An hour later, and we've finished the photo shoot, this editorial spread for a men's magazine: me surrounded by models in lingerie, the poster child for manwhores everywhere. And no sooner do we wrap up than Brooke turns to me, her voice practically a purr, running her finger along my chest.
"You know," she whispers, tossing a glance over her shoulder at the staff just out of earshot. The other models are slipping into robes, but Brooke stands there in her lacy bra and panties, completely comfortable. Hell, she should be. Her body is irresistibly hot. "Denise and Jessi are up for a little fun if you are."
I look beyond her at Denise and Jessi, the other two models with perfectly perky tits and asses. "Maybe next time."
Brooke pouts, an expression she seems to think is seductive but really makes me find her obnoxious. "If you change your mind," she says, turning to leave. "You should call me."
Any other time, I'd be all over this kind of offer. No red-blooded male passes up the opportunity to screw three blonde models. At least, Gaige O'Neal sure as hell doesn't. After all, that's my brand: racer, hothead, manwhore. My dick -- or my tool, rather -- can't be satiated. That's the angle a major magazine ran with years ago, and that's what everyone started talking about. Like my cock had a life of its own, pursuing women it just had to fuck. Even then, the idea made me roll my eyes.
After the magazine article came out, Delaney started calling me Tool, but she said it was because I was a dick, not because of my dick. Of course, Delaney never gave a shit about what anyone else thought of me. She's probably the only person in my life who's ever been that way.
Any other time, I'd be up for three hot blondes. Any other time except an hour after Delaney Marlowe just waltzed back into my life. Or, rather, came barreling through the door, a whirlwind of disarray, with her sopping wet clothes and hair plastered to her forehead.
I should be screwing three blondes right now. But instead, I'm thinking about Delaney. Delaney and that glance she gave me when I tucked that strand of dark brown hair behind her ear. Those wide eyes of hers, looking up at me. The way her lower lip fell open just a little bit, and that sharp intake of breath when I touched her. She probably thinks I didn't notice, but I sure as hell did. And it took everything in my power to keep from getting a raging hard-on right then and there in front of everyone.
Four years ago, I spent the entire summer alternating between arguing with that girl and trying to keep from throwing her over my shoulder and carrying her into my bed like some kind of caveman. She's always been the ultimate in off-limits. I have no doubt that my stepfather – the owner of the team I race for -- would break out his shotgun if he thought I had my sights set on Delaney.
Besides, Delaney is all business. She made that clear before. She was heading to Columbia with big plans, and nothing was going to get in her way. Especially not someone like me. And, besides, she's the one who didn't show up that night.
So what the hell is she doing, back here in Dallas? And why the fuck am I suddenly turning down guaranteed sex with models because my stepsister, the girl who used to get under my skin and give me a ration of shit at every turn, shows up on my front door looking like something the cat dragged in?
"Hang on," Delaney yells. When she pulls open the door, she's breathless, her face flushed, hair hanging wet down to her shoulders -- combed and straight now, no longer in damp tangled strands. And...a towel wrapped around her, tucked between her breasts. I tell myself to keep my eyes up, but shit, it's damn near impossible, and she catches me staring. "Oh my God, Gaige, just stop."
"What?" I ask innocently.
"You know what," she whispers.
Okay, so I'm a shithead. The fact that she caught me staring at her tits makes me grin and I can't hide the smile on my face. She notices that too.
"Why are you laughing?" she asks, indignant. Then she lowers her voice to a whisper again. "I saw you looking at my boobs. Cut it out."
I step forward, close to her. Damn it. She smells like vanilla or something I can't quite place, the scent of her shampoo lingering in the air. Like cookies. Which immediately makes me think about eating her. And that thought, the thought of being between her legs, renders me suddenly mute. Stop staring and say something, I remind myself.
"What?" she asks, her voice soft. Silky.
"You know no one is around," I say. "My mom and your father are gone. No one is going to hear you, so you don't have to whisper. Besides, you're wearing a towel. I can't help but look."
She rolls her eyes and exhales loudly, stepping back from me. Putting distance between us. "Well, it's nice to see that nothing much has changed since I saw you last."
"I don't know about that, Delamey," I say, emphasizing my nickname for her, the old one I used after she took to calling me Tool. I like to think it was affectionate, although it would get under her skin like nobody's business. She hated it. I can't help but use it now. Maybe I just want to get a rise out of her. Hell, if she tried to hit me, she might even drop that towel. "You've definitely changed."
Her eyes fly open wide. "You're so juvenile," she says.
"You're telling me that no one calls you Delamey anymore?"
"You're the only one who ever called me by that stupid name," she says. Her hand is still holding the towel between her breasts, as if she's afraid it's going to go flying off her body at any moment. I resist the impulse to slip my finger between the folds of the towel and flick open the fabric. I remind myself that would be wrong. "And if you keep doing it, then I'll start calling you Tool again."
I grin, but my words come out with an edge. "Aw, sis, it's just like old times."
Delaney groans. "And definitely don't call me sis," she says. "Why are you here, anyway? Are you finished with -- whatever it is you were doing in the guest house?"
"You make it sound seedy," I say. "It's not like I was shooting porn."
She gives me a look that could freeze boiling water, one eyebrow raised, and it makes me laugh. I'd forgotten that look. She used to give it to me a lot. "Humph. You could have fooled me."
"Jealous?" I ask.
"Of -- what was her name?" Delaney asks. I can tell she's trying to sound casual but she's definitely failing. "Brooke?"
I smile. "You don't have anything to be jealous of," I say. "Those models have nothing on you." It comes out before I even think about what I'm saying.
Her lips part for a second, and I think about sliding my hands around to the small of her back, pulling her against me, and bringing my mouth down hard on hers. But I don't. I want to know what she's about to say, and I find myself slightly disappointed when she doesn't respond.
"So. Are you going to ask me inside, or are you just planning to keep standing there in your doorway in a towel?" I ask. I'm totally pushing my luck. I want to see if she'll actually invite me in her room. The Delaney I knew four years ago never would have said yes. That Delaney was far too concerned with playing by the rules.
She hesitates, and for a second I think she might actually do it. Then she raises her eyebrows. "Do you really think I'm going to invite you into my room?"
I shrug. "Can't fault me for trying."
"Of course I can," she says. "You're my stepbrother. It's obscene."
"That fact didn't seem to deter you before," I say. "Besides, we're not related. Not even a little bit. Doesn't count."
"Why did you come up here, Gaige?" she asks, ignoring my attempt to discuss our familial relationship.
"Can't I welcome you home?" I ask. "Do I have to have any other reason?"
"You hiked all the way over to the house in that -- what is that thing on your foot, anyway?"
"It's a boot. I shattered my tibia," I say.
"Should I ask what you were doing?"
"What do you think I was doing?"
The edges of her mouth turn up in a half-smile. "I would say you were pulling some riding stunt, but it's far more likely that you broke yourself in some kind of scandalous sexcapade."
I reach between my legs to grab my crotch. "Well, it's a damn good thing that what's important survived," I say, wiggling my eyebrows.
Delaney shakes her head disapprovingly but her eyes twinkle. "Yes, it's definitely a good thing your brain wasn't injured."
I can't help but laugh. "It's been boring here without you, you know."
"Gaige, what happened that night --" she starts, but a shrill voice from the other end of the hallway cuts through the air.
"Delaney!" My mother Anja strides down the hall, wearing wide-legged white pants and a matching white shirt made of flowy material that billows as she walks, the look effortlessly casual but something I know cost thousands of dollars, made by some pretentious designer. Her hair and makeup are styled as if she's just stepped off the set of a television show, and she's wearing sunglasses inside the house. My mother hasn't modeled in ten years, but she treats every step as if she's still walking the runway in Milan.
"Anja," Delaney says. She reaches out with one arm to hug her, as if she's momentarily forgotten she's only wearing a towel, and then glances at me before grasping her towel tighter. "Sorry, I would -- Gaige knocked on the door and, uh, caught me by surprise."
"Clearly," Anja says, peering over the edge of her glasses at me. "Nice to see you out of the guest house."
"Nice to see you without your broom, mother," I say, as she air-kisses both sides of my face as if I'm one of her friends she luncheons with.
She turns toward Delaney and stage whispers. "He's been even more insufferable since the injury, as I'm sure you can tell."
"You're more bitter than usual," I retort. "The three martinis at lunch didn't take the edge off?"
Anja ignores me. "Did we send a driver to pick you up at the airport, Delaney?" she asks. "It was on my list, but I had a luncheon with the --"
"It was fine," Delaney says.
"Actually," I start, but Delaney interrupts me.
"It was totally fine," Delaney says, more emphatically this time. "And now, I'm going to get dressed, if that's okay?"
"Should I tell your father you'll meet him at the office?" Anja asks.
"Um. It's pretty late?" Delaney's voice is tentative.
"Oh, yes," Anja says. "I got carried away at lunch."
"Obviously," I say with a snort.
"Gaige, let her get changed for dinner. Stop bothering her." Anja turns without waiting for a response, and flutters back down the hall, a sea of billowing fabric.
Delaney starts to close the door, but pauses. "Yeah, Gaige," she whispers, sticking her tongue out like a child. "Stop bothering me."
I'm about to make a lewd comment in response, but she's already shut the door.