Crazy About Cameron: The Winslow Brothers #3 (The Blueberry Lane Series -The Winslow Brothers) (14 page)

He flinched, the quick image of her naked beneath him as he pumped into her making his breathing shallow. His cock was rigid under his pants, and the only way he could conceal it was to step a little closer to her.

She gasped softly, glancing down and then back up at his face. “Is that for me?”

“I told you I wouldn’t be able to say no to you, Meggie.”

“Cameron,” she said, “I’m not the sort of girl who forces a man to do something he’s not ready to do.”

“Do I feel
unready
to you?” he growled. “Finish your fucking drink.”

Her lips wobbled as she tilted back the glass and breathed in deeply. “Earth tones. Pepper. Licorice. Wild fruit. Full-bodied—”

“Stop it,” he grated in a strangled voice, watching as her eyes opened slowly . . . dark, amused, cognac-colored, with gold flecks that mesmerized him thoroughly.

She licked her lips. “You teased me for years. You deserve hours of this, at least.”

He grabbed her unfinished glass from her hand and placed both drinks on the tray of a passing waiter. “We’re dancing.”

He took her hand and led her to the dance floor. Pulling her into his arms, he realized that her dress was also cut into a V on the back as his palm came into contact with her warm, soft skin. He groaned, gritting his teeth as he looked into her eyes. “Did you wear this for my benefit?”

“What do
you
think?”

“I think yes. Why did you come with him?”

She shrugged. “He bought the tickets weeks ago, when we were still dating. Pris was a last-minute addition.”

“I’ve always been fond of Pris,” said Cameron, glancing over to where Olson and Priscilla were dancing as close to each other as he and Margaret. “Are they . . .?”

“Together?” Margaret exhaled deeply. “I don’t know. There’s a story there, but it’s Priscilla’s to tell when she’s ready.”

“He’s stiff as a board and as boring as a tax audit, and she’s . . .
Priscilla
. They’re not a very likely couple, are they?”

“As odd as a librarian and a hothead?” she asked.

His eyes whipped back to hers. “You and me?”

She shook her head, grinning at him. “I was only teasing.”

“What if we were?”

Her eyes widened as she looked up at him from beneath long black lashes. “A couple?”

“Have you ever pictured it?” he asked.

All traces of her sultry teasing disappeared as she turned up her face, in all its fresh loveliness, to his. “Have
you
?”

“You know I have.” His chin dipped only once as he held her eyes, defeat imminent. “It’s all I’ve pictured for most of my life.”

He saw the confusion on her face—the brief narrowing of her eyes and furrowing of her brows. The way she seemed to search his face because she didn’t believe he could possibly be telling the truth. He held her closer, willing her body to listen to his and to
hear
the truth: that for all his life, Margaret Story had been Cameron Winslow’s favorite fantasy.

And suddenly he knew she’d somehow heard the whispering of his heart because her eyes brightened and she smiled at him with the beautiful lips that he’d loved twice with his own sweeping up into the sweetest smile he’d ever known.

“Truly?”

“Why do you think I teased you so badly?” he asked, offering a smile to match hers.

“I’m going to The Five Sisters tomorrow,” she said, her voice breathy as she dropped his eyes and looked over his shoulder. “Come with me.”

“I was planning to go to Harrell tomorrow for a wine tasting. You come with me,” he rumbled near her ear, holding her tighter when he felt her shiver in his arms.

“Yes,” she whispered, and the flush of happiness in her voice made his heart swell with the sort of devotion he’d heretofore reserved for his family.

The music ended, and, clapping lightly, the couples around them stopped dancing.

Cameron dropped his arms regretfully and took a step back to look at her pink cheeks and lovely eyes, shiny with wonder. For years, he’d seen consternation on her face, disappointment, hurt, and resentment. But now her face was alive, lit from the inside with happiness, and he’d made it happen. Cameron Winslow made Margaret Story happy . . . and in that moment, it was the most important accomplishment of his entire life: that he’d made this extraordinary creature happy. And it was the most important ambition for the rest of his life: to make it happen again and again and again.

“
Marguerite, nous devons partir. Maintenant
.”

Priscilla was standing beside them with tears in her eyes, worrying the straps of her purse in her hands.

“
Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé?
”

“
Souviens-toi ta promesse.
”

Cameron had just enough French to understand that Priscilla wanted to go immediately, and when Margaret asked her what had happened, Priscilla reminded Margaret to “remember her promise.”

Margaret looked up at Cameron helplessly. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

Cameron looked out over the ballroom, but Olson was nowhere to be found, the fucking coward. Make a woman cry, then leave her sister to sort it out. If he ran into the bastard later, he’d clock him good for Priscilla.

“Let me drive you,” he offered.

Margaret took her sister’s hand, lacing their hands together firmly, and shook her head. “We’ll take a cab.”

He looked down at her with genuine concern and softened his voice. “Meggie, please, let me—”

With her free hand, she reached for Cameron’s arm, her eyes beseeching him not to offer again. “I’ll be in the lobby tomorrow morning at nine.”

Before he could say another word, she was gone.

Margaret assumed that whatever had transpired between Shane and Priscilla was quick and ugly, but Priscilla refused to discuss it. She cried softly, with her head on Margaret’s lap, from the Ritz to their parents’ estate in Haverford, but Margaret kept her promise, and instead of asking the million questions lined up in her head, she gently stroked her sister’s hair while whispering soothing bits of nonsense about how everything would be all right, though she had no such confidence.

When they reached Haverford, Priscilla kissed her sister and told her not to worry before running into the house. Knowing she was unwelcome at Forrester, Margaret didn’t exit the cab, instead directing the driver to turn around and take her back to the city. The bachelor auction portion of the evening would be in full swing now, but she was in no mood to return to the gala, so she gave the driver her apartment address and gratefully fell into bed as soon as she arrived home.

The next morning, despite Priscilla’s unexplained drama, Margaret awoke with a light heart and delicious memories of dancing in Cameron’s arms for a few brief, perfect minutes the night before. She hugged herself as she recalled her surprising boldness.

It seemed that the more time she spent with him, the more confident she became in who she was, and the more she found the courage to be the woman she wanted to be: a woman who broke up with a man she didn’t love, who stood up to her father, who walked away from a job she didn’t want and toward one she did, who batted her eyes and teased the man she was quickly falling in lo—

The sound of screeching brakes in her head was deafening.

Wait! Time-out. What?

“No!” she exclaimed as she sat straight up in bed.

Oh God. Where had her mind been going? And when exactly had she given it permission to go there?
Falling in love
with Cameron Winslow? That wasn’t even possible, was it?

For heaven’s sake, they’d been on friendly terms only for a handful of weeks, she thought, clenching her sheets in her fists.

Falling in love with him?

No. Absolutely not. It’s way too soon.

And yet the undeniable truth was that she thought of him in every quiet moment, in every distraught moment, in every happy moment. He was on her mind constantly.

It wasn’t just the way he made her feel—on fire and breathless, wanting and wanton—or the way his kisses curled her toes and made her fantasize about what it would be like for his body to belong to hers. It was also that Cameron coaxed an honesty from Margaret that she’d never really shared with anyone else. She could be herself around him—completely herself, without the responsibility she felt to her parents and sisters, or the strict expectations the Story name had placed on her since birth.

She could be an obsessed vintner who wanted to live her life among rows and rows of grapes. She could be someone who wore her hair down every day, with the clean earth of her vineyard forever caught between her toes and staining the knees of her jeans. She had the strangest feeling that with Cameron by her side, she could live the life she wanted to live, instead of the one that duty had thrust upon her.

For weeks, she’d felt like a caterpillar emerging from its chrysalis, born anew in authenticity, delicious freedom, and newfound courage—fragile virtues somehow cultivated and strengthened by Cameron’s recent presence in her life.

Was such an awakening enough to bear and deliver the first fruits of love?

“Maybe,” she whispered, swinging her legs over the side of her bed and pressing one hand over her heart. “Maybe.”

And stretching before her was a whole day in his company. She giggled softly as she headed to the bathroom. She couldn’t wait to get started.

Remembering his fondness for pulling her childhood braids, and inspired by Priscilla, she gathered her thick, long hair in her hands and French-braided it loosely, so that it was sexy and romantic but also a throwback to their shared youth. She pulled on her favorite pair of jeans and a short-sleeved cotton sweater in navy blue with a low scooped neck. She swiped on some lip gloss, grabbed her tennis shoes and sunglasses, and checked out her reflection in the mirror.
Long gone was stiff, starched Margaret Story, and before her stood Cameron’s Meggie, someone who spent her days in a vineyard, and her nights . . .

She flushed.

She knew exactly where she wanted to spend her nights: laid bare beside Cameron, her heart beating against his, the heat of his skin pressed against the softness of hers, his arms around her, his sex throbbing within her, loving her until they were both exhausted and slept entangled until dawn.

If you asked me to be with you, I wouldn’t be able to say no.

That was the problem, though, wasn’t it?

She respected his reasoning—that his life was complicated, and he didn’t want to start something with Margaret now only to sacrifice it later. In fact, she loved that Cameron, who lived his life impetuously, seemed to move with a tense deliberation when it came to her, as though he couldn’t bear to misstep and lose her once she was his.

“You have to trust him,” she said to her reflection. “Don’t push him.”

Trust that when he can, he’ll come for you. Maybe today. Maybe next week. Maybe not until next year. But when he comes for you, he’ll have cleared the way ahead, and you won’t have to fear taking his hand and stepping forward, because he will keep you safe.

She turned away from the mirror and picked up a small box of items she’d been meaning to take from her apartment to the cottage: her high school and college yearbooks, some favorite books, a photo album, and a few framed photos of Margaret and her sisters as children. In the elevator, she rested the box on her hip and pulled one of the pictures from the box. She looked at it carefully.

It was taken at the Englishes’ pool in 1998. She and her sisters stood in birth order: thirteen-year-old Alice, tall and strong, with her hand on one jutted hip; eleven-year-old Margaret in thick glasses with a shy smile and her thin arms around Alice’s and Betsy’s shoulders; ten-year-old Betsy winking at J.C. and Étienne Rousseau; nine-year-old Priscilla, with her wild, wet hair dripping around her shoulders and forbidden sparkly nail polish on fingers flung high into the air; and little Jane, only seven, her pudgy, baby tummy sticking out of her one-piece and a chocolate ice cream mustache over her top lip.

Grinning, Margaret scanned their young faces for an extra moment before widening her examination to the rest of the picture. The Rousseau boys stood to the right, making silly faces at the girls, the Ambler brothers splashed in the pool with the Rousseau twins, and Brooks Winslow and Barrett English were leaning against the fence talking to Bree Ambler. And to the left . . .

She gasped, drawing the picture closer and squinting as she realized that thirteen-year-old Cameron Winslow was also in the photograph. He stood between Alex and Fitz English, who were both laughing at something going on in the pool.

But Cameron . . .

Tears sprang into Margaret’s eyes as she realized that Cameron, who’d lost his father just months before, was staring thoughtfully at her.

It’s all I’ve pictured for most of my life
.

The elevator dinged to announce its arrival, and Margaret exited, still staring at the photo as a deluge of tenderness saturated her heart.

“Cam,” she whispered, wondering what was going through his mind at the moment the photo was taken, but quite sure he’d probably pulled her braids and tried to make her cry immediately after.

“Morning,” he answered from just behind her.

Cameron leaned against the wall beside the elevator, a smile on his beautiful lips, his green eyes sparkling like emeralds. He wore jeans and a white polo shirt, and his black hair was still damp from a recent shower. Her mouth watered.

“Morning,” she said.

He reached for the box, sliding his hand against hers as he took it. “What’s that?”

“An old picture,” she said, glancing down at it before holding it up for him. “At the Englishes’ pool.”

Cameron placed the box on the floor and took the frame from her. “Wow. When was this taken?”

“Nineteen ninety-eight.”

“Look at you.”

She grinned, sidling beside him to look down at the picture in his hands. “And you.”

“Me? I’m not in this.”

She pointed to the group of three boys off to the side. “You’re in the middle.”

He stared at the picture for a long time before looking up at her, his eyes serious—so very serious—as they searched hers. “I’m watching you.”

“You are.” She reached up and palmed his cheek gently. “How is it that I’ve known you forever, but I’m just getting to know you now?”

“I’m falling for you,” he said softly, wincing as the blurted words faded away. “Bad.”

“Me too,” she said, with a whisper of a smile.

He pressed his lips to her palm, holding her eyes with his, with a scorching tenderness that made her body come alive, that made tendrils of pleasure unfurl from the place where he kissed her.

“Miss Story?”

Margaret dropped her hand from Cameron’s face and felt her cheeks flush with heat. She’d forgotten that they were in the lobby of their building, sharing an intimate moment while on public display.

“Franklin. Ahem. Yes?”

The concierge, grinning knowingly, approached with a small FedEx box. “This just came for you, miss. From Mexico.”

“Mexico?”

She took the box and glanced at the return address. “Oh. It’s from Baja.”

Cameron looked at her inquisitively.

“The best wines in Mexico come from Baja California, and I recently inquired about vine acquisition. I bet this is a proposal.”

“I can’t say that I’ve ever drunk a wine from Mexico,” he said.

“You have. You just didn’t know it. Mexico has a very ancient winemaking tradition. Believe it or not, the very first winery in the Americas was in Mexico, and those grapes, which originally came from Spain, were imported to Napa Valley in the early 1800s. So all the best California wines are, in essence, Mexican.”

“Actually, they’re Spanish,” said Cameron.

“Purist.”

“I assure you my thoughts right now are far from pure,” he said, letting his glance drift from her face to her chest before recapturing her eyes suggestively.

She grinned at him. “Naughty.”

“With you? I wish.” He took the FedEx box from her and placed it on top of the collection of albums, diaries, and frames, then lifted the whole box in his arms. “Shall we?”

“Absolutely.”

***

Hours later, after tasting all of Harrell Reserve’s summer wines, they sat side by side in Adirondack chairs while a local band played a decent cover of Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl.” Cameron watched Margaret’s lips move silently to the words of a song that could have been written about her, and her face was a soft gold, lit by the late-afternoon sun. She had a fair smattering of freckles that she probably concealed with makeup most days, and he loved the way they sprinkled playfully over her nose and cheeks. He turned back to face the band and sighed, barely resisting the urge to draw her face to his and kiss each and every one of them.

He’d learned a lot about her today.

She’d been fired from Story Imports on Friday.

Her father was a bona fide bastard.

Her mother had been dutiful and quietly ineffectual before an aneurysm took her life a few years ago.

She loved her sisters.

She intended to start living in Newtown as soon as Geraldo finished her apartment and she could put it on the market.

In the past several hours, all of Cameron’s feelings for her had been quietly and firmly reinforced. The innate sense of serenity that had always drawn him to her inspired in him a desperate longing never to leave her side, never to be without the peace her presence afforded him. In a loud and obnoxious world filled with deadlines and business, Margaret was an oasis of tranquility.

She was soft and graceful, gentle and kind. Her forbearance with her father and unconditional love for her sisters made him yearn for her constant company, made him rethink the entire path of his life with a prudence—a cautious thoughtfulness—that he’d never exercised.

Today he’d also learned something crucial about Margaret’s yin to his yang. On the outside, they might have looked, as she suggested last night, like a librarian and a hothead, but the beauty of their inverse symmetry was that he somehow encouraged her to loosen up, and she somehow inspired him to grow up. And the net of the equation was a feeling of profound rightness when they were together.

He no longer needed to think about his decision for Barrett.

He would sell.

C & C Winslow, his beloved father’s legacy, would always be something that Cameron had tried to keep afloat for as long as possible, to honor his father’s memory. But, unless he let it go, he would sink with it and drown . . . and forever lose his chance to fall in love with the most amazing woman in the world. And what he had suspected, but learned definitively today, was that there was no legacy, no memory, no duty lodged in the past that equaled the privilege of time spent with Margaret in the present and future. There was simply no other place in his life that afforded the sense of peace and belonging that he found sitting beside her. And once a man found that place—that
person
—he had a responsibility to secure her to his side with every drop of determination in his being.