Chesapeake Bay Saga 1-4

by Nora Roberts

  His language was rough, and she didn’t expect there would be a great deal of improvement in it as long as he lived in a household of men. Though she did see that Cam booted him lightly under the table now and again when he swore too often.

  They were making it work. She’d had strong doubts in the beginning that three grown men, well set in their ways, would find a way of adjusting, of making room. And especially of opening their hearts to a boy who had been thrust upon them.

  But they were making it work. When she wrote her report on the Quinn case the following week, she was going to state that Seth DeLauter was home, exactly where he belonged.

  It would take time for the guardianship to move from temporary to permanent, but she would add her weight. Nothing warmed her heart quite so deeply as seeing the way Seth looked over at Cam after another under-the-table kick and grinned exactly like a ten-year-old boy caught sinning.

  He would make a terrific father, she thought. Just rough enough around the edges to make it fun. He’d be the type to cart a child around on his shoulders, to wrestle in the yard. She could almost see it—the handsome dark-haired little boy, the pretty rosy-cheeked girl.

  “You’re in the wrong business,” Phillip told her as he pushed back from the table and considered loosening his belt.

  She blinked, caught daydreaming, and very nearly flushed. “I am?”

  “You should own a restaurant. Any time you want to shift gears in that direction, I’ll be the first in line to invest.” He rose, intending to make use of his cappuccino maker to complement her dessert, and answered the phone on the first ring.

  At the sound of the husky female voice with a sexy Italian accent, he raised his eyebrows. “He’s right here.” Phillip ran his tongue over his teeth and held out the phone to Cam. “It’s for you, pal.”

  Cam took the phone, and after one purring sentence in his ear, almost placed the voice. “Hi, sugar,” he said, searching for a name. “Come va?”

  Because he did indeed love his brother, Phillip tried his best to distract Anna. “I just picked up this machine about six months ago,” he told her, holding her chair so she would rise—and perhaps move out of earshot. “It’s a beaut.”

  “Really?” She wasn’t the least bit interested in the working of some fancy coffee machine. Not when she’d heard just how smoothly Cam had greeted his obviously female caller. When she heard him laugh, her teeth went on edge.

  It didn’t occur to Cam to muffle his voice or censor the content. He’d finally put a name with the voice—Sophia of the curvy body and bedroom eyes—and was chatting lightly about mutual acquaintances. She liked racing—all manner of racing—and was a hot, sleek bullet in bed.

  “No, I had to take a pass on the rest of the season this year,” he told her. “I don’t know when I’ll get back to Rome. You’ll be the first, bella,” he answered when she asked if he would call her when he did. “Sure, I remember—the little trattoria near the Trevi Fountain. Absolutely.”

  He leaned back against the counter. Her voice brought back memories. Not of her particularly, as he could barely get a clear image of her face in his head. But of Rome itself, the busy, narrow streets, the smells, the sounds, the rush.

  The races.

  “What?” Her question about his Porsche jerked him back to the present time and place. “Yeah, I’ve got it garaged in Nice until . . .”

  He trailed off, his thoughts scattering as she asked him if he would consider selling it. She had a friend, she told him. Carlo. He remembered Carlo, didn’t he? Carlo wondered if Cam would be interested in selling the car, since he was staying so long in the States.

  “I haven’t thought about it.” Sell the car? A little lance of panic stabbed him. It would be like admitting he wasn’t going back. Not just to Europe but to his life.

  She was speaking quickly, persuasively, her Italian and English mixing and confusing him. He had her number, si? And could call her anytime. She would tell Carlo he was thinking about it. They were all missing Cam. Rome was so noioso without him. She had heard he had said no to a big race in Australia and was afraid it must be a woman holding him. Had he finally fallen for a woman?

  “Yes, no—” His head was spinning. “It’s complicated, sweetie. But I’ll be in touch.” Then she made him laugh one more time when she whispered a suggestion on how they might spend his first night back in Rome. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind. Darling, how could I forget? Yeah. Ciao.”

  Phillip was busily foaming milk and trying with the air of a desperate man to engage Anna in conversation about types of coffee beans. Ethan, with the instinct of a survivor, had already deserted the kitchen. And Seth simply sat, crumbling a heel of garlic bread for Foolish, who hid under the table.

  Oblivious, Cam raised a suspicious eyebrow at the cappuccino machine. “I’ll stick with regular coffee,” he began and smiled when Anna walked up to him. “I remember your cannoli from—” And the air whooshed out of his lungs as she plowed a fist into his gut. Before he could suck it back in, she strode past him and outside with a slap of the screen door.

  “What?” Rubbing his stomach, Cam goggled at Phillip. “Jesus, what did you say to her?”

  “You’re such a jerk,” Phillip muttered and deftly poured the first cup.

  “She looked really pissed,” Seth commented and sniffed the air. “Can I try some of that junk you’re making?”

  “Sure.” Phillip made up a latte, heavy on the milk, while Cam headed outside.

  Cam caught up to Anna on the dock, where she stood fuming, her arms folded over her chest. “What the hell was that for?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Cam. For the hell of it.” She whirled around to face him, her eyes blazing in the starlight. “Women are peculiar creatures. They get annoyed when the man they’re supposed to be with flirts over the phone, right in their damn face, with some Italian bimbo.”

  The light dawned, but to his credit he barely winced. “Come on, sugar—”

  He broke off, unsure whether he was amused or frightened when she lifted a fist. “Don’t you call me sugar. You use my name. Do you think I’m an idiot? Sugar, sweetie, honey pie—that’s what you say when you can’t even remember the name of the woman who’s underneath you in bed.”

  “Wait a damn minute.”

  “No, you wait a damn minute. Do you have any idea how insulting it is to stand there and hear you make a date to meet your Italian squeeze in Rome when my lasagna’s barely settled in your stomach?”

  Worse, she thought, much, much worse, he’d done it seconds after she’d been building foolish castles in the air of him with children. Their children. Oh, it was mortifying. Infuriating.

  “I wasn’t making a date,” he began, then paused, fascinated, while a stream of impressive Italian curses poured out of her mouth. “You didn’t learn those from your grandparents.” When she bared her teeth and hissed, he couldn’t stop the smile. “You’re jealous.”

  “It’s not a matter of jealousy. It’s a matter of courtesy.” She tossed her head and tried to calm down. She was only embarrassing herself more with the outburst, she realized. But by damn, she wasn’t finished yet. “You’re a free agent, Cameron, and so am I. No pretenses, no promises, fine. But I won’t tolerate you having phone sex while I’m standing in the same room.”

  “It wasn’t phone sex, it was a conversation.”

  “The little trattoria by the Trevi Fountain?” she said, coolly now. “How could I forget? You’ll be the first? You want to have some Italian zucchero, Cam, that’s your business. But don’t you ever do it in my face again.”

  She took a breath, then held up a hand before he could speak. “I’m sorry I hit you.”

  He gauged her mood. Ruffled, but calming. “No, you’re not.”

  “Okay, I’m not. You deserved it.”

  “It didn’t mean anything, Anna.”

  Yes, she thought wearily, it did. To her it meant a great deal. And that was her own fault, her own small disaster. “It w
as rude.”

  “Manners never were my strong point. I’m not interested in her. I can’t even remember her face.”

  Anna angled her head. “Do you honestly think a statement like that goes to your credit?”

  What the hell did she want him to say? he wondered with a quick, impatient hiss of breath. Sometimes, he supposed, the truth was best. “It’s your face, Anna, that I can’t get out of my mind.”

  She sighed. “Now you’re trying to distract me.”

  “Is it working?”

  “Maybe.” Her emotions, she reminded herself, her problem. “Let’s just agree that even casual relationships have lines that shouldn’t be crossed.”

  He wasn’t sure “casual” was the word to describe what was between them. But at the moment whatever made her happy suited him. “Okay. Starting now you’re the only Italian bimbo I flirt with.” Her bland, unsmiling stare made him grin. “It was terrific lasagna. None of my other bimbos could cook.”

  She slid her gaze to the water, back to his face. Then cocked her head consideringly. Cam was pretty sure he saw the beginnings of humor in her eyes. “We’d both end up in there,” he told her. “But I don’t mind if you don’t.”

  “I suppose, all in all, I’d rather stay dry.” She glanced toward the house when music slipped through the windows and into the air. “Who plays the violin?”

  “That’s Ethan.” It was a quick and lively jig, one of their parents’ favorites. The piano joined in, made him smile. “And that’s Phillip.”

  “What do you play?”

  “A little guitar.”

  “I’d like to hear.” In a gesture of peace, she held out a hand. He took it, drawing her closer, taking her fingers to his lips.

  “You’re the one I want, Anna. You’re the one I think of.”

  For now, she thought, and let him slide her into his arms. Now was all that had to matter.

  Eighteen

  ANNA WASN’T SURE how she felt about seeing Cam frown in concentration as he tuned up a battered old Gibson guitar. It was a piece of him she hadn’t counted on.

  It surprised her, pleased her, to see how smoothly, how easily the three men had slid into a song. Strong voices, she mused, quick and clever fingers. Teamwork once again. And unbroken family ties.

  Without a doubt there had been many evenings such as this in their lives. She could imagine the three of them, years younger, melding their tunes, with the two people who had given them the music, and the purpose, and the family, sitting in the room with them.

  She took that image, and the music, upstairs with her when she finally went to bed. To Cam’s bed.

  Reminding herself there was a child in the house, she locked the door—in case Cam came tiptoeing up from his makeshift bed on the sofa downstairs. And she told herself she wouldn’t unlock it if he came tapping. No matter how sexy he’d looked strumming that old guitar to life.

  Most of the tunes had been old Irish ballads and pub songs that she’d been unfamiliar with. She found them sad and heart-wrenching even when the tune beneath the words was lively. They mixed in some rock, and sneered at Seth when he suggested they play something from this century.

  It had been sweet, Anna thought as she undressed. They would never think of it that way, and would likely be horrified that anyone else did. But sweet was how she’d seen it. Four males—four brothers—not of the blood but of the heart. It was easy to see how well they understood each other, and how they had come to just not accept the child but to include him.

  When Seth commented that violins were for girls and wusses, Ethan merely smiled and went into a hot lick designed to capture Seth’s interest and imagination. And Ethan’s dry comment—let’s see a wuss do that—earned a shrug and a grin from Seth.

  When Seth had fallen asleep, they’d just left him there, sprawled on the rug with the puppy’s head pillowed on his butt. Another belonging, in Anna’s mind.

  She slipped into her nightshirt and picked up her hairbrush. This house was an easy place to feel belonging. Big, simple rooms, lived-in furniture, noisy plumbing. She caught a few female touches that hadn’t been there before. A gleam to the furniture, the odd vase of spring flowers. Compliments of the housekeeper, Anna imagined, which probably went largely unnoticed by the occupants.

  If it were her house, she wouldn’t change much, she decided, dreaming again as she ran the brush through her hair. Maybe spruce up some of the colors, add a bit of dash here and there with thick throw pillows and splashier flowers. She would definitely want to expand the gardens. She’d been doing some reading on perennials—what worked best in sun, what thrived in shade. There was a nice spot where the trees began to take over from the yard. She thought lily of the valley, some hostas, and periwinkles would do well there and add some interest.

  Wouldn’t it be lovely, she reflected, to while away a Saturday morning, digging in the earth, crowding pretty bedding plants together, planning the flow of colors and textures and heights?

  And to watch them grow and spread and bloom, year after year.

  A movement outside the window caught her eye in the mirror. Her heart sprang into her throat as she saw the shadow move behind the dark glass. As the window crept up, she turned slowly, holding the brush like a weapon.

  And Cam stepped over the sill. “Hi.” He had enjoyed watching her brush her hair, hated to see her stop. “Brought you something.”

  He held out a clutch of wild violets, which she tried to eye suspiciously. “Just how did you get up here?”

  “Climbed.” He stepped forward, she stepped back.

  “Climbed what?”

  “Up the side of the house mostly. Used to be able to shimmy up and down the gutter, but I weighed less then.” He came closer, she moved back.

  “That was clever of you. What if you’d fallen?”

  He’d climbed sheer rock faces in Montana, Mexico, and France, but he smiled winningly at her concern. “You’d have felt sorry for me?”

  “I don’t think so.” Since he had maneuvered his way to arm’s length, she reached out and snatched the slightly crushed flowers. “Thanks for the violets. Good night.”

  Interesting, he decided. Her voice and her expression were prim despite the fact that she was standing there in nothing more than a long white T-shirt. For some reason he found the plain and practical cotton ridiculously sexy. It appeared he was finally going to get the chance to seduce her.

  “I couldn’t sleep.” He reached over, hit the light switch, and left only the small bedside lamp burning warm and gold.

  “You didn’t try very long,” she said, flicking the switch back on again.

  “Seemed like hours.” He lifted a hand to trace a finger lightly up her arm from wrist to elbow. Her skin was dusky, golden against the pure white of the nightshirt. “All I could think about was you. Beautiful Anna,” he said softly, “with the Italian eyes.”

  Her toes seemed to curl in response to that skimming finger, which moved now to trace her jawline. Her heart was fluttering. No, it was her stomach. No, it was everything. “Cam, there’s a young boy in the house.”

  “Who’s dead asleep.” His fingers dipped to her throat, tested the rapid pulse beating there. “Snoring on the living room rug.”

  “You should have carried him up to bed.”

  “Why?”

  “Because . . .” There had to be a good reason, but how was she supposed to think clearly when he was looking at her, those flint-gray eyes so focused, so intense on her face? “You planned this,” she said weakly.

  “Not exactly. I thought I would have to talk you into going for a walk in the woods after the house quieted down. And then I would make love to you outside.” He took her hand, turned it palm up, and pressed his lips to the center. “In the starlight. But rain’s coming in.”

  “Rain?” She glanced toward the window and saw the curtains billowing in the freshening wind. When she looked back he was closer, and his arms were around her, those broad-palmed, clever hands s
troking up her back.

  “And I want you in bed. My bed.” He tipped his head to nibble kisses along her jaw, then just under it where the skin was soft as water. “I want you, Anna. Day and night.”

  “Tomorrow,” she began.

  “Tonight. Tomorrow.” And the word “always” was on the edge of his mind when his mouth found hers.

  She made a small sound that might have been distress when his tongue slipped through her parted lips to deepen the kiss. It went deeper, still deeper until she had no choice but to let herself sink. The pretty little flowers drifted to the floor as her fingers went limp.

  He had kissed her like this only once before, with such unspeakable tenderness that it stripped her soul bare. If she could have formed words, she would have babbled out her love for him. But her knees were jelly, her heart lost, and words were beyond her.

  He barely touched her, just those hands light on her back while his mouth drank from hers—and destroyed her.

  “It’s not a race this time.” He heard himself murmur the words but wasn’t sure if he spoke to himself or to her. All he knew was he wanted slow, painfully slow, endlessly slow, so that he could savor every moment, every move, every moan.

  He reached out, dimmed the lights. “I want this spot,” he whispered and let his mouth journey along the fragile skin just under her jaw again. “And this one.” To the slender column of her throat, where her scent was warm and smoky.

  When he stepped back and tugged his shirt over his head, she took a breath. She would get her feet back under her, she thought, and offer back some of what he was giving her. She reached for him, rose on her toes until their eyes and mouths lined up.

  But he kissed her temples, her brow, her eyes when they fluttered closed. “I love looking at you,” he told her. He took the hem of her nightshirt in his fingers and lifted it, inch by inch. “All of you. Even when you’re not around, I have a picture of you in my head.”

  When her nightshirt was pooled on the floor, he kept his eyes on her face, lifted her into his arms. Felt her tremble.