With a shiver of mixed feelings, she slipped back downstairs, determined to open the bed, make it up with clean sheets and be back safe in her own room before he finished his shower.
She didn'twant to hang around any room that contained a bed and Cam McGrath. It was a deadly combination.
"Can I see your tattoo?"
She spun around, caught by surprise. How did he get down the stairs without creaking a single step?
And, how, dear God, could she be expected to breathe with him standing in the doorway, shirtless and in drawstring pants, his wet hair dripping rivulets down his muscular chest?
And how the heck did he know she had a tattoo?
He laughed. "I've rendered you speechless."
Shaking her head in a vain effort to rattle sense back into it, she laughed lightly. "No, you can't see my tattoo."
He crossed his arms and grinned. "I already saw the tip of it when you were hammering that Toyota. It's red. Dark. In a very interesting place."
A rush of blood warmed her face. "It's private. No one but the tattoo artist has ever seen it. And Katie."
"Special occasion?"
"Yeah. I got it when I" Oh, she'd never hear the end of it from him. "I accomplished something after several years of work."
He stepped into the room, filling it with his utterly sinful, completely uncovered, perfectly shaped, slightly hairy, totally touchable chest.
Jeez. He might as well wear a sign: Danger Ahead.
"Do you mind?" she asked, sidestepping him as he got closer.
"Uh, I think this is my room. I have to come in here eventually." His grin was just as deadly as his chest, leaving her nowhere to look. '"Come on, Jo," he whispered mischievously, glancing down at her hip. "Let me see it."'
She backed up, hating the heat that made her whole body shaky and damp, but loving the interplay and flirting. Talk about elevating the chase to an art form. The man was a pro.
"No. You can't see it."
"Then tell me what you accomplished to earn it."
He'd never give up.
"Follow me," she said, slipping past him. "But leave the door to the garage open so I can hear if Callie calls me."
"We're going into the garage?"
She glanced over her shoulder. "Where else would you expect to find something I accomplished?"
She heard him chuckle as she padded barefoot through the kitchen to the garage door. She opened the heavy wooden door slowly, so the creak wouldn't wake. Callie, and walked through the pitch-black to the work lamp she kept on the other side.
"Where'd you go?" he asked. "What is"
He just stopped talking and stared. For a long, lovely minute, he just stared at her pride and joy.
"Now I've rendered you speechless," she said with a smile, then ran her hand along the gleaming red hood of the Mustang. "Isn't she gorgeous?"
He whistled in appreciation. "Yeah. Sixty-five. The second year it was made." Approaching it slowly and with just the appropriate amount of reverence, he crouched down to look at one of the wheels, touching the rims gently. "What beautiful lines." Bless him for noticing the details.
"When I found it, there was almost nothing usable on it. The car had been totaled by a truck and left as a wreck in a junkyard."
He looked up from the wheel base. "You restored a totaled, forty-year-old Mustang?" His look of awe gave her more confidence than if he'd stared at her naked and praised her to the sky.
"This was my life, before Callie." She pinched the tip of the hood ornament with affection. "I spent more than two years of Sundays working on this car. Don't you love the color?"
"Like a candy apple."
She smiled at that. "Yep. And just as sweet."
"Did you rebuild the engine?"
She shook her head, "'How many times do I have to tell you I'm not a mechanic? A friend of mine did it." She reached for the release and lifted the hood. "It gleams on the inside, too."
He moved closer to her, pinning her between the open hood and his still only half-dressed body. "This car's as pretty as you are."
Her heart walloped against her chest. His sheer, undressed proximity destabilized her, and she curled her fingers around the front end of the car to keep from giving in to the weakness in her knees.
"Why are you doing this?" she managed to ask.
He didn't answer for a minute, and she half expected him to play dumb and give her a "doing what?" in response.
"Because I've been dying to kiss you all day." Why would she expect anything but abject honesty from this man? "Haven't you?" he asked.
And didn't he deserve honesty in return? "Yes."
He covered her mouth with his in an instant, his powerful arms pulling her right into that very chest she'd been admiring. She locked her arms behind his neck and melted into his kiss.
He eased against her, a soft moan from his throat matching the one from hers. His lips burned a path down her throat, and his right hand followed the same trail.
Blood coursed through her veins at breakneck speed, rushing from her head to the center of her, already throbbing and needy. Not a single cell in her body had the strength or will to fight him. This was too good. Too amazing. Too right .
He bent over to kiss the skin of her throat, dipping to the rise of her breasts. All she could do was hold his head, inhale the clean scent of his wet hair and press him against her body and heart.
With one hand he held her tightly into him, his erection jamming against her lower belly. The other hand slid under her tank top and glided up her body until it covered her breast.
She sucked in a jagged, anxious breath, and he kissed her mouth again, hungry and hot, his tongue delving deep into her, his thumb rubbing her nipple to an achy, painful, precious hardness.
He pulled away from her, his gaze darting toward the car. "How 'bout the back seat? It was made for this, you know."
She shook her head and tried to look suitably shocked at the suggestion. Even though it had definite appeal. "Not in my car. No way." She attempted to pull away from him, but he wouldn't release her.
"Then come back in the house." He tugged her forward and closed the hood with one hand. Keeping one arm tightly around her waist, he ushered her into the house, and the minute he had her in the kitchen, he eased her against the door to the garage and sought out another anxious kiss.
"II can't" She tried to speak, but she could only groan, her eyes closed, her hips moving. "I can't stop," she managed.
He laughed low and sexy in her ear. "Then don't."
Kissing the bare skin of her shoulder, he ran his hands down her back until he held her backside. She grabbed his head and pulled him to her mouth, smothering her doubts with a lip-crunching kiss. Her whole body hummed with the sensations flying through her.
In one quick move, he lifted her off her feet. "Let's see what we can do on your seamless countertops."
He set her gently on the counter and slid his hips right between her legs. The only illumination was from the moon, and a soft light that spilled from the guest room into one corner of the kitchen.
She clung to his shoulders, his wide, wonderful, masculine shoulders, as he kissed her again, their faces now at the same level. Then he bent his head and suckled the exposed skin above her breasts, sending more fireworks straight to the center of her.
"What am I doing up here?" she asked, half laughing, half serious.
"I'm looking for something," he whispered, then dipped under her arm. Before she realized what he was doing, he tugged gently at the waistband of her boxers, pulling them down over her hip and the top of her behind. Then he lowered his head to her hip and flicked her skin with his tongue.
He stopped, long enough to look at the tattoo, then placed his lips on her and kissed her flesh so long and so sweet, she thought he must be able to taste the ink that formed the galloping horse. Finally, slowly, he stood up in front of her.
"A Mustang, of course," he said, shaking his head. "My girl's got a car logo
on her sweet little behind."
His girl ? Well, his girl of the moment. Of the evening. Maybe even the week. "I'm not anyone's girl."
He burrowed his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck, gently easing the ponytail holder out and freeing her hair. "No, you're not."
A twinge of disappointment tickled her.
"You are your own girl, Jo Ellen." His voice was raspy with arousal and a hint of tenderness. He guided her against his erection and leaned into her ear to whisper, "And I like that best about you."
Unable to stop herself, she pushed her hips harder against him as every nerve ending in her sang with pleasure and the need for more. Moisture covered her skin as she sucked in the air around him, the soapy, delicious smell of him just making her want him worse.
Their tongues tangled as he eased his hands back under her shirt and slowly, mercilessly, caressed her breasts again. Pulling her shirt all the way up, he dipped his head and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking and teasing it before moving to the other one. His teeth gently tweaked her, sending fire from her breasts to her core, making her rock against him.
Making her forget she was on her very own butcher block kitchen counter.
And loving it.
She almost collapsed at the thought of it. "Are we really going to do this here? On my counter?"
"Wherever you want, sweetheart." He kissed her, and tugged her lower lip between his teeth before releasing it. "Here, there, upstairs." He blazed a trail of kisses down her throat. "In the car. On the roof. In the grass."
His hand slipped inside her boxer shorts again, sliding to the front and causing her to practically spasm in anticipation of his touch.
"I don't care where the hell we go," he continued as he dipped his fingers closer to the tuft of hair between her legs. "I just have to make love to you. I have to taste you. I have to be inside of you."
She took one ragged breath, prepared to agree to anything, anywhere, when Callie's wail interrupted everything.
Cam followed Jo's cute little butt up the stairs, resisting the urge to yank down the ridiculous underwear and eat that Mustang tattoo. But the body shop calendar girl had disappeared and a caring mother took her place.
He wanted to curse the little demon who broke their rhythm, but he couldn't even bring himself to be mad when he saw the scrunched up red face in the glow of the night-light. She stood in the crib, her little legs marching in place as though she could simply climb out and get whatever she wanted.
And she wanted Jo.
The instant Jo scooped her up and started cooing in her ear, the crying subsided.
"She needs a bottle," Jo said.
"I'll get it."
"No, no. At night it has to be warm, and my microwave is touchy."
"Jo, I can warm a bottle of milk, for crying out loud."
She held the tiny body out to him. "Here. Just rock her for a minute, I'll be right back."
Before he could respond, he was holding the baby who let out an indignant whimper at the transfer of power.
"Okay, we can do this." He dropped into the rocking chair in the corner of the tiny room and fumbled to get her in a comfortable position, finally settling her into a half stand against his chest. How had he gone from holding one sexy grown-up woman sighing for his kisses to one miniature peanut shuddering for a bottle in the space of two minutes?
"Hey, kid." He stroked her black curls the way he'd seen Jo do. "Your timing sucks. I mean, stinks. Your timing stinks."
She shuddered and slumped her head right into the corner of his shoulder and neck. An entirely different sensation of wholeness danced through him. Of course, he'd much rather feel whole with Jo's legs wrapped around his hips and her delicate breasts under his hands, but as good feelings went, this was a close second.
"You probably sensed that something big was going on downstairs, didn't you?"
She moaned softly, then sighed.
"Aw, come on, kid. I'm not planning to take her away from you. Or you from her, for that matter." He scooted her a little higher, loving that little head on his shoulder. But what was he doing making love to Jo Ellen Tremaine?
He just wanted her. Pure and plain lust. Why would it have to be more than that? She was a smart, accomplished, dynamic and strong woman with a very, very seductive body and face.
Was it more than that?
Nah. He liked her, of course. But he wanted her. This was lust, a healthy, controllable, familiar response to a woman. It was just.. .strong lust.
He hadn't made it through a minute and a half since he met her without imagining himself kissing her, touching her, plunging inside of her. And he'd been so close. And she'd been so ready
"Here we go."
His eyes flew open at the sound of her voice. She stood in front of him, holding a bottle and a blanket, reaching toward Callie.
"I'll do it," he insisted. "We're too comfortable to move now."
To her credit, she didn't argue. She just handed him the bottle and some instinct made him ease Callie into the crook of his arm. Jo draped the baby in the blanket and leaned over.
He expected her to kiss Callie, but instead her lips gently grazed his cheek, then she surprised him even further by curling up on the floor next to them. Wordlessly she laid her head on his knee.
Now he had two women on him. Two beautiful women trusting him with their affection. Two amazing women whose futures he held in his hand, to be changed with a single pen stroke.
If he really liked Jo, he'd give her what she wanted. Assurance that she could adopt Callie.
With Callie in his elbow, holding her own bottle, he reached his free hand to gently stroke Jo's hair as it fell over his leg. She sighed softly.
And suddenly, an intense sensation of deja vu washed over him so sharply, he could hardly breathe. He'd been here before. Only he was the one who sat at a woman's knee while a baby got a bottle.
He remembered. Oh God, he remembered her so clearly. He could smell the mix of formula and flowers, feel the skin of her fingers as she stroked his hair.
He waited for the old burst of pain, but for the first time since he was nine years old, it didn't come. He no longer hated her for leaving. It was time to give his mother the benefit of the doubt. And that, he knew, was what hearing the family was all about.
And if he was "healed," so, too, would Colin and Quinn be. They didn't need to break up this tiny family. This baby wasn't their salvation. That came from the knowledge that their mother really had loved them.
And Jo had given that to him. That must be why it felt like "more than" lust. And he had to repay her for that gift.
"Jo," he whispered, hoping Callie's closed eyes didn't flutter open.
Jo lifted her head and looked up at him.
"I want to sign the paper."
She narrowed her eyes in disbelief. "Because you want to sleep with me?"
He smiled at her. "No. I do, but that's not why I'm going to sign it. I want to do the right thing. I'll do everything I can to be sure she stays with you."
"But what about your brothers? Would you take them on, if they fight it?"
He hated the thought. "I never have. We've never disagreed about anything that matters. The three of us have always been united." He looked down and gently tugged the bottle out of Callie's slackened lips. "But I will fight them on this if I have to." Maybe he wouldn't have to.
Jo slowly rose to her knees, positioning herself in front of him and the baby. Then she reached up and cradled his face in her hands. At her touch, he closed his eyes and let out a slow, soft breath.
"I'm sorry, Cam. I'm sorry if this makes more pain for your family."
He opened his eyes, and looked at her. "My grandma also said I was bom to do the right thing."
"Do you know what the right thing is in this case?" Her voice was barely a whisper.
He nodded. "Callie has to stay with you."
"Oh." It sounded like a little sob. "Thank you."
Between the
m, the baby nestled deeper into his arm and whimpered contentedly. Cam looked down at her and silently agreed with the sentiment. He'd never known such contentment. Never .
"No. Thank you ," he whispered to Jo.
She just nodded, and reached for the baby. "I'll change her diaper and put her down. My room's across the hall. I'll be there in two minutes."
Her message was completely clear.
* * *
Chapter Nine
Cam left a single lamp burning in the tiny room. Because he wanted to see Jo, wanted to watch her come undone under his hands and mouth and body. He wanted to see her face when he thanked her for the gift she'd given him. If she hadn't come forward, if she hadn't made the effort to do the "right" thing, he never would have known the truth about his mother. He never would have been released from his old enemy.
Of course, if he told her that, she'd turn into Sigmund Freud and claim they were making love as some kind of gratitude-comfort-whole-earth-natural healing stuff.
And that wasn't the case. His body simply ached with need and want and a singular craving to be inside of her.
He slid under her covers, inhaling the powdery scent he recognized as hers, and yanked off his drawstring pants. He'd make short order of those cartoon-decorated boxer shorts the minute she was in bed with him.
He smiled at the thought. Who ever thought he'd be aching to get inside a cowgirl-mechanic-carpenter-tomboy-hiker who wore boxer shorts and had a tattoo of a horse?
But just thinking about her made him harder. Where was she? He closed his eyes and wrapped an arm around her pillow, imagining it was her. Two minutes, she'd said. Come on, sweetheart.
He closed his eyes and ignored the fact that it was about three in the morning in New York. He couldn't possibly fall asleep with this erection and that woman under the same roof.
He breathed in her fragrance. Imagined her naked underneath him. Tasted her sweet skin, her soft lips, the flesh of her breasts
Cam heard voices. Women's voices. Soft laughter. The sound of a cup hitting a saucer. A baby squealing and women talking.