by Mallory Rush
"Mom and Dad?" She gulped the words out and cast a furtive glance in his direction.
"Yeah. My—our parents want us to join them tomorrow for church and Sunday lunch. And they have a couple of extra tickets for a football game. Thought we might like to come along. I called them back and accepted. Hope you don't mind."
"Mind?" she echoed. Her voice sounded very small, and she was kneading the sheet with her hands.
Grant raised a brow to let her know he'd noticed. He leaned against the door frame Just a little longer to assure himself he really did have the power to unsettle her. Once he was satisfied that she was definitely breathing in an erratic, shallow pant, he moved away.
"Coffee's on," he threw over his shoulder.
"Grant."
He turned.
"I don't think you should come into my bedroom uninvited again."
"Wouldn't dream of it," he assured her. "I can wait for the invitation."
He turned on his heel, his mind spinning, his body still rushing, and his heart thumping like mad.
He'd thought brotherly love was better than no love.
He'd been wrong. One touch, one very provocative touch, was all it had taken. He needed her love the same way he needed to breathe.
* * *
Cammie pretended to concentrate on the magazine, the pages fluttering with the Porsche windows half-down. She only wished Grant's leg wasn't so close, the well-honed muscles bunching beneath the smooth fabric of the gray suit he was wearing to church.
She'd probably seen him in it ten times that year, but for reasons she did not want to explore, she'd never noticed until now how well the tailored coat accentuated his broad shoulders, or how the white dress shirt and dark silk tie set off the healthy bronze glow of his skin and the strong angle of his freshly shaven jaw. But worst of all was the way his pants fit snugly around his lean waist and hips, and tightened just enough at his thighs when he sat down to remind her of the pagan god she had seen surging out of the water and arching toward the night sky.
"Want me to roll my window up?"
Cammie shifted closer to her own window at the sound of his voice. The voice that was deeper, more gravelly, and far more assertive even in casual conversation then she ever remembered it being. Like the voice of a stranger, and yet the most familiar voice in the world.
"No," she said without looking at him. She didn't want to be reminded of the way the wind was ruffling his unruly hair. "No, but you can slow down."
"Sure. Anything you say, Cammie."
He shifted down, and his hand brushed against her silken hose. She jumped before she could stop herself, and silently cursed the instinctive reaction. Grant had touched her a million times, but ever since yesterday's unreal and yet all too real encounter, nothing was the same with them. Not even a casual and possibly intentional brush of his hand against her leg.
She concentrated hard on the article, then realized she'd read the same paragraph three times and didn't have the faintest idea what the article was about.
She was still too disoriented to form a coherent thought—disoriented and appalled by her voyeuristic arousal. Even more, she was disturbed about and unbelieving of the shocking turn their relationship had suddenly taken.
Grant had overtly and without hesitation let her know that his feelings for her were adult and not brotherly in the least. But how could that be possible? How could he have changed overnight—or had he? Had she been so blind, so entrenched in the familiar, that she hadn't looked beyond the surface to see the obvious?
She didn't know, nor could she explain her own inexplicable and sudden awareness of him as a man. It was horrible and intriguing and mind-shattering... but most of all, unacceptable.
Grant was her brother. Not by blood, but they were linked with their souls, with familial bonding and ties, with holidays and shared joys and sorrows. They had been closer than a lot of natural siblings she knew, always seeking the other one before going to anyone else for advice, for support, for love and laughter.
Right now she was so confused and upset, she needed Grant more than ever. He was her best friend and she craved his advice, his insight to sort out this crazy mess.
Yet just when she needed him so badly, they couldn't talk. That was the most devastating blow of all—losing him this way. She missed her brother and she wanted him back.
She risked a fleeting glance in his direction, and he intercepted her, his eyes sober but alight with something she'd never seen before yesterday. That something teemed with masculine prowess, with emotional depth and longing, with a proprietary and distinctly sensual intent. The wind whipped through his hair, and she caught the faint hint of cologne, a scent that was clean, woodsy, intoxicating.
He'd worn it for years, but he'd never before smelled so incredibly good, so good that she wanted to bury her face in the crook of his neck and breathe in deeply.
Her throat constricted and she looked quickly away. Her head swam; her heart hurt so bad, she wished she could weep.
They could never go back, but they could never go forward. This was the second brother she'd lost, and somehow the pain was worse as an adult than as a child.
Maybe because this time she knew the depth of her loss.
* * *
Grant pulled into the church parking lot, throwing a casual wave and a happy greeting in the direction of their parents, who were waiting for "the children" just outside the majestic old Methodist church.
Cammie automatically reached for her door handle, grateful to get a little distance from Grant, though at the same time she dreaded facing Mom and Dad under the awkward and inappropriate circumstances.
Grant caught her wrist before she could open the door. "Hang on, I'll come around and get you."
"I can open it myself," she protested, trying to keep things as normal as possible." I always open my own door... Bro."
His face hardened at that last word. His grip subtly tightened.
"Stay put," he ordered. "The rules just changed."
"Grant, you've got to stop behaving like..."
"Like what? C'mon, Cammie. Say it."
She looked away in time to see their parents strolling toward the car. She let go of the handle.
"Okay, Grant, you get your way this time. Open the damn door and do it fast. Mom and Dad are almost here."
"And we wouldn't want to cause a scene, right? We know how they hate to see us squabble." He narrowed his eyes, then his gaze lowered, momentarily to linger on her lips before he abruptly looked away.
Seconds later he was striding around the car and opening her door. Cammie didn't offer her hand, but he took it anyway and helped her out.
"What's the matter, Cammie?" he asked, his voice low. "Your hand's awfully damp, and I do believe you're shaking."
She was spared the necessity of a reply by their mother.
"Hey, kids, you made it on time for a change. Grant, you didn't speed to get here, now did you?"
"Hi, Mom," he said, letting go of Cammie's hand to give Dorothy Kennedy a big bear hug and a sound kiss. "And no, I didn't speed. Cammie made me drive five miles under the speed limit."
"That's my girl," Edward said as he embraced Cammie in his loving, paternal arms. "Make him toe the straight and narrow. You know we count on you to keep him out of trouble."
"Oh, she makes it hard for me, Dad," Grant said, "But that's okay, 'cause I know she's really soft as butter inside."
While Edward clasped his son's hand and laughed heartily, Cammie fought the distinct urge to slug Grant. She might have, if Dorothy hadn't kissed her cheek.
"Cammie, sweetheart, I'm so glad to see you. You're so pretty up on that TV. Dad and I have everybody we know watching you. Oh, and I almost forgot. When we get home I've got some material I found that'll be just beautiful for that dress pattern we picked out for you last month."
"Great, Mom," she said with an enthusiasm she was far from feeling. "I can't wait. And talk about pretty, I love your new outfit. Did you make it?"
"Why, sure. Got to keep my fingers busy. The Good Book says, idle hands are the devil's workshop."
"The preacher's right on that score," Grant said, sliding Cammie a mischievous grin. "I try to keep mine as quick and clever as possible."
Dorothy smiled proudly. "I know you do, son. You're just so gifted and imaginative. I declare, the Lord must have been feeling generous the day you were born."
"I think so too, Mom. He gave me an extra portion, and a man has to be thankful for that." Grant nodded amiably as he draped his arm around Cammie's shoulders, looking amazingly sweet and innocent as he brushed his fingers back and forth against the bare skin of her upper arm.
"So, son," Edward said, "just about got that special fishin' pole worked out for Audrey? That's all she talks about every time she and Trish come to visit."
"It's almost done. I ran into a few hitches, but I've about got it worked out. I wouldn't be much of an uncle if I let my only niece down, you know."
"Oh, dear," Dorothy said. "Church must be starting while we're standing around gabbing. I think I hear the organ."
Grant nodded. "I think I hear it too. Maybe we should go on in. When the organ's touched just right, it's a beautiful thing to behold."
"That's a fact," Edward said, hooking his arm through his wife's and leading the family toward the sanctuary. "Come on, kids. Time to sing some hymns, give some thanks, and get rid of the week's guilt. Or maybe get some more, depending on what the good reverend decides to preach."
Cammie hung back just enough so Dorothy and Edward were a good ten feet in front of them. Edward was middle-age handsome, and Grant favored him; Dorothy was a maternal version of a young Judy Garland. It was all too easy to see the similarities between them and their son. But looking at their trusting faces and being enfolded in the unlimited bounty of their love—something she'd always associated with Grant as well— Cammie decided she had grossly misjudged her adoptive brother somewhere along the line.
"You should be ashamed of yourself," she hissed as his hand fit snugly in the small of her back. "All those innuendos in front of your parents."
"Innuendos?" he repeated incredulously. "What innuendos, Cammie? I was just going along with the folks. And you do make it hard for me, you know."
His seductive chuckle was interrupted by a grunt of pain as her elbow connected with his ribs.
"I hope the preacher heaps all kinds of guilt on your head today," she said between clenched teeth.
"Not likely," he shot back. "I don't feel any remorse for having my prayers finally answered. Took Him long enough. After seventeen years I was beginning to think He'd disconnected the line."
"That's blasphemous, talking like that."
"No, it's not. It's honest." He stopped short as their parents reached the open and welcoming doors of the church, from which the organ music spilled out. "Hear that? It's the doxology. When we get in there I am going to give thanks. Because whether you can accept it yet or not, you're struggling against the tide. Come to me, Cammie," he whispered, "and rest your soul upon the peaceful shore."
The sun wreathed the back of his head in a halo of light. Her eyes locking with his, Cammie couldn't begin to sort out the conflicting emotions and sensations ricocheting between her head and her heart. Nor could she control the sensual awareness that had lain dormant for so long, but was now blossoming with unnerving speed.
Glancing at Mom and Dad, who were smiling and signaling them to hurry, Cammie felt a wave of guilt, the certainty that they would be hurt and mortified by a romantic liaison between their adopted daughter and their son. They'd consider it illicit at best; a sin, perhaps.
All these things hit her at once, and had the effect of an A-bomb being dropped inside her head and exploding down to her toes.
She gulped in a steadying breath of air and tossed her head indifferently.
"Lay my soul upon the peaceful shore?" she repeated on a laugh. "Really, Grant, you must have an inflated opinion of yourself. A sandy beach or an overused hot tub deck comes a lot closer, if you ask me."
He regarded her shrewdly when she mentioned the hot tub, and Cammie wished she could take that part back. But then he laughed.
"Leave it to you to keep me on the straight and narrow," he said, taking her arm and leading her to the entrance.
"I know, I know," she muttered. "But that's okay, because I'm soft as butter inside."
"Are you?" he whispered, his breath warm and fragrant, wisping seductively against her ear and raising the hairs on the back of her neck.
Cammie drew in her breath, thankful the usher was prompt, but not so relieved when she saw it was a full house and he was leading them to a crowded pew.
If there had been any way, she would have maneuvered herself between Mom and Dad, but unless she made an issue of it, she was stuck next to Grant. Stuck next to this man she was beginning to believe was more a stranger than an old and comfortable friend.
Sharing a hymnal with him was sensual and emotional torture, his voice vibrant but a little off-key while his hand touched hers beneath the well-worn binding. As if that weren't enough, they were sandwiched in, so that Grant had to drape his arm behind her back, leaving her no choice but to stay locked by his side, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. For all their Sunday clothes, she was beginning to feel like Eve, naked and tempted by the forbidden fruit.
The most difficult part of all was saved for last, when the good reverend asked everyone to join hands with those sitting next to them while he said a parting prayer—which turned out to be an unusually long one.
Mom's hand was as warm and loving as ever on one side. But when Grant's fingers laced with hers on the other, Cammie couldn't deny that a current passed between them that transcended time and propriety and entrenched boundaries. She felt like the old skin of their friendship was being shed while something brilliant and new grew in its place.
Then he moved his thumb, taking the hidden access to her sensitive and moist palm. He stroked it back and forth, tracing a slow, deliberate pattern, turning the simple act into the most heady and forbidden indulgence of the senses she'd ever experienced.
He squeezed her hand, then repeated the strokes, and she realized he was sending her a message—a game they had played as children, one scratching out symbols while the other tried to decode the secret words.
She felt the distinct strokes, long, then short...
Her eyes opened and immediately locked with his as he repeated once more:
I...
Followed by a heart...
And ending with the letter U.
Chapter 3
"Here, let me get that." Grant managed to lean into Cammie, brushing his chest against her bare arm as he snagged the jar of freshly preserved tomatoes from the top shelf, which was just beyond her reach in the walk-in pantry.
"Thanks," she said, her voice strained as their hands brushed when he passed it to her.
Grant let his fingers linger for a luxurious moment, then broke the contact. Before she could hide the truth, he saw the proof, the small frown of disconcertment. Of disappointment.
Oh, it was good. Hell, it was wonderful, fantastic, exhilarating! Just as electric as the shared bond that had leaped and surged between them less than an hour ago. He owed the reverend. That long, drawn-out closing prayer had had some miracle magic, and Cammie hadn't been able to disguise her response. She was too transparent to begin with; Cammie couldn't lie her way out of a paper bag. Besides, they could read each other as if with ESP. and both of them knew it.
"Hurry up, kids," Dorothy called from the adjoining kitchen. "We need to change clothes and eat so we're not late for the game."
"Coming!" Cammie wheeled around, then froze as Grant grabbed her hand. Her gaze riveted on his firm fingers as he curled them into her soft, warm flesh.
"Sit with me at the game," he murmured.
She swallowed hard before darting a furtive glance toward the kitchen, where they could both hear Dorothy stirring something on the stov
e and humming to herself.
"I don't think that's a good idea," she whispered.
"Why not? You never minded sitting with me in the past."
"That was before... before..."
"Before, what, Cammie?" he demanded huskily. "Before you found out I'm no brother and we've got something brewing between us that's a lot more potent than affection?"
"No!" she said sharply. She jerked away from him, and the jar slipped from her hold. It crashed loudly, glass and tomatoes splattering on the linoleum floor, his shoes, and her hose.
"Uh-oh! Did something break?"
They heard Dorothy's scurrying steps just before she appeared in the pantry doorway.
"It's nothing," Grant said, smiling. "Just a case of butterfingers. Can you get us a mop and a towel, Mom? I'll clean the mess, but we'll track up the kitchen if we don't wipe this off first."
"Be careful of the glass," she admonished before heading to the utility room.
"Damn you, Grant," Cammie whispered. "See what you made me do? Now stop this nonsense before anything else happens."
"I didn't make you do anything. You tried to run from me all by yourself. And if you think I'm going to stop this 'nonsense,' you can forget it. As far as I'm concerned, we're just getting started."
For a moment they locked gazes and wills. Grant's lips were compressed in determination; Cammie's trembled slightly in spite of her sharply spoken warning.
"You're crazy," she finally said in a tight voice, and looked away.
"You're right," he said quietly, then traced a single fingertip along her delicate jaw. "Crazy about you."
Her gaze flew to his, and she mutely shook her head in denial.
"What are you so scared of, Cammie? Me? Or yourself."
"Here's the mop." Dorothy rounded the doorway just as Grant withdrew his lingering touch.
"Thanks, Mom." He reached for the mop handle. "Cammie, grab that towel, would you? You can start with my shoes. I'll take care of the floor."
"That's fine," Dorothy said. "If you've got it under control, I'll get back to the stove."
"Oh, it's under control," Grant assured her as she turned to go. "I've got it all under control."
