Blain is well-heeled, well connected and drop-dead gorgeous-and he knew Cece when she was a drag-racing tomboy with grease under her nails. But Cece has grown up since then, in all the right places. And while catching the killer is her main objective, she's not above making the man who ignored her as a teenager squirm a little.
Two people on a surefire collision course.
But Cece and Blain are about to discover that the sweetest victory does not always come from winning, it might just come from love. I was enthralled with the characters in these pages. Britton creates situations for her characters that are fascinating and hilarious.
I was kept guessing until the very end, even as I rooted for Lea to catch the bad guy. Way to go, Ms. Britton" - Coffee Time Romance. The tension and sexual excitement in this novel is as hot and smoking as racecar tires on take off.
I kept setting this novel in my to be read pile because I am not a huge race fan. Was I ever wrong! I started this novel one night and it was midnight before I stopped for the night. I was captivated from the first page and could not find a place to stop. Pamela Britton has done a terrific job. Dangerous Curves is a very clever title. Cece has dangerous curves and so does the racetrack.
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I enjoyed this novel very much. It is creative and fun. With an amazing plot and wonderful characters, this book will have you feeling as if you are right there with them. The investigation is cleverly handled and shares lead theme with the romance and the insightful look at a racing car team.
Cece is handled brilliantly throughout but especially when she suffers a traumatic injury while Blain is more of a surprise as he seems so confident and sure of himself yet read the book Pamela Britton provides her audience with an exciting spin. She was five-foot-six of Spandex wrapped, thigh-high boots, bustier-clad woman. And she wasn't happy. Or maybe her matching bracelets. They'd be easier to slip off.
Bob's chubby-cheeked face remained blank.
It was one thing she despised about him. No, envied, this ability he had to remain unruffled no matter what the circumstances. He was like one of those mimes you saw in the park, able to keep a straight face even as some dog doo-dooed on his leg.
The talent was helped by the fact that he had wrinkle-free skin near impossible to glean the age of. Cece supposed Mother Nature had blessed him with such a complexion as a way of making up for the no hair thing.
But instead of addressing her concerns, Bob eyed her up and down. You know about my past with the owner of that race team. You know every damn detail. That'd be like—" she searched for the right words. Her eyes narrowed. We need your expertise with explosives. Just like you needed my expertise working that organized crime ring? You want me to walk away from that?
Find someone else with the expertise.
Some man offered me a hundred bucks if I'd let him sniff my underwear. Another asked me to do a threesome. An evangelist talked my ear off for an hour because he was convinced he could save my soul. To say I'm in no mood for this would be an understatement.
My feet hurt, I have a rub spot on the back of my knee and I'm convinced a bird pooped in my hair, only, see, I can't tell because makeup decided to turn my hair into their version of the Burning Bush, sans the flames, although there's so much hair spray in this mess," she pointed at her teased and cemented blonde hair, "I could give Michael Jackson a run for his money.
She jabbed her spiked heels into the business-brown carpet as she stormed off to her office in another corner of the mostly glass high-rise.
Damn Bob. Of all the dumb, fool things to ask her. She jerked open the door of her office before slamming it closed. For a long second she just seethed as she stared out the window.
Blain Sanders. A name from a past.
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A man who'd been responsible for more humiliating teenage memories than she cared to admit. Even now she felt the sting of a blush as she recalled some of her more embarrassing moments—trying to get an after school job at the same place as he did, only to have him call her a stalker, slipping that ridiculous note in his locker that was supposed to be anonymous, only to have Billy Richards see her do it.
And then, their senior year, she'd tried to get even with him by building a car that was faster than his.
Only she'd succeeded at that, but then her dad died and her whole world had come crashing down. Cece bent down to grab some spare clothes from a filing cabinet drawer, trying to forget the memories. They were better off in the past. If it isn't Cecilia Blackwell. Famous last words. She closed her eyes for a sec before opening them again to slowly turn and face the door.
Ten long years and a forgotten high-school crush faced her. Perfect timing. She hadn't survived a year of co-ed training to blush when caught wearing next to nothing. Besides, he didn't seem to care, merely met her gaze directly.
Get out. Damn it. She'd fantasized about this moment, about meeting him again, but always in a chic black suit, black pumps and her hair pulled back in a smooth chignon.
Dangerous curves pamela britton pdf download
Instead she wore fishnet stockings- fishnets , for goodness sake--next to no clothes and a head of hair big enough to be spotted by the Space Shuttle while he She eyed him up and down in an impartial I'm-no-longer-affected-by-him way. Rain colored eyes still looked just as striking against a fringe of long, dark lashes. Strong jaw. Wide shoulders and a body that hadn't gained an ounce of fat in the ten years she'd gone up two sizes. It was the same voice as before, only This voice dripped Southern like a jar of maple syrup, not surprising since he'd spent the last ten years of his life working the stock car circuit.
Blain—California born and bred—had apparently adopted red neck ways. Instead she flicked her Be a Bimbo Barbie hair and said, "Well, the dress code is pretty lax around here. I do what I can to be comfortable. She placed her hands on her hips, giving him a stance ala Wonder Woman right down to the conical breasts.
Got the badge and gun out of a gumball machine.
I was hoping for the Scooby Doo necklace, but I guess it just wasn't my day. For half a heartbeat she thought she saw something drift through his silver gaze--interest, maybe--but she had to be seeing things.
It used to drive her crazy when she'd had that huge crush on him because nothing, but nothing she said or did—and, oh boy, had she done some things—ever made him remember her name, much less show interest in her.
Imagining things. I don't want it, either. She really did look ridiculous in that getup, or so he told himself because he did not, as a rule, find women in thigh-high boots attractive.
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He shrugged, his eyes darting over the office. Wall of glass behind her, the California fog he didn't miss much creeping through the streets. Bachelor of Arts Degree on the wall to his left. No pictures on the opposite one to his right.
Not even those 'love your fellow coworker' posters. Nothing but bare walls, a low shelf, and a C. Man, she didn't even have one of those little stuffed toys most women hung on their monitor.
Typical Cece Blackwell. She was about as feminine as a case of motor oil. As if he could forget. He must be more shook up over Randy's death than he thought because requesting Cece Blackwell work the case when all he had were some half-baked rumor about her success as an F.