by Kristi Gold
“Take off your jacket.”
Oddly Cammie had forgotten she was wearing it. She forgot everything when Brett slowly unzipped the front closure, helped her out of the leather jacket, then tossed it aside on a nearby table.
When she moved back into his arms, she didn’t feel any less warm. Just the opposite. Maybe it was the top’s flimsy fabric that made her more aware of his body against hers. Maybe it was the fact his hands had roved to her hips. Or maybe the undeniable, and inadvisable, electricity flowing between them had only intensified.
Brett pulled her arms away from his waist and placed them around his neck, then slid his hands slowly down her sides and past her waist until he was again resting his hands on her hips. She automatically shivered.
“Are you cold now?” he whispered.
“No.”
He pulled her closer, anyway. “Do you still want to sit down?”
Fall down was more like it. This whole scenario was dangerous, but she couldn’t stop it any more than she could divert a runaway train with her bare hands.
“You don’t have to be afraid of me, Cammie.” His face was so close she could feel the warmth of his breath trailing over her cheek.
“I’m not.” But she was. Not afraid of him, but afraid of the feelings he stirred inside her. Feelings she had no business entertaining as his employee. As a woman. Somehow he had drawn out long-dormant needs she’d tried hard to ignore.
As the music continued, Brett softly brushed his lips over her cheek, then rested them against her temple. He gently stroked her back, up and down in a slow, sultry rhythm. After a time, he pulled back and studied her eyes, then slowly, slowly lowered his mouth....
Fortunately, the song ended before the inevitable happened, forcing Cammie out of her stupor. When the disc jockey thanked everyone for coming, she didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Maybe a little of both.
Brett hesitantly released her and handed her the discarded jacket. “Let’s go before they turn on the houselights.”
Cammie was still in a trance when they entered the glass elevator, the nagging cautions running through her head at breakneck speed.
Never underestimate his power....
The trance finally lifted when they made it to the room.
“Here you are, ma’am,” Brett said as he offered her the key.
She took the card from him, deliberately avoiding all contact. “Thanks.”
“I’m right next door if you need me.”
“Okay.”
“See you in the morning.”
“Yeah,” she said. “In the morning.”
While Brett looked on, Cammie turned and slipped the card into the slot to unlock the door, without success. She tried two more times, hoping to see an illuminated green light, but to no avail. Locks never, ever stumped her. She was normally sure-handed with nerves of steel. Normally. But this wasn’t a normal circumstance.
Brett moved in closer, she presumed to assist in opening the door. Then suddenly his hand was on her waist and the other in her hair, stroking lightly, playing freely. He pushed her hair to one side, and when he brushed his lips over the back of her neck, it appeared the door might have to wait.
He took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him, almost in slow motion, it seemed. She clutched her bag close to her chest as if trying to create a barrier from the man with mesmerizing eyes standing before her. But she didn’t move. She simply didn’t want to.
Brett slowly lowered his head and lightly touched his lips to hers once, twice. Cammie feared she might have actually gasped, but if she had, he’d silenced her when he delivered a solid, much less tentative kiss.
He’d had a lot of practice kissing—Cammie’s first thought. She should tell him to back off—her second. Yet the kiss wasn’t intrusive, but it wasn’t restrained, either.
He slid his hand inside her jacket and circled her rib cage, his thumbs resting just below her breasts. She briefly wondered how many women had fallen under the spell of his kiss. And then she thought of Mark.
Cammie pulled away and picked up the bag that had somehow fallen to the floor. “I’m sorry,” she muttered.
“For what?” Brett asked, looking confused.
“For letting that happen,” she said on a wave of unexplained anger. Anger directed more at herself than at him. “I’m sorry if I gave you the impression that I’m one of your good-time girls.”
He tipped her chin, forcing her to look at him. “I’d never think that, Cammie. And after what happened with you and Mark earlier, I probably shouldn’t have done it.”
She probably shouldn’t have put herself in this predicament. “Look, you didn’t force yourself on me, and I didn’t have to participate. But I do work for you and that’s reason enough not to let this go any further.”
“Yeah,” he said. “You’re right.”
She fumbled with the key for a few moments before she steadied her hand long enough to finally figure out the correct way to insert the card. When she gained entry, she turned to see Brett was still standing there, looking as if he had something more to say. If she had any sense whatsoever, she would run into the shelter of her room before she did something else they might regret—like invite him inside.
Then he smiled, but only slightly. “Night, Cammie.”
“Night.”
Cammie rushed inside, closed the door and leaned back against it while she gave herself a major scolding.
In a matter of hours, she’d confronted her ex-boyfriend and kissed her boss. She could probably rest assured she wouldn’t have to encounter Mark in the near future. On the other hand, she wouldn’t be able to avoid Brett at all in the upcoming weeks. Sad thing was, avoiding him was the last thing she wanted to do.
* * *
BRETT LINGERED FOR a few more moments outside the closed door, considering the possibilities if he knocked and she invited him to come in. He highly doubted it would happen, and that was probably wise. But he didn’t always heed wisdom.
A man wearing a white undershirt and pink plaid Bermuda shorts passed by carrying an ice bucket. Without even so much as a glance in his direction, Brett continued to hang around, steeped in indecision, until the clink of ice cubes from the nearby machine drew him from his musings.
He eventually paid attention to the warning bells going off in his head, picked up his bag and started slowly down the hall. First rule of the road: don’t get involved with an employee of the opposite sex. It only spells trouble. Second rule. His rule. Don’t get seriously involved with any woman. It only invited heartache.
Caution didn’t stop him from thinking about Cammie as he strode to his room. He recalled how she’d felt in his arms, the way she’d said his name—in a kind of breathy voice. He felt a twinge in his gut when he thought about dancing with her. He felt another twinge a lot lower when he remembered kissing her.
Hell, no, she wasn’t a groupie. Didn’t look like a groupie and didn’t kiss like one, either. Camille Carson kissed like a woman―a woman who knew what she was doing. She wasn’t some young thing seeking a quick screw with a star. She could actually hold a conversation without batting her eyelashes or wetting her lips. Problem was, he still wanted to know her better. A lot better. Every sweet inch of her, and that sent his imagination straight into overdrive.
After Brett unlocked the door and stepped inside the room, another image of Cammie flashed in his mind—when she’d taken off her jacket while they w
ere dancing. To that point, he’d only seen her in formless shirts. Then, in a matter of moments, he’d seen firsthand what she’d done well to keep hidden. He rubbed a palm over his face as if he could make the images disappear. All he needed was a good night’s sleep to take care of it. That, and the Bermuda shorts guy’s bucket of ice down the front of his jeans.
He sucked in a deep breath, then walked quietly into the room, hoping like hell his roommate was already asleep. No such luck.
He found Pat stretched out on the sofa wearing a white T-shirt, baggy blue boxers and a suspicious expression. “Where’ve you been, son?”
Brett fell back onto the adjacent bed. “Like it’s any of your business, which it isn’t, I was in the bar having a beer.”
“You didn’t hook up with that gal you always call when we’re up this way? What’s her name?”
“Jennifer.” He hadn’t even thought to call her, thanks to his bus driver. “I was having a drink with Cammie. We were just talking.” And that admission could damn sure cost him.
Pat swung his bare legs over the edge of the sofa, sat up and stared at him. “Are you sure that’s all you wanted from Cammie, just some friendly conversation?”
Brett grabbed a pillow and flung it in the direction of his mentor. “Shut up, Pat.”
“Struck a nerve, did I?”
“Hell, no.”
“Hell, yes, I did. I hope you don’t expect us to vacate the bus every now and then so you can have your way with her.”
Pat’s suggestion came to life in Brett’s mind, materializing into one heck of a fantasy that had to do with Cammie sprawled out on her berth, naked. Cammie driving the bus with his hands all over her. Cammie in the shower with him... “She’s an employee and that means hands off.”
“Good, ’cause I won’t be party to you using that little gal.”
He had no intention of doing that to Cammie. “Fine. Now that we have that settled, I’m going to turn in.”
Brett retired to the bathroom, stripped off his jeans and shirt, brushed his teeth and spent a good twenty minutes washing his face in an effort to wash away the persistent fantasies. It didn’t work. Not in the least. He returned to the room and crawled under the covers before Pat could discover just exactly what Camille Carson was doing to him.
* * *
UNABLE TO SLEEP PAST DAWN, Cammie was ready and waiting in the bus by the time the band members headed into the parking lot at seven-thirty. She watched out the windshield as Rusty and Bull said goodbye to their girls, then quickly stepped onto the other bus with Jeremy, who looked hung-over and miserable.
Unfortunately, the vehicles weren’t well concealed. Dennis attempted to run a group of fans crowded around the entrance of Brett’s bus, but without much success. Cammie climbed out of the cab, bulldozed through the mob of young, delirious females and did a routine check of the tires. Before she could reenter the bus, one fresh-faced teenager grabbed her by the arm, halting her progress. “Do you drive his bus?”
She immediately regretted she hadn’t hurried. “Yes.”
“You mean you get to see him every day?”
Nothing like good old hero worship. “Every day, and he puts his pants on just like everyone else.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she wanted the parking lot to open up and swallow her whole. She’d sounded as if she’d seen him take his pants off.
The remembrance of Brett changing clothes the day before invaded her thoughts. The recollection caused her face to heat, from forehead to chin. Yet the probable blush went unnoticed as the crowd’s attention now turned from her to the star in question as he approached.
The overwrought masses converged, thrusting pens in Brett’s face and impeding his progress as he stopped to hand out a few autographs. His jaw was blanketed by a shading of whiskers, his hair shower-damp, and he wore a faded black T-shirt and equally faded jeans, proving to Cammie that no one cared about his disheveled state. She definitely noticed his sex appeal, and so did the other twenty or so young women stumbling over themselves, trying to touch him. And he smiled as if he didn’t mind the attention in the least.
Then reality suddenly dawned. She had actually let the notorious womanizer—the object of desire to all these females—kiss her. And worse, she’d welcomed it. Unlike Mark’s forceful ways, Brett’s kiss had been gentle, the impressions remarkable. So remarkable she’d had trouble sleeping.
Cammie shoved the thoughts out of her mind. Regardless of how he’d made her feel, she wasn’t one of his playthings and never would be.
Brett attempted to move toward the bus, inadvertently carrying several fans with him despite two beefy crew members’ efforts to hold them back. By the time he worked his way to the door, several other tourists had arrived on scene to investigate the commotion.
Instead of retiring to the safety of the bus, Brett walked to Cammie where she stood near the door, put his arm around her and brushed a kiss over her lips. “Ready to roll, sweetheart?”
Cammie could only stare at him, flabbergasted. Brett then took her hand and led her—more like dragged her—to the entrance. He scaled the steps ahead of her while the crowd chanted his name.
Still dazed, Cammie squeezed past him and dropped into the seat. “Thanks a lot, Brett.”
“I was just trying to discourage them so we could make a quick getaway.”
Cammie’s irritation bubbled to the surface, both from lack of sleep and wisdom. Truth was, she’d gone right along with the ruse. “I don’t like being used as a decoy to divert a bunch of groveling prepubescent girls.”
“They’re harmless.”
She started the bus and shifted to face him. “How can you be so blasé about this? Some of those girls couldn’t have been more than sixteen, if that. Someone less scrupulous might have taken advantage of their admiration.”
He propped an elbow on the back of the seat. “I’m not Mark Jensen, Cammie.”
“I know that, but I expect you to be more appalled since you have a daughter....” Her words floated away the moment she realized she’d said too much.
His expression turned steely, unforgiving. “How do you know that?”
She lowered her eyes before bringing her gaze back to his. “I heard someone talking about it at dinner last night. And I knew about your divorce the first night I came on board. But you can trust me not to say anything.”
“You already have.”
How could she answer that? “I’m really, really sorry.”
His narrowed eyes told her he didn’t accept the apology. “Pat said they’ll need another half hour before we head out.”
With that, Brett headed down the corridor, leaving Cammie feeling stunned and ashamed. Just because he’d rescued her from the clutches of a crazed ex-boyfriend, said she had talent and turned out to be one heck of a kisser, that didn’t give her the right to comment on his personal life. He was still her boss, which meant she had to attempt to make amends, or find herself on the next plane back to Memphis.
After waiting a good ten minutes, she slid out of the seat, convened some courage and knocked on Brett’s stateroom door.
“Yeah,” he called.
“Mind if I come in?”
“Suit yourself.”
For the very first time, she stepped inside the inner sanctum. The area was surprisingly orderly, well-appointed and very masculine with its brown-and-black decor. A set of weights sat at the end of the bed on the beige-carpeted floor, along with a pair of cross-trainers.
Several platinum and gold albums that spanned his amazing career covered the walls. When she recognized most of the titles, the enormity of his fame made the atmosphere seem surreal.
The room held numerous other conveniences—another sound system, another high-tech TV, another bed much bigger than hers where Brett had stretched out and stripped down to a pair of navy boxers. No shoes, no shirt, ready to service any willing woman.
He held some sort of entertainment magazine in both hands, the title Cammie failed to see when she caught sight of his bare torso. In fact, she lost sight of everything right then but his body. And this time she took a good, long look, from the curve of his bicep to his tattoo to the dip of his navel. And below that... Happy trails to her.
Then came the magazine now open in his lap. Unfortunately, she didn’t stop—couldn’t stop—the visual trek as she followed the path from his hair-covered thighs down to his bare feet.
The expedition only took a few seconds, but the terrain had been more fascinating than any scenery she’d encountered so far. By the time her gaze traveled back to his face, she realized he’d been watching her blatantly studying him.
He pinned her in place with those deadly blue eyes and a half-formed smile. “Need something?”
She needed to keep her eyes to herself. “I think we need to talk.”
“About?”
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry again. Sometimes things jump out of my mouth before I think. I didn’t mean to criticize or delve into your private life.”
“Yeah, you did,” he said. “And you’re probably justified in your criticism. Just know that every decision I’ve made to this point has been for my daughter’s benefit.”
A decision that caused him a great deal of pain, if the remorse in his voice was any indication. “I’m sure that’s the case,” she said, knowing there had to be more to it. But she didn’t intend to push him for more information.
