Taboo (2 page)

"Put it in that way," he instructed patiently.

"But it's too big," she insisted. "It'll never fit, Grant."

"Then we'll make it fit. Now look, Cammie," he said reasonably, guiding her hand with his. "All you have to do is hold it... just so. Work it back and forth, real easy now. Make sure there's plenty of lubrication. That's a girl."

"Grant," she muttered, "it's too tight."

"Just a little resistance," he murmured close to her ear. "And I know just how to take care of that."

She shrieked in sudden pain. "Dammit, Grant! You shoved it in. And just look. I'm bleeding."

"Well, hell," he shot back, "it wasn't working the other way, and at least we got the damn things connected." Grant dropped the WD-40 and the wrench next to the dryer vent, where the metal tubing now fit snugly. His victory was quickly forgotten as he jerked Cammie's hand up for closer inspection. "You
are
bleeding. C'mon, I'll take care of that."

"I think you've done enough already," she grumbled, and he felt the distinct urge to kiss shut her lushly pert mouth. "And besides," she added saucily, "I was always the one patching up
your
scrapes. With as much practice as you gave me, I'm probably better off doing it myself, little brother."

Grant pulled himself up to his full six-foot-three height and towered over her, drawing his shoulders back so his muscles flexed over a darkly tanned bare chest, which gleamed with sweat. It was hot as Hades, thanks to a late September heatwave that had descended on Austin like an electric blanket stuck on high.

He held out his hand and she took it. Grant told himself he should be used to this by now—this current, this one-sided jolt, this... this physical want he'd nursed since the day Cammie Walker had moved into his parents' house and taken up residence in his heart. He'd been eleven; she'd been fourteen. Seventeen years hadn't changed anything.

"Little?" he repeated dubiously. "I passed you up size-wise a long time ago."

"That's right." She laughed, then swatted his behind before turning on her heel to stride toward the bathroom. "Even then you were too big for your britches."

Wanna find out just how "big" I am for my britches, Cammie?
Grant gritted his teeth, holding the words back.
Just how big I get every time you slide your fingers up my side to tickle me, the way you did when we were kids? Wanna find out just how hard I am right now, after one of your little torture treatments with your hand patting my rear?

Grant wasn't smiling as he trailed after her, watching the sway of her sweetly curving hips in cut-offs, the firm and taunting rise of her tush as the hint of a cheek peeked beneath the frayed denim. Her blond hair was a tangle of shoulder-length curls, and more than anything he wanted to comb his fingers through it, to brush her hair the way she'd let him once when she had baby-sat him and Trish, his
real
sister.

Cammie was rummaging around in the medicine cabinet when he reached the doorway. Leaning in, he noticed her makeup, her curling iron, and hair things scattered over the vanity. Stockings were draped invitingly over the towel bar. He spotted a pair of black panties thrown into a white wicker basket in the corner.

Entering the small room, Grant grasped her wrist as she splashed water over her hand. He rubbed his thumb gently over the small cut before dabbing on some peroxide.

"You know, Cammie," he said quietly, letting a subtle but distinct insinuation flavor his tone, "I'm no more your real brother than I am a kid any longer."

Cammie reached for a towel, and her arm brushed against his chest, immediately tautening his abdomen. She efficiently patted the cut dry, her impish grin firmly in place as she looked up at him with wide, clear eyes. Eyes the color of the sea, and just as changeable. Feeling himself slipping, he let it happen, going down and then under, drowning in their aquamarine depths. He'd quit fighting the undertow a long time ago.

"You were
never
a kid, Grant. I can still see you peeking out the window the first day your parents brought me home—looking at me with those somber brown eyes of yours. Even your teachers said your book reports were like something put out by a congressional committee. And remember how your coaches kept saying you had lots of potential, if only you didn't think so hard and could let your reflexes—"

"Thinking's gotten me a long way in life," he cut in, in self-defense. "Three patents and two in the making aren't too shabby for a guy my age."

"Of course not," she said, and covered his hand in affection. "I'm proud of you, Grant. Everyone in the family's proud of you. You're a wonderful inventor. "

He brought her injured palm to his mouth and pressed his lips to the soft flesh. He always found lots of ways to touch her—and he supposed the pretext of platonic caresses was better than nothing.

"I'm sorry you got hurt," he murmured. "I never want to see you hurt."

She kissed him soundly but chastely on the cheek, and his jaw locked tight. His lips compressed in equal measures of frustration and desire and fury.

"You're sweet, Grant," she whispered. "The sweetest brother a girl could ever ask for."

Dammit, wake up and look at me, Cammie Walker. I'm not your brother. I never have been. I'm a man. A man who wants to get out of this prison of family ties and this farce of a relationship. I'm a man who's in love with a woman who can't see beyond a screw-up of fate
.

"I'm
not
your brother," he repeated, this time more assertively.

"Of course you aren't," she agreed with an innocent smile, while he fought the urge to mold his thighs to hers and prove just how un-sweet he could be. "But you might as well be. Now, get those cute little buns out of here so I can get ready for work. Got to look my best, you know. Can't have the six o'clock news with a ratty-looking anchor."

"You look great, just the way you are," he assured her, letting his gaze travel leisurely from her head to her toes and back. He fixed her with a challenging stare.

"Get outta here, you big lug," she said, turning his simmering once-over into a joke. "Go on. " She pushed him out the door with a hand between his shoulder blades and another pulling at the waistband of his jeans, pretending to throw him out. "Scat, before I shove you into the tub. You need a bath before you go on your weekend prowl even worse than I need a man to help me fix whatever else can go wrong around here."

She booted him out with her foot planted firmly in his backside, then slammed the door shut with a girlish giggle. He noticed she didn't lock it. Of course not. After all, he was just family.

Grant leaned against the door frame, listening as she sang a bawdy ditty he'd taught her sometime when he was thirteen and she was sixteen and the family had gone camping. Trish hadn't come along, and he and Cammie had had the pup tent all to themselves while his parents took the big canvas on the other side of the fire. He remembered their staying up half the night exchanging naughty jokes and snickering into their sleeping bags so the grown-ups wouldn't hear.

He remembered Cammie falling asleep first and the way he'd studied her by the dim light of the dying fire. He remembered stealing his first kiss, his heart pounding like a drum as he'd furtively brushed his lips over hers. She had murmured in her sleep and snuggled closer to his sleeping bag.

He remembered how cautiously, like a thief stealing something priceless that he could never claim as his own, he had draped his arm over her shoulders and brushed the hair away from her face. He'd had his first wet dream that night. Cammie had the starring role.

Grant heard the sound of her zipper sliding down. Closing his eyes, he imagined peeling the tight-fitting shorts off her body, and her lacy silk panties right along with them. The sound of water rushed in the background, and his mind toyed with the image of Cammie sinking naked into his private hot tub... and into his arms.

"You need a bath before you go on your weekend prowl even worse than I need a man..."

That's what she'd said. And what was he, chopped liver? No, wait. A little brother, right? As usual, the lightly spoken quip flailed him, stinging and more hateful than any insult she could ever dish out. It made the futility of his unrequited love all the more frustrating. All the more infuriating.

Grant pushed away from the door as he heard her splashing water over her body. The body that was so sweetly familiar and yet so forbidden.

He slammed the front screen door open and was storming out to his sexy imported sports car—that for all Cammie would notice was a four-door Ford—when he realized he hadn't locked the door.

Turning back, he flipped the latch, ever careful for her safety. He stalked back to the Porsche and folded his oversized frame into the front seat, then revved the engine with a vengeance.

Squealing out of the old brick driveway, he decided that Cammie was right. He did need a bath. And he was on the prowl—for the occasional easy lay he resorted to when he couldn't stand another night of the gnawing, ceaseless appetite he had for a woman as close as a sister and as distant as the stars.

Tonight was one of those nights. He'd stop for a box of condoms, maybe pick up a decent bottle of wine.

Then he'd pick up an old bedroom pal who expected nothing more than a good time—Cecilia or Julie or Brandy. After he caught the six o'clock news.

The night had a purpose, and that purpose should be in full swing no later than ten. When he gave in to the urge, he liked it right about that time. Tangling in the bed, or skin slick and limbs meshing in the spa, it didn't matter. There was a television both places.

He'd make sure it was on. Just so he could tell himself that while she did the ten o'clock news, Cammie could see what she was missing.

* * *

"We'll be right back with an update on today's fatal collision and footage of the accident that took the lives of a local family. This and more to follow. Stay tuned."

The floor manager signaled that the camera had ceased to roll, and Cammie took several deep, steadying breaths. She didn't need to look at the notes she was gripping to know she had a case of the shakes.

"Hey, Cammie. You all right?"

"Sure, Russ. I'm fine." She gave her co-anchor a weak smile. "I just hate covering these accident reports. They really get to me."

"I know." Russ Aberdeen reached over and gave her hand a quick squeeze. "Want me to stand in for you on this one? I'll give Jack the word and get the cameras and teleprompter in my direction."

"Thanks anyway, but I'll handle it. Goes with the territory, big guy." Besides, she silently added, it was how she stood up to the old demons. They never went away and she'd quit running years ago.

"Cammie," Jack, the studio manager, called, "you've got some sweat on your upper lip. Quick, Tino, get some powder on her before the countdown. "

"Roger." Tino rushed over to quickly pat dry Cammie's flushed forehead and around her mouth. "Lights warmer than usual, Cammie?"

She forced a halfhearted smile for an answer and muttered, "Thanks, Tino," just as he moved away and Jack signaled with the countdown.

"Three..."

You can do it
, she told herself.
You've got to do it. Damn, quit shaking, would you? A hundred thousand viewers are tuning in. They'll all know if you screw this up.

"Two..."

The internal command went unheeded. She could feel her vocal chords contracting.
Get your act together
, she frantically ordered.
It's your job. Just a job. Not your life. Not your family. They're gone.

"One." Jack pointed sharply at Cammie.

"Today a fatal collision between a Mack truck and a station wagon claimed the lives of a local family, leaving five people dead..."

Cammie drew on every ounce of professional know-how she possessed to maintain her outward control. Her eyes met the camera as she struggled to keep her self-protective shield firmly in place. If nothing else, she was grateful the footage began to roll as she recited the worst part of all....

"The Rawlings family, on their way to a picnic, were traveling approximately sixty miles an hour when a tire punctured on the truck, causing the driver to lose control and jump the median. Danny Rawlings, his wife, Cindy, and their three children—Jayna, Christy, and Robert—were pronounced dead after rescuers..."

* * *

Cammie breathed deeply of the humid late-night air as she leaned against her monster of a car. She didn't care that the old El Dorado wasn't glamorous. It was at least ten times safer than that fast and dangerous death trap Grant drove like a bat out of hell.

Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was eleven on the nose. She hadn't wasted any time getting out of the studio. Now that her weekly stint was done and she had the weekend off, she wanted to put the cloying memories in the past where they belonged and clear her head. Life was too precious. She didn't want to spoil a minute of it.

"Cammie, glad I caught you."

She turned as she swung open the door to her car. "Got a news flash for me, Russ?" she asked with feigned humor, determined to pull herself out of the depression pits.