The Closer You Get (8 page)

He slipped out of his seat and stepped into the living area
without a comment about her nearly throwing them through the windshield. She
tapped her forehead against the steering wheel, hoping to bang some sense into
her foolish brain.

“First, my disguise,” Brett said from behind her. She joined
him at the sofa, wondering if he would don a fake nose or beard.

Instead, he removed his cowboy hat, placing it meticulously on
the sofa, upturned so as not to flatten the brim. Then he walked to his room
and, instead of a mask, came back carrying a folded T-shirt. He stripped off his
tailored shirt and tossed it onto the couch next to his hat. Now bare from the
waist up, he took his time unfolding the replacement. All too aware of his state
of undress, Cammie couldn’t help but stare. Biceps and triceps and six-packs.
Oh, my.

She centered her attention on the raven tattoo that looked
exactly like the one on the bus, only this one spanned his right side and its
wing dipped into his waistband. But she didn’t get to inspect it for long before
he pulled the tee over his head. Why was he doing this to her? Maybe his actions
were some sort of a trial run, a test to see how well she could hold up under
pressure. She was flunking the test.

After she felt she could speak without sounding like a boy in
the midst of puberty, she pointed to the silkscreen bull rider on the front of
his shirt. “Have you ever done that?”

Brett flipped open his belt buckle and, at the same time, her
heart rolled in her chest like an accomplished gymnast. “I climbed on a bull’s
back a few times when I was young and stupid. In fact, I got the raven tattoo in
honor of the first bull I stayed on for the required eight seconds. He was mean
and black and named Raven.”

She prayed he hadn’t noticed how unwound she was at the moment,
then inwardly scolded herself for believing he was about to make some flagrant
pass—and mentally chided herself for realizing she wouldn’t mind if he did.

When she heard the rasp of his zipper, her face heated up. But
she wasn’t so mortified that she avoided watching him tuck in his shirt.

“Anyway, I ran the rodeo circuit for several years,” he said as
if he hadn’t noticed her morbid fascination. “But I ended up choosing something
a little less dangerous than bull riding.”

Cammie bit the inside of her mouth in an attempt to concentrate
on the exchange as he redid his belt. “You chased rodeo queens?”

He grinned. “Mostly I chased cows. I was a calf roper. That’s
where I got this.” He pointed to the silver oval on his belt. “My lucky
buckle.”

Cammie took a quick glance at the buckle, then clucked
disapprovingly. “A cruel sport.”

Brett shrugged and splayed one large hand in front of her face.
“The livestock always fared better than I did. I got this little souvenir from a
rope burn. Almost lost a couple fingers.”

She studied the wide scar that spread across the length of his
right palm and snaked between his thumb and forefinger. She also noted a few
calluses, trademarks of a guitar player. Then, as if her body had developed its
own will, she reached out and slowly ran her fingertip over the raised flesh,
tracing the wound’s path.

Cammie looked into his eyes, as if she’d become someone
else—someone totally disconnected from her physical self. Brett seemed just as
shocked by her gesture, but he didn’t take his hand away.

As far as she knew, there was no correlation between touching a
man’s scar and a woman’s mouth going completely dry. But at the moment she felt
parched, her tongue as scratchy as a cat’s. She rejoined with reality, swallowed
hard. “Impressive, but you’ll get no sympathy from me.”

He smiled and dropped his hand. “Should’ve known you’d feel
that way.”

Cammie shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “So
whatever possessed you to ride a bull the first time?”

“Someone dared me.”

“Do you still do things on a dare?” Her tone was provocative,
so much so she wanted to rip her scratchy cat’s tongue clean out of her mouth
for being so obvious. For heaven’s sake, she was flirting like an adolescent.
She didn’t believe in playing games, just tell-it-like-it-is honesty. She didn’t
flirt. Or she hadn’t in quite some time.

He gave her a half smile. “Did you have a dare in mind?”

Cammie’s chest tightened, her pulse skittered. “I like to know
what motivates people.”

Brett dropped down in the chair before her, leaned back and
laced his fingers behind his head, looking
one-hundred-percent-all-American-and-proud-of-it cowboy. “I’m all yours,
Camille. Tell me what you want to know and then I’ll tell you what motivates
me.”

The only thing she wanted to know right now was how he’d
managed to reduce her to absolute feminine frailty by exposing his chest and
presenting a wound for her inspection.

Mark’s ability to entice a woman involved mostly verbal
coaxing. He’d worn her down with pretty words. Brett was a man of few words and,
she suspected, many unspoken talents. She’d never believed that someone could
radiate sensuality like a full-blast furnace with only a look, but he could.
Gentle persuasion came to mind. Not forceful, not overbearing and loud, like
Mark.

Now, why would she keep comparing him to Mark? She shouldn’t be
comparing him to anyone. She shouldn’t be standing there, about to throw herself
into a situation that could lead to the most inadvisable move she’d ever
made.

As Cammie nervously toyed with the buttons on her jacket, Brett
visually followed the movement. “I’m not normally so nosy,” she added. “Really,
you don’t have to answer all my questions. I’m sure you get tired of answering
questions.”

“Do you, Cammie?” His voice was pleasantly toxic.

“Do I what?” Her voice was unnaturally high.

Brett leaned forward and rested his arms on his thighs. “Do
things on a dare. Do you ever take chances, Camille Carson?”

“When I turned eighteen, I got a tattoo.” Lord, she’d lost her
mind. But she didn’t want him to think she was a total loser.

“Where and what?” he asked.

“It’s a rose and it’s in a place no one can see.” If he asked
to see it, she’d come totally unglued.

He only smiled.
“Interesting.”

She had the strongest urge to lean over and place her hands
atop his arms. “Anyway, I’m pretty much over my daredevil days.”

Brett stood and brushed a fingertip across her cheek. “Too
bad.” He pulled the baseball cap low over his eyes. “I’m ready if you are.”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she said, although she wasn’t sure
she was ready to spend more time with a tempting man like Brett.

CHAPTER FIVE

T
HEY
LEFT
THEIR
BAGS
with the clerk at the front desk, picked up
their keys and headed for the hotel lounge. Cammie followed Brett to a remote
table in the corner, although the place was virtually deserted, with the
exception of two businessmen at the bar watching some sports show.

Not long after they were seated, a pretty waitress with long
curly blond hair arrived to take their order. But before the woman could speak,
awareness dawned in her expression. “Are you that country star Brett
Taylor?”

“Could be.” He turned his attention to Cammie. “Is beer okay
with you?”

Not exactly her favorite, but she wasn’t going to refuse as
long as he picked up the tab. “Sure.”

As if she hadn’t registered the request, the waitress thrust a
napkin at Brett. “Can you autograph this?”

When Brett smiled, she dropped her tray, spare change and all,
onto the table. “Sure,” he said as he helped her gather a few random coins
before they rolled onto the floor. “What’s your name?”

For a moment she didn’t seem to know the answer to that
question. “It’s Heather.”

As he scribbled on the napkin, Cammie tried not to look, just
in case he might be sending a personal note, such as “I want your body, meet me
in my room.” Instead, she watched the woman’s face while she watched Brett.

A ridiculous bite of jealousy latched on to Cammie as she
considered Brett’s message. If Brett said—or wrote—the word, this girl would be
all over him in a nanosecond. And it would probably take him less time to
respond.

When Brett handed the waitress the napkin, hapless Heather
stood for a long moment and stared at the paper.

Oh, for heaven’s sake. “Could we have our drinks now?” Cammie
reminded the woman in a tone that was falsely sweet.

The waitress finally came to. “Oh...sure.”

After Heather wandered away, Cammie shook her head. “This must
happen all the time.”

Brett sighed. “Yeah, but I don’t mind. Fans keep me in
business.”

“But don’t you get a little tired of it? I mean, you probably
can’t even go into a convenience store without creating a scene.”

“If it gets to be too much of a hassle, or I get to feeling
just a little bit superior, I remember when I bought my one meal a day in a
convenience store.”

She rested her bent elbow on the table and supported her jaw
with her palm. “So what did you write to Heather, if you don’t mind me
asking?”

“The usual,” he said. “‘To Heather, good luck, Brett
Taylor.’”

“That’s all? No invitation?”

His smile faded into a frown. “If you’re asking if I gave her
my room number, nope.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t remember it.” He sat back in the seat and flashed his
deadly grin. “In all honesty, she’s not my type.”

“What is your type?” Cammie couldn’t believe she was actually
asking such inane questions. Questions that could lead him to believe she was
really interested in what he wanted in a woman.

His smile disappeared again, but that didn’t take away from his
gorgeous face. “You first. What’s your type?”

Luckily the drinks arrived before she sputtered some stupid
answer.

As soon as Heather retreated, Cammie took a quick sip before
turning the topic back on him. “Is the trade-off worth it, not having any real
privacy?”

He shrugged. “I swore if I ever got here, I’d never complain.
But some days I’d just like to be home cleaning stalls and riding horses. I
don’t get a chance to do that often enough.”

“Where is home exactly?” she asked.

“I have a ranch outside of Nashville,” he said. “But I grew up
right here in Texas in the Hill Country. What about you?”

She took another sip. “I’m a die-hard Tennessee girl. I grew up
in Memphis and, sadly, I still live in the same house with my grandparents. It’s
next to their charter business.”

“What about your folks?”

She shifted in her seat from discomfort. “My dad and mom were
both involved in the business. They always traveled together and traded off
driving duties. Then one December, they were on their way to Pigeon Forge with a
group of seniors when an eighteen-wheeler jackknifed right in front of them.
They were both killed instantly, along with two of the passengers.”

“That must’ve been tough for you.” He looked and sounded
sincerely sympathetic.

“I was only eight years old at the time,” she said. “It was
just a terrible, unavoidable accident.”

He stared off into space for a few moments before turning his
attention back to her. “My dad died before I ever really had the chance to know
him.”

Her heart ached over the regret in his tone. “I’m sorry,
Brett.”

“Don’t be,” he said. “He did it to himself. He was a frustrated
musician who had a fondness for booze and not enough drive to succeed. He left
my mom when I was twelve and he never came around much after that. For a long
time I resented him. Now I’m just sorry I never had the chance to ask him why he
left.”

Cammie couldn’t help but wonder how he could virtually do the
same thing to his own daughter, yet she didn’t dare ask. “That’s really a shame.
At least I have good memories of my mom and dad. Knowing I had two parents who
were totally devoted to each other helped lessen the sense of loss, although it
never really goes away, I guess.”

Brett sat silently for a few moments before he downed most of
the beer. “Do you want to dance?”

Did she? “It’s been a while.”

He came to his feet. “It’s just like riding a bicycle and
making love. Once you’ve done it, you don’t forget how.”

The making-love comment totally flustered her. “Yes, but
I—”

Before Cammie could issue a protest about being tired, or hand
him a thousand other lame excuses, Brett was already taking her hand to help her
off the high-backed chair.

Once they reached the small wooden dance floor, he put his arms
around her and gently tugged her close. The bluesy instrumental made for a
perfect lucky-belt-buckle-polishing slow dance. And this was exactly what she’d
sworn would never happen again—finding herself in the arms of another
entertainer. She didn’t want to touch him or have him touch her, yet she very
much enjoyed the way he pressed his hand into the small of her back, and the
gentle smile he gave her when she finally looked up at him. But the peculiar way
she felt at the moment, somewhat light-headed and very warm in a nice way,
worried her the most.

She’d only had two sips of beer, but it was as if she’d
consumed the entire keg. She felt clumsy and her pulse raced, her limbs tingled.
She was perspiring, although she couldn’t claim it was the room temperature
because she’d been fine at the table. Of course, it had to be the alcohol. Had
to be. Why else would she rest her cheek against his chest?

It certainly couldn’t be the dance. After all, it wasn’t like
she hadn’t danced before. In fact, she’d danced with plenty of men. All shapes
and sizes, all with varying degrees of proficiency. But the way this particular
man held her, moved against her, she would have to rank his ability higher than
most.

If she could find the courage to admit it to herself, the
greatest contributing factor to her current discomfort would have to be
Brett.

When he lowered his hands until they rested just below her
waist, she sighed against his shoulder.

“Cammie?”

“Huh?”

“Are you still awake?”

Oh, yes. All of her. “Am I dancing like I’m asleep?” she
questioned as she made contact with those silvery-blue eyes that caught the
reflection of the revolving globe above them.

“No,” he said, looking all too serious. “I was just thinking
you haven’t had much sleep. I’m being selfish by keeping you up this late when
you have to drive tomorrow.”

Sleep was the last thing on Cammie’s mind. She’d probably
regret it later, but she chose to participate in this game of chance tonight.
“I’ll live.”

“You know something,” Brett said, his somber demeanor suddenly
replaced with the same sexy expression she’d seen earlier, the one that managed
to rob her of all coherent thought. “Your eyes are so dark, almost black.” He
pushed her hair back from her shoulder. “Real pretty. Kind of mysterious.”

She felt suddenly self-conscious. “I bet you say that to all
your bus drivers.”

“Hell, Bud never looked at me the way you do.”

How was she looking at him? Like some lovesick girl? Like
Heather? “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Maybe I should rephrase this. It’s how you see me. Today
you’ve pretty much treated me like I’m just a person, not someone you have to
cater to or an employer. Like I’m nobody special, just a man. I can’t even
remember the last time I talked about my rodeo days. I appreciate having a
normal conversation.”

She experienced a strong sense of relief. “I can relate to your
wanting to have some normality in your life.”

“I mean, you really listen to me, Cammie. Most people talk, but
they never really listen.” He surveyed her face, from forehead to chin, before
his gaze came to rest on her lips. “You have a beautiful mouth.”

An inner voice called to her to steer clear, to stop before she
lost control of her common sense. She dropped her arms from around him and took
a step back. “It’s really hot in here. Maybe we should sit down.”

“Take off your jacket.”

Oddly Cammie had forgotten she was wearing it. She forgot
everything when Brett slowly unzipped the front closure, helped her out of the
leather jacket, then tossed it aside on a nearby table.

When she moved back into his arms, she didn’t feel any less
warm. Just the opposite. Maybe it was the top’s flimsy fabric that made her more
aware of his body against hers. Maybe it was the fact his hands had roved to her
hips. Or maybe the undeniable, and inadvisable, electricity flowing between them
had only intensified.

Brett pulled her arms away from his waist and placed them
around his neck, then slid his hands slowly down her sides and past her waist
until he was again resting his hands on her hips. She automatically
shivered.

“Are you cold now?” he whispered.

“No.”

He pulled her closer, anyway. “Do you still want to sit
down?”

Fall down was more like it. This whole scenario was dangerous,
but she couldn’t stop it any more than she could divert a runaway train with her
bare hands.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me, Cammie.” His face was so
close she could feel the warmth of his breath trailing over her cheek.

“I’m not.” But she was. Not afraid of him, but afraid of the
feelings he stirred inside her. Feelings she had no business entertaining as his
employee. As a woman. Somehow he had drawn out long-dormant needs she’d tried
hard to ignore.

As the music continued, Brett softly brushed his lips over her
cheek, then rested them against her temple. He gently stroked her back, up and
down in a slow, sultry rhythm. After a time, he pulled back and studied her
eyes, then slowly, slowly lowered his mouth....

Fortunately, the song ended before the inevitable happened,
forcing Cammie out of her stupor. When the disc jockey thanked everyone for
coming, she didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Maybe a little
of both.

Brett hesitantly released her and handed her the discarded
jacket. “Let’s go before they turn on the houselights.”

Cammie was still in a trance when they entered the glass
elevator, the nagging cautions running through her head at breakneck speed.

Never underestimate his
power
....

The trance finally lifted when they made it to the room.

“Here you are, ma’am,” Brett said as he offered her the
key.

She took the card from him, deliberately avoiding all contact.
“Thanks.”

“I’m right next door if you need me.”

“Okay.”

“See you in the morning.”

“Yeah,” she said. “In the morning.”

While Brett looked on, Cammie turned and slipped the card into
the slot to unlock the door, without success. She tried two more times, hoping
to see an illuminated green light, but to no avail. Locks never, ever stumped
her. She was normally sure-handed with nerves of steel. Normally. But this
wasn’t a normal circumstance.

Brett moved in closer, she presumed to assist in opening the
door. Then suddenly his hand was on her waist and the other in her hair,
stroking lightly, playing freely. He pushed her hair to one side, and when he
brushed his lips over the back of her neck, it appeared the door might have to
wait.

He took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him, almost
in slow motion, it seemed. She clutched her bag close to her chest as if trying
to create a barrier from the man with mesmerizing eyes standing before her. But
she didn’t move. She simply didn’t want to.

Brett slowly lowered his head and lightly touched his lips to
hers once, twice. Cammie feared she might have actually gasped, but if she had,
he’d silenced her when he delivered a solid, much less tentative kiss.

He’d had a lot of practice kissing—Cammie’s first thought. She
should tell him to back off—her second. Yet the kiss wasn’t intrusive, but it
wasn’t restrained, either.

He slid his hand inside her jacket and circled her rib cage,
his thumbs resting just below her breasts. She briefly wondered how many women
had fallen under the spell of his kiss. And then she thought of Mark.

Cammie pulled away and picked up the bag that had somehow
fallen to the floor. “I’m sorry,” she muttered.

“For what?” Brett asked, looking confused.

“For letting that happen,” she said on a wave of unexplained
anger. Anger directed more at herself than at him. “I’m sorry if I gave you the
impression that I’m one of your good-time girls.”