The Other Brooks Boy (Texas Wildfire Series)

by Diane Roth

  They ate dinner round the pool, sharing wine and catching up. Cara enjoyed him thoroughly, finding Ren to have grown into a talented, utterly charming young man. In fact, Ren Maggio was on the cusp of becoming a really fine man, Cara believed. Uncle Taddy was probably right to keep a firm hand on him, though. Ren had a lot to offer the world, all right. He just needed a little harnessing to point him in the right direction, she imagined. It would be fun to see how it all worked out.

  Ren moved on, eager to see what south Texas had to offer. He assured her he wasn't expecting much, and promised to stay in touch. Cara saw him off from the driveway, wondering what south Texas would think of Ren Maggio. She thought it might be a culture shock for all involved.

  Wednesday endured forever. She worked out, cleaned house, shopped for groceries and new lingerie, telling herself one was as everyday as the other, though it didn't excite her to think of him seeing her produce nearly as much it did thinking about his reaction to some new "scraps of lace" she bought.

  She ate a lonely dinner, wondering if he'd changed his plans and stayed over another day in California. The thought depressed her more than she cared to admit. Television couldn't hold her interest after dinner, and though the steamy novel she had been reading for a couple of days was great entertainment, it was not making the wait to see him one bit more comfortable.

  He finally texted her from Dallas, having had a full and busy day, but told her that his flight was delayed due to weather. He didn't know when he'd get home. Disappointment turned her mood swiftly. She hated to admit how much she'd been looking forward to seeing him. It gave her pause, this building need she had for him. Not just physical, by any means. She had thought of a dozen things she wanted to share with him in the past three days. She simply enjoyed his company, she told herself, but finally acknowledged that there was nothing simple about their relationship. Nothing at all.

  She fell asleep with the light on, steamy novel on her chest, but was awakened by another text from Greg.

  Is it too late to come by?

  She glanced at the clock, then realized how ridiculous that had been. It didn't matter what time it was. And though she had nothing much on her schedule for tomorrow, it wouldn't have mattered if she had. She texted back.

  Not at all. Come on by.

  Greg stood on her front porch and wondered at the wisdom of coming tonight, but he'd not been able to stay away. He'd thought of her dozens of times a day in the past four days, still slightly amazed at how their relationship had changed in the past three weeks. There was no portentous event that signaled a change was coming. He just looked at her one day and knew that it had arrived. And there didn't seem to be a damn thing he could do about the way he felt.

  He rang the doorbell and waited. The door creaked open and she peeked around the corner to make sure it was him, but kept herself well hidden behind the door.

  "Hi," he said.

  She smiled and it was chock full of goodness: welcome, and happiness, a flash of sensual heat, and a hint of nervous anticipation. He felt it all.

  "Hi," she said in return, but she didn't open the door any wider.

  "Can I come in?" he asked after a moment.

  She seemed to be considering, actually looked him up and down in assessment while continuing to hide herself behind the door. "Do you think I'd be safe, letting you in?"

  Little tease. He shook his head and laughed. "Not a chance."

  "Oh, good," she said. Her hand snaked out to grab his necktie, and she dragged him through the door and closed it behind them. She leaned her back against the door, but didn't let go of his tie, though he took a half-step back to get a look at her. She wore a short, silky wrap robe, tied at her waist, and he suspected there was nothing under it except her. He looked her over thoroughly, separated only by the length of his necktie, which she now fondled in a brazen manner, petting it in long strokes up and down. Finally, his gaze met hers again.

  Her brows rose slowly, and the most delicious smile teased her lips. "Hi," she said.

  "Hello, again," he said, their eyes holding steady, full of suggestion and expectancy and desire.

  She began to reel him in with his tie, one small handful after another, she drew him closer and closer until he braced his palms on the door above her head, their lips a heartbeat apart, their bodies barely brushing.

  "Welcome back," she whispered, her breath falling across his lips. He could nearly taste her, but the anticipation of doing so was so good, he prolonged the moment, holding back enough to keep them wanting.

  "Mmm, yes ... it's good," was about all he could mutter.

  Her hands slipped inside his sports jacket and, through his starched shirt, began exploring his chest and ribcage, which was expanding like a bellows now, his breathing coming harder and faster. And still their lips were a breath apart. Their noses touched, rubbed lightly, and he inhaled the scent of her, so warm and enticing.

  He might have been able, with some accuracy, to say how many days, hours and minutes it had been since he'd tasted her last, having been so preoccupied with it since then, but his memory hadn't done her justice, he decided when he finally touched her lips with his. The soft give of her mouth, the warmth and silky soft honeyed texture of her tongue meeting his in sensual play was his reward for having endured the drought of the last four days without her. He sank into the kiss like it was his first, a new dawning, eager and hopeful, and like it might be his last, hoarded up and savored in all its richness.

  Cara moaned into his kiss and pulled him closer against her, her thigh rising, her foot wrapping around the back of his calf. He reached down and lifted her knee higher, hiking it up over his hip, and bent his knees slightly to fit them together. He ground against her, and knew the fit to be perfect as she broke the kiss abruptly, her head falling back against the wooden door, her breath hissing between her teeth, eyes closed tightly, lost to ecstasy.

  It fired him like a rocket propeller. "Oh, damn ... I have missed you," he said, and rocked against her again, then tasted the skin beneath her jaw, along her neck. She led his hips in a sensual dance, her hands pulling him to press against her again and again. He lifted her to ride his hips, and her legs wrapped around his waist as he pressed her against the door. He opened the robe to caress her breasts and filled his hands with them. The soft sounds coming from her were like fuel to his fire.

  "Greg ... let's go to bed," she said finally, something between a plea and a demand.

  He didn't need to be told twice. He released her, allowing her feet to find the floor, and he moved back to look at her again. Her lips were kiss-stung and rosy, her hair mussed, the robe hanging on the hills of her shoulders, open all the way down so he could see a wisp of panties that barely covered her mound. He was going to remove those pretty little things with his teeth, he decided, and felt that thought send a fresh shot of blood to his cock.

  She took him by the hand and led him to her bedroom. The bedroom and bed she used to share with his brother, he thought, but pushed it from his mind for the time being. She removed it further from his mind as she pushed the jacket from his shoulders and began loosening his necktie. He kicked off his shoes and worked on the buttons of his shirt, but had to stop for another kiss here, a gliding caress of her skin there. Finally, they were both bare save that tiny beribboned thong covering the part of her he most wanted to touch and taste. He laid her across the bed and placed his mouth on the fabric, breathing hot, moist air against it, then rubbed his tongue along the crease of her cleft through the material. She rounded her back, lifting herself more firmly to his mouth, and he did exactly what he'd planned, dragging the thin scrap of fabric away from that hidden treasure with his teeth, then his hands pulled them free of her legs, and he feasted properly on her.

  Cara moaned and curled her fingers into his hair as he pleasured her, and he found supreme pleasure in the doing. The taste of her, the sounds and soft murmurings she made built a drumming need in him that finally drove him to put on a condom and
seek her warmth. She felt like warm velvet, so sleek and hot as he eased in deep.

  He knew it wouldn't take long for him to find release, so close now he could feel it building. And he could sense it coming in her, too, as her muscles clenched around him like a tight fitting glove, her breath falling in little panting gasps from her lips. He kissed her quickly once, then cradled her head in his hands, his hips keeping a steady pounding pace.

  "Cara, look at me," he said, and kissed her again.

  She opened passion-drugged eyes to look at him.

  "Oh, babe ... it's so good," he said, holding her gaze with his.

  "Yes," she sighed. "Yes ... Greg," she said, breathing his name and sending him over the edge of oblivion. She followed immediately, her body's grip drawing everything he had to give.

  They held one another as pleasure died, their breathing labored and deep. Greg loved the feel of her satiny skin pressed to his from breast to feet. They kissed again and again, unable to get their fill. Soft and breathy offerings, or deeper, lush and ardent, Greg wanted every kiss he could get from her.

  He rolled them to their sides, withdrawing, and their arms and legs entangled at once, unable to get of enough each other, be it kisses or skin or scent. He kissed her forehead, her fluttery eyelids, the part in her hair, and finally her mouth, which was searching for his by this time. "I think about kissing you probably a thousand times a day," he admitted.

  She smoothed the hair back from his forehead and pressed her mouth to his four or five times in quick succession. "Then you must ... kiss me ... a thousand ... times a day," she said, punctuating every odd word with a kiss. She folded her arms around his head and held him close, his lips grazing the skin of her sweet smelling neck.

  "And when will I have time to work?" he asked, nuzzling the tender spot above her collarbone.

  She sighed as his mouth found a particularly sensitive place. He loved the sound, wished he could record it and use it as his ringtone. "I'm just guessing here," she suggested, "but you're not getting much work done if you're thinking about kissing me a thousand times a day."

  He chuckled, filling both his hands with the lusciousness that was her ass, and he gave her a firm squeeze. "Oh, darlin' ... you're not just kiddin'. Because that's just the kissing. There are, at least, a hundred other things I think about doing to you as well."

  She pulled back slightly to look into his eyes. "A hundred?"

  "At least," he assured her.

  "I can't think of a hundred sex acts. What are you reading in your spare time, the Kama Sutra?"

  He laughed, and rolled her onto her back once more. "Babe, I'm gonna make you think I wrote the Kama Sutra before it's all over with." She laughed that purely sexual purring laugh he loved so much, and he felt it inspire new life in all his appendages. "You just might be surprised one day when I break out a little bit of that kinky stuff you've heard I like."

  "Bring your best game, Gregory. I'm a willing learner," she admitted, making him moan at the thought.

  Sometime later, spent and sated, they lay in her bed facing one another. He could sleep for a week now, a happy man.

  "Greg?" she whispered, pulling him back from the edge of slumber.

  "Hmm?"

  When she said nothing he opened his eyes to find hers regarding him deeply. "What is it, Cara?" he asked.

  "There are no ghosts here," she said, her voice barely audible.

  Okay, back awake. What did that mean? He watched her for a time, but she didn't expound on it.

  "Are you telling me that my big brother isn't perched up there on the crown molding watching us with extreme displeasure?" he asked.

  "I guess," she said, shrugging shyly.

  "No sweat. I don't believe in that crap," he said. He knew he sounded more gruff about it than he meant to.

  "I don't either," she said, rearranging her hair on the pillow more comfortably. "People don't die and become angels. Angels are created beings. But right after Jason died, so many people tried to tell me that he would be my guardian angel from now on. And at first, I wanted to believe it. Kinda. But after the emotion settled down a bit, I saw it for the lie it was. He didn't act much like a guardian or protector while here. Why should I think he'd care what happened to me after he died?"

  He looked at her in the dim light of the room and wanted to take that hurt away from her, remove that pinched look between her eyebrows and tell her that he would always protect her, always take care of her. The growing instinct did a number on him though. Was he ready for that kind of commitment to her? Ready for all the fallout it might bring?

  "But I wanted you to know that he doesn't haunt me. I don't feel his presence here. I don't pine for him. And he's not between us when we're--" she paused, uncertain, "when we're having sex." She shrugged. "At least, not for me."

  Greg couldn't exactly say the same. He'd wondered, when they were making love, if Jason crossed her mind, or even dwelled there in her fantasy. But he said nothing in reply.

  Her voice grew even quieter. "I wanted you to know," she whispered. "It's you and only you."

  He kissed her for her thoughtfulness. And he kissed her again for her intuition, for her cleverness in knowing what happens in a man's mind sometimes. "Thank you," he finally said.

  "You're welcome," she whispered.

  He dropped his voice to a whisper, too. "Why are we whispering?"

  "You have to whisper in the dark. That's the rule."

  "Are we afraid of getting caught?" he asked, whispering still.

  "Nope. It's just the rule."

  He snuggled her under his chin, his arms holding her tightly, relishing. "Really? You're not afraid of getting caught? What if I spend the night? What if my truck sits in your driveway all night long?"

  "I don't care, Greg." She rubbed her face against his chest, her hands moving up and down his back. "Ryan is coming home in a couple of days. But tonight ... I want to sleep in your arms all night."

  He kissed her forehead lingeringly and tightened his arms around her. "Then sleep, darlin'. I'm here for the duration."

  ***

  The light was barely a suggestion beyond the curtains when Cara woke the next morning. Greg still slept beside her, his breathing regular. She watched him, his features relaxed, his hair sleep tousled and alluring, making her want to run her fingers through it, into it. He lay on his stomach, arms folded under his head, and she examined his left hand, resting on his upper arm, memorizing every tiny detail about it. He had manly hands, with long square fingers and neatly clipped, clean nails. The hands of an executive. But they were also capable hands. Hands that knew their way around a Harley engine and were equally skilled at pleasing a woman. She felt herself flush thinking of this man's hands and all the ways they'd pleasured her in the past week. What a lover he was. Commanding and masterful, but also intuitive and generous, putting off his pleasure to make certain of hers. He seemed to know her body better than she did herself, touched her in ways she'd never been touched.

  And he wanted her.

  How refreshing it was to be found desirable. To be wanted so badly he couldn't stay away, even after his long day of travel. He'd still wanted her. It was too good. All of it.

  Cara plumped her pillow a little and carefully laid bare the contents of the baggage this thing included. How in the world would they hide this from her kids? Those same kids who looked after her like they were the parents and she the child, so worried for her well-being, so protective. How would she manage to keep this from them? Because she had to keep it from them. There was no way in hell they'd understand this.

  "That's a mighty deep furrow you've plowed there between your brows, Caroline," he said quietly, his voice husky with sleep. "What are you thinking about?"

  She found his gaze and tried to soften her expression a little. "Nothing worth worrying about," she said.

  He studied her for a time and she knew she hadn't fooled him. She reached up and brushed the hair back from his forehead. He allowed it fo
r a moment, then pulled her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to it. He rolled to his side and pulled her into his arms. "Come here, you very poor little liar."

  She went more than willingly, needing to feel his arms around her, his strength, his shelter from all that she imagined was piling up against them. Her hair snagged on his beard stubble and he reached up to smooth it back down, tucking her against his heart. She could hear its solid beat against her ear.

  "You're not seeing ghosts this morning, are you?" he asked. His hands smoothed up and down the length of her back, caressing, squeezing, massaging in a lazy wake-up call of pure goodness.

  "Absolutely not," she answered.

  "Good," he said. "Then what are you fretting about?"

  "Nothing really." At least, she wanted it to be nothing. She just couldn't quite believe it. He was patient, allowing her the time to say what was on her mind. "It's the last day before Ryan comes home tomorrow. Barbara will be right behind him, then Etta and Maddie. And everything will go back to normal. I'm not really ready for that," she finally admitted.

  He kissed the top of her head. "So I guess you're trying to tell me there'll be no more booty calls when I fly in late at night?" He tried to make it sound light, like a joke, but there was so much more to it than that.