Her hands rubbed up and down his bare back, wanting nothing more than to soothe him as he'd soothed her. He moved his own hand to the back of her head, stroking her hair as he would a kitten.
But when he lowered his head, her heart skipped a beat and started pounding double-time. If she moved a fraction of an inch, their cheeks would touch. Another, their lips. If she stood…
From nowhere came the image of his face nuzzled in the valley of her breasts, her fingers tangled in the silk of his hair. Darts of heat launched straight to her stomach and spiraled outward, until every nerve ending pulsed to the beat of her erratic heart, her breathing rapid and shallow.
She had to move. She couldn't stay like this. He was too close. And she wanted him much closer.
Swallowing hard, she ignored the mounting ache inside her and untangled herself from him, easing away. But the rush of cool air only intensified her need. Her need for him. And when she noticed the loss of her body heat had raised goose bumps on his skin, it took every ounce of her willpower to stay away.
She took his hands in hers, squeezed once, then with great effort, let him go, forcing her gaze to an open box.
It held photo albums, the first of which lay open on top of the others. She recognized the younger versions of Brooks and Jo and a boy who must have been Luke.
They wore cowboy hats as they sat atop bales of hay in the bed of a pickup, but it wasn't their camera-ready smiles that caught her attention. It was their eyes—the sadness in Brooks's and Jo's, the anger in their brother's, and an age-old worry in all three that had no business being there.
"How old were you in that photo?"
"Eight." His jaw worked mechanically. "Our mother bought us new hats that day. Luke warned her she shouldn't, that the old man would chew her out and there'd be hell to pay, but she insisted we needed them, and he'd understand." He closed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose, as if the memory was too painful to bear. "He didn't."
"Oh, Brooks…"
"God, I hated him," he said. "It was so pure, what I felt. I didn't know what it was like to love someone and hate them at the same time. I didn't know what she felt." He flexed his hand on his thigh. "Until Luke died."
Tears sprung to her eyes, emotion clogging her throat. She didn't know why she should feel his pain on a soul-deep level, but she did. "I know that feeling," she said. "I know it in here." She covered her heart, the place where she felt the grief of lost opportunities and unresolved turmoil and words left unspoken, as if they were her own.
"Ah, lollipop." He gave her a sad smile. "I wish to hell you didn't know a thing about it."
Something nagged her. A question that had floated in the back of her mind surfaced. "Brooks? How did he die?"
He covered his eyes and shook his head. "I can't…"
"Can't … what?" She bit her lip. "What is it? What happened?"
He lowered his hand and looked at her—really looked at her—with so much pain and guilt and remorse in his eyes she didn't have to ask again.
The answer quivered through her as if by a sixth sense.
Starting as intuition, growing to a mental picture. Blood. So much blood. Spattered. Everywhere. On walls. On the carpet. Bile rose in her throat. Her hands trembled, and the single word escaped her lips: "Suicide."
At his anguished sob, her heart tripped and fell. She couldn't stay away. She launched herself at him. Her body collided with his, and she held him as tightly as she could, a flood of her own, hot tears gushing nonstop down her face. He closed his arms around her, gathering her close as if to absorb her into him. Salty tears mingled, his silent, hers ragged, both ripped from the depths of their wounded souls.
"If only I'd known," Brooks said. "I should have done something. I should have been there to stop him."
"No. Look at me. Look." She caught his tear-dampened face between her palms. "You can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped. You can't…" She shook her head, her eyes beseeching him as she slid her thumbs over his cheeks.
His gaze lowered to her mouth, and his eyes darkened. For a single instant, she thought he was going to kiss her, then he swore, low and coarse, and jerked away, rubbing his face with his hand. "This is wrong."
"Brooks?"
"No. Don't." He turned his back. "No more. Please. You need to go now. I can't … take any more sympathy from you. I'm the one who should be giving it."
"You've given, believe me. You've given me so much. It's my turn. I want—"
"No," he gritted out. "Not like this. Not at all." He put his head in his hands.
"Brooks." She fought her rising panic. "You aren't making any sense. I don't understand—"
"You have amnesia."
"No kidding." She gave a nervous laugh, but when she laid her hand on his shoulder, he shrugged it off, holding up his own hand to ward off further contact.
"Please. Go. Now."
She shook her head. "Look, you're really worrying me. I don't want to leave you alone like this. Do you want me to get Mitch or Dean?"
"No."
"Then you're stuck with me. What can I do for you? And don't tell me nothing. There has to be something."
With a self-derisive oath, he turned and let her look at him. It was all there in his eyes, the raw, primitive hunger he'd tried to conceal. And when her gaze slipped lower, to his faded jeans, the evidence was unmistakable.
"Oh." Breath whooshed out of her lungs. Her pulse leaped. Blood hummed in her veins. Then just as quickly, reality encroached.
Rachel. It's Rachel he wants. Not you.
Her throat locked, and she tugged at the hem of her sweatshirt, feeling frumpy and inadequate and way out-of-her-league. "You could call her."
"Who?"
"Your girlfriend." She winced, ashamed at how much the mere word stung.
His jaw set in a hard line. "She's not my girlfriend." He sounded like Dean, denying the obvious. "She never was. And whatever we had, it's over. We broke it off tonight."
"You broke it off…?"
"I tried to tell you earlier."
Her pulse kicked up again. Was it possible? Could it be? "Why?"
"A hundred reasons, not the least of which is that I'm seeing every woman as a damn substitute now." He lifted his shoulder in an offhand shrug, contradicted by the hard line of his jaw. "Probably will for a while. Hell, maybe longer. I'm not real sure which end's up anymore. So do us both a favor and get out of here, lollipop. Please. I can't take much more of this."
At the familiar endearment, her heart squeezed tight. She didn't move. She couldn't. "A … substitute?"
He drew a breath and tipped his head back, staring at the rafters. "I can't stop thinking about you," he said, his voice rough with strain. "In ways I shouldn't. Even now." He shook his head in disgust. "That's why you need to go. Understand? You can't keep touching me. I can't keep pretending I don't feel anything."
Her? He wanted her? Amelia covered her mouth, hardly able to believe what she was hearing.
"We need to go back to how it was before," he said, as if he'd told her nothing of consequence. "You caught me at a bad time … a low moment, that's all." Only the agony in his voice told her it was more than that—so much more.
"Brooks—"
"I shouldn't have said anything."
She felt something infinitely precious about to slip from her fingers and lunged to grab it by instinct. "No. No, don't say that. What you told me… What you feel—"
"It doesn't matter. None of it matters."
She was bent over a cliff, holding on with both hands. "It matters. You matter. To me."
"Damn it, woman. You don't understand. I am the last man on earth who should matter to you."
"Why would you say that?" Her voice shook. "You have to be the most incredible man I've ever known."
He gave a short hiss and mumbled something about her basis for comparison. She would have been insulted, but the anguish in his eyes told her he didn't mean to insult. He braced his weight on
his knees and stood, gazing none-too-subtly at the door.
"I'm not leaving, Brooks." She stood her ground. "Not after what you just said. You can't expect me to forget—"
He swore softly, his frustration edging his voice. "I can't act on this."
Amelia drew a shaky breath. This was her one chance. Now or never. Her choice: mousy nanny or gutsy lion tamer. What was it going to be?
Watching him carefully, she reached for the hem of her sweatshirt and pulled it over her head. "I can."
* * *
Chapter 8
« ^ »
The air hissed out of Brooks's lungs, and his jaw went slack. She was so beautiful standing there before him, her small, high breasts bare, her hair framing her angelic face.
How could anyone hurt her?
And then before he could formulate another thought, she was in his arms, all that incredible, soft skin against his, the rush of pleasure beyond anything he'd ever felt. The sounds that ripped from their chests barely sounded human. Hungry mouths sought and found. They clung to each other, kissing like lovers reuniting after a painful separation, their passion fueled by needs they'd fought for so long.
But no longer…
Warning bells went off all through his body. She wasn't in the right frame of mind. She was vulnerable. He'd be taking advantage of her.
"Brooks." She gasped and stretched up, curving her arms around his neck. The tips of her nipples rubbed against his chest, making him burn from the inside out.
"Amelia." He ran his hands along her body—the sides of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips.
He wanted her. God, how he wanted her. All this time, he'd dreamed about her. But this was wrong. No matter how right it felt. No matter how much he wanted her. No matter how much she thought she wanted him.
"Amelia." He tore his mouth away. "We have to stop."
"No." Her muted whimper nearly undid him.
"Honey, please. Don't make this any harder…" He cradled her head with infinite care as something too delicate for his work-roughened hands. "We can't do this."
"Why not?" Her eyes searched his, begging him to give her one good reason. Her guileless expression stole his breath, made him ache to hold her close and never let go.
"Because." Hell, he couldn't even give her an answer, had to wait out the amnesia, let her remember on her own.
He didn't want her to remember. He would have done anything to take the awful memories away, to undo all the hurt, take back the pain that had been inflicted on her.
With a shudder, he buried his face in her soft hair and inhaled deeply, trying to regain his senses. But his senses were otherwise occupied, drowning in everything about her. "You smell so good. You taste so good. You feel so good."
"Ditto, ditto, ditto." She reached up and kissed him. Once. Twice. Three times, and he went under, pulling her to him as he kissed her tenderly. "See, we can," she said, her fingers gliding down his neck and chest. "Everything you said before… I feel it, too. About you. All of it. I can't stop thinking about you, either. Wanting you…
Dear God. In all his life, had anyone looked at him the way she was? The irony of the trust on her face felt like a low blow—the woman with least reason to trust him, and here she was.
Here she was…
Damn, he wasn't this strong. Not enough for both of them… He closed his mouth over hers, capturing her sigh. Just one more kiss. One more, and he'd let go. He took his time, tracing his hands along her bare shoulders, her spine and the curve of her back, kissing her with the bittersweet reverence of a man on death row smoking his last cigarette.
"Tell me when to stop. Just say the word, and—"
"I don't want you to stop." She lifted her face, her eyes heavy-lidded but her gaze steady, determined. "No one's ever made me feel like this, Brooks. Somehow, I know that. My body knows it. I've felt it ever since that day at the hospital. When you held me. It wasn't like this before. My life. This is better. Better than anything."
Brooks closed his eyes. She had no idea what she was doing to him.
She laid her petal-soft fingers against his lips. "You asked me what I wanted. You said tell you, and it was mine. Did you really mean it? Or were you just saying that?"
"I meant it," he said roughly, kissing her fingertips, needing her to believe he would never lie to her.
"Then don't stop. Please, don't stop. I want … your skin against mine. I want to feel you … everywhere."
A harsh, guttural sound ripped from his chest. God, he needed this woman. More than air. He knew what it cost her to be so bold, to go after what she wanted. But he was torn between wanting to grant her heart's desire and knowing he was the last person who had that right.
He wasn't the man for her. Not in the long run.
"Brooks…?" She was killing him slowly.
He was afraid to give in, afraid not to. Would she hate him when her memory came back? Would she hate him now, if he didn't?
This could be his last chance to touch her, to show her how she deserved to be loved, how she'd deserved all along… Could he deny her that? Could he deny himself?
He lowered his gaze to the bump on her nose, tracing it lightly with his fingertip. Then he bent his head to drop a kiss where his finger had been, caressing her with his lips. When she sighed, he felt his own surrender. "Do you know I could still taste you? All week long … I must've brushed my teeth a dozen times, and I still couldn't get the taste of cherry out of my mouth. The shirt I wore that day, it still smells like you. I couldn't bring myself to wash it."
Her eyes softened, and she lifted a hand to his cheek.
He covered her hand with his own, turned his face and kissed her palm. "I don't want to add tonight to your list of regrets when you get your memory back."
"I'll never regret this. Never." She rose on her toes to meet his lips, and he groaned, deep in his throat as he kissed her. His hands slipped to her waist, anchoring her to him. He wanted to bottle her kisses, to keep them on his bedside table, to take every night before he went to sleep.
But when he would have picked her up, he dropped to his knees in front of her. Circling her hips with his arms, he crushed his lips to her womb.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, knowing there were no words that could ever atone for another man's sins.
A sob tore from her lips. "I know you are. I know." Her fingers wound into his hair. "Just don't be sorry too long, because life's for the living…"
And the rhythmic pounding of their pulses told him how very alive they both were.
He looked up then, saw her beautiful brown eyes gazing down at him and let himself feast on the sight of her. "I wondered what you'd look like underneath that ugly flannel." His let his eyes devour her small, firm breasts, his hands unsteady as he cupped the soft mounds. His thumbs grazed her hardened nipples, smiling at the catch of her breath. "I knew you'd be beautiful. I didn't know how beautiful."
"Oh, Brooks." Her stomach quivered with her short, ragged breaths. "You make me hot and shivery everywhere."
"Hot and shivery's good. Hot and shivery's real good."
"Do you know you're so handsome it hurts to look at you sometimes?" She grazed his cheek with the back of her hand. "The way your eyes darken… The way you touch me… You make me feel … real."
"Honey, you are real. Come closer and let me show you how real you are." As he rose, she wrapped her arms around him, and her breasts grazed his chest, cranking up the heat under his already-boiling desire.
He picked her up and kissed her thoroughly, loving the way she felt against him, the way she fit in his arms, the noises she made in the back of her throat as if she couldn't get enough. Easing her down, he bent to kiss the hollow of her throat, then feathered moist heat across her collarbone.
Her skin smelled like baby powder and something all hers … the scent that had lingered on his shirt, driving him crazy. He lowered his head and closed his mouth over one taut nipple, sucking hard, then lightly flicking
his tongue.
She gasped and arched, the sound of his name on her lips making blood rush in his ears and pound through his veins. He took her mouth again as her hands traced the sides of his rib cage, his back and the curve of his spine.
When her nipples, hard and wet from his mouth, rubbed against his chest, he gritted his teeth, every inch of him hard as a rock and throbbing in earnest.
Her fingers pressed the small of his back, then slid under the denim of his jeans driving him mad. He wanted to lift her up, to sink into her and feel her heat around him. He wanted to touch her and taste her and make her moan in pleasure. He gripped her arms and pulled her against him.
Her sharp, indrawn breath pierced through his desire. It wasn't the normal sound. It was the other one… He glanced down and saw from her expression she was in that place again, the place she went when she felt threatened.
"It's okay." She shook her head, and he knew she was fighting it. "It'll pass. Please, just let go of my arms."
He did as she asked, realizing at once, "That's what happened before." At her nod, nausea roiled in his chest. Had the bastard, even once, made her feel good? Or had it all been take, take, take—pure dominance and submission?
He bit back a vicious oath and reached instead for her sweatshirt, his body still hard and aching for her. "No one or nothing's going to hurt you again." Especially me. "I swear it." His voice was gruff, but his hands were gentle as he helped her back into her sweatshirt. "It's all right. Everything's all right. We're going to stop. You're safe."
Tears streamed down her face as she pried open her eyes, her gaze searching his. Ever so slowly, she reached out and took his hand. He saw in her slight wince what the effort cost her, and a heaviness settled in his chest.
He held his breath as she traced each of his fingers, then held her own palm up against his. "It's just your size and strength. Sometimes, it overwhelms me. That's crazy—"
"No, it's not."
"But it's nothing you've done. It's…"
"My potential."
Her gaze flew to his, clearly surprised. "Yes," she said. "You're so much bigger than I am." The difference in their hands—hers smooth and delicate, his rough and tough—drove home her point. "So much stronger."
THE NANNY'S SECRET Page 14
