Crazy About Cameron: The Winslow Brothers #3 (The Blueberry Lane Series -The Winslow Brothers) (20 page)

She swallowed, realizing that her throat was dry and scratchy. “Water?”

He hustled to grab something, and she felt a straw pressing against her lips. She drank slowly and marveled at the feeling of the cool liquid soothing her throat. When she was finished, she let the straw pop out of her mouth, and Cameron took the cup away. A moment later, he was standing over her again.

“You have a concussion,” he said. “You’ll have to stay the night, but I’ll stay with you. I’m not going anywhere.”

She struggled to follow everything he was saying, but what scared her most was that, although she understood his words, they still felt garbled somehow. Like he was speaking under water. And her head was throbbing like crazy.

“Who would . . .?” she stopped, trying to figure out what she wanted to say. “Who was it?”

Cameron shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Tears filled her eyes at the thought of someone entering her sweet little home and hurting her. “Why?”

Cameron’s jaw tightened as he touched her hand gently. She curled her fingers around his, relieved when the movement didn’t cause any pain. “I don’t know.”

She swallowed, and that
did
hurt. The room was spinning a little, making her feel dizzy, and the throbbing in her temple was so painful now, her eyes drifted closed. Using the last of her strength, she gripped tighter to Cameron’s hand before surrendering to darkness.

***

Cameron watched as Margaret’s eyes closed, her pulse slowing down on the monitor as she drifted back into a deep sleep. The doctor said that rest was the best thing, but it killed Cameron to see her so helpless.

Not to mention his own helplessness. It killed him that he couldn’t answer her questions. But he wouldn’t rest until he could, and God have mercy on the person who had hurt her because Cameron certainly wouldn’t.

Who had attacked her, and why?
It was the same question the police had asked when they stopped by an hour ago, and all Cameron could say was that there’d been a break-in last Sunday and he’d seen an aqua pickup zooming out of the gates just after hearing Margaret’s scream this morning. Though the police seemed reluctant to connect the two incidents, Cameron felt strongly that they were related. He just didn’t know how . . . or why.

The doctor peeked his head into the room. “Anything?”

“Yeah. She woke up for a few minutes. Asked a couple of questions and drank a bit of water before falling back to sleep.”

“That’s good. Sleep’s the best thing for her.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

The doctor made a notation on his clipboard. “You can take her home tomorrow as long as she’s awake and lucid. But make sure she rests. No activity. No exertion.”

“No problem,” said Cameron, stroking her hand gently, grateful that her fingers were still curled around his hand, even in sleep.

“Who is she to you?” The doctor raised his eyebrows. “You’re not wearing a ring.”

“She’s my girlfriend.”
. . . and so much more. She’s my everything.

“Well, I think she’s going to be just fine. Blood pressure’s good. Pulse is normal. We’ll keep her tonight for observation, but you can come back tomorrow morning and pick her up.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Cameron.

“Well, visiting hours—”

“Don’t apply to me,” he growled.

The doctor fixed him with a steady look, then nodded. “I understand. I’ll see if one of the nurses can find you a blanket.”

“I don’t need anything,” said Cameron, turning back to Margaret.
Except to find who did this to her and tear him limb from fucking limb.

The doctor patted his shoulder gently. “She
will
be okay, son.”

“Thanks, doc,” said Cameron, listening to the doctor’s sneakers as they headed back out into the hallway.

With his free hand, Cameron took his phone out of his back pocket and dialed.

“Cam?”

“Alex.”

“What’s up, man?”

“Weston still working in the DA’s office?’ asked Cameron, referring to Alex English’s younger brother.

“Yeah. Hey, you okay?”

“Fine. I need a favor.”

“Sure. Tell me.”

“I need Wes to run a search. Aqua Ford pickup. Old and beat-up. Maybe 1970s. Partial Pennsylvania license plate including an
A
and a
Q
.”

“Okay. I’ll ask him. But Cam, what’s going on? Why do you need this?”

Someone in that truck hurt someone I love.

“I just do.”

“Okay, fine. I won’t ask.”

“Thanks, Alex.”

Cameron hung up and dialed the phone again. It was about four o’clock. He felt like someone in her family should know what had happened, but hopefully Mr. Story would still be at the office.

“Good afternoon. Forrester.”

“Priscilla, please.”

“Who’s calling?”

“Cameron Winslow.”

“Hold, please.”

Cameron sighed, watching Margaret sleep peacefully as he waited for her sister to come to the phone.

“This is Priscilla.”

“Pris, it’s Cameron Winslow.”

“Hey, Cam!”

“Hey,” he said, “it’s been a long time.”

“It has!” She paused for a second. “Um, not to be rude, but I was just heading out, so . . .”

“Yeah, listen. Your sister had a little accident today.”

“Margaret?” she gasped. “What happened?”

“We were out at her vineyard, and she was struck in the head. Had to get a few stitches. I’m here with her at the St. Mary Medical Center out in Langhorne.”

“I’m coming.”

“No, Pris. It’s okay. She’s okay. She’s sleeping now. She’ll be home tomorrow.”
“Home where?”

“The cottage at her vineyard.”

“I feel like I should come.”

“No, really. It’s fine. I just wanted you to know, and I didn’t know if your dad . . .”

Priscilla was silent as Cameron’s voice trailed off.

“Right,” she said softly. “Thank you for taking care of her.”

“I love her.”

“You do?” asked Priscilla, her voice filled with warmth and something more, like wistfulness. “I’m glad.”

“I’ll have her call you tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah. Okay. Thanks for calling, Cam. If she needs anything, call me.”

“I will.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

His calls made, Cameron moved his chair a little closer to Margaret’s bed and lay his head in the small space next to her shoulder, vowing that he would keep her safe until they could get to the bottom of everything.

For the rest of the week, while Margaret rested on the couch or in her bed, Cameron had a security expert visit The Five Sisters, and by Saturday there was a padlocked gate across the entrance, tiny cameras installed on trees and in the corners of buildings, and elaborate alarm systems on the doors and windows of Margaret’s cottage as well as both sheds. And while part of her bristled about having to add this level of security to her peaceful, happy haven, another part of her was still horrified by what had happened, and exceedingly grateful for Cameron’s take-charge care of her and her vineyard.

That said, he was a man obsessed.

The police still hadn’t found a lead, and Weston English’s search had been fruitless, turning up a long list of aqua Ford pickups that had been quickly accounted for by a private investigator.

When Cameron had broached the topic of her father or Shane having had some hand in her attack, she made it clear—in no uncertain terms—that neither her father nor Shane was capable of such brutality, and that she wouldn’t even entertain the conversation.

But later, alone in her bed before Cameron joined her, she reconsidered the suggestion with less righteous conviction. Would her father and Shane try to frighten her back to the city? Back into the fold? Hire someone to break into her cottage and even assault her, in order to compel her return? It sickened her that she had even a moment’s hesitation, and she quickly shut down the train of thought, refusing to allow herself to match Cameron’s level of unfounded suspicion.

He would barely let her out of his sight except to go to the bathroom, and she noticed that Shawn and Owen were in outright collusion with him, one of them hovering by the cottage whenever Cameron went to town for an errand. And while she appreciated that Cameron was worried for her safety, she was also frustrated by this imposed house arrest born of love.

Further troubling was that Cameron’s libido, which had been so hungry and delicious last weekend, had been replaced by his worry, by his single-minded need to protect her. No matter how much she rubbed against him in bed, no matter how much he hardened against her, he wouldn’t act on his desires. Whether he was frightened of physically taxing her after her injury, or simply distracted by every tiny, harmless nighttime noise around them, she wasn’t sure.

But by Saturday, she’d had quite enough.

Any dizzy spells she’d suffered on Monday and Tuesday were long gone now, and the pain in her head was more than tolerable, even without Tylenol.

On Saturday morning she woke up as quietly as possible and slithered out of bed, careful not to wake Cameron, and stepped quietly downstairs. She turned on the coffee pot and stepped into the shower, where she was enjoying the quiet morning and basking in the warm water until there came a sudden pounding on the bathroom door.

“Meggie? Are you okay?”

She whipped the shower curtain to the side and yelled at the closed door. “I
was
! You scared me to death!”

“I woke up and you were gone!”

She heard the mixture of worry and restraint in his voice, and it made her feel annoyed and pleased at once.

“For goodness’ sake, Cameron, I wanted a shower . . . although I would have woken you up if I thought you’d want to take one with me,” she snapped back saucily.

There was a long pause before she heard a softer, more contrite voice ask, “Wait. What?”

Leaving the water on, Margaret stepped out of the shower and opened the bathroom door. She stood in the doorway completely naked, with water beading on her skin and dripping down her body. Cameron’s lips parted, his eyes dropping to her breasts and darkening before looking back up at her face.

“W-what did you just . . .?”

“If you want to be my watchdog, go back upstairs,” she said plainly. “If you want to make love to me in the shower, you’re welcome to join me.”

Without waiting for an answer, she turned around and stepped back into the shower, her heart thundering, her breathing short and shallow, hoping that he would—

The shower curtain was yanked open to reveal a naked Cameron, his erection jutting out from his body, red, hard, and thick. Margaret locked her eyes with his and backed against the wall of the shower, her breasts rising and falling quickly with anticipation and arousal.

His eyes were hungry, almost starving, as he stepped into the shower and pulled the curtain shut behind him. Before reaching for her, his eyes skated up to the stitches behind her ear.

“Are you sure you can—”

“I’m sure.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Then stop making me wait,” she said softly, reaching out to trace the length of his sex with her fingers.

Cameron flinched and groaned softly as she wrapped her hand around him, starting a slow back-and-forth movement from his base to tip, base to tip, up and down, up and down.

She tilted her head up to look at his dark green eyes. “Kiss me.”

Crushing her against his hard body, he bent his head so that his lips landed flush on hers, dry and warm against her slippery skin. His tongue swiped across her lips, and she opened for him, still grasping the hard length of his sex in her hand. She slid her lips to his jaw and his chin, skimming them down his neck and pushing him gently against the wall as she dropped to her knees and looked up at him. The warm water beat down on her back as she slid her fist to the base of his erection and fit her mouth over the tip.

“
Meg
,” he growled, and she looked up to see his head fall back against the tiles, one of his hands raking through his jet-black hair.

She licked down the side of his penis, then took him in her mouth again, laving her tongue over the tip, then sucking and releasing with a slight pop. He was thick and long, filling her mouth every time she leaned forward, but he never touched her head, nor forced himself in farther. Only taking what she was willing to give, he groaned in satisfaction, finally leaning down to place his hands under her arms and pull her up.

His lips landed hungrily on hers, his tongue swirling around in her mouth as his hands skated to her breasts, cupping them while his thumb and forefinger played with her hard nipples. Turning her around, his hands still on her breasts, he spoke close to her ear.

“Can we do it like this?”

“Please,” she sighed, needing to feel him inside her and knowing that if he entered her from behind, it would be the deepest he’d ever been.

Margaret leaned forward, flattening her palms against the tiles under the shower nozzle, whimpering as he reached down to line up his body with hers. His hands slid around to cup her breasts again, gently this time, almost teasingly, as his hardness slid effortlessly between her thighs, moving forward inch by swollen inch until he was lodged completely inside her.

“Cam,” she moaned, covering one of his hands with hers and massaging her own breast with him, as the hips she’d watched dancing in her kitchen last weekend began a slow, almost torturous, rhythm. Pressing, rotating, thrusting, withdrawing. The overwhelming sensations of his hands on her breasts and his velvet heat buried deep inside her body—the warm water, their slick bodies and four days of deprivation—made her orgasm build quickly.

Her breathing was erratic as he thrust harder, and she heard a voice crying,
“Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. OhGodOhGodOhGod
,” until she lurched forward, pressing both hands against the slick tiles as a scream ripped from her throat and she succumbed to the blissful waves of pleasure that overtook her sated body.

Cameron came with her, one arm tightening around her waist, his other hand gripping her breast almost painfully. He bent over her body, panting by her ear, telling her that he loved her and always would. And then he dragged in a deep breath and withdrew from her body, turning her around in his arms and gathering her against his chest.

“I love you,” he sighed. “I’m sorry I’ve been so freaked-out.”

Margaret panted softly, her breasts pushing into him with every breath, the warm water saturating her hair as Cameron ran his hands gently up and down her back.

Without pulling away from him, she raised her forehead from his chest to meet his eyes. There were flecks of water caught on his black lashes, and her heart throbbed with such tenderness for him, it almost took her breath away.

“You can freak out,” she said, “but don’t
check
out. Don’t be so worried about my safety that you forget to love me.”

“I could never, ever forget to love you, Meggie. I’d sooner forget how to breathe.”

“In theory, I know that’s true. But we’re still new, and I’ve felt weirdly alone over the past few days. Disconnected. Even though you were here, you weren’t
here
,” she said, pressing his palm to her heart. “I missed you.”

Cameron cupped her cheeks with his hands. “I understand. I was just . . . I’ve been worried. I’m sorry, baby.”

“I know it’s only because you care for me, but I didn’t like it. I didn’t like feeling distant from you. I want you present. With me. Even when things are bad, I want to be your partner, not your project.”

He leaned forward to press his lips to hers. “Agreed. Partners.”

She took a deep breath, feeling better than she’d felt in days. And apparently Cameron felt better too, because she felt him thickening against her belly.

“Now that you’re present, partner,” she said, arching her back to cradle his erection, “how about round two?”

***

The past few days had been hell for Cameron. Not knowing what evil force wanted to harm Margaret ate at him. Not knowing how to best protect her plagued him. The thought of losing her was agonizing, and the memory of her hair in a pool of blood was impossible to forget. Although she wouldn’t discuss the possibility of her father or Shane meaning her harm, Cameron wasn’t able to cross them off his mental list of suspects and had two PIs shadowing their every movement. So far? Margaret was right. Nothing they were doing seemed suspicious.

Well, mostly nothing.

Shane Olson, whom Margaret suspected had unfinished business with her sister, Priscilla, was spending an awful lot of time at Forrester this week, specifically when Mr. Story was working late hours at the office. Because Pris was the only Story family member in residence, it was little mystery whom he was visiting. But why? Were they involved? Lovers? Friends? Cohorts? Though extremely curious, Cameron had to grudgingly admit it seemed unlikely at this point that Shane was involved in Margaret’s attack. This was a shame because Cameron’s fists had been longing to connect with Olson’s face for quite some time.

After the shower to end all showers, Margaret had asked him to accompany her to the vineyards, and though he’d just as soon keep her in bed all day, he couldn’t resist her smile or the sassy way she’d declared she’d be going with or without him.

He dressed quickly and headed downstairs to the kitchen to make coffee. And that’s when it occurred to him: the FedEx package that he’d placed on her kitchen table on Sunday morning was missing. In fact, after the attack on Margaret, he’d never seen it again. Had she opened it? Moved it? No. She’d been asleep when he put it on the table.

Cameron stood against the kitchen counter, putting pieces together in his head, the answer to a massive riddle just out of reach.

“Meggie,” he called up the stairs. “You want coffee?”

“Please.”

He poured her a cup, still puzzling over the missing package and wondering if it was somehow related to the attack. When Margaret appeared at the kitchen doorway, he grinned at her because no matter what was going on in his life, the sight of her would always make his heart soar.

“Hey, what was in the FedEx package I left on the table last Sunday?” he asked, handing her a mug of coffee with light cream, just the way she liked it.

“What package?”

“The one I left on your kitchen table.”

She shook her head. “I never saw it.”

“Are you sure? It was marked Saturday delivery. I left it on your kitchen table before I went out to see the tast—”

“Oh my God!” she cried, her lips parting, her eyes widening. “He was holding it!”

“What? Who?”

“The man in the ski mask. Oh my God. I remember. I, uh, I woke up soon after you left. I lay in bed for a while, but I heard you moving around and smelled the coffee you’d started, and I, um, I came downstairs to pour a cup. I was walking through the doorway from the sitting room to the kitchen, and he turned around. He was holding it against his chest.”

“The FedEx box?”

She nodded, as if dazed, her eyebrows furrowing as she tried to remember. “And I think . . . I think I said, ‘Who are you?’ and he picked up the candlestick from the counter.” She placed her palm on the countertop. “And that’s the last thing I remember.”

A strange sense of relief sluiced through Cameron’s veins because if the man had been after the FedEx box, then Margaret hadn’t actually been his target. She’d just gotten in the way.

“Baby, what about the other FedEx the weekend before? The one that was sitting on top of your box of pictures. What was in that one?”