by the windows. To think, Blain Sanders usually flew around in his own jet. Must be nice.
“I should have resigned,” she mumbled to herself.
Money was tight in the Blackwell household. Hell, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d left town on a vacation. And yet here was Blain with his own jet, his own race team and countless other things Cece had only dreamed about.
Her overnight bag clocked her in the back as she turned again. She ignored the way the strap dug a furrow in her shoulder, just as she ignored the direction her thoughts had taken. A baby cried to her right. A teenaged couple fought over a wallet-sized CD player. And wherever she looked, race fans strolled or sat, all on their way to the track. They wore T-shirts, ball caps and jackets with team logos splashed across them. She spotted every sort of paraphernalia imaginable, from the ridiculous—tennis shoes with car numbers emblazoned on the sides—to the truly ridiculous—a suitcase shaped like a race car. Apparently a number of people, mostly men, didn’t mind embarrassing themselves in public.
She’d taken only two steps when she saw who she was looking for: Blain-the-Blackmailer Sanders.
He strode toward their gate with the air of a man on a mission, or maybe someone who needed to relieve himself. Either way, he moved along at an impressive clip. He wore a tan leather jacket over a cream-colored turtleneck. His eyes scanned left and right, his big body parting the crowd like the prow of a ship. He reminded her of someone from Special Ops, not the owner of a race team. Women’s eyes lingered. Men looked up, only to hastily look away. Blain seemed oblivious to it all.
Cece waited for him to spot her, but when his gaze slid over her and kept right on going, she stiffened. He didn’t recognize her.
He stopped five feet away, his expression growing impatient. Checked his watch. Frowned. Looked up again.
Well, well, well. Granted, she wasn’t in her hoochie-wear, but she didn’t look that different. The face was the same even if the secondhand Ann Taylor suit—in basic black—and white cotton shirt were not. She’d pulled her hair back in a chignon, too, her face free of makeup. Okay, well, maybe not completely free. She’d dusted a bit of blush over her cheeks and a wisp of brown powder in the corner of her eyes, something one of her female co-workers had assured her would make them look bigger. All right, all right, and maybe she’d put mascara on, too. But that was it. Goodness knows she wasn’t trying to impress Blain Sanders.
Speaking of which… “If you’re looking for me,” she called out, “I’m right here.”
She watched him turn, watched his eyes zip right past her again, only to suddenly return with a snap. What ho? Did the lightbulb go on over his head?
It had.
He blinked, staring at her as if still disbelieving.
“What? You think I look better dressed as a prostitute?”
Someone walking by gave them a sharp glance—a man, Cece noted. Race fan, she cataloged immediately. Midthirties. About five-eight. Beer gut his most prominent feature.
You’re not on the job, Cece. Chill out.
But she was always on the job, thanks to Mr. Sanders here, and that irritated her all over again.
“Hey,” the man said. “You’re Blain Sanders.”
Cece stiffened.
“You really are,” the guy repeated.
The decibel level of his voice made Cece glance around. Well, if they’d been trying to be inconspicuous, that plan had been shot to bits.
The man came forward, pudgy hand extended. “Mr. Sanders,” he said in a voice that sounded Bronxish. “I’m your biggest fan.” He pointed to his chest. “See?”
Oh, jeesh, the man had the pylon-orange Star Oil logo emblazoned across his chest, the words Star Oil Racing sprawled in fancy white script across the shirt’s black background.
“I can’t believe it’s really you.”
“It’s really me,” Blain said, and was it her
