Courtney shook her head at that. “Cam won’t wait on that, Jaci.”
She finished her wine and sat the glass on the table before turning back to her friend. “He doesn’t have a choice.”
And to that, Courtney smiled. A slow, amused, sympathetic smile. “I think you’re going to learn, my friend, that it’s you who won’t have a choice. Once a club member has chosen his woman, they rarely go back on that vow. Ian knows of only one, in the entire history of the club, to do so, and I promise you, he’s regretting it each second of his life. Cam won’t wait. And I don’t think you want him to.”
Her friend’s eyes twinkled. “And some men do have some interesting ways of making certain that the word ‘no’ never passes a lady’s lips again.”
She was not going to ask. She was not going to ask. She didn’t want to know what those ways were, or why Courtney looked so deliciously lost in thought over them.
“How did I know this job was going to make me insane?” She leaned forward, lifted her glass from the table, and held it out to Courtney once again. A refill. Just a little bit more false courage. “Anytime you’re near, everything goes crazy.”
“I know.” Courtney smiled with smug satisfaction. “That’s why I’m so much fun to be around.”
“We might need another bottle after that comment.”
Courtney laughed softly. “So, you’ll be at the party tonight?” she asked, pouring Jaci another small measure of the fruity wine.
At that question, Jaci smiled. This time, it was her smile that caused concern to flicker in Courtney’s eyes.
“I’ll be there,” she drawled.
“With Cam?”
“Only if he arrives at the same time I do.” She toasted her friend with her glass. “And I wouldn’t bet on that happening, Courtney. I really wouldn’t.”
She may have no choice but to attend the party, but Cam was going to find out that she didn’t do orders very well at all. If he had claimed her, well, he could just learn what claiming her very well meant.
One of her greatest fears was being overwhelmed by his dominance and his sexuality. She had always feared she couldn’t stand up to him, couldn’t deny him. She was going to have to prove to herself and to him that she could. And she was going to have it do it at the same time that she was battling her nemesis.
Damn, why hadn’t she just called Cam to begin with five years ago and let him wipe the floor with Roberts and have it done with? At that time, Cam might have restrained himself to beating the hell out of the other man, rather than killing him.
But she was afraid, very afraid, that after all this time, after all they had done to attempt to destroy her, Cam just might kill him after all.
Getting a woman’s body and getting her heart are two different things. And gaining her trust is another problem entirely.
Cam wasn’t exactly inept when it came to women, but for years, gaining their trust hadn’t been one of his primary concerns. At least, no more than it had taken to get into their beds. That was an entirely different sort of trust, and he knew it.
And he didn’t have Jaci’s complete trust.
It was a startling realization, the knowledge that the woman he had claimed as his own didn’t trust him enough to allow him to protect her.
He snorted at the thought of that one as he pulled the Harley into the underground garage of the converted warehouse he and Chase had bought just after accepting Ian Sinclair’s offer five years before.
Two stories, cavernous and open; he and his brother had worked in their spare time for years, turning it into a livable space. The open rooms, tall windows, and spaciousness appealed to his need for freedom. After the ambush in Afghanistan, Cam had needed space, room to roam and to heal, after the military had returned him to the states.
Even worse than the need for space at that time had been the need for touch. It was then that he learned how finicky women could be. He and Chase had always appealed to women; it had been a shock to look in the mirror and realize the damage that had been done to his body, but even more surprising had been others’ reactions to it. Everything from fascination to complete disgust. And he’d found, just because a woman wanted to live on the wild side for a little bit, it didn’t mean that she had to appreciate the body that pulled her into the dark excesses that inhabited that side of her sexuality.
Yet, Jaci had touched him gently, with sorrow. And as she had, the need to take her without Chase had risen inside him.
His body tightened at the memory of that, as he moved quickly up the stairs to the first level of the “house.” There, he strode first to the fridge and the cold beer waiting inside, twisted off the cap, flipped it into the garbage, then tilted the beer to his lips.
A long, cold drink later, he leaned against the counter and stared around the open room. There was an enclosed bathroom, shower, and Jacuzzi garden tub on the other side of the huge room. One side of the wall was thick, shadowed glass.
There was the kitchen and work island where he stood, just inside the doorway, then the room spread out into a living area, with sectional couches, thickly cushioned chairs, and a wide-screen television. There was a pool table and several old pinball machines behind that. Then, enclosed by filmy screens, was Cam’s bedroom.
The king-size bed and matching unfinished furniture filled that corner of the room.
Upstairs was the weight room, home office, and Chase’s bedroom and bath, as well as a kitchenette. As Chase had explained, sometimes a man just wanted a sandwich without trudging down the stairs.
And sometimes he needed his women alone. Sometimes he craved taking Jaci alone.
Chase didn’t suffer from the darkness as often as Cam did. Sometimes Cam wondered if his twin couldn’t live happily without ever sharing another woman.
Hell, Cam knew he could live without it. He did. Often. But sometimes, the memories crowded inside him, tore at him, and the need became a wrenching, brutal hunger that only increased the longer he ignored it.
Chase understood that hunger. He may not understand how Cam had come by it, but he knew the hunger.
He rubbed at the scars on his chest. The slashing scars weren’t just from the bullets or the knife used during the attack. There were scars he had gained from the three days he’d spent as a prisoner of the small band of terrorists that had captured him and his team.
That agony was a joke, compared to other memories, though. Physical pain was a hell of a lot easier to forget than the broken memories of the three years of living hell after his parents had died and his aunt had been left to care for them.