by Mallory Rush
"I always do," she assured him with a "click" of her seat belt and a farewell wave.
As she drove away, Cammie glanced at Russ's fading image in her rearview mirror and breathed a sigh of relief. Keeping men at bay got awfully tiresome after a while. But after three broken engagements in twice as many years, she was taking some time off from the singles scene.
Maybe she'd still be dating—since she did like to get out—if this last breakup hadn't been so awful. All the engagements had ended for pretty much the same reasons, but the latest ex-fiancé, a high-powered broker, had been brutally honest. The fight alone had left her glad they had called it off.
"You never let anyone get too close, do you?" he'd said to her that last night. "No wonder your relationships never work out. Turns out the leading lady of the airwaves is nothing but a fraud. Yeah, she looks like a woman a man couldn't get enough of... and that's just about right, isn't it, doll? But maybe that's because you're already giving the best of yourself to that brother you can't quit talking about. Grant this, Grant that. If he's so perfect, maybe you deserve each other."
"Grant," she sighed into the darkness, then shook her head. Turning on a local FM station, Cammie wondered if maybe there hadn't been a smidgen of truth in her fiancé's verbal attack. She found that she did compare other men with Grant, and ultimately they all came up short. Besides, she loved Grant, more than anyone else in the whole world. Even more than she loved his parents, who were the closest thing to a mother and father she could ever have.
Grant was the brother God had given her for the one she'd lost. He could always make her furious or make her laugh, or more often than not simply glad to be alive. He was her soul mate and her secret keeper, and she would fight to the death to protect him.
Only Grant didn't need anyone's protection, she reminded herself. He'd made that clear a long time ago. Sometimes, especially in the years since he'd graduated from college and established himself independently, she wondered how well she knew him, really knew him.
He had changed, and more than physically. Oh, sure, he was still genius material, quite the young, new inventor, making the family proud as peacocks. And he was fun, still teasing her the way he always had. Just like today, when he'd pretended to give her a leering once-over with his Romeo eyes that dropped the girls dead in their tracks.
She wasn't sure when it had happened, but Grant had grown up. He was a man—a ladies' man, a man's man. His own man. Too bad he was the closest thing she had to kin. He was the kind of man a woman could fall in love with.
Cammie realized she was idling the old El Dorado in front of Grant's house. They lived a good ten miles apart, but her car seemed to drive there on automatic pilot half the time. It had been rough that night, covering the accident. She didn't want to go home and face the empty house alone.
Since Grant's car was in the driveway, indicating he was home, she walked up the uneven ledges of the lushly landscaped lawn. The front door was unlocked. That meant he had to be around somewhere. Alone? She hoped so. She needed his company. No demands. No need to keep the conversation running. Just the closeness they shared.
Letting herself in, Cammie called his name. No answer.
"Grant?" she said again, moving cautiously in the direction of his bedroom. The door was open, the lights on. The big platform bed was made. Furniture and gym equipment were all in place. No scattered undies were lying around.
Cammie realized she was strangely glad of that. As ridiculous as it was, as platonic as their relationship was, she still found herself not wanting to share Grant.
She thought she heard a familiar sound track playing on the other side of his "think tank" room—the big den where he did most of his mental gymnastics, sketching ideas like crazy. If that was where the music was coming from, it meant he was in the hot tub.
Backtracking, she padded softly over the Indian-weave rugs that were scattered across the wood-planked floors of the front hall. Just one of the many projects they had taken on together—they'd sanded, then polished and laminated until the oak gleamed and their knees ached.
She passed beneath the familiar massive ceiling beams and beyond the masculine leather furniture she had helped Grant pick out and arrange in his living room. Edging through the kitchen she spent as much time in as her own, she heard the music more clearly.
Cammie paused beside the French doors that led onto the redwood deck, where she could hear the spa gurgling and churning about fifteen feet away. One door was partially open, and she grasped a polished brass knob, ready to make her entrance.
"Gra—" The syllable died on her tongue while her body froze.
She hadn't opened the door more than a few inches when Grant stood up in the hot tub, spotlighted by the moon's glow, the water roiling and surging around his hips. His chest was broad and covered with a thick mat of hair. It was the same chest she had rested her head against too many times to count; but somehow, the way the light caught and played against the thickness of muscle and sinew, he seemed suddenly more pagan than fraternal.
Cammie ordered herself to let go of the doorknob. As she did, he moved with a quick, lithe grace, hoisting himself naked onto the deck, close enough for her to see each delineated line of his broad back, his thighs, his buttocks.
His silhouette arched when he stretched and reached up, as though embracing the star-studded sky. He shook the water from his dark, unruly hair and laughed seductively.
Then he pivoted. Cammie's throat went dry. She told herself not to look, to move away, that this was wrong.
Wrong or not, for a moment she couldn't budge. She was mesmerized and stunned and... no, she couldn't be. It wasn't possible...
Without her conscious consent, Cammie's gaze moved over his body, memorizing the alternately rough and smooth textures of hair and skin, the planes and angles and indentations of his physique: Grant—majestic, beautiful, and erect in all his masculine glory.
As she backed away from the door, Cammie's breath caught sharply while an ache gripped her deep inside. Escaping to her car, she acknowledged the unbelievable truth, as undeniable as it was taboo.
Grant had been fully aroused. And even now, running as fast as her legs could take her, trying to forget the image she couldn't forget, so was she.
Oh, Lord... so was she.
Chapter 2
Grant squinted against the midmorning rays piercing through the overcast sky. He hoped it rained. It would suit his mood. After his romp the night before, he should be feeling pretty good about life in general and himself in particular.
He didn't. He felt disgusted and as empty as a discarded corn husk. Brandy was a heady and sensual woman, but come the morning light he didn't want to look at her. Or himself. He'd forgone shaving just so he wouldn't have to face the mirror.
Shifting the white bag, from which emanated an aroma of hash browns, bacon, and scrambled eggs from a neighborhood take-out joint, he knocked twice on Cammie's door and waited. When she didn't answer, he fished in his pocket for his key and let himself in.
Judging from the drawn curtains and the fact that the only sign of life was from the fish swimming in her aquarium, he figured Cammie was still sawing logs. Alone.
Once when he'd let himself in, she'd been in a state of half-undress with her fiancé—he thought it was fiancé number two. He'd wanted to commit an act of homicide, as if it were his right and not her fiancé's to have access to her body. Somehow he'd gotten out of there without resorting to a scene, and settled for drinking and partying himself into oblivion that night.
He never knew why, and he didn't believe in questioning a higher deity about miracles, but for some reason she had broken the engagement the next week. And since breakup number three, she hadn't been seeing anyone else.
Yes, he thought it was safe to assume she was alone.
Alone and, he hoped, sleeping naked. As he tapped on her half-open bedroom door and called to her softly, Grant knew he wasn't above stealing a peek of any flesh that happened to be uncovered. Hel
l, he'd had nothing but stolen kisses and stolen glances to get him through, from puppy love to an adolescent crush, to... now. The real thing.
When she didn't answer, he pushed the door open with his foot and crossed to the edge of the bed. Her hair was a mass of tangles and half covered her face; one bare arm was thrown over her head. Her mascara was smudged and her lips were slightly parted as she breathed evenly and deeply. Her chest rose and fell with each breath, her breasts swathed with a smooth dark sheet, but beckoning him nonetheless.
Grant swallowed hard and shut his eyes, trying to adjust his act to suit the situation. This was just a brotherly visit, the Saturday brunch they usually shared since the family was thirty miles away and neither had a steady.
He had to remember that she didn't take him seriously when he was at his most serious. That was always dangerous—things like yesterday's overtures. If Cammie ever guessed how serious he really was, there was no telling how she would react. Chances were, it would create a breach between them. He couldn't bear the thought of giving up even a fraction of her affection, no matter what form it took. Brotherly love was better than no love at all.
Forcing his body to ignore its instincts and his psyche to assume the role she had cast him in, he waved the paper sack just beneath her nose, back and forth, until her head subtly swayed in the direction of the tantalizing fragrance.
"Mmmm," she murmured groggily, still more than half-asleep.
Keep it light, he told himself. Keep up the "just family" routine. Keep the invisible emotions hidden so she doesn't trip over them and stomp all over your heart.
"Oh, Sleeping Beauty," he sing-songed, "it's your wake-up call. Come and get it."
"Mmmm," she groaned again. "Go away... I'm sleeping..."
"So I noticed. I heard you cutting Z's all the way to my house. Anyone ever tell you that you snore? Or that you sleep with your mouth open and have a tendency to drool?"
"Buzz off, Grant," she mumbled, and rolled over, covering her head with a pillow. "You're a pain in the butt."
He chuckled and made a neat dive to the other side of the mattress. The old iron bedsprings squeaked and groaned beneath his weight. He wrestled the pillow from her grasp and plumped it up behind his back.
Cammie's eyes opened suddenly as he kicked off his shoes and stretched, before proceeding to dig into the take-out sack. He smiled and winked as he waved a piece of bacon back and forth like a pendulum.
"You are getting sleepy," he murmured hypnotically. "Slee-py.... sleee-py..."
"Grant!" she squawked. "What are you doing here?"
"What do you mean, 'What are you doing here?' I'm eating breakfast. The same way I do every Saturday. If you don't get up, I'm gonna eat yours too."
"But you can't!" she said frantically.
"Of course I can. I'm doing it. See?"
Cammie looked unusually disoriented, he noticed, especially as she clutched the sheet tight and high about her neck, her eyes avoiding his.
"How did you get in?" she demanded.
"I used my key. What else?"
"And you re on my bed. Get off my bed. Right this instant."
"Jeez, Cammie, what's with you? You got a case of PMS or something? Want me to get you a Midol out of the bathroom, or—"
"Out!" she ordered. She let go of the sheet long enough to give him a push and point what looked suspiciously like a shaking finger in the direction of the door.
"If you wanted some coffee, all you had to do was say so," he said reasonably while his gaze immediately followed the descent of the sheet. She had on a T-shirt, but he could see the thrust of her breasts, the jut of her nipples.
Grant forced himself to look away and gather up the scattered Styrofoam containers before he had yet another raging fire to douse.
He stopped at the door and glanced back. Cammie was looking at him with an odd kind of confusion—almost as though she had been awakened by someone she'd thought was a stranger and just now realized it had only been he.
"Are you okay, Cammie?" he asked, his brow furrowed with concern. Then he remembered. He'd been in the middle of some pretty heavy foreplay, but he'd been sensitive to her every move, every nuance of impression.
"Cammie... Last night... I'm sorry, I forgot. You must be upset. Want to talk about it?"
"What?" she croaked. Her gaze darted around the room before settling uneasily on him. "Last night? What about last night?"
Cammie was acting awfully strange, he mused. He propped an elbow on the door frame and studied her curiously. The sack dangled from his hand and for a split second he almost dropped it—the split second that he thought she looked at him differently than ever before. With a spark he recognized as unadulterated feminine... interest. Not interest, more than that.
Desire.
He must have imagined it, though, he decided, because whatever he thought he'd seen was instantly replaced by something else—guilt, maybe? That didn't make any sense either.
Grant shook his head, deciding he was so deep into his own obsession with Cammie, he was starting to project his emotions onto her.
"You know," he said, "last night. The accident report. You covered it at ten, remember?"
"I remember," she retorted sharply, "but I'm surprised that you do."
"Of course I remember," he said tolerantly, even more confused by her belligerent attitude. "And I know how upset you get when you have to report on them. Especially the accidents with kids and families. I just wanted to make sure... Hell, I don't know what I wanted to make sure about. Just if you wanted a listening ear, or a shoulder to cry on. I've got both whenever you need them, Cammie. You know that. I thought maybe now was one of those times."
"Grant." Her face softened, then she smiled uncertainly. "I'm sorry, Grant. I didn't mean to snap at you. You, of all people. You're too special to me, and I should realize, more than anyone, not to take the people I love for granted. Ever since Justin died—" She swallowed hard, glanced away and then back. "You know you've always been the closest thing to a—"
"I know," he sighed. "A brother."
She nodded and held her hand out to him. He dropped the sack on the bedside table and sat beside her, taking her hand in his, kissing the soft palm, then laying it over his heart. He was glad his shirt was partially undone. It gave him the excuse to press her hand to his bare skin without seeming forward or out of line.
His eyes met hers, with empathy, with compassion, with love, though he was careful not to betray the deeper, more urgent kind of bond he ached to forge, the heavy pulse rushing between his temples, expanding inside his chest, and culminating painfully and unsatisfied—never to be satisfied—between his legs. She did all this to him with no more than the lightest caress of hand to chest.
Unexpectedly, her fingers spread beneath his and pressed, sinking into his skin and threading through the thick wiry hair before tentatively brushing his nipple. His breath caught. He thought his heart might pound through his ribs, if he didn't have a heart attack first.
Her caress was subtle but distinctly sexual, and he wondered if she had any idea what she was doing to him, or if she was aware of the intimate implications in so small an act.
He scrambled out of the cloak of disbelief, of longing that had descended over his brain like a fog, scanning her face, her eyes, searching for some kind of message, some signal to tell him he wasn't dreaming for once, that at last she had seen him for what he was, recognized him as the man he had become.
"Cammie... ?" His voice was hoarse, thick.
He saw it again—the flicker that he could only pray was desire, a smoky haze in the depths of her troubled eyes, banked and cautious, but holding the promise of fire if he could stoke it just right.
But so quickly it was gone, overlayered by confusion, struggle. And then a look of disbelief and disapproval, as though she couldn't believe what she had just done, but knew that she had and was horrified.
She quickly let go without actually jerking away and clasped her hands tigh
tly together, staring at the lace-curtained window.
"You'd better go eat your breakfast," she said quietly. "Go on, you. Git, before it's cold."
"Cammie." He touched her cheek, and this time she did jerk away.
"And make some coffee while you're in there, okay? I think I'm still asleep."
"I think you're just waking up."
He stroked his fingers through her hair, but she grasped his wrist and held it tight before thrusting his hand away.
"Cammie, don't—"
"No, Grant. We don't. Not you. Not me. Understand?"
"No, I don't understand. Talk to me, Cammie. Talk to me for once. Not some kid who grew up years ago. I want to talk about what just happened, about—"
"It didn't."
"It didn't what?"
"Happen. It didn't happen, Grant."
His eyes slitted, his lips barely moved. "You're a liar and you know it."
"Stop it," she hissed. "Stop it now. Nothing happened. Nothing."
"Coward."
He reached out to grasp her arms, but stopped himself. She would only shove him away. So he got up, aching and elated and frustrated and more determined than ever to make it the way it should be with them—now that he knew there was something to build on. He'd seen the chip in her facade. He'd hammer at it until she succumbed.
Stopping at the door, he let his gaze trace her shape beneath the sheets, and this time he had the pleasure of knowing that she most definitely took him seriously.
The way she huddled and drew her legs close beneath the flimsy covering told him so.
"I'll make some coffee," he said smoothly. "Meet you in the kitchen... sis. You don't mind if I call you that, do you? I mean, since we both know nothing happened."
She flinched, obviously rattled and upset. He was perversely glad. Maybe he should have destroyed her lofty opinion of him a long time ago, peeled away the image she clung to and given himself a chance at building a new one.
"Oh, and by the way," he added casually. "I had a message on my machine this morning from Mom and Dad."
