Dangerous Curves Read Online Free PDF Page B

a motor idling. Crew members in their multicolor team shirts darting around.
    Little darts of electricity lifted her skin into goose pimples. Dang. She’d always wondered what it was like on the inside.
    She found Blain’s car parked in a garage stall at the very end of the second building; the pylon-orange stars painted on the trunk lid were hard to miss. The front end of the vehicle was jacked up off the ground, and two men stood near the front, peering into the motor compartment as if a girlie flick played inside.
    “Excuse me,” she said, trying not to gawk as an ex-driver-turned-famous TV commentator walked past her, clipboard in hand, gray hair plastered in place like an elderly Ken doll.
    A head peeked around the lifted hood, another from the other side, like two wide-eyed chickens peeking around a coop. She looked down as the sound of a creeper’s wheels grinding against smooth concrete caught her attention. A pair of feet emerged from beneath the car—big feet in brown leather shoes. Legs. Black pants. Blain.
    The thought was confirmed when a taut chest encased in a team orange, polo-style shirt turned into a tan face with angry eyes.
    Uh-oh.
    “Well, well, well.” He glared up at her. “Look who decided to show up.”
    “Well, well, well,” she drawled right back. “Blain Sanders at my feet. Just what I always wanted.”
    He frowned, rolling the creeper around so he could sit up. “You get lost on the way out here?” he asked, grabbing a red rag that lay nearby, then tossing it aside.
    “No,” she answered, smiling brightly, even though his question irritated the heck out of her.
    “Get caught in traffic?”
    “No,” she repeated quickly. Okay, so she’d been primping. It wasn’t often that she got to go undercover as a glamour girl. Usually she was playing the role of anything but, and she was woman enough to want to dress in cool clothes. “I just took my time.”
    He frowned again, his gaze scanning her up and down. And even though he sat at a lower elevation, he must have noticed how cold she was because shecould have sworn his eyes caught on her less than soft nipples. She blushed, but darn it, it was cold standing here in the shadows. A stiff breeze blew between the garages, tossing dust and grit and empty wax cups around. “I thought team owners didn’t work on cars.”
    “This team owner does,” he grumbled, rising to his feet. “Especially when his crew chief is off running around and there’s a problem.”
    She resisted the urge to step back. Blain was a big guy. In a lot of places, she found herself thinking before clamping down on that unprofessional and unwanted thought.
    “Are you ready to give me a tour?”
    He looked irritated. Really, really irritated. He glanced at the car, and the crew still gawking. He glared. The chicken heads ducked back behind the coop.
    “In a minute,” he said. “We’re trying to figure out why the car doesn’t start.”
    “Power?”
    He shook his head.
    “You sure?”
    “Positive,” he said, the one word managing to convey his utter disgust that she’d even attempt to diagnose the problem. Geez-oh-peets, if ever she needed a reminder of why she didn’t like him, this was it. Funny, she’d forgotten how sexist he could be. That was why she’d taken great pleasure in waxing his doors when they’d been younger.
    She glanced away, about to suggest something else, just to irk him. But the sight of a cord cocked at an odd angle as it sat atop the coil caught her attention, and despite herself, she squinted at it, because it sure didn’t look like it was on right. It wasn’t.
    “Sooo,” she drawled, “I suppose the fact that that thing over there,” she pointed to a blue wire, “isn’t on right has nothing to do with it?”
    It took a moment for her comment to register, and when it did, Blain actually started, shoulders stiffening, head jerking up.
    “Of course, maybe you guys invented a new type of coil wire that I’ve never