Dangerous Curves Read Online Free PDF

either.
    “Are you ready to leave?” he asked.
    She nibbled on her lower lip, crossing her arms in front of her. “I’ll meet up with you later. I need to change.”
    His eyes narrowed. She caught a look of suspicion just before he asked, “Into what?”
    She shrugged. “Something a little more racelike. Remember, I’m not here in an official capacity. Well, I am, but we don’t want your fellow trackies to know that.”
    “Trackies?” he asked with a lifted brow.
    “What else should I call the people you work with?”
    “How about crew members?”
    “Whatever,” she said, lifting a hand in dismissal. “Just let me get changed. Unless you want me to show up in a business suit, toting an FBI badge.”
    He shook his head. “Just remember there’s a dress code in the garage.”
    This time it was her brows that lifted.
    He nodded. “No sleeveless shirts. No open-toed shoes. No bare legs.”
    She snapped her fingers in mock regret. “Damn. I guess that means I can’t wear my thigh-highs.”
    His eyes narrowed further.
    She rolled hers. “Relax, Blain. I promise not to embarrass you. I’ll look the part. Just let me do my job.”
    A ND SHE DID LOOK THE PART, judging by the raised brows she received from certain members of the male persuasion. As she walked toward the garage, she tried not to feel self-conscious. All those years at Bimbos and she still felt uncomfortable when gawked at—made her think she might have a piece of tissue trailing from her heel.
    Perfect.
    She’d decided on a chic yet revealing mode of dress—not for Blain’s sake, although that might have been fun, but so she blended in better. And so she wore a black chemise covered by a black mesh, long-sleeved shirt, powder-blue jeans hugging her legs like giant tube socks, a black stripe of leatherrunning down the side. Of course, tucked into her black half-boots was a .22 handgun. Still, she felt very sexy in an Annie Oakley kind of way.
    Unfortunately, Nevada weather in the spring was like a woman who couldn’t make up her mind, and so Cece damn near froze in the getup. Off in the distance what looked to be a thunderstorm was brewing, dark clouds gathering over the granite mountaintops. Terrific. And she’d forgotten a jacket.
    A guard wearing a bright yellow coat eyed her up and down, the word SECURITY emblazoned across the front as if someone might mistake him for a race car. The obnoxious color wasn’t very flattering to his Hispanic face, a face that lit up when he saw her.
    “Good afternoon,” he drawled flirtatiously as she paused near the entrance he “guarded.” Yeah, right. The guy didn’t even have a gun. “May I help you?” he added.
    On a normal day Cece would give him one of her patented Death Star FBI agent looks. But this wasn’t a normal day. Undercover. One of Blainy-poo’s friends. So she smiled back, flicking her long blond hair over her shoulder à la Dallas Cowboys cheerleader.
    “Good afternoon,” she answered with a smile, flashing him the hot pass credential she’d picked up at a trailer outside the racetrack.
    “Go right on in,” he said, waving her by.
    “Thank you,” she drawled in a sexy alto she hadn’t used since her days at Bimbos.
    The Frankenstein heels of her boots sank into fresh tar as she headed toward the garage. Four white buildings were lined up like dominoes along the homestretch, the lesser mortals (i.e., race fans) kept out by the tall wrought-iron fence with giant don’t-try-to-climb-this spikes at the top. The buildings were nice in a single-story, no-frills kind of way. Some cars were in their garage, others half out as if they’d stalled and come to a rolling halt. It wasn’t race day, which really bummed her out. Yup. Her guilty little secret. She was a closet race car fan.
    She paused midway between the fence and the garages and took it all in: the smell of burnt oil and high octane fuel. Compressors and air wrenches whirring in the distance. The crack, crack, crack of