Taboo (A Classic Romance)

by Mallory Rush

  "Hang on, Mom," Cammie blurted a bit too loudly. Grant could hear the edge of desperation in her voice. "I'll come help in the kitchen."

  "Don't bother. Just help your brother."

  Grant smiled in satisfaction while Cammie nervously bit her lower lip.

  "Hear that, Cammie? Mom says you need to help me. I can always count on Mom to be in my corner."

  "Bastard," she whispered.

  "Don't tell Mom that. She's under the impression I was a planned pregnancy. And I don't think Dad would take to me belonging to the milkman." He chuckled as her hands twisted the towel, as if she wanted to strangle him with it. Glancing down at the floor, he added matter-of-factly, "I'll start mopping. You can start with the shoes."

  "Clean them yourself."

  He let go of the mop to catch the towel she hurled toward his face.

  "I swear," he grumbled good-naturedly. "Here I thought I was doing you a favor by mopping, and I get stuck with double duty. Oh well." He sighed. "If you insist."

  Oblivious to the glass crunching beneath his heels, he bent down, sliding one hand over the side of her leg before running his palm up her calf and holding her firmly behind the knee.

  "What do you think you're doing?" she asked, her voice almost strident but carefully quiet.

  He looked up into her startled, flushed face— flushed because she was reacting exactly the way he intended, whether she liked it or not.

  "Just getting the tomatoes off your hose," he said calmly, then studied her shapely legs at close range, just as he'd longed to for years. Lord, it was almost too good to be true... touching her this way, feeling the fine tremble as she responded instinctively to his caress.

  Cammie abruptly leaned down to stop him, and almost lost her balance when he tightened his grasp on her leg. She automatically caught his shoulders, and he slowly raised his head.

  Their faces were only inches apart. He could see the sudden dilation of her eyes, could hear the catch of her breath. Their gazes locked. The air fairly crackled with charged intensity.

  "Careful," he whispered. "If you fall, it'll be on me, and believe me, I'm already nursing an edge that's cutting me deeper than any of this glass ever could."

  "I..." She wet her lips, and he clamped down the urge to capture her tongue with his before it slipped back into the inviting recess of her mouth. "I'd rather do it myself, Grant. Give me the towel. Please."

  "Not a chance. And unless you like to live dangerously, I suggest you hang onto something besides me."

  Breaking the visual contact and ignoring the silent plea in her voice, he smoothed the towel up, down, around, managing to rub a lot more in than off. Cammie released his shoulders and straightened, her movements jerky.

  "Kids, are you almost done with that, or do I need to come in there and—"

  "That's okay, Mom," Cammie called back, a distinct waver in her voice. "We're almost through."

  "Okay, but hurry up. Dinner's on."

  "Be right there," she said, and tried without success to extricate her leg. She pushed at Grant's shoulders. "Stop it. That's enough."

  "Oh, no, sweetheart. It's not nearly enough."

  Cammie's calf muscle tautened and quivered. He kneaded it insistently, expertly, then pressed his lips to just above her knee.

  "Grant!" she gasped.

  "Much better," he murmured, then released her with the greatest reluctance and swiped at each of his shoes. He stood quickly, before she could flee, and caught her hand. It was wonderfully damp, and he took enormous pleasure in its unmistakable tremble.

  "Look at me," he commanded gently.

  She hesitated, then tilted her head up. Her eyes were wide, and at least a little scared. But the joy of it was, he didn't think he scared her half as much as she scared herself. There was no disguising the dark flare in her eyes. Her unwilling arousal was hot as fire, and as impossible to hide as his own. His body was all but pulsing in a turbulent, rushing beat.

  "You go help Mom," he murmured. "I'll take care of the rest of this."

  "I'll take care of it," she insisted. "You go help Mom."

  "Why?"

  "Because I don't want to face her."

  He noticed that Cammie looked a little ashamed, and he hated that. Resented it beyond measure. Sparing her no quarter, he glanced down at the front of his trousers, where his fly was straining in blatant protest to the internal pressure.

  "Better you than me," he said without a trace of shame.

  She blushed a vivid scarlet, then managed to gulp out a single, "Oh."

  "Oh, yes." Before she could break away, he brought her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss into the center of her palm. His fingers circled her wrist, and he could actually feel the leap of her pulse.

  Knowing time was out, he took comfort in that single unspoken sign and ordered himself not to be greedy. Not to jeopardize the hard-won victory by an irrational act of emotional hunger and physical yearning.

  Placing the towel in her palm, he folded her fingers around it and made himself let go.

  "I'll put this away," she said in a pitifully vain attempt at normal conversation, obviously reluctant to leave the haven of the trap he'd created in exchange for their parents' company.

  "Good idea." He smiled, tenderly tucking a stray curl behind her ear and grazing a finger across her lobe.

  "Then I'll go help Mom," she added before turning resignedly in the kitchen's direction, carefully stepping around the litter of glass and vegetables.

  "Cammie."

  "Yes?" She stopped but didn't turn to face him.

  "Sit with me at the game?"

  She hesitated, and his hand clenched tighter around the mop handle.

  When she agreed with a single, stilted nod of her head, he relaxed, silently rejoicing in the triumph.

  She took another step and he said again, "Cammie."

  "What now?" This time she whirled to face him, her hands wringing the towel. "How can you expect me to go in there and act normally when you keep dragging this out? I'm going to have to give the performance of my life as it is, Grant."

  "You forgot something." He managed a smile in lieu of a satisfied smirk and reached up, latching onto another glass jar. "The tomatoes."

  * * *

  It was dusk when they gathered beside Grant's car. Dorothy hugged Cammie close.

  "We're so glad you could come and be with us today. We miss you kids, you know."

  "I miss you too, Mom," Cammie said, returning the embrace.

  "What about me?" Edward teased as he kissed her on the cheek. "Don't I get a mention?"

  "You too, Dad." She hugged him tight to prove it.

  "I hope you had a good time today," Dorothy said. "You seemed anxious about something, Cammie. Is everything all right?"

  "Oh sure, Mom," she lied around a mouthful of guilt. "I'm fine. And the game was great. Almost as good as your cooking."

  Great? she repeated silently. Torture. Unbelievable, skyrocketing, "if he touches me or looks at me that way again I'll go out of my mind from wanting more and what in God's name am I thinking?" torture.

  "I know how tied up you get with your work," Dorothy added, "so don't go forgetting we've got a celebration next weekend."

  "A celebration?" Cammie racked her brain, the one that hadn't spit out a coherent thought in two days, trying to remember.

  "Why, Cammie," her mother exclaimed, "it's your day. Seventeen years ago you came to live with us. You know we wouldn't miss celebrating that any more than we would Christmas."

  "And this year we've got a special surprise." Edward's eyes twinkled.

  "Now don't you go giving it away," Dorothy chided. "It's no surprise if you spill the beans."

  "Give me a kiss, Dotty, and that'll shut me up."

  "Oh, you!" She giggled girlishly before pecking him on the mouth.

  Grant chuckled. "Still frisky after all these years."

  "Speaking of frisky..." Dorothy looked Grant up and down with a mother's speculation.
"When are you going to bring a girl home with you, son? Twenty-eight years old and racing around in that hot rod while you're still sowing your oats. It's a crying shame the way you carry on, and don't you think I don't know about it. Aren't you ready to settle down yet?"

  "I'm ready. I've been ready. It's just a matter of getting the right girl to settle down with me."

  Cammie could feel his gaze lock on her. She darted a glance at Mom and Dad, and was grateful that they didn't seem to notice. Their attention was on Grant as they pursued one of their favorite topics. Cammie had heard it all before, but never had the words taken on such startling overtones.

  "Well," Dorothy said, "when you meet her, you'll know."

  "Yes." Grant made the affirmation quietly, but with enough impact that Cammie swung her gaze around to meet his. Their eyes locked for a suspended, meaningful moment. "Yes," he assured her, "that's something I've known for a long time."

  "It's gettin' dark," Edward said, unintentionally breaking the tension. "You two had best hit the road before Mom lectures you into old age. Though I dare say at the rate you two young 'uns are going, you're gonna end up stuck with each other."

  "Ed, what a horrible thing to say. And you think I'm bad about lecturing."

  Edward laughed. Dorothy joined him. Grant sent Cammie a half-smile, but the force of his gaze was enough to send her reeling.

  Cammie could feel herself visibly pale, while her stomach churned in a good imitation of his hot tub.

  "Love you, Mom. You too, Dad." Grant gave them a parting embrace, then walked to the passenger side of the Porsche and opened the door. "Cammie, ready?"

  Cammie stifled a gasp of disbelief that he would be so blatant in front of them, but was saved by Dorothy's misguided praise.

  "Isn't that nice to see Grant open the door for his sister, Ed? Seems all those years we spent drilling them on manners really did sink in."

  Making her final good-byes as hastily as possible, Cammie slid onto the seat. She reached for her seat belt, but Grant beat her to it.

  "Let me," he whispered, for only her ears to hear.

  She sat still as stone, an aura seeming to surround the spot on her hand he'd just brushed. Though he was mercifully quick, it seemed she sat there an eternity while he fastened the seat belt as their parents chatted gaily on.

  Didn't they know what was happening? she wondered. Couldn't they tell she was betraying their trust? Wasn't her flushed face and thundering heartbeat enough to announce her crime, her impure response to their son? Or maybe they were as blind as she had apparently been all these years. Lucky them. Ignorance, in this case, was bliss.

  Grant's door shut, the sound snapping her out of the mire of her thoughts. Forcing a smile, she blew a kiss to her adoptive parents as they held hands, waving good-bye.

  Cammie watched them in the side-view mirror as Grant pulled away from the curb. They stood in front of the modest but cozy house they had taken her into and had insisted she belonged in as much as their own children. Her insides twisted with the memory. Was this how she paid them back for their kindness? And what about Grant? How could he so callously dismiss their feelings?

  His hand reached for hers. The turmoil she felt was horrible, knowing they could possibly be creating a catastrophe. But his touch felt so incredibly right, so perfect and sure and deliciously heady.

  Despite this clash of opposing forces, she didn't try to move away. It was wrong, yet too good to deny. The least she could do was punish herself with it.

  She did. She didn't let herself look at Grant, but faced the mirror until home and family were mere specks in the distance.

  Chapter 4

  If Cammie was thankful for one thing, it was for Grant remaining silent as the miles slipped by. The only sound was the slight stream of air whistling through the window she'd cracked open, mingling with the tape pulsing out a medley of sensual songs.

  Why was it, she wondered, when they had listened to the same songs so often she'd lost count, the music had never had this effect on her before? Stirring her senses, making her acutely aware of the man who so artfully stroked her palm before bringing her hand to his lips without looking away from the road.

  She didn't pull free. Lord help her for being weak in a way she'd never dreamed possible. Then again, she didn't return his caresses. She forced herself not to participate, only to allow, to take.

  Didn't that make her less a conspirator? Not a victim, not by a long shot, but not a willing participant. At least that's what she told herself, trying to ease a small measure of the guilt for enjoying it so much. Enjoy? Now that was so huge an understatement, she couldn't even swallow it herself. She was greedy for it, soaking up the wonder, the sinful richness she could easily grow to crave.

  All too soon the stolen moments of their uneasy peace purred to a halt as the tires contacted the worn bricks of her driveway. Grant cut the engine, and the motor's rumble ceased. So did the music, leaving only the sound of her own breathing, too loud and erratic.

  She looked straight ahead, afraid to confront whatever she might see in his dark, somber, and newly compelling gaze. Then he placed her hand on his thigh and pressed.

  Cammie swallowed hard. His jeans were smooth and faded and hugged his skin tight. She felt the heat of his body through the denim, and the well-honed muscle tauten in response to her touch.

  "Why?"

  His whisper filled up the small space while the simple question curled disconcertingly around and through her head.

  "Why, what?" she asked.

  "Why, after all this time? Why did it take you so long? And why now?"

  "I don't know what you mean."

  The futile lie sounded hollow, even to her. She was certain Grant heard it. Damn, why did they have to know each other so well? Their closeness was fast becoming more enemy than ally.

  "You know exactly what I mean," he said. "Don't try playing games with me, Cammie. You know as well as I do what's going on. I want an answer. I want to know what happened to make the change."

  What happened? Oh, nothing, brother dear. I just saw you naked, and like a peeping Tom I couldn't pry my eyes away, any more than I could stop an arousal I couldn't control, that left me so weak my legs were shaking.

  She took one last forbidden taste of the feel of his thigh beneath her palm, then forced her hand away. She clasped her hands tight in her lap, not trusting her wayward need.

  "I... Grant, I don't know. All I do know is we're playing with something dangerous, and we've got to quit before it goes any further."

  He ignored her warning and clasped her shoulders, forcing her to face him. She made herself try to shrug him away. He merely increased the pressure of his grip.

  "You're lying, Cammie. But whatever happened, you can keep it to yourself for now. I'll gladly take the results, whatever the cause."

  "It's wrong, Grant. Try all you like to deny it, what we're doing is wrong."

  "Is it?" He lifted one hand to her neck, sliding it down the slender column with a feather-light touch, then stroking his thumb over the hollow where her pulse thrummed in a giveaway rush.

  Cammie cursed herself for the immediacy of her response, for the wildness surging against her will.

  "You shouldn't do that," she said.

  "Yes, I should." He bent his head closer, and for a heart-stopping moment she thought he was going to kiss her. He stopped scant inches away and whispered, "How can anything so good be wrong?"

  She didn't have an answer. She couldn't even think. Her throat constricted and she tried to swallow past the thickness.

  "Have I ever told you what it does to me whenever our eyes meet?" he murmured.

  She managed a jerky shake of her head.

  Grant moved his hand up her arm and into her hair, toying with the curls at her nape.

  "No? Then did I ever tell you how I wish I could bury my face in your hair?"

  "No," she whispered.

  He slid his fingers back up her throat to trace her bottom lip wit
h his thumb.

  "I guess you have no idea then of how many times I've imagined tasting your mouth. Not only tasting. Kissing you like mad and driving you as crazy as I am for you. It's why I love to buy you ice cream, so I can watch you lick it down to the cone and pretend it's me on your tongue instead."

  As he spoke in a low, soothing voice, she could feel her tongue moving against her teeth, as though it begged for the freedom to indulge in his fantasy. Her breasts felt fuller, heavy and straining. She tried to deny the moistness flowing in betrayal between her thighs, but the ache was too strong to ignore the throb, the pulse.

  "Please..." she begged. Though for what she begged, she didn't know. Was it for his illicit touch? Or was it for him to stop the insanity of this sensual, silken web he spun before she lost her slender control? She was too close to weakening, that much she knew. Shouting down her instincts, she commanded her vocal chords to form the words, "Please, Grant. Stop now."

  "If that's what you really want. I won't force you into anything you don't want, Cammie. But you are fighting yourself, not me. Like it or not, you do want me. And we both know it."

  She didn't waste her breath trying to deny it, but looked away. Grant traced her lips once more, brushed a strand of hair away from her face, then moved back until he leaned against his door.

  The absence of his touch told her even more than his skillful, persuasive strokes. It left her hungering and feeling strangely empty and alone.

  "I'm sorry to upset you, Cammie. I hate to see you unhappy, and I hate even more being the cause. Talk to me. Tell me what you're feeling."

  Her gaze darted to his and she saw a semblance of the old comfort he had always offered. But it wasn't the same. It was somehow more. And less.

  "If I tell you what I'm feeling," she said, "doesn't that seem a bit like leaving the window open for the thief to sneak in?"

  "You think I'm trying to take something away from what we've had in the past, don't you?"

  "It's not the same with us Grant, and I—I hate that."

  "You're right. It's not the same. But that doesn't mean we have to lose what we have. Just because we add to it, doesn't mean we have to take anything away."