Just Give In… (13 page)

Next to her, she could feel the tension run through him and she realized her mistake. “I didn’t mean to pry. I’m sorry. You’ve been very good about not prying.”

He didn’t say anything for a long time, but then he kicked his boots out in front of him and leaned his head against the seat’s back. A very relaxed pose, certainly, but the tension still hummed through him like a live wire.

“IED in Afghanistan. The medics got him halfway to Landstuhl before he died. It was last year. Christmas.”

Oh. She wanted to comfort him, but she knew she was many months too late. Instead she squeezed his hand, wishing she could absorb all the tension inside him. All the tears that he would ever shed. “I’m sorry.”

“Everybody dies.”

He said it so easily, as if he had no feelings, as if he were as lifeless as the machines that he worked on. “Yes, and if you care, it always hurts,” Brooke said softly.

He turned and stared at her, eyes as dark and mysterious as the night. “Did you hurt when your mother died?”

“Yes. I still loved her, even with the way she was. She was my mother. But I was more afraid than anything. She was all I had.”

With his free hand, he reached out and stroked her hair, one touch, before his hand fell away. “I wish I’d been there.”

“I wish I’d been here when Max died.”

“Me, too.”

There were so close, so perfectly aligned, and Brooke felt the stutter in her heart. “Captain?”

Abruptly, he stood. “I’m going inside. You should get some sleep.”

After he left her, she stayed a few moments, watching the orange moon burn high on the horizon. But soon, the air blew cooler, the dark felt gloomier and the magic of the night had gone.

T
HE NEXT WEEK PASSED
slowly, with the Captain maintaining a determinedly distant presence.

Brooke had little experience with seduction. The few times in her past that she’d actually desired sex with a man, they had been more than willing, and after she’d taken her pleasure, she had sent them on their way. No muss, no fuss. All was simple and straightforward, with little effort at all, but not with the Captain. No, he had ignored her subtle invitations and long come-hither glances. By the time Wednesday had rolled around, Brooke decided to abandon attempts at nuance. Previously, the obvious had worked successfully, so tonight the obvious seemed the way to go again.

After dinner was over, when the Captain had assumed his customary place, turning the kitchen table into a work table, Brooke seized the opportunity to unbutton her shirt. Three buttons were free before he noticed.

His gaze was locked on her hands, the tic was back in his jaw, and the screwdriver was digging into the table’s surface, but she didn’t think he realized all that. “What are you doing?” he asked. A silly question.

“I’m getting comfortable. You’re so busy I didn’t think you would mind.” Her fingers parted the shirt, pulled it off her shoulders, leaving her best sheer bra underneath. “Does this bother you?” she asked, an innocent smile on her face. “Brooke.”

She liked the way he said her name, low and graveled. The rough sound rolled down her spine and she shivered, not cold at all. Still smiling, she unbuttoned the fly on her jeans. “Is there a problem?”

“Yes.”

Deciding there was no point in revisiting the argument, she pulled at the zip, easing the denim over her hips, enjoying the raw pain on his face. There was so little he ever exposed, hiding behind his patch and his scar.

Tonight, the gloves came off.

As would her bra.

Defiantly she unhooked the front clasp. “Ignore me. No problem.” The clasp came loose. The Captain swallowed.

After easing the bra from her shoulders, Brooke dangled it over the couch.

The Captain didn’t move.

If she had known he was going to be this difficult, she would have dressed in more layers. However, Brooke was accustomed to making do with the resources at hand, and she slid her thumbs in the wispy material of her panties, easing them down her legs.

The Captain still didn’t move.

Undeterred, she sat on the couch, kicked her feet out on the coffee table in front of her, and turned the television on. Two could play the ignorant game.

It actually felt rather liberating, sitting in the nude, feeling his tortured gaze on her, and doing nothing at all. She leaned back, letting the warm night air drift over her, electric current dancing on her skin, her nipples peaked with the thrill.

The Captain stood and she held her breath, waiting. Slowly he approached, casting a glowering shadow over the couch, and she could feel every inch where he stared. She raised her head, met his eyes and felt her heart twist at the pain in his uninjured eye.

“Why are you doing this?”

Didn’t he get it? “You are the best man I’ve ever known.”

Patiently she waited for his response, because he would be the one. This time, he couldn’t hide.

“That’s not a good reason for sex.”

Well, no, it spoke to things a lot more powerful than sex, but okay, if that’s the way they were going to play it, then she was more than prepared to list all the good reasons for sex. “I watch you during the day, and I want to pull off your shirt and run my hands over your shoulders, feeling them tense where I touch. You have such strong, capable shoulders. Sometimes in my mind, I lay my head there, and I feel revived. I remember your mouth on my breasts, hard and hungry, and my nipples ache to be tasted again. And then I remember how you felt between my legs, filling me, loving me. I get so wet and lonely and I hurt. I don’t want to hurt anymore. When I’m with you, when you hold me…I’m home.”

There it was, the last of her secrets, and she had nothing else to give. She longed to look away, but she didn’t. No, there wouldn’t be two cowards in the room. His fingers gripped the edge of the couch, inching closer to her, but not close enough. “This isn’t your home. I can never be what you want.”

His words were designed to hurt her, she knew that, but it was
his
knuckles that were white against the brown cushions, not hers. Desire strained on his face, not hers. Quietly she rose, coming to stand in front of him, so close, but not close enough. “Stop fighting me, Captain. Stop fighting this.” She kept her voice low and gentle. “Was it so bad with me?”

“No.”

“Do you remember? Do you lay awake, feeling my mouth on you, my skin under your hands?”

The Captain nodded once, but made no move to touch her.

“Kiss me,” she urged, praying for him to move.

He stared at her lips. “I love your mouth. So soft, so generous, so open.”

Her lips parted at the pretty words, but in the end, they were only words. “Take it. Take me.”

“I won’t stop. I can’t.” His voice was harsh, not nearly so pretty this time.

“I know,” she said, moving a whisper closer. All he had to do was reach out…

His fingers lifted to her hair, stroked the long length, traveling down her shoulder, resting possessively on the rise of her breast. One rough thumb rolled her nipple almost absently. Each stolen touch brought an answering pull between her legs, but this time Brooke stayed still, watching the heat in his eyes, the tightness to his mouth. “They’re perfect. Like something in a dream.”

The easy glide of his movements were hypnotizing, seductive, and she sighed as he explored her, memorized her. Gently he traced the curve of her hip, his hands calloused, but, oh, so careful. Those same hard hands moved behind her, cupping her cheeks, sliding lower, slipping lower.

Brooke’s eyes flickered close, heavy with pleasure when he parted her thighs. Such marvelously efficient hands. A Captain’s hands.

His fingers stroked her back and forth, and she could hear the rasp of his breathing, feel her body swell with desire. “So soft, so generous, so wet.”

It was like something in a dream. A warm, liquid dream. When his fingers slipped inside her, Brooke’s knees dipped, but the Captain was quick, and strong arms lifted her, laying her on the couch. Breathlessly she waited for him to cover her, but he knelt beside her, his hand returning between her thighs, and then the dream was back.

The steady touch of his fingers was like a melody, pleasure lapping over her. So easy, so quiet, so soft. Brooke gave herself over to him, her body rising and falling in time with his hand.

Then the melody disappeared and a moan of protest escaped from her mouth, but then she felt his mouth on her aching flesh. The quiet waves of pleasure disappeared, turning dark, dangerous.

His mouth was not nearly as safe as his hand, sucking on her flesh, pulling hard and insistent, and the exquisite pressure was too much. Her hands fisted into the cushion, pulling the material, helplessly fighting against it. She wanted the dream, the safe, gentle dream.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, and she knew what he was doing. Testing her, thinking that she would walk away. Brooke opened her heavy eyes, and glared. “No.”

His smile was hard, and once again he lowered his head. At first, she was prepared for the pressure, her body riding the waves, and she smiled to herself, but then his mouth found her sensitive nub, the friction of his tongue making her mutter, then swear, then finally scream. Colors flooded her mind, a frenzied kaleidoscope spinning faster and faster until she felt the world tremble around her.

The pressure disappeared, and her heart started to beat again. “Do you want me to stop?” he asked, his voice hard, his breathing ragged.

Her body felt limp, her eyes were too heavy to open, but the spirit would not be denied.
Did he really believe she was that weak?
Brooke waved a “continue” hand.

Then his finger pushed inside her, opening her, killing her, and then his hungry mouth moved again until it was more than she could take. She could feel the orgasm growing, mounting, before the orgasm crashed over her, ripping her in pieces. Her mouth opened to scream, to breathe, to damn the man to hell, but he was too quick, his mouth covering hers, his body blanketing hers. This time his tongue swept into her mouth, so gentle, so easy, but she wasn’t fooled. Not this time.

Brooke tore at his shirt, declared war on his jeans until at last she could touch him, torture him as he had done her. Her fingers stroked his shaft, and she watched the pleasure flare in his eyes.

“I like the feel of you in my hands,” she whispered to him.

“It’s just a dick,” he told her, inhaling sharply when she rolled the condom over his velvet skin.

“Not just,” she answered, eyeing the part in question with respectful consideration.

When she looked up again, he was watching her, waiting, and in answer, she tilted her hips, feeling the head of his shaft against her.

“Take me, Captain. Please.”

I
T WAS THE ANSWER
Jason needed, and he pushed inside her, feeling the give, feeling her stretch to accommodate him. Dark desirous eyes widened, locked on his face, her mouth open and wet. Quickly he covered her open mouth, blocked out her gaze, inching in farther, letting her slick heat block out everything but this.

Her body shifted to accommodate him, and with one powerful shove on his ass, Brooke embedded his thankless cock inside her.

His breathing stopped. His body frozen until he felt the soft stroke of her tongue in his mouth, across his lips. Then she opened drowsy eyes, the open-hearted gaze inspecting his face, his patch, his scar. At long last, she whispered, “Take me, Captain.”

God help him, he did. Over and over he used her, trying to remember her pleasure, too, but she made him forget. So many things she made him forget.

Her generous mouth kissed his lips, the roughened skin of his scar and the marked blade of his shoulder. Her selfless fingers were never still, gliding over him like he was some damned sculpture. Brooke Hart was a foolish, foolish woman giving herself to him on the couch, on the floor. Each time his gut would cramp up in guilt, she would flutter her lashes, expecting him to fall for her cheap tricks again—as if he could be easily conned. And then she would press her perfect breasts against him, not shy at all, until his simple-minded hands reached for her, and then no surprise there—his cock was rooting between her legs, wanting her once more.

By the time the sun was yawning outside, they’d made it to the bed, and she rose over him, flaunting that Hollywood body, murmuring with her pillow-top mouth, staring at him with adoring eyes that could make a man change his mind.

No, that Brooke Hart was trouble, he thought, letting her seduce him all over again.

T
HE PHONE RANG
at precisely 9:17 a.m. Brooke was still in bed, rolled up in blankets and pillows, but Jason hadn’t slept at all. He took the call outside the bedroom, keeping his voice low. “Kincaid.”

“I’m looking for Brooke Hart. She left this number. This is Hiram Hadley from the law offices of Harris and Howell.”

The lawyer. Thoughtless jerk calling so early, he thought, glancing toward the bedroom. At the moment, Brooke was suffering from a serious lack of sleep, all due to Jason’s conscienceless cock, and it didn’t seem right to wake her. “She’s not available now, but I know she’s expecting your call. Could I get your number and I’ll have her get back to you?”

Hadley sighed into the phone and if Jason had been a more accommodating man, he would have taken the hint and rolled Brooke out of bed. Not in this lifetime. “I’m still in North Dakota,” Hadley said, “and don’t have access to my papers, but I’m returning to Tin Cup next Wednesday and I can set up a meeting with her then. Do you know if she has a birth certificate?”

The suspicious tone wasn’t winning the lawyer any friends, not that Jason had ever been fond of lawyers. Birth certificate? “I don’t have a clue. Why don’t you look it up?”

“There’s no record of a Brooke Hart being born in Texas,” the man explained patiently.

Jason didn’t care. “I don’t think she was born here. I bet you’re going to have to check all the other states.”

The lawyer sighed again, even louder. The old geezer was probably unhappy with the idea of extra work. Yeah, sometimes life sucked that way. “Do you know where Miss Hart was born?” he asked.

“Not a clue,” Jason answered cheerfully.

“You’ll tell her I’ll be in on Wednesday? And if she could provide her birth cert—”

Jason hung up.

H
E HAD FOUR OPPORTUNITIES
to tell her, five if he counted lunch, but oddly enough, the words never came. Jason kept telling himself that since Hadley wasn’t going to be around until the following week, what did it matter? It’s not like Brooke could call him, instantly receive one-third of the Hart property—which wasn’t worth squat—and then her life would be magically transformed.

Except for the mineral rights…

No, that was the kicker, the fly in the ointment, the shrapnel in the eye, because Jason Kincaid also knew there was an 86.3 percent probability of oil underneath the Hart land, mainly because there was a 100 percent probability of oil under his land. He’d known since they had finished running the tests last year. The suit that had delivered the results had eyed the acreage to the west—Hart land—and then explained in full, glorious detail how the formations below the surface worked.

Of course, Jason probably should have told his ex-wife, although legally Sonya didn’t have any claim to it. At the time she’d been happily married to Tom, and money muddled people’s vision. It dressed things up, made the previously unsightly sightly. Attractive. Appealing.

All smoke and mirrors, designed to cover the truth.

Usually a big fan of the truth, Jason was also a firm believer in the status quo, which was the probable reason that he didn’t say a word to Brooke. To give himself credit, he didn’t cop a feel when she asked him what a planer was. In fact, he was purposefully cool because last night had been a world-class lapse in judgment, especially since she’d be leaving him right after she talked to the lawyer. His conscience didn’t ease up, especially watching her try to haul a lead water pump across the yard. Jason shook his head, picked up the thing himself, and lined it up with eight other pumps that he would most likely never use.

“Thank you, but I could have done it myself.”

Then she blinked up at him, big, trusting eyes, and it was the perfect time to tell her about Hadley’s call, but she was wearing a blue diode in her hair, and the freckles were starting to pop on her skin, and Jason’s brain shut down. Before he knew it, the perfect time was gone.

A
FTER EXTENDED HOURS
of sexual congress, Brooke expected a little more intimacy from the Captain today. A familiar touch or an occasional kiss, anything to signify a change, but no. Certainly there were times during the day when she caught him watching her with an overheated gaze, but when their glances would lock, his always shifted away.

A woman like Gillian would know how to approach the situation, but Brooke wasn’t ready to divulge her feelings about the Captain to Gillian because then Brooke would have to explain why she was working for the Captain and she expected that a woman as sophisticated as Gillian wouldn’t appreciate the personal satisfaction in heavy manual labor. Second, Brooke suspected that Gillian wouldn’t approve of having sex with the man who was providing both a roof and paycheck. Last, and most important, Brooke knew that although the Captain had many feelings for her, he never said anything that implied a romantic relationship. Other than the long, deep kisses, or the way he made her ache between her legs, all of which were not things that Brooke felt comfortable divulging to anyone, much less her future sister-in-law who was mostly a stranger and engaged to Brooke’s brother, who was even more of a stranger. No, the situation needed patience and strategy, and Brooke, who had previously been unable to strategize her way out of a paper bag, was starting to learn.

That afternoon, she sorted rubber gaskets and devised a plan to move their relationship to a higher level. The Captain had his truck parked near the black metal gate, unloading the widow Kenley’s broken washing machine. Mouth dry, she admired his broad build, the firm thighs. However, this was about moving their relationship beyond the sex.

After she cleared the fog from her eyes, she went over and planted herself at the foot of the truck. “I need your advice,” she began, trying to sound earnest and composed and not remotely aroused. “Rita likes me,” she continued. “The Hinkles have forgiven me since I helped Henry haul a case of milk to the refrigerator in the back. I’m making good progress at creating a bond with these people.”

“Then there’s no problem. You don’t need my advice.”

“Sure I do. Gillian invited me to the chili cook-off on Friday. She said I should go and make some new friends. I think it’s a good idea.”

The Captain climbed down from the back of his truck and dusted his palms on his jeans. “I don’t know any chili recipes.”

Usually the Captain was much more cooperative when she came to him for help. Usually he was more than ready to offer advice, even when she didn’t want to hear it, but today he’d been unusually distant. Acknowledging that this was going to be more difficult than she assumed, she approached the situation from a different angle. “It’s Austen.”

This time he frowned. “Is he giving you problems?”

Brooke shrugged helplessly. “He’s not acting brotherly. It’s like he’s scared of me. Gillian doesn’t seem scared of me. I don’t understand why Austen is.”

Now that he knew neither chili nor social niceties were involved, the Captain pulled off his cap, pushed his fingers through his hair, messing it up even more. Brooke longed to touch the thick strands, fix it for him, but relationship novice or not, she knew this wasn’t the time.

“Why should he be scared of you? You don’t look that tough. He’d take you down in one.”

“Be serious,” she scoffed, sliding into an easy camaraderie, a casual banter.

“I was,” he said, slapping the cap on his head. Before he could go back to work, she jumped up on the lowered tailgate and sat. At first, he looked ready to cut her off again. Brooke fixed him with her earnest face, which wasn’t threatening at all.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” she asked.

His mouth quirked at the corners, almost a smile. “There’s seven of us.”

Seven? Good heavens.
“Where are they?”

“George is a chemist in Rockville. David is in California, somewhere outside L.A. Sara teaches kindergarten in Baltimore. John’s a bartender in Miami. Robert’s still in the army and, to be honest, I don’t know where the hell Charlie is living now. He does consulting for some company with a lot of initials and I lost track.”

“What about your father?”

“My dad lives with Sara. He likes to help out, so he does some of her repairs, and helps her with her kids.”

“Do you see him often?”

“No.”

“Why?”

The Captain shrugged, as if this was normal.

“Do you not get along?”

“We get along great. We talk almost every week. It’s just…”

“What?”

He shrugged again. “I don’t know.”

“What about your brothers?”

“I see them some. Four years ago I flew up to Maryland for the holidays.”

“Impressive,” she murmured.

“We get along great,” he repeated, more defensively this time.

“Excellent. Then you must know how brothers are supposed to act.”

The Captain glanced at the washing machine, then back at Brooke. Resigned to the conversation, he climbed up on the tailgate and sat next to her, their thighs almost touching, but not quite. Definite progress. “There’s not a manual.”

Brooke sighed because it wasn’t that she expected the Captain to be a fount of family how-to knowledge, but still… He was very smart.

“Why is he scared of me?” she asked, looking away. She didn’t want him to think that people might not like her. However, he must have heard the unhappiness in her voice, because he took her hand as if he liked her. For the Captain, hand-holding was way beyond easy camaraderie. It was right up there with poetry writing and mix-tapes.

“I don’t think he’s scared.”

“What do you think it is?” she asked, meeting his eyes, not so worried about hiding her uncertainty. This was all unchartered territory for Brooke. Family. A respectful relationship with a man. Home. She’d spent her whole life dreaming of something like this, and now it was within her grasp, unless she fumbled it all away. Charlene Hart was a world-class fumbler.

Seeing the frown on her face, the Captain squeezed her hand. “I don’t know what his problem is. I barely know the guy and it’s not like I’ve seen the two of you together.”

“Come to the cook-off,” she pressed. “Tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

“I’m not going to a chili cook-off,” he muttered, and while he didn’t look thrilled at the idea, he didn’t look stubborn, either. Brooke allowed herself a tiny squeeze on his hand, as well.

“Please? I don’t know how to do this, and I don’t want to mess it up.” Yes, she was talking about more than her brother, and she suspected he knew. Once again, he didn’t look thrilled at the idea, but he didn’t look stubborn, either.

“I’ll go,” he agreed.

Progress. Definitely.

T
HE
T
IN
C
UP CHILI-PALOOZA
was scheduled for the Friday of homecoming weekend. The week before, the town hung a banner across Main Street that read, Go Lions, Maul Midland, as if the Tin Cup high school football team was not going to get eaten alive by the state’s powerhouse.

However, Brooke seemed excited, and the night of the hell-a-palooza she changed outfits four times, all the more telling since Jason knew she only had three to begin with. Not wanting to disappoint her, Jason told her that the red sundress was the best. He neglected to mention that her legs were starting to get a mouth-watering tan, that the modified-transistors hanging from her ears looked cute next to the slender curve of her neck, and then there was the way she wasn’t wearing a bra.

Three weeks ago, when Brooke had first come to town, the idea of Brooke not wearing a bra was sexy, but not so irresistible that he wanted to jump her. Jason told himself that the fact that he
had
jumped her was due to his own long months of monklike celibacy, which had killed whatever restraint he normally possessed. Tonight, his restraint was threatening to bust his jeans, since now that she had put on a little weight, the hollows in her cheeks were gone, and apparently when Brooke gained weight, it went to her breasts.

He closed his good eye—didn’t work. When he opened it again, they were still going, and Brooke was bouncy, cheery, nipples pebbling against the flimsy material.