Killer Curves

  “Now that I’ve seen a stock car race, I get the allure. I guess.”

  “You guess?” Beau had followed Celeste and she could feel him behind her, trapping her between him and the car. Slowly she turned to face him.

  With a dangerous smile, he put his hands on her shoulders. Was he going to lay her down on the car? The erotic image quickened her pulse.

  “You make a nice hood ornament, babe.”

  She hoped he couldn’t feel the blood pounding through her at his touch.

  “But Tony’d kill me if we unbalanced his perfect alignment and ruined the ride height.” He pulled her closer, studied her mouth, then slid his attention down to the opening of her thin cotton blouse. He let out a long, deep sigh.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “You.” She heard the raspiness in his voice. “You are the matter.”

  Critics Can’t Stop Talking

  About Roxanne St. Claire!

  RAVES FOR HER FLIRTY, PARISIAN ADVENTURE—FRENCH TWIST

  “St. Claire has created a truly compelling romantic hero, an enticing mix of sophisticated French seduction and solid, all-American male. With its clever plotting, evocative settings, and vivid sensuality, this offering is sure to set tongues wagging.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Hot author Roxanne St. Claire is back with more action, adventure and romance. Great reading!”

  —RT Bookclub

  “Intriguing suspense that crackles with sexual tension…a tour de force of the heart that will leave the reader breathless and yearning for more.”

  —Winter Haven News Chief (FL)

  “Full of heart-stopping romance and mystery. Some parts made me reach for the tissue box, and I was always rooting for the hero.”

  —Old Book Barn Gazette

  “You are in for a real treat…. [T]he atmosphere is fabulous, making you wish you were along for the ride. The story is fast-paced and will keep you enthralled until the very end. St. Claire is an upcoming author not to be missed.”

  —A Romance Review

  AND PRAISE FOR HER STEAMY DEBUT—

  TROPICAL GETAWAY

  “Tropical Getaway is a reader’s paradise. A tour de force of sizzling suspense and scorching sensuality. Roxanne St. Claire is a hot new author to watch!”

  —Teresa Medeiros, New York Times bestselling author of A Kiss to Remember

  “Sizzling romance and tangible suspense make Tropical Getaway a most enjoyable read. Get ready for adventure, passion, and danger!”

  —Romantic Times

  “Romance, danger, and adventure on the high seas in just the right combination makes St. Claire’s debut a very impressive one.”

  —Booklist

  “Roxanne St. Claire packs a punch with her debut novel Tropical Getaway. In-depth characterizations and an intriguing plot make this book hard to put down. Ms. St. Claire is definitely one to keep an eye on.”

  —The Word on Romance

  “Roxanne St. Claire’s debut is a steamy mixture of intrigue, passion, and red herrings. Set in the exotic locales of the Caribbean, Tropical Getaway is the perfect escape for a cold winter night.”

  —AOL Romance Fiction Forum

  Other titles by Roxanne St. Claire

  Hit Reply

  French Twist

  Tropical Getaway

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 2005 by Roxanne St. Claire

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN 1-4165-0668-3

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  At its heart, Killer Curves is a love story. Not just a story of romantic love, but also of the timeless connection between a father and a daughter. To celebrate that unique relationship and honor the man who taught me life’s most important lessons, this book is dedicated with all of a daughter’s love to my father, Joseph Paul Zink, Jr. He relished every moment of his life, and armed his five children with the only tools necessary to win—confidence and humor.

  I miss you every day, Daddy.

  Acknowledgments

  My heartfelt gratitude to all of the individuals who helped me research and develop this book, including:

  The brilliant and entertaining crew of FOX Sports’ Hollywood Hotel, especially Jeff Hammond, Chris Myers, and Darrell Waltrip. Thanks for making me fall in love with the sport, the drivers, and the fans, and for providing access to Pit Road and the garages, along with a backdoor to the infield. And especially Darrell, for giving me as much inspiration as information.

  Two of the finest sports writers in the business: Mark DeCotis of Florida Today and Ed Hinton of the Orlando Sentinel. Their invaluable knowledge of the tracks, the cars, and the action behind-the-scenes provided both facts and color for my story. (Special credit to Ed Hinton for the phrase “The matinee idol fans love to hate,” noted as an Orlando Sentinel quote.)

  My “crew chief” and editor, Micki Nuding, whose ability to get the most out of my literary engine is simply amazing. With a light pencil and a gentle touch, she helped fine-tune every page of the manuscript.

  Rich Frisiello, the man who whispered “NASCAR” into my ear when I decided to write a race car driver hero. He gets all the credit for the good ideas; I get all the credit for being smart enough to marry him.

  And, of course, the road warriors of NASCAR.

  Chapter

  One

  The weight of her new engagement ring seemed to slow Celeste Bennett’s steps to a rhythmic thud as she crossed Fifth Avenue. En-gaged…en-gaged…a-gain…

  a-gain. Why had she accepted the diamond last night? Not wanting to disappoint the people who loved her was a cowardly excuse.

  En-gaged. En-gaged. A-gain. A-gain.

  As soon as she entered the coffee shop, Jackie Dunedin waved from their usual corner booth. The din of New Yorkers enjoying their Saturday morning coffee and bagels surrounded Celeste as she navigated the crowded tables. Slipping into the booth, she smacked her hand flat on the table and braced herself for the predictable two-word response.

  “Holy shit.”

  Predictable was comforting. A little crass, but comforting.

  “I’m giving it back,” Celeste replied.

  Jackie slumped against the vinyl booth and gave her auburn curls a saucy flip. “You know, I feel a little like Suellen O’Hara here.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Scarlett’s little sister.” She drawled, “ ‘Scarlett’s had three husbands and I’m gonna be an old maid!’ ”

  Straightening her silverware, Celeste smiled. “Three fiancées. Jackie. Huge difference. Anyway, I’m giving this one back before another person ever sees it. I only wore it today because it made me nervous to leave it at home.”

  Jackie grabbed her hand for a closer examination. “I don’t blame you. This sucker is at least three carats.”

  “Three and a half.”

  “And white as snow.”

  “Colorless, actually.”

  “Harry Winston?”

  “Tiffany’s.” Celeste whipped her hand free. “How do you know so much about diamonds, anyway?”

&nb
sp; “Certainly not from left-hand-wearing experience.” Jackie sighed. “It’s the curse of all us advertising types. I know a little about every business.”

  Celeste flipped her mug right side up, hoping Becca had brewed her incomparable butterscotch mocha blend. But the middle-aged waitress was beaming at a male customer at the counter, and from her look of utter enchantment, Celeste wouldn’t be getting coffee anytime soon.

  “So? How did it happen?” Jackie asked. “Mark did the hansom cab thing in Central Park. David popped the question at the top of the Empire State Building. What was left for poor Craig?”

  Celeste shook her head. “Exactly what you’d expect. He asked me—no, he informed me—in front of my parents at their country club in Darien.”

  “Oh, boy. Elise probably has the wedding planner on her cell phone speed dial.” Jackie held her hand up to her ear and dropped into a dead-on Elise Hamilton Bennett impression. “Raphael, dahling? It’ll be December this time. Put every white poinsettia in the Northeast on order. Book the Plaza. Call Vera Wang.”

  “No, Mother was oddly subdued. But not Daddy. He was nearly delirious.”

  “Of course. Who wouldn’t love a son-in-law whose lineage can virtually guarantee your father a Senate seat?”

  “It goes both ways. Daddy’s promised Craig the moon and the stars if he gets elected.”

  “So how did he do it? A ring in the bottom of a champagne glass?”

  Celeste shrugged. “He got down on one knee.”

  “The better to shine your father’s shoes, I suppose.”

  Celeste managed a laugh and toyed with the ring. “You’ve got that right. Craig is just as enamored of marrying into my family as he is with me. But I just couldn’t tell him no. Not with Daddy beaming from the sidelines.”

  Before Jackie could launch into her rant against emotionally unavailable fathers, Becca arrived and plunked the coffeepot on the table, splashing the contents over the spout.

  “Do you know who is sitting at the counter?” Her blue eyes were enormous circles, a flush deepening the creases on her cheeks. “You’re going to die. Just die.”

  Jackie immediately turned toward the counter, but Celeste just held up her coffee mug. “Is it the butterscotch, Becca?”

  “No.” Becca raised the pot, rapture radiating from every makeup-encased pore. “It’s Beau Lansing. The race car driver.”

  Celeste’s cup hit the floor with a shattering crash.

  Becca jumped, and more coffee splashed out, this time on Celeste’s ivory silk pants. Her gasp stuck in her throat.

  “Oh, honey, are you burned?” Becca’s voice rose to panic level, and she stuck a napkin in Jackie’s ice water and slapped it on the splotch bleeding across Celeste’s trousers. “It was my fault. I’m so jittery with him here. Are you okay?”

  Celeste put her hand over Becca’s and squeezed. “Yes, I’m fine. I…the cup just slipped out of my hands.” Her arms and legs went weak and heavy at the same time, and she felt light-headed. What in God’s name was he doing here?

  She stole a glance at the counter, but the restaurant manager, hustling toward her with a broom and dustpan, blocked her view.

  “So sorry, Miss Bennett,” he apologized, shooting an accusing glare at Becca. “We’ll take care of that dry cleaning bill for you.”

  “No, no,” Celeste insisted. “It was my own clumsiness.”

  Becca stared at the register, the dazed expression back on her face. “Look,” she demanded in a breathless voice, unaware of her boss’s displeasure as he swept up around her. “There he is.”

  Jackie twisted around toward the cashier. “Holy shit.”

  “You can say that again.” Becca sighed.

  “Don’t encourage her.” Celeste plucked shreds of wet napkin off her pants, refusing to look.

  Becca swayed as though she might actually faint. “He won the NASCAR championship last year. I love him. I love to watch him race.”

  Celeste threw a glance at the man opening his wallet. Straight dark hair hung over the collar of his light blue shirt. Wide, solid shoulders. Tall. Much taller than she’d imagined.

  Jackie let out a low whistle. “He can fire up my pistons anytime.”

  “Oh, please.” Celeste rolled her eyes.

  “What? He can’t hear me. Anyway, he’s used to it. He’s world famous.”

  “He’s a race car driver. I can’t imagine what all the fuss is about.”

  “Look at him.” Becca insisted. “That’s what the fuss is about.”

  She’d only draw attention by not looking at him. Celeste’s heart thumped as she regarded his profile. The square cut of his jaw, the errant strands of black hair that fell just above the slash of an eyebrow. It was precisely the angle the camera caught when he sat in his car before a race with his eyes closed. Praying, the media claimed.

  She’d seen that face many times during a surreptitious check of the sports section. When she pretended to study the Wimbledon results or see how a friend had fared in a polo match.

  “Yes, he’s attractive,” Celeste said, recapturing her normal cool tone. “In a grease monkey sort of way.” Lord, she sounded exactly like Jackie’s imitation of her mother.

  “Hey, NASCAR is the fastest growing sport in America,” Jackie said.

  “So is bullfighting in Spain.”

  Jackie crossed her arms, finally giving up her inspection of Beau Lansing. “You’re right, Emily Post. It’s uncivilized. It’s down and dirty. It’s rednecks and good ol’ boys.”

  The words burned her heart as much as the coffee had her leg.

  Celeste studied the stain on her pants to avoid having to look at him. “Well, you have to admit that watching souped-up hot rods drive around in circles isn’t exactly a compelling sport.”

  Jackie poured cream into the coffee that Becca had finally calmed down enough to serve. “Actually, I’ve watched a few races. We had a client who wanted to be a sponsor last year. It’s fun, and those sponsors pay megamillions for the privilege of seeing their logos splashed on those souped-up hot rods. The sport has some impressive demographics for advertisers.” She sent a glance at the counter. “And some impressive drivers.”

  Becca flipped open her order pad, but her attention stayed riveted across the room. “He was so sweet to me. You’d never know he was so famous.”

  Celeste checked her bracelet watch and calculated how long it would take to get to the Guggenheim. “I have an appointment, so I’ll just have the coffee, Becca.”

  An ear-to-ear grin spread across Becca’s face, and Celeste followed the woman’s delighted gaze across the restaurant, where Beau Lansing was chatting with the cashier. As if on cue, he turned to Becca and winked, then added a nonchalant salute good-bye.

  The poor woman grabbed the Formica table for life support and let out a moan that fell dead center between agony and ecstasy.

  “My husband’s gonna flip,” Becca said breathlessly. “Even though he thinks the crash that killed Gus Bonnet was all Beau’s fault. I don’t care. I just love to look at him.”

  Celeste watched the waitress walk away, waiting for her own pulse to slow down. “Good Lord. She’s got to be closing in on fifty and she’s acting like a groupie at a rock concert.”

  Jackie leaned forward, her eyes sparkling. “Let’s go meet him, Celeste.”

  The mug wobbled in her grip. “You’re on your own. I have to go.”

  “Why on earth do you have to be at the museum on a Saturday? Come on. Don’t you want to just talk to him?”

  It was the last thing on earth she wanted to do. “Not one bit. I am needed at the museum.”

  “You’re a volunteer, for cryin’ out loud,” Jackie shot back. “You should demand better hours.”

  Celeste shrugged and set a five-dollar bill on the table. “Some major art collector scheduled a private tour of the Sugimoto exhibit.”

  “And all the other Junior Leaguers are in the Hamptons?”

  Celeste ignored the crack. “This col
lector requested I give him the tour.”

  “He requested a specific museum docent?” Jackie raised an eyebrow. “How often does that happen?”

  “It never has. Maybe he wants to meet the future senator from Connecticut and figures he can gain entrance through his daughter.” Celeste slid out of the booth. “Since my father’s campaign began, everyone seems to have an agenda. Everyone’s lobbying for something from him.”

  She picked up her Louis Vuitton bag then held it against the coffee stain on her cream pants. “At least it matches,” she said with a wry smile.

  “You’re crazy to wear white in the city.” Jackie shook her head.

  “I’m an optimist.”

  Jackie reached over and tapped the diamond on Celeste’s hand. “Yeah? Is that why you took a ring you had no intention of keeping?”

  Celeste sighed. “I’m working on that.”

  Celeste welcomed the air-conditioned chill of the Guggenheim. The walk had warmed her, causing a thin sheen of perspiration on her neck and allowing some unruly strands to escape their barrette. Reaching back to unsnap the clip, she finger-combed the waves over her shoulders.

  What a disaster of a morning.

  She didn’t even bother to stop and soak up the peace of the white exhibit halls spiraling up to the top floor of the museum. There could be no peace until she knew what Beau Lansing was doing in New York.

  Of course, it was a big city with millions of visitors, and he could be there for any number of reasons. A TV interview, a meeting with a sponsor. It was ridiculous to think he was there because of…the connection they shared.

  She approached the main desk and smiled at the man behind it, leaning her elbows on the counter with mock annoyance. “How did we manage to land Saturday duty, Sam?”

  The old man’s eyes crinkled with his grin. “You’ll be glad you did, little lady. You’ve got yourself a celebrity to take on a tour.” He pointed to the right and she froze, not daring to follow it. “None other than Beau ‘Lightning Bolt’ Lansing.”