Just Trust Me, A Brother's Best Friend Novel (Carrington Cousins Book 2)

by Amy Summers

  She turned and smiled at him. "One last night," she said softly. "I guess that's all we have."

  He reached out and ran his fingers through her silvery hair. Yes, it was all they had. Very soon, every excuse for their being together would be exhausted, and they would probably never see each other again. It wasn't as though they ran with the same crowd in good old San Diego, or lived in the same neighborhood. The wildlife parading through his backyard was more likely to be gophers than polo ponies.

  "Why do you have to be so beautiful?" he breathed as he pulled her toward him.

  She laughed softly, reaching to touch his face with the palm of her hand. "Don't you dare charge this one on me, mister. There's enough blame here for both of us."

  She was right. It wasn't her. It was him. He'd only had to hear her voice that first day on the telephone and he was a goner before the receiver had settled back down in its cradle. And now he was trapped, tangled in emotions he couldn't control, needing her like he needed air to breathe.

  He held her face in his hands and looked into it, searching for an answer to the question that burned inside him, despite all his efforts to suppress it. Did she feel it too, this connection between them?

  He knew she felt passion. He knew she liked him. But did she feel the pull the way he did? As though something primeval had reached out and wound its chains around his heart, binding him to her in ways he couldn't begin to comprehend.

  But staring into her eyes was like wandering through ice caverns that sparkled with light. It was lovely and exciting and welcoming, but it was also similar to losing oneself in a maze. There were no answers there, none that he could see.

  Or maybe he just didn't know how to read them.

  He combed his fingers back into her hair, his eyes narrowing as he studied the line of her cheek, the curve of her ear, the feathery arch of her eyebrow. She was truly a work of art.

  "Tel! me pretty things, David," she said at last, and suddenly that haunted look was back in her eyes. Her bands flattened against his chest and she looked into his gaze longingly. "Tell me that everything is going to be all right, that you like my perfume, that this is more than physical."

  He wanted to tell her that he loved her. He knew that was what she was asking, but how could he do that to her? He didn't love her. He didn't know how to love a woman, not the way she wanted to hear it.

  Pushing the hair away from her ear, he dropped small kisses beside it, rubbing his face against hers. "Making love with you is like a prayer, Madison," he whispered, drinking in the scent of her hair. "It's a tribute we make to the sun god."

  She laughed low in her throat, letting her head fall back so he could press his lips to her throat. "You crazy Aztec," she murmured. "I'd better watch out or you'll take my heart as a sacrifice."

  He pulled back and explored her gaze again, searching the maze for her real meaning, but she was smiling and her fingers began to work on the buttons of his shirt, releasing them one by one.

  He found the zipper at the back of the white dress. Pulling it open loosened the bodice so that it slipped down, almost freeing her breasts. His hands did the rest, and his breath choked in his throat as be looked at her.

  His mouth took hers slowly, softly, moving with exquisite patience. They had all the time in the world, and this once he meant to treat her as she deserved to be treated. She opened to him as though she'd just been awakened to the possibilities he had in store, exploring him with wonder in her touch. Her touch was hypnotic and her mouth was intoxicating. She tasted like brandy, hot and smooth and exciting, and he was drunk from the very first sip.

  He leaned her back onto the bed without releasing her mouth from the control of his own. She arched beneath him as they fell back, and his hands pushed the dress down to her waist. Her breasts felt full and round beneath him, burning into his chest with their tantalizing eroticism. He trailed kisses down her neck and her chest, until he had captured one nipple in his mouth, and then he tugged slowly, as though he were moving in water, as though he had to savor every nuance of sensation and give it all back to her.

  She moaned softly, digging her fingers into his hair, and her body moved. He tugged the dress down and away, and did the same with the filmy bit of nylon she wore beneath it. She was naked now, long and slender, a symphony of curves and angles that made him see stars as he looked at her. How could such beauty be real? And what a miracle that it could be his. At least for now.

  He ran his hand down across her stomach and cupped her warmth, stroking softly, slow and easy, like a dance, like the waltz, swaying back and forth, creating a song, creating a dream, splashing pastel colors across the sky.

  "David," she murmured, her breath coming more quickly. "Don't take too long, I can't stand it"

  But she loved it, and he knew it. Pulling back, he looked at her again, all cream and shadows in the light of the small bedside lamp, all hills and valleys, like the desert landscape in the late afternoon, sunlight turning it golden, shadows hiding mysteries.

  For the first time in his life, he understood poetry. A woman's body was eternal, the wellspring of life, as close to nature as he would ever get. Something surged inside him, overwhelming him. He touched her with a reverence that didn't erase the hunger he felt to have her. It was all part of one whole. She was eternity. She was destiny. She was fulfillment. She was everything he could ever dream of having. She was love.

  Her hands slid down under his belt, and he loosened it and let her push away his clothes, turning so she could touch him, mold him, forcing his mind and body to be still, even while he felt an urgency that was building to a crest.

  Her breath was coming in short gasps, and he knew it was time. He spread her legs and entered, planning to hold back a little longer, planning to build to a slow, steady rhythm. But she couldn't wait any longer. She cried out, her fingers digging into his back, pulling him tighter and harder, and as she leapt into the dance, she carried him along, taking him higher and higher, until his vision went white and he was sure they'd found their way to heaven.

  "Times like this I wish I still smoked," he muttered, pushing himself up to lean against the headboard.

  She laughed, pulling the sheet around herself as she sat up, cross-legged, on the bed. Have I told you lately that I love you? she thought as she looked at him. There was no getting around it. That was just the way things were.

  But things weren't supposed to be that way. She wasn't ready for a new relationship. She'd been telling herself that for years now—so it must be true—mustn't it?

  "Since we don't smoke, how about some ice cream?" she suggested, reaching for his shirt and slipping into it before she got up. "I saw some in the little refrigerator. Mint chip."

  He smiled at her. "Okay. Just a little."

  She dropped a kiss on the top of his head and went out to get it, tiptoeing past the sleeping children and getting two dishes from the shelf over the sink. Her heart was full of feeling for him. She felt like dancing. And still, while her body and soul were celebrating, her head was in the doldrums. She wasn't supposed to be doing this.

  But maybe it was time for a reassessment. As she spooned out the mint green ice cream, she went over things in her mind, getting it straight. She wanted to be in love. It felt good. And it felt right, despite the way it ought to feel. What exactly had she been telling herself? She was almost thirty, and yet she was convinced that it was too soon to take a chance? That she was not ready? That the timing was bad? She wasn't allowed to reach for the brass ring because she hadn't worn the right party dress? What was she, crazy?

  No other man had ever made her laugh the way David did. No other man had ever treated her children so well. No other man had ever made her heart race just by looking at her a certain way. And no other man bad ever made love to her the way he did. But she was supposed to give him up because of timing?

  That was what was crazy. And she wasn't going to be tyrannized by thinking like that anymore.

  So it was offici
al. She was in love. Admitting that to herself made her feel as though her skin was glowing. She was in love.

  Now the problem was going to be to get him to join in the fun.

  She went back with the ice cream and handed him his bowl.

  "Take off the shirt," he said solemnly, his eyes very dark.

  "Why?"

  "Because I like you better without it."

  Grinning, she did a little strip tease and plopped back down on the bed, pulling the sheet up to cover strategic areas and taking a spoonful of ice cream onto her tongue. They ate in silence for a moment, Madison watching him, thinking hard. And then she asked her first question.

  "David, will you ever get married?" she said, looking at him and shaking her head, pretending it was a casual inquiry.

  He refused to meet her gaze, staring at the ceiling. "Probably not."

  "Why not?" She leaned forward on one arm. "What scares you so?"

  He looked shocked at the very concept. "Who said I was scared? I'm not scared, just smart." He shifted, pulling part of the sheet over himself as though he had to hide that, too, now that she was delving into private matters, and went back to eating his ice cream. "I saw what can happen to a marriage. My parents loved each other as much as anyone, but it still didn't work out."

  She pursed her lips, twirling her spoon through the cold confection. This was going to be a tough nut to crack. "Why do you think that was?" she mused, watching his eyes for his reaction.

  He shrugged. "Probably because they came from such different backgrounds." He glanced at ber. "My father was a blue-collar immigrant. My mother was a school teacher. They were from different countries, different traditions."

  His face softened, remembering. "But you should have seen how they looked at each other. Whenever they were together you could see it in their eyes, the way they touched each other." His eyes darkened. "Still, they couldn't make it together. What they wanted out of life, what they were willing to put up with to get what they wanted, were just too dissimilar to exist side-by-side. God knows they tried. They tried for twelve years. But it didn't work. And no matter what they did they were miserable apart." He grimaced, setting aside his empty bowl. "And they were miserable together. Neither one of them could adjust."

  "That's the key, isn't it?" She pounced upon the idea. "Adjustment. If you found a woman you could 'adjust' to, do you think you might get married?"

  He flashed her a quick grin. "I won't be the one adjusting. She will."

  "Oh, right!" She threw a pillow at him, starting a quick wrestling match that ended up with some rather personal tickling.

  "But all in all," she went on when the wrestling wound down, picking up the thread from where they'd left it and at the same time cleaning up her spilled ice cream and setting the bowl on the floor. "Don't you think your parents were lucky?"

  Obviously he didn't think so at all. "Lucky? How?"

  "They had love. Even if they couldn't make it work. They had something special between them, and I'm sure they had many, many wonderful times together."

  "Big deal. They also had a lot of misery."

  Madison frowned. Why had she ever thought she could do this? How did you change someone who didn't want to change?

  "And anyway," he went on, evidently feeling he was making his points brilliantly. "After the horrible experience you've had, what gives you an excuse for being optimistic about marriage?"

  Madison shook her head, denying everything. "I can't blame my disaster on the institution of marriage. I blame it on the man I picked."

  "But that's just it. How do you ever know if you're picking right?"

  "You don't. You have to do what you have to do. And lots of times it's wrong." She shrugged. "That's what divorce is for."

  He shook his head, his mouth twisted. "You don't ever have to get married."

  She pulled the sheet up tightly against her chest and slid over next to him against the headboard. She was going to have to bare her soul, and she didn't want to have to look him in the eye when she did it.

  "It depends on how you define things, I guess," she said lightly. "For instance, I married Armand because I had to at the time."

  He glanced at her. "What do you mean, you had to?"

  "Because of where I was emotionally." She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "I needed him. I needed to marry someone who had his standing."

  He moved impatiently. "So you married a sleazy crook like that for status?"

  "A sleazy crook wasn't what I married, David. He was respected in social circles in those days. I needed his respect, his image, for legitimacy. Don't you see that? I wasn't a rebellious girl in any way. I wanted in, not out. And I was on the ragged edge, because I'd been branded as being a flake. At that time, I couldn't have married anyone—" She paused, closing her eyes. Here came the hard part. But she had to be honest. Anything else would be lying. "I couldn't have married anyone, say, like you. In order to marry someone like you, I would have needed the self-esteem necessary to tell them all to take a flying leap. And I didn't have that then."

  He sat very still, not moving, not looking at her. "Do you have it now?"

  "Yes." Her answer left no room for doubt, but she wasn't sure it was what he wanted to hear at all.

  He'd shifted, turned so that he could look at her face, and his eyes were cold with outrage. "What kind of stupid society do you come from, where a crook like Armand is accepted, and an honest, hard-working person like me is shunned?" he demanded, his voice clipped and angry.

  She wasn't sure if she'd done the right thing telling him, but she couldn't back down now. Putting a hand on his arm, she tried to make him understand. "David, please, we're not talking substance here. We're talking imagery. We're talking superficial things that don't last. Just like my marriage didn't last, because that was exactly what it was based on."

  He was quiet for a long moment, digesting what she'd said, and she began to relax. He was a smart guy. He could figure it out for himself. He knew she wasn't that insecure girl any longer. She didn't need that sort of reassurance, and she didn't need to be part of that social scene. She'd learned how sterile it really was. She didn't think she had to explain it to him.

  Finally he turned to her with a crooked smile. "So, do you think you'll get married again?"

  Relief flooded her. He got it. "Me? Possibly."

  His eyes were hooded. "What kind of man do you think you'll marry?"

  She tilted her nose in the air. "Someone I love."

  He gave a short laugh. "Didn't you try that last time?"

  She snuggled closer to him. "I plan to try it again."

  His eyes darkened and he reached out to take her hand in his. “To the race car driver?'' he asked softly.

  She bit back a grin. “I don't think so.''

  He was quiet for another minute before he said, "You went to France with him."

  "Yes, David. I went to France with him." She squeezed his hand and grinned up into his face. "His sister was one of my best friends in school in England. The three of us stayed together in a lovely hotel suite big enough to house the Royal Guard. Big deal."

  He stared into her eyes with such intensity she almost felt scalded. "You weren't having an affair with him?"

  Reaching out, she touched his cheek. “How could I have an affair with him?" she murmured softly. "I was saving myself for you."

  She only half meant it as a joke. He kissed her, and the sheet fell away and their bodies came together, too warm, too real to resist. She wished she knew something special she could do to make him feel the sort of pleasure he gave her. But maybe that wasn't necessary. Maybe he already did.

  Chapter 11

  They were on the road early the next morning, after waving goodbye to the Lancers and Marge and Charlie. Marge packed all sorts of cookies and cakes for the kids to take along, so at least they wouldn't starve if they broke down somewhere in the desert. Jill and Chris waved and waved until they couldn't see anyone out the back wind
ow any longer.

  "They turned out to be the nicest people," Madison said, settling down in the passenger's seat. "I don't know when I've had more fun."

  "That'll teach you not to stereotype," David told her smugly. "You thought they were going to be hoods because they ride motorcycles, and instead, they're just like anyone else."

  "I guess I learned my lesson," Madison said in a silly voice. Then she sobered. "But what about you, David? What's it going to take to teach you not to stereotype me?"

  His eyes widened. "What are you talking about?"

  "You know very well what I'm talking about. Stop making assumptions about me and what I need just because of my background. It ain't necessarily so, you know."

  She turned back to see how the kids were doing, and David frowned into the morning sun. He knew what she meant, but that didn't mean he agreed with her point. She was who she was—there was no getting around it.

  And last night who she'd been had been something out of this world. He'd never made love to a woman that way before. He'd never known a woman who was so damn lovable—in every way. What the hell was he going to do with his life when she wasn't in it anymore?

  But he couldn't think that way. Last night was the last night. It had to be. And things were going to change. He was going to be ruthless once they got back to the States. He knew he had to be.

  The problem was how to go about it. He didn't seem to be very good at this stuff anymore. He should probably start giving himself little lectures, maybe on the hour, just to get ready to be tough. Maybe he could get CDs to listen to, something on stiffening his backbone. Or wiping out blocks of memory in his head. Maybe even a prefrontal lobotomy would come in handy.

  Yeah. That was a good idea. After all, falling in love was a form of mental illness.

  Not that he was in love. No way.

  But he was crazy about her. He couldn't deny that. And he was going to savor every moment of this long drive, this last long day. Because that was all he had left.