killer curves
CHAPTER ONE

.....Celeste Bennett imagined that the weight of her new engagement ring actually slowed her step to a rythmic thud…en-gaged…en-gaged…a-gain…a-gain. The anchor tugged at her finger as she crossed Fifth Avenue, contemplating how to rationalize the fact that she’d even accepted the diamond the night before. The excuse of not wanting to disappoint the people who loved her sounded as cowardly as taking the ring had made her feel.
.....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 echoed through the restaurant as Celeste navigated the crowded tables. Slipping into the booth, she smacked her hand 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, looking at Jackie’s brown eyes instead of the reflected light of the diamond.
....Jackie slumped against the mustard-colored vinyl and gave her auburn curls a saucy flip. "You know, I feel a little like Sue Ellen O’Hara here."
...." Excuse me?"
...." Scarlett’s little sister." Jackie scrunched up her face and drawled, "Scarlett’s had three husbands and I’m gonna be an old maid!"
....Straightening the silverware of her place setting, Celeste smiled. "Three fiancées, Jackie. Huge difference. Anyway, you didn’t hear me: I’m giving this one back before another person 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?"
...."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. The middle-aged waitress beamed 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, 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."
...." Stop," Celeste scolded gently. "Mother was oddly subdued. But not Daddy. He was nothing short of delirious."
...."Of course. Who wouldn’t love a son-in-law whose lineage can virtually guarantee 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 got that right. For all his intensity toward me, Craig is just as enamored of marrying into my family as he is with me. But I just couldn’t look at him and say no. Not with Daddy beaming from the sidelines."
....Thankfully, the waitress appeared before Jackie could launch into her lecture about the scourge of emotionally unavailable fathers. Becca plunked the coffeepot on the table, and 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 turned toward the counter, but Celeste 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 dropped her cup and it hit the floor with a resounding crash.
....They jumped at the clatter, 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, trying to cope with her visceral reaction to the news.
...." Yes, I’m fine. I…just…the cup just slipped out of my hands." Her arms and legs felt weak and heavy at the same time, all the blood coursing straight down to her feet. 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 can 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, you know. I love him. I love to watch him race."
....Celeste threw a disinterested glance over Jackie’s shoulder 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.
....Why was he standing thirty feet away from her? Why, why, why?
....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."
....Celeste brushed at her trouser leg. "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."
....Celeste swallowed. She’d only draw attention by not looking at him. Her 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 him when he sat in his car before a race with his eyes closed. Praying, or so 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 fared in a polo match.
...."Yes, he’s attractive," Celeste said, recapturing her normal cool tone. "In a grease monkey sort of way." Cool? 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 on her leg.
....Celeste studied a smudge on the butter knife to avoid having to look at him. "Well you have to admit that watching souped-up hot rods decorated with names of beer and cigarettes 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 mega millions for the privilege of seeing their logos splashed on those souped-up hot rods. The sport has some impressive demographics for advertisers." She paused and threw a glance at the counter. "And some impressive drivers."
....Becca returned with her order pad open and crouched down at their booth, but her attention stayed riveted across the room. "He was so sweet to me. You’d never know he was so famous."
....Celeste twisted her bracelet watch and calculated how long it would take to get to the Guggenheim and as far away from Beau Lansing as possible. "I have an appointment," she said. "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 goodbye.
....The poor woman grabbed the Formica table for life-support and let out a moan that fell dead center between agony and ecstasy.
....Jackie stared at him and opened her mouth to speak.
...." Don’t say it," Celeste warned her.
...." 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." She acknowledged a new customer at the next booth with a nod. "I just love to look at him."
...." Good Lord." Celeste watched the waitress leave, waiting for her own pulse to slow down. "She’s got to be closing in on fifty and she’s acting like a prepubescent 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 in the Hamptons?"
....Celeste ignored the crack. "This collector 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 someone wants to meet the future Senator from Connecticut and figures he can gain entrance through his daughter." Celeste slid out of the booth. "You’d be surprised what my father’s campaign can unearth from the woodwork. Everyone has 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.
...." I can’t imagine why anyone would wear white," Jackie mused.
....Celeste splayed her fingers over the irregular stain, not even coming close to covering it. "I’m optimistic."
....Jackie reached over and tapped the diamond on Celeste’s hand. "Optimistic, huh? Is that why you took a ring you had no intention of keeping?"
...." That’s right." At Jackie’s skeptical look, she added the truth. "And still trying to please my father."
...." You’re thirty. Get over it."
...." I intend to," she promised. She just had no earthly idea how.

# # #

....Celeste welcomed the air-conditioned chill of the Guggenheim. The short walk down Fifth 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 fingercombed 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 answered the question that reverberated in her brain. What was Beau Lansing 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. Pure coincidence.
....She approached the main desk and smiled at the familiar face behind it, leaning both elbows on the counter with mock annoyance. "How is it that we landed Saturday duty, Sam?"
....The old man’s eyes crinkled with his grin. "You’ll be glad you did, little lady." He pointed a finger toward her. "You have got yourself a celebrity to take on a tour." He swiveled his finger to the right. She didn’t dare follow it. A drop of perspiration trickled between her shoulders. "None other than Beau ‘Lightning Bolt’ Lansing."
....Her elbows almost slipped off the marble edge.
...." He’s faster than lightning, that’s what they say. Least they used to."
....So much for coincidence. Slowly, she turned her head in the direction Sam pointed. He sat on a bench, under a window, his long legs crossed at the ankles, an unwavering gaze the color of semi-sweet chocolate locked on her. Celeste felt the foundation of her world crumble and realized it was her legs, threatening to give way.
....He stood and ambled toward her. He wore jeans, tight and worn to near threadbare over narrow hips, and boots. Menacing black boots. As he got closer, she read the tiny insignia stitched into his blue oxford shirt. Chastaine Motorsports.
....Don’t say it. Don’t make me say that name.
....She could feel his scrutiny, studying every angle of her face. He knows. He knows.
...."Are you Celeste Bennett?"
....She nodded, making an impulsive decision. She would simply deny it. Deny, deny, deny.
...." I’m Beau. I appreciate you’re coming here on a Saturday and all, ma’am."
....Aw, shucks, honey. You just go ahead and ruin my life any ol’ weekend.
....She tucked her handbag under her elbow, crossing her arms and tamping down the distress inside her. "I understand you are a collector."
...." He’s also one of the best race car drivers that ever lived," Sam offered.
....She managed a surprised look. "Is that so?"
....The corner of his mouth lifted in a cynical smile. "Well, not that ever lived."
....Her gaze dropped back to the tiny checkered flags with a stylized lightning bolt between them splayed over an imposing, masculine chest.
....Chastaine. Had she ever said that name aloud? "What kind of art do you collect, Mr. Lansing?"
....He shrugged. "All different kinds."
....Whatever tricks Beau Lansing had up his sleeve, whatever nefarious reasons brought him into her life, she would let him reveal them at his own pace. If any confessions were about to be made, they’d start with him and his obvious lies. Art collector – hah! Black velvet Elvises and rebel flags, no doubt.
...." The exhibit is on the fourth floor," she said, turning toward the curved hall. "We don’t have any elevators in this part of the Museum, so you’ll have a chance to peruse some of our magnificent works on the way."
....He stayed in step with her. "Interesting set-up, this winding hallway."
...." It was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright to offer visitors an unbroken viewing area of all the art and a dramatic vista of the entire museum from any point." Celeste paused and looked up to the top of the atrium. "Did you come to discuss architecture, Mr. Lansing?" As if.
....His gaze stayed on her, not the art or the architecture. "How long have you worked here?" he asked.
...." I don’t work here. I’m on the Board of Directors. And I’m a docent."
...." A what cent?"
...." A volunteer who can provide tours. Are you a fan of Sugimoto?"
...." Yep." He turned toward an abstract oil as they rounded the second floor. "Mostly his early stuff."
...."He’s been working on this particular exhibit for twenty years."
...." I just like his paintings."
....She gave him a patronizing smile. "He’s a photographer."
....He tucked his hands into his front jeans pockets. "I meant his pictures."
....Of course he’d be uneducated. Just like… She swallowed. "Then you’ll undoubtedly enjoy this display of his work."
....As they turned the corner to the exhibit, he paused in front of the first work. "Now, how the heck did he get a photograph of Napoleon Bonaparte?"
....Maybe she could just bury him in artspeak before he could broach the subject he surely came to discuss. "Hiroshi Sugimoto’s work rekindles the dialogue that has existed between painting and photography ever since the invention of the camera."
....He glanced at her with a questioning look as they moved to a picture of Henry the Eighth. Looking at it, he ran a hand over his jaw. "So he took black and white pictures of famous people in Madame Toussaud’s and reprinted them."
....Basically, yes. "It’s a little more complicated than that. He traced all the figures back to the paintings on which most of them are based." She nodded toward the image. "Notice the gemstones on the King’s robe are reminiscent of Hans Holbein’s most famous portrait of the King."
...." Yeah." He squinted at Henry. "I noticed that."
....If she hadn’t been so bewildered at his unexpected appearance, she might have laughed.
....Celeste moved to the next piece, her favorite. In it, Anne Boleyn played a six-string lute. The artist had captured the sense of inevitable doom and surrender in the young woman’s expression. "Isn’t she beautiful?"
....She felt his gaze on her again.
...." She sure is." The faint southern tone in his voice played in her ears. Slowly, she turned to see him examining her with the same intensity she’d been giving to Henry’s bride.
....This game had to end. She felt her own pulse speed up and nearly lost herself in the depths of his eyes. Go ahead, mister. Say what you came to say. Because she would deny, deny, deny. Then run.
...." What exactly do you want from me, Mr. Lansing?