Taboo (4 page)

"What do you mean, 'What are you doing here?' I'm eating breakfast. The same way I do every Saturday. If you don't get up, I'm gonna eat yours too."

"But you can't!" she said frantically.

"Of course I can. I'm doing it. See?"

Cammie looked unusually disoriented, he noticed, especially as she clutched the sheet tight and high about her neck, her eyes avoiding his.

"How did you get in?" she demanded.

"I used my key. What else?"

"And you re on my bed. Get off my bed. Right this instant."

"Jeez, Cammie, what's with you? You got a case of PMS or something? Want me to get you a Midol out of the bathroom, or—"

"Out!" she ordered. She let go of the sheet long enough to give him a push and point what looked suspiciously like a shaking finger in the direction of the door.

"If you wanted some coffee, all you had to do was say so," he said reasonably while his gaze immediately followed the descent of the sheet. She had on a T-shirt, but he could see the thrust of her breasts, the jut of her nipples.

Grant forced himself to look away and gather up the scattered Styrofoam containers before he had yet another raging fire to douse.

He stopped at the door and glanced back. Cammie was looking at him with an odd kind of confusion—almost as though she had been awakened by someone she'd thought was a stranger and just now realized it had only been he.

"Are you okay, Cammie?" he asked, his brow furrowed with concern. Then he remembered. He'd been in the middle of some pretty heavy foreplay, but he'd been sensitive to her every move, every nuance of impression.

"Cammie... Last night... I'm sorry, I forgot. You must be upset. Want to talk about it?"

"What?" she croaked. Her gaze darted around the room before settling uneasily on him. "Last night? What about last night?"

Cammie was acting awfully strange, he mused. He propped an elbow on the door frame and studied her curiously. The sack dangled from his hand and for a split second he almost dropped it—the split second that he thought she looked at him differently than ever before. With a spark he recognized as unadulterated feminine... interest. Not interest, more than that.

Desire.

He must have imagined it, though, he decided, because whatever he thought he'd seen was instantly replaced by something else—guilt, maybe? That didn't make any sense either.

Grant shook his head, deciding he was so deep into his own obsession with Cammie, he was starting to project his emotions onto her.

"You know," he said, "last night. The accident report. You covered it at ten, remember?"

"
I
remember," she retorted sharply, "but I'm surprised that
you
do."

"Of course I remember," he said tolerantly, even more confused by her belligerent attitude. "And I know how upset you get when you have to report on them. Especially the accidents with kids and families. I just wanted to make sure... Hell, I don't know what I wanted to make sure about. Just if you wanted a listening ear, or a shoulder to cry on. I've got both whenever you need them, Cammie. You know that. I thought maybe now was one of those times."

"Grant." Her face softened, then she smiled uncertainly. "I'm sorry, Grant. I didn't mean to snap at you. You, of all people. You're too special to me, and I should realize, more than anyone, not to take the people I love for granted. Ever since Justin died—" She swallowed hard, glanced away and then back. "You know you've always been the closest thing to a—"

"I know," he sighed. "A brother."

She nodded and held her hand out to him. He dropped the sack on the bedside table and sat beside her, taking her hand in his, kissing the soft palm, then laying it over his heart. He was glad his shirt was partially undone. It gave him the excuse to press her hand to his bare skin without seeming forward or out of line.

His eyes met hers, with empathy, with compassion, with love, though he was careful not to betray the deeper, more urgent kind of bond he ached to forge, the heavy pulse rushing between his temples, expanding inside his chest, and culminating painfully and unsatisfied—
never
to be satisfied—between his legs. She did all this to him with no more than the lightest caress of hand to chest.

Unexpectedly, her fingers spread beneath his and pressed, sinking into his skin and threading through the thick wiry hair before tentatively brushing his nipple. His breath caught. He thought his heart might pound through his ribs, if he didn't have a heart attack first.

Her caress was subtle but distinctly sexual, and he wondered if she had any idea what she was doing to him, or if she was aware of the intimate implications in so small an act.

He scrambled out of the cloak of disbelief, of longing that had descended over his brain like a fog, scanning her face, her eyes, searching for some kind of message, some signal to tell him he wasn't dreaming for once, that at last she had seen him for what he was, recognized him as the man he had become.

"Cammie... ?" His voice was hoarse, thick.

He saw it again—the flicker that he could only pray was desire, a smoky haze in the depths of her troubled eyes, banked and cautious, but holding the promise of fire if he could stoke it just right.

But so quickly it was gone, overlayered by confusion, struggle. And then a look of disbelief and disapproval, as though she couldn't believe what she had just done, but knew that she had and was horrified.

She quickly let go without actually jerking away and clasped her hands tightly together, staring at the lace-curtained window.

"You'd better go eat your breakfast," she said quietly. "Go on, you. Git, before it's cold."

"Cammie." He touched her cheek, and this time she did jerk away.

"And make some coffee while you're in there, okay? I think I'm still asleep."

"I think you're just waking up."

He stroked his fingers through her hair, but she grasped his wrist and held it tight before thrusting his hand away.

"Cammie, don't—"

"No, Grant.
We
don't. Not you. Not me. Understand?"

"No, I don't understand. Talk to me, Cammie. Talk to
me
for once. Not some kid who grew up years ago. I want to talk about what just happened, about—"

"It didn't."

"It didn't what?"

"Happen. It didn't happen, Grant."

His eyes slitted, his lips barely moved. "You're a liar and you know it."

"Stop it," she hissed. "Stop it now. Nothing happened.
Nothing."

"Coward."

He reached out to grasp her arms, but stopped himself. She would only shove him away. So he got up, aching and elated and frustrated and more determined than ever to make it the way it should be with them—now that he knew there was something to build on. He'd seen the chip in her facade. He'd hammer at it until she succumbed.

Stopping at the door, he let his gaze trace her shape beneath the sheets, and this time he had the pleasure of knowing that she most definitely took him seriously.

The way she huddled and drew her legs close beneath the flimsy covering told him so.

"I'll make some coffee," he said smoothly. "Meet you in the kitchen... sis. You don't mind if I call you that, do you? I mean, since we both know nothing happened."

She flinched, obviously rattled and upset. He was perversely glad. Maybe he should have destroyed her lofty opinion of him a long time ago, peeled away the image she clung to and given himself a chance at building a new one.

"Oh, and by the way," he added casually. "I had a message on my machine this morning from Mom and Dad."

"Mom and Dad?" She gulped the words out and cast a furtive glance in his direction.

"Yeah. My—our
parents
want us to join them tomorrow for church and Sunday lunch. And they have a couple of extra tickets for a football game. Thought we might like to come along. I called them back and accepted. Hope you don't mind."

"Mind?" she echoed. Her voice sounded very small, and she was kneading the sheet with her hands.

Grant raised a brow to let her know he'd noticed. He leaned against the door frame Just a little longer to assure himself he really did have the power to unsettle her. Once he was satisfied that she was definitely breathing in an erratic, shallow pant, he moved away.

"Coffee's on," he threw over his shoulder.

"Grant."

He turned.

"I don't think you should come into my bedroom uninvited again."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he assured her. "I can wait for the invitation."

He turned on his heel, his mind spinning, his body still rushing, and his heart thumping like mad.

He'd thought brotherly love was better than no love.

He'd been wrong. One touch, one very provocative touch, was all it had taken. He needed her love the same way he needed to breathe.

* * *

Cammie pretended to concentrate on the magazine, the pages fluttering with the Porsche windows half-down. She only wished Grant's leg wasn't so close, the well-honed muscles bunching beneath the smooth fabric of the gray suit he was wearing to church.

She'd probably seen him in it ten times that year, but for reasons she did not want to explore, she'd never noticed until now how well the tailored coat accentuated his broad shoulders, or how the white dress shirt and dark silk tie set off the healthy bronze glow of his skin and the strong angle of his freshly shaven jaw. But worst of all was the way his pants fit snugly around his lean waist and hips, and tightened just enough at his thighs when he sat down to remind her of the pagan god she had seen surging out of the water and arching toward the night sky.

"Want me to roll my window up?"

Cammie shifted closer to her own window at the sound of his voice. The voice that was deeper, more gravelly, and far more assertive even in casual conversation then she ever remembered it being. Like the voice of a stranger, and yet the most familiar voice in the world.

"No," she said without looking at him. She didn't want to be reminded of the way the wind was ruffling his unruly hair. "No, but you can slow down."

"Sure. Anything you say, Cammie."

He shifted down, and his hand brushed against her silken hose. She jumped before she could stop herself, and silently cursed the instinctive reaction. Grant had touched her a million times, but ever since yesterday's unreal and yet all too real encounter, nothing was the same with them. Not even a casual and possibly intentional brush of his hand against her leg.

She concentrated hard on the article, then realized she'd read the same paragraph three times and didn't have the faintest idea what the article was about.

She was still too disoriented to form a coherent thought—disoriented and appalled by her voyeuristic arousal. Even more, she was disturbed about and unbelieving of the shocking turn their relationship had suddenly taken.

Grant had overtly and without hesitation let her know that his feelings for her were adult and not brotherly in the least. But how could that be possible? How could he have changed overnight—or had he? Had she been so blind, so entrenched in the familiar, that she hadn't looked beyond the surface to see the obvious?

She didn't know, nor could she explain her own inexplicable and sudden awareness of him as a man. It was horrible and intriguing and mind-shattering... but most of all, unacceptable.

Grant was her brother. Not by blood, but they were linked with their souls, with familial bonding and ties, with holidays and shared joys and sorrows. They had been closer than a lot of natural siblings she knew, always seeking the other one before going to anyone else for advice, for support, for love and laughter.

Right now she was so confused and upset, she needed Grant more than ever. He was her best friend and she craved his advice, his insight to sort out this crazy mess.

Yet just when she needed him so badly, they couldn't talk. That was the most devastating blow of all—losing him this way. She missed her brother and she wanted him back.

She risked a fleeting glance in his direction, and he intercepted her, his eyes sober but alight with something she'd never seen before yesterday. That something teemed with masculine prowess, with emotional depth and longing, with a proprietary and distinctly sensual intent. The wind whipped through his hair, and she caught the faint hint of cologne, a scent that was clean, woodsy, intoxicating.

He'd worn it for years, but he'd never before smelled so incredibly good, so good that she wanted to bury her face in the crook of his neck and breathe in deeply.

Her throat constricted and she looked quickly away. Her head swam; her heart hurt so bad, she wished she could weep.

They could never go back, but they could never go forward. This was the second brother she'd lost, and somehow the pain was worse as an adult than as a child.

Maybe because this time she knew the depth of her loss.

* * *

Grant pulled into the church parking lot, throwing a casual wave and a happy greeting in the direction of their parents, who were waiting for "the children" just outside the majestic old Methodist church.