by Mallory Rush
"We're tied for once," he said shortly, stealing a last glance at Cammie and hating the silent plea he read in her eyes. "I think her luck just ran out. Because this time I mean to win."
* * *
Grant stared straight ahead at the road, the silence in the car thick and stretching as far as the blur of yellow lines on the highway. He glanced over at Cammie, who was concentrating too hard on the needlework in her lap.
In a fit of frustration he snatched the embroidery hoop out of her hands and hurled it into the minuscule backseat.
"They're gone," he said curtly. "You can drop the 'all's well' routine. As we both know, all is not well. That farce we put up is still turning my stomach."
"I can't believe they came to keep us company." Cammie gripped her own middle as though she were the one battling illness. "It was like a dream turning into a nightmare. Hearing them outside when we were..." She shuddered.
"Finish the sentence, Cammie," he challenged hotly.
"Please, Grant. I'm not up to fighting with you about this. I'm still shaking from the ordeal."
"Okay, then I'll finish it," he snapped. "Hearing them outside when we were having sex. Hot, don't ever stop, make love to me forever, sex." But he wouldn't mention, he added silently, that he was about to ask her to marry him, to sleep in his bed every night and have his babies. Or that he was even ready to make a fool of himself and start spouting poetry. "Come, grow old with me, the best is yet to be..." Hah!
"Why do you have to be so nasty about it, Grant? Can't you let it drop until we can discuss this rationally?"
"No, I can't. And believe me, I'm not being half as nasty as I'd like. Thanks to you, we're still Mom and Dad's little angels, not two adults in charge of our own lives who don't need parental consent to make our own decisions."
"Being adult means acting responsibly," she countered. "You certainly weren't doing your share, brooding and sulking and making a bad situation even worse. Mom asked us what was wrong so many times, I lost count."
"I'll tell you what's wrong. In my book, being responsible means owning up to your convictions and being honest, especially with the people you love. We owe them that. We owe ourselves that. Not a mouthful of lies."
"Oh?" she retorted angrily. "We owed it to them to leave the condom wrapper on the floor since they didn't luck out and find us rolling around naked?"
Grant's jaw clenched tight as he remembered the discarded wrapper lying in clear sight, and Cammie almost breaking her neck to step on it before anyone saw.
"If you moved half as fast at confessing the truth as you did trying to cover it up," he said, "the worst would be over with and we could all get on with our lives. I don't like subterfuge. It goes against my grain." He shot her a censuring glare. "But apparently not yours."
"That's not true! I'm simply trying to keep from hurting innocent people."
"So you hurt us instead. How charitable of you, Cammie."
Her injured expression told him he'd hit his mark.
"How can you be so hateful after what we shared?" she asked.
"How can you act so ashamed of us being in love, of showing it the way we're meant to? You think they don't know what it means to commit? To show it by sharing their bodies? For heaven's sake, they're crazy about each other. They gave birth to two children. If anyone could understand, it should be Mom and Dad."
He snorted in disgust and deliberately threw down the gauntlet. "I swear, Cammie, didn't you learn anything from living with them? Wake up and grow up. Start acting like a grown woman instead of a kid who got caught playing doctor."
"You—you—Damn you, Grant. If you weren't driving this car right now I'd hit you for—What are you doing?"
Grant stopped the Porsche on a dime, squealing to a halt on the side of the road so suddenly that they were both jerked forward.
Facing her squarely, he offered his cheek. "I'm not driving. Go ahead, Cammie. Hit me. Make it good, because I could use some honest pain. The kind that shows. Not the kind that's turning me inside out because you won't admit to them you're in love with me. The way you've been the last two days, I don't know if you're so sure about it yourself."
"I am!" The eyes that seconds before had snapped fire now shone with hurt that he could doubt her. "I am in love with you, Grant. It's just that we need more time. We have to know where we're headed, that this is for good, before we do something irreversible that affects a lot more lives than our own."
"Why wait?" He hit the dashboard in exasperation. "What kind of odds are you looking for?"
"I want us to be sure." She reached for his hand, and he could have cursed the power she held to make him weak with longing. "I want us to spend time together like every couple does before they..." Her voice trailed off.
"Get married?" At last, he thought. Out in the open where it should have been all along.
Cammie hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, I suppose that's what we're talking about."
"You suppose. Damn, Cammie, can't you even bring yourself to say it?"
"All right!" she snapped. "Marriage. The M word. The thing we both know I'm so good at making plans for but never going through with. Let's face it, Grant. My track record's nothing to brag about."
"How soon you forget," he said smoothly, deciding to catch her off guard in hopes it would net the results he wanted. Clasping her upper arms, he leaned close to her and brushed his chest across her breasts, while his mouth hovered a whisper's distance away. Her eyes widened, and he could feel her nipples immediately tauten. Nearly two days had passed since he'd held her, and the hunger eating at him likely had something to do with his short fuse.
"If you remember," he continued, "we broke all sorts of your previous records in the last week. Don't give me that excuse again, and don't ever make the mistake of putting me in the same category as your other men."
"I never said you were like them," she whispered breathlessly, her gaze lingering on his mouth. "You're nothing like any other man I've known."
"That's right, Cammie. And if you want to lay odds on us working out, I suggest you consider this: The very things you say are working against us, are exactly what we have going in our favor."
"Our family? You're presuming a lot, Grant."
"I don't think so. We've got a long history together. We're incredibly compatible when we're not at each other's throats. We genuinely love each other, without any of the false illusions most couples have. And as for physical attraction..." He traced her lips with his tongue while he flicked a fingertip across her breast. She moaned in a most gratifying way. "Let's just say it's intense."
"Grant," she whispered, clasping his shoulders, seeking his mouth.
He pulled back before he lost sight of his purpose.
"Not so fast. I want to turn around and take care of business the way we should have two days ago."
She abruptly drew away, the smoldering desire banked just as quickly as he'd inflamed it.
"No, Grant," she said firmly. "In time. But not just yet."
With a curse, he threw the car back into gear and peeled out. His brows drawn into a heavy frown, he aimed his bitter disappointment like an accusing arrow and hit the bull's-eye with a poignant sting.
"That shrink owes you a refund, Cammie, for a misdiagnosis. Your problem isn't just loss, or that you can't commit to a man. It's that you can't make a commitment to yourself."
* * *
"Wait, Cammie! Jeez, would you just hold on a minute and tell me what's eating you?"
"Move," she growled, hoisting her bag out of the trunk with adrenaline-fired strength. She pushed past Grant to the front door, ready to slam it shut in his face; only he was quicker and slammed it open again.
"All right. That's it! Spit it out, Cammie, let me have it."
"I don't want to talk to you," she said through pinched lips. "I, for one, prefer to talk when I'm not itching to do bodily harm to some jerk who betrays my confidence."
"Ah-hah! Now we're getting somewhere."
"We're not getting anywhere," she said shortly. "You're going home, out of my sight, before I do something rash."
"Dammit, Cammie. Come here—agh!" He grabbed his right knee, where he'd knocked his old football injury against the edge of her couch. Hobbling as fast as he could, he went after her.
The bedroom door slammed shut, followed by the sound of a click.
Banging on the wood, he bellowed, "Let me in. Do you hear me, Cammie Walker? I demand that you unlock this door, right this instant."
"Go away. I don't want to see your traitor's face, Grant Kennedy. Just go away and leave me alone."
"Either you let me in or I'm knocking this door flat. Cammie! Cammie, did you hear me?"
She buried her head under the pillow to muffle the sobs she'd held back for the last hour, ignoring his threat and the persistent banging.
Once he'd quit pounding on the door, she threw the pillow against it, pretending it was his handsome face—the face she itched to slap at the moment.
Just as the pillow hit the mark, a loud crash accompanied the sound of splintering wood. The door flew back on groaning hinges, revealing Grant, his expression livid and pained as he rubbed his upper arm.
"Now look what you did!" she yelled, impatiently dashing away her tears. "You broke my door."
"So send me the bill." He stalked to the edge of the bed and yanked her upright, his face inches from hers. "If you've got a problem or a bone to pick with me, I want to hear it straight to my face. But don't you ever lock me out again, do you understand?"
"I'll tell you what I understand." She tried to fling his hands away, but he only tightened his grip. Stung into retaliation, she hurled her accusation with righteous wrath.
"I had a problem—a problem that was so deep, I couldn't stand to face it myself. I trusted you with a sensitive part of my life, Grant, something that no one else will ever see. And what did you do? You took that confidence, my trust, and turned it against me."
"I what?" His scowl disappeared, replaced by an expression of puzzlement and concern.
"You heard me. It was so important to you to be right, you didn't care how deep you twisted the knife to make your point. 'That shrink owes you a refund. It's not that you can't make a commitment to a man. Your problem is, you can't make a commitment to yourself.' That's what you said, and I don't think I'll ever forget it. Right now, I can't forgive it, either, so don't waste your breath apologizing."
"I'm not apologizing, because it was the truth," he insisted bullishly. "I was trying to make you face up to what's really keeping us apart."
"Is it the truth? Maybe to your one-track mind it is, since the only right way to do anything is your way. But in my book, I have made commitments— big ones."
"Name them."
"All right. First—" She tried to hold up a finger, but he locked her hand against him, her arms pinned to his chest. It made her even madder, at him, at herself, because despite her rage, the contact thrilled her. "While you've had years to adjust to the idea of 'us,' I've had barely a month. It was a tremendous leap on my part to accept that, to give 'us' a chance."
His brow furrowed as he considered the point. At the moment she found his penchant for analyzing everything grating, irritating. She could practically see the wheels turning as he examined her statement for validity and flaws.
"Okay, that does have some merit," he conceded. "I did say as much myself, remember? But what else. Cammie? What have you done to give 'us' a chance? What commitments have you made to the relationship? That's what I want to know."
She stared at him, mouth agape. "For being such a genius, you must be the most obtuse man I've ever met."
He smiled slowly, indulgently. "A few days ago you told me I was the most patient, the most wonderful—"
"Don't you dare trivialize this," she spat, not believing he had the audacity to smile in the face of her hurt, her fury. "Two days ago I went to bed with you. I gave you my virginity and shared something no other man has ever come close to. I bared my soul. We were as intimate as a man and woman can possibly get, and you dare to accuse me of not making a commitment to us, to myself."
"Cammie, I—"
"Just shut up, Grant. Shut the hell—" Her voice broke, and she could feel tears gather. The horrible intrusion on their lovemaking, the strain, their fighting, all culminated in a sob she detested but couldn't control.
"I hate you," she cried, wresting her arm free and striking his chest. "Do you hear me? I hate you. I gave you access to the deepest part of me and you turned it against me to get your way. I made commitments, I—I said and did things that were hard for me. I did it for us. And just when I was feeling good about myself, about coming so far, you ruin it. You belittled me, Grant. And for that, I hate you. I—I hate..."
She began to weep. She pummeled his chest while he held her, making no effort to stop the blows. She struck him until she had no strength left, and when she would have slumped, he gathered her into his arms.
"You love me," he whispered into her hair. "You love me. Even when you hate me, you love me." He stroked his fingers through the tangle of curls, pressed his lips against her temple, then lapped gently at the tears.
He guided her down onto the bed and kissed her. Her face, her throat, and finally her mouth. The taste of salt and violent emotion was between them, and she fought the urge to forget her words, their differences, and simply give in. It would be so easy; and so wrong.
"No," she whispered. "No. Leave me alone."
"Never," he murmured, and straddled her thighs, settling his hips in the cradle of hers.
In a last-ditch effort to maintain her own sense of rightness, she tried to thrust him away. He used his superior strength and clasped her wrists with a single hand, tying them both to the bond that could never be denied.
"Not like this," she whimpered. "It's not right. Not with our fighting, not with this between us."
He held her still with the power of his gaze, deep and full of regret.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry for hurting you. But I was hurting so much myself, I lashed out. Forgive me for that, because I only want us both to be happy. Tell me what you need, Cammie. Just tell me."
"Time," she whispered.
"How much?"
"I don't know."
"A week, a month? Tell me how much, and let's work it out."
She didn't know, she honestly didn't. This wasn't like the countdown before the camera began to roll. A week wouldn't do it: neither would a month...
"Three months, Grant. Give us three months and we'll see how far we've come."
"That's a long—"
"If you believe in us, it'll work out, no matter how much time it takes."
His mouth covered hers, and his tongue swirled against, around, and parried with hers. She responded, and as he released her wrists she wrapped her arms about his neck. Her pride insisted she shouldn't give in, yet in her heart she knew it had never been more right.
"Three months," he agreed, then sealed it with a heart-stopping kiss. He cradled her face between his palms, his eyes revealing naked, emotional need. "I hate it when we argue. Tell me you forgive me."
"I forgive you."
"Tell me you love me."
"I do. I love you." And she did, so much that she hurt. She loved him in spite of his maddening nature, just as she loved him because of it.
He led her hand down to his groin.
"Show me. Touch me. I need you." His hand glided up her inner thigh, then he unfastened her jeans. Tugging the zipper down, he whispered, "I want to undo the damage. I need to know I can still make you need me."
She needed to know too. She needed the reassurance that the ground she'd gained was intact, challenged but stronger for it.
Her anger spent, the hurt diminishing fast and supplanted by pas
sion, she unzipped his pants and grasped him in her hand.
He was hard. Pulsing. For her, only for her.
"You're wet," he murmured, relief and victory suffusing his discovery.
A pearly drop of his liquid answered hers, life unborn, yet symbolic of one that could be theirs together.
With a cry, she rejoiced in their mutual need, their undaunted love. Their lovemaking was frantic, urgent to forgive.
It was a pact sealed in flesh, a commitment to believe in tomorrow.
Chapter 12
"Cammie, sweetheart, would you go ask Grant how long before the turkey's done? He's had it on the grill all mornin', so surely it's about ready."
"Sure, Mom. Want me to help set the table after that?"
"You always love settin' that good china of Grandma's out, don't you?"
"You bet. Thanksgiving only comes once a year."
"Thank goodness," chimed in Trish. "All this dishwashing by hand and football games ad nauseam is once a year too many, if you ask me."
Cammie slid Trish a sidelong glance that silently agreed. She could do without the dishwashing, too, and fancy china wasn't at the top of her list of priorities. But she knew how much Dorothy enjoyed using it, and she, too, liked what it symbolized. Knowing it had belonged to Grant's grandmother gave her a sense of posterity and kinship. The handing down from generation to generation was something she equated with security—like Grant.
Glad for the excuse to seek him out, she set the bowl of fruit salad she'd just finished making into the refrigerator.
"Don't take too long," Trish whispered with a knowing wink, "or I'll have to cover for you again."
"Thanks, Trish," she muttered under her breath before heading to the back porch, where Grant was basting the turkey.
Nothing had been admitted, nothing had been asked, yet Trish had left little doubt that she was on to them—and approved. Thank heaven for Trish, Cammie thought. Though she still shuddered to think of how their parents might react, it was wonderfully reassuring to know Trish would be in their corner when the lid blew.