The Closer You Get

by Kristi Gold

  Brett grinned, showing his smile to full advantage. “Thought for a minute there we might dance.”

  Cammie couldn’t help but smile back. His eyes sparkled with sheer amusement. Gorgeous blue, blue eyes. She truly wanted to see what was behind those eyes, but there was nothing transparent about them except the color. She suspected she’d never know the real man behind the star, even if she had learned a little more about his past tonight.

  He started down the corridor but stopped midway to face her again. “I’m glad you’re here, Cammie.”

  She felt as if she’d just won a commendation. “Thanks.”

  When she drove into the hotel’s rear parking lot a few moments later, Brett surprised her by asking if she wanted to have a nightcap with him in the bar. She surprised herself by agreeing, putting on the brakes a little harder than intended when the word Yes leaped out of her mouth like a jackrabbit. She hadn’t given the request a second thought until it was too late to reconsider.

  He slipped out of his seat and stepped into the living area without a comment about her nearly throwing them through the windshield. She tapped her forehead against the steering wheel, hoping to bang some sense into her foolish brain.

  “First, my disguise,” Brett said from behind her. She joined him at the sofa, wondering if he would don a fake nose or beard.

  Instead, he removed his cowboy hat, placing it meticulously on the sofa, upturned so as not to flatten the brim. Then he walked to his room and, instead of a mask, came back carrying a folded T-shirt. He stripped off his tailored shirt and tossed it onto the couch next to his hat. Now bare from the waist up, he took his time unfolding the replacement. All too aware of his state of undress, Cammie couldn’t help but stare. Biceps and triceps and six-packs. Oh, my.

  She centered her attention on the raven tattoo that looked exactly like the one on the bus, only this one spanned his right side and its wing dipped into his waistband. But she didn’t get to inspect it for long before he pulled the tee over his head. Why was he doing this to her? Maybe his actions were some sort of a trial run, a test to see how well she could hold up under pressure. She was flunking the test.

  After she felt she could speak without sounding like a boy in the midst of puberty, she pointed to the silkscreen bull rider on the front of his shirt. “Have you ever done that?”

  Brett flipped open his belt buckle and, at the same time, her heart rolled in her chest like an accomplished gymnast. “I climbed on a bull’s back a few times when I was young and stupid. In fact, I got the raven tattoo in honor of the first bull I stayed on for the required eight seconds. He was mean and black and named Raven.”

  She prayed he hadn’t noticed how unwound she was at the moment, then inwardly scolded herself for believing he was about to make some flagrant pass—and mentally chided herself for realizing she wouldn’t mind if he did.

  When she heard the rasp of his zipper, her face heated up. But she wasn’t so mortified that she avoided watching him tuck in his shirt.

  “Anyway, I ran the rodeo circuit for several years,” he said as if he hadn’t noticed her morbid fascination. “But I ended up choosing something a little less dangerous than bull riding.”

  Cammie bit the inside of her mouth in an attempt to concentrate on the exchange as he redid his belt. “You chased rodeo queens?”

  He grinned. “Mostly I chased cows. I was a calf roper. That’s where I got this.” He pointed to the silver oval on his belt. “My lucky buckle.”

  Cammie took a quick glance at the buckle, then clucked disapprovingly. “A cruel sport.”

  Brett shrugged and splayed one large hand in front of her face. “The livestock always fared better than I did. I got this little souvenir from a rope burn. Almost lost a couple fingers.”

  She studied the wide scar that spread across the length of his right palm and snaked between his thumb and forefinger. She also noted a few calluses, trademarks of a guitar player. Then, as if her body had developed its own will, she reached out and slowly ran her fingertip over the raised flesh, tracing the wound’s path.

  Cammie looked into his eyes, as if she’d become someone else—someone totally disconnected from her physical self. Brett seemed just as shocked by her gesture, but he didn’t take his hand away.

  As far as she knew, there was no correlation between touching a man’s scar and a woman’s mouth going completely dry. But at the moment she felt parched, her tongue as scratchy as a cat’s. She rejoined with reality, swallowed hard. “Impressive, but you’ll get no sympathy from me.”

  He smiled and dropped his hand. “Should’ve known you’d feel that way.”

  Cammie shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “So whatever possessed you to ride a bull the first time?”

  “Someone dared me.”

  “Do you still do things on a dare?” Her tone was provocative, so much so she wanted to rip her scratchy cat’s tongue clean out of her mouth for being so obvious. For heaven’s sake, she was flirting like an adolescent. She didn’t believe in playing games, just tell-it-like-it-is honesty. She didn’t flirt. Or she hadn’t in quite some time.

  He gave her a half smile. “Did you have a dare in mind?”

  Cammie’s chest tightened, her pulse skittered. “I like to know what motivates people.”

  Brett dropped down in the chair before her, leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head, looking one-hundred-percent-all-American-and-proud-of-it cowboy. “I’m all yours, Camille. Tell me what you want to know and then I’ll tell you what motivates me.”

  The only thing she wanted to know right now was how he’d managed to reduce her to absolute feminine frailty by exposing his chest and presenting a wound for her inspection.

  Mark’s ability to entice a woman involved mostly verbal coaxing. He’d worn her down with pretty words. Brett was a man of few words and, she suspected, many unspoken talents. She’d never believed that someone could radiate sensuality like a full-blast furnace with only a look, but he could. Gentle persuasion came to mind. Not forceful, not overbearing and loud, like Mark.

  Now, why would she keep comparing him to Mark? She shouldn’t be comparing him to anyone. She shouldn’t be standing there, about to throw herself into a situation that could lead to the most inadvisable move she’d ever made.

  As Cammie nervously toyed with the buttons on her jacket, Brett visually followed the movement. “I’m not normally so nosy,” she added. “Really, you don’t have to answer all my questions. I’m sure you get tired of answering questions.”

  “Do you, Cammie?” His voice was pleasantly toxic.

  “Do I what?” Her voice was unnaturally high.

  Brett leaned forward and rested his arms on his thighs. “Do things on a dare. Do you ever take chances, Camille Carson?”

  “When I turned eighteen, I got a tattoo.” Lord, she’d lost her mind. But she didn’t want him to think she was a total loser.

  “Where and what?” he asked.

  “It’s a rose and it’s in a place no one can see.” If he asked to see it, she’d come totally unglued.

  He only smiled. “Interesting.”

  She had the strongest urge to lean over and place her hands atop his arms. “Anyway, I’m pretty much over my daredevil days.”

  Brett stood and brushed a fingertip across her cheek. “Too bad.” He pulled the baseball cap low over his eyes. “I’m ready if you are.”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” she said, although she wa
sn’t sure she was ready to spend more time with a tempting man like Brett.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THEY LEFT THEIR BAGS with the clerk at the front desk, picked up their keys and headed for the hotel lounge. Cammie followed Brett to a remote table in the corner, although the place was virtually deserted, with the exception of two businessmen at the bar watching some sports show.

  Not long after they were seated, a pretty waitress with long curly blond hair arrived to take their order. But before the woman could speak, awareness dawned in her expression. “Are you that country star Brett Taylor?”

  “Could be.” He turned his attention to Cammie. “Is beer okay with you?”

  Not exactly her favorite, but she wasn’t going to refuse as long as he picked up the tab. “Sure.”

  As if she hadn’t registered the request, the waitress thrust a napkin at Brett. “Can you autograph this?”

  When Brett smiled, she dropped her tray, spare change and all, onto the table. “Sure,” he said as he helped her gather a few random coins before they rolled onto the floor. “What’s your name?”

  For a moment she didn’t seem to know the answer to that question. “It’s Heather.”

  As he scribbled on the napkin, Cammie tried not to look, just in case he might be sending a personal note, such as “I want your body, meet me in my room.” Instead, she watched the woman’s face while she watched Brett.

  A ridiculous bite of jealousy latched on to Cammie as she considered Brett’s message. If Brett said—or wrote—the word, this girl would be all over him in a nanosecond. And it would probably take him less time to respond.

  When Brett handed the waitress the napkin, hapless Heather stood for a long moment and stared at the paper.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. “Could we have our drinks now?” Cammie reminded the woman in a tone that was falsely sweet.

  The waitress finally came to. “Oh...sure.”

  After Heather wandered away, Cammie shook her head. “This must happen all the time.”

  Brett sighed. “Yeah, but I don’t mind. Fans keep me in business.”

  “But don’t you get a little tired of it? I mean, you probably can’t even go into a convenience store without creating a scene.”

  “If it gets to be too much of a hassle, or I get to feeling just a little bit superior, I remember when I bought my one meal a day in a convenience store.”

  She rested her bent elbow on the table and supported her jaw with her palm. “So what did you write to Heather, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “The usual,” he said. “‘To Heather, good luck, Brett Taylor.’”

  “That’s all? No invitation?”

  His smile faded into a frown. “If you’re asking if I gave her my room number, nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t remember it.” He sat back in the seat and flashed his deadly grin. “In all honesty, she’s not my type.”

  “What is your type?” Cammie couldn’t believe she was actually asking such inane questions. Questions that could lead him to believe she was really interested in what he wanted in a woman.

  His smile disappeared again, but that didn’t take away from his gorgeous face. “You first. What’s your type?”

  Luckily the drinks arrived before she sputtered some stupid answer.

  As soon as Heather retreated, Cammie took a quick sip before turning the topic back on him. “Is the trade-off worth it, not having any real privacy?”

  He shrugged. “I swore if I ever got here, I’d never complain. But some days I’d just like to be home cleaning stalls and riding horses. I don’t get a chance to do that often enough.”

  “Where is home exactly?” she asked.

  “I have a ranch outside of Nashville,” he said. “But I grew up right here in Texas in the Hill Country. What about you?”

  She took another sip. “I’m a die-hard Tennessee girl. I grew up in Memphis and, sadly, I still live in the same house with my grandparents. It’s next to their charter business.”

  “What about your folks?”

  She shifted in her seat from discomfort. “My dad and mom were both involved in the business. They always traveled together and traded off driving duties. Then one December, they were on their way to Pigeon Forge with a group of seniors when an eighteen-wheeler jackknifed right in front of them. They were both killed instantly, along with two of the passengers.”

  “That must’ve been tough for you.” He looked and sounded sincerely sympathetic.

  “I was only eight years old at the time,” she said. “It was just a terrible, unavoidable accident.”

  He stared off into space for a few moments before turning his attention back to her. “My dad died before I ever really had the chance to know him.”

  Her heart ached over the regret in his tone. “I’m sorry, Brett.”

  “Don’t be,” he said. “He did it to himself. He was a frustrated musician who had a fondness for booze and not enough drive to succeed. He left my mom when I was twelve and he never came around much after that. For a long time I resented him. Now I’m just sorry I never had the chance to ask him why he left.”

  Cammie couldn’t help but wonder how he could virtually do the same thing to his own daughter, yet she didn’t dare ask. “That’s really a shame. At least I have good memories of my mom and dad. Knowing I had two parents who were totally devoted to each other helped lessen the sense of loss, although it never really goes away, I guess.”

  Brett sat silently for a few moments before he downed most of the beer. “Do you want to dance?”

  Did she? “It’s been a while.”

  He came to his feet. “It’s just like riding a bicycle and making love. Once you’ve done it, you don’t forget how.”

  The making-love comment totally flustered her. “Yes, but I—”

  Before Cammie could issue a protest about being tired, or hand him a thousand other lame excuses, Brett was already taking her hand to help her off the high-backed chair.

  Once they reached the small wooden dance floor, he put his arms around her and gently tugged her close. The bluesy instrumental made for a perfect lucky-belt-buckle-polishing slow dance. And this was exactly what she’d sworn would never happen again—finding herself in the arms of another entertainer. She didn’t want to touch him or have him touch her, yet she very much enjoyed the way he pressed his hand into the small of her back, and the gentle smile he gave her when she finally looked up at him. But the peculiar way she felt at the moment, somewhat light-headed and very warm in a nice way, worried her the most.

  She’d only had two sips of beer, but it was as if she’d consumed the entire keg. She felt clumsy and her pulse raced, her limbs tingled. She was perspiring, although she couldn’t claim it was the room temperature because she’d been fine at the table. Of course, it had to be the alcohol. Had to be. Why else would she rest her cheek against his chest?

  It certainly couldn’t be the dance. After all, it wasn’t like she hadn’t danced before. In fact, she’d danced with plenty of men. All shapes and sizes, all with varying degrees of proficiency. But the way this particular man held her, moved against her, she would have to rank his ability higher than most.

  If she could find the courage to admit it to herself, the greatest contributing factor to her current discomfort would have to be Brett.

  When he lowered his hands until they rested just below her waist, she sighed against his shoulder
.

  “Cammie?”

  “Huh?”

  “Are you still awake?”

  Oh, yes. All of her. “Am I dancing like I’m asleep?” she questioned as she made contact with those silvery-blue eyes that caught the reflection of the revolving globe above them.

  “No,” he said, looking all too serious. “I was just thinking you haven’t had much sleep. I’m being selfish by keeping you up this late when you have to drive tomorrow.”

  Sleep was the last thing on Cammie’s mind. She’d probably regret it later, but she chose to participate in this game of chance tonight. “I’ll live.”

  “You know something,” Brett said, his somber demeanor suddenly replaced with the same sexy expression she’d seen earlier, the one that managed to rob her of all coherent thought. “Your eyes are so dark, almost black.” He pushed her hair back from her shoulder. “Real pretty. Kind of mysterious.”

  She felt suddenly self-conscious. “I bet you say that to all your bus drivers.”

  “Hell, Bud never looked at me the way you do.”

  How was she looking at him? Like some lovesick girl? Like Heather? “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “Maybe I should rephrase this. It’s how you see me. Today you’ve pretty much treated me like I’m just a person, not someone you have to cater to or an employer. Like I’m nobody special, just a man. I can’t even remember the last time I talked about my rodeo days. I appreciate having a normal conversation.”

  She experienced a strong sense of relief. “I can relate to your wanting to have some normality in your life.”

  “I mean, you really listen to me, Cammie. Most people talk, but they never really listen.” He surveyed her face, from forehead to chin, before his gaze came to rest on her lips. “You have a beautiful mouth.”

  An inner voice called to her to steer clear, to stop before she lost control of her common sense. She dropped her arms from around him and took a step back. “It’s really hot in here. Maybe we should sit down.”