The Closer You Get
Read The Closer You Get Online
Authors: Kristi Gold
Taking their romance on the road?
Camille Carson has known performers like Brett
Taylor—arrogant, egotistical, incapable of commitment. And Brett, the Texas
cowboy turned country music superstar, is no different. She
knows
that…even if he makes her feel as though she’s the only woman
in the room when he starts crooning those romantic ballads. Resisting him is
impossible.
Still, Cammie’s smart enough to know that this affair with
Brett is as fleeting as her temporary gig with his crew. So when she starts
believing his lyrics, she knows she’s heaping on the heartache. Yet there’s
something about him that whispers he might not be just another star. Could be
his young daughter waiting in the wings. Could be how he is offstage. If Brett
isn’t the man Cammie thinks he could be, it’s not too late to cut and run. But
what if he
is?
“You don’t have to be afraid of me, Cammie.”
“I’m not.” But she was. Not afraid of him, but afraid of the
feelings Brett stirred inside her.
As the music continued to play, Brett softly brushed his lips
over her cheek, then rested them against her temple. He gently stroked her back,
up and down in a slow, sultry rhythm. After a time, he pulled away and studied
her eyes, then slowly, slowly lowered his mouth….
Fortunately, the song ended before the inevitable happened,
forcing Cammie out of her stupor. When the disc jockey thanked everyone for
coming, she didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Maybe a little
of both.
Brett hesitantly released her and handed her the discarded
jacket. “Let’s go before they turn on the house lights.”
Cammie was still in a trance when they entered the glass
elevator, the nagging cautions running through her head at breakneck speed.
Never underestimate his power….
Dear Reader,
Several years ago, I set off in my rather large RV to move my
mom from Texas to Pennsylvania, pulling her car along behind me. This was no big
deal as I’d once towed a stock trailer full of horses behind the motor home
through the mountains of Tennessee. As long as I didn’t have to back up too
often, I managed.
On the return trip to Texas, my good friend—who’d accompanied
me on that little journey—remarked that I should hire on as a tour bus driver
for some country music star. Since I had a husband and three kids back home, I
decided this was not a good plan. However, that comment spurred the premise for
what eventually became
The Closer You Get.
I’ve always been a fan of country music singers, particularly
those sexy cowboy crooners who can make a woman swoon with a simple love song.
Those gorgeous guys served as inspiration for Brett Taylor, the hero of this
book. He’s strong, beautiful, talented and somewhat tortured. It only made sense
to bless him with a temporary female bus driver who is immune to his charms—sort
of.
I truly enjoyed writing Brett and Cammie’s roller-coaster
journey on the road, and I sure hope you do, too.
Happy traveling!
Kristi Gold
The Closer You Get
Kristi Gold
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kristi Gold has a fondness for beaches, baseball and bridal
reality shows. She firmly believes that love has remarkable, healing powers and
feels very fortunate to be able to weave stories of love and commitment. As a
bestselling author, a National Readers’ Choice award winner and a Romance
Writers of America three-time RITA® Award finalist, Kristi has learned that
although accolades are wonderful, the most cherished rewards come from
networking with readers. She can be reached through her website at
http://kristigold.com
or through Facebook.
Books by Kristi Gold
HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE
1624—HIS BEST MISTAKE
1732—THE ONE SHE LEFT
BEHIND*
1744—THE SON HE NEVER KNEW*
1785—THE ONLY MAN FOR HER*
HARLEQUIN EVERLASTING LOVE
FALL FROM GRACE
HARLEQUIN SPECIAL EDITION
1836—THROUGH JENNA’S EYES
1956—THE MOMMY
MAKEOVER
HARLEQUIN DESIRE
1517—MAROONED WITH A
MILLIONAIRE
1531—EXPECTING THE SHEIKH’S BABY
1576—FIT FOR A
SHEIKH
1585—CHALLENGED BY THE SHEIKH
1600—PERSUADING THE PLAYBOY
KING**
1606—UNMASKING THE MAVERICK PRINCE**
1612—DARING THE DYNAMIC
SHEIKH**
1669—MISTAKEN FOR A MISTRESS
1695—A MOST SHOCKING
REVELATION
1728—HOUSE OF MIDNIGHT FANTASIES
1763—THE PREGNANCY
NEGOTIATION
1768—EXECUTIVE SEDUCTION
*Delta Secrets
**The Royal Wager
Other titles by this author available in ebook
format.
To my stellar friend Judy, who served as my copilot and
coconspirator in the making of this book.
And to the country crooners who populate my playlists and whose
songs have provided many years of listening pleasure.
CHAPTER ONE
B
RETT
T
AYLOR
STOOD
at
the open door, remaining partially concealed while mentally plotting his course
from the tour bus to the rear entrance of the coliseum. As usual, it was nearly
impossible to sneak past a crowd during a stock show, particularly when you were
parked in wide-open spaces in broad daylight.
The sights, sounds and smells of the ongoing carnival
resurrected long-ago recollections, memories of funnel cakes fried in oil,
candied apples doled out by the dozens, whirring rides mixed with piercing
screams. A crazy, carefree atmosphere—a world away from the life he now
knew.
He couldn’t recall the last time he’d eaten a corn dog or sat
suspended on top of a Ferris wheel. Too long ago to remember. What he wouldn’t
give to have his arm thrown over his best girl’s shoulders, dumping forty bucks
in a matter of minutes just to win a stuffed bear so he could earn a sincere
smile and a sweet kiss. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a best girl, or any girl
in his life for that matter. He hadn’t for a while now. But he did have a show
to put on.
He slid the familiar photograph into his back pocket, the same
as he always did before each and every performance. A reminder of what he had
lost, and could never recover. Only one of the many sacrifices he’d exchanged
for fame.
As soon as he descended the stairs and stepped out onto the
lot, the shouting and shoving commenced, sending his security team into action,
their beefy arms attempting to hold the crowd at bay.
“Over here, Brett!” echoed from a dozen different places,
followed by numerous blinding camera flashes. The normal procedure meant paper
pushed into his face, a pen or two narrowly missing his eye. He’d been known to
sign T-shirts and cowboy boots, sometimes even legs and arms. He drew the line
on certain body parts, including the occasional bare breast.
His height allowed him to peer over most of the crowd and zero
in on the targeted entrance while attempting to shake a few of the bobbing hands
among the sea of people. A fearless teenage girl shoved her way forward and
tried to polish his trophy buckle with her palm, prompting a guard to restrain
her.
Fans were good, though. Fans were a part of the life. But some
days he wasn’t in the mood to be probed and prodded like one of the sideshow
exhibits on the crowded midway. Today was one of those days.
He glanced at his watch, and realizing he was already five
minutes late, he signaled the guards with a subtle look that he was ready to
move on. These fans would have to wait until after the concert.
Then she caught his attention.
A little blue-eyed girl stood at the end of the row just a few
feet away from the bedlam, clasping a bunch of red roses in a fist too small to
hold them intact, the stems crooked as if they’d been crushed in the human swell
of anticipation. She wasn’t much more than six years old, looking sweet and
hopeful, probably the purest sight he’d seen in a long time. He just couldn’t
pass her up.
He crouched on her level while random sounds of approval came
from the bystanders. Intended or not, pausing to speak to a child earned him a
few extra points. It also filled him with regret when he thought about the
weathered photo secured in his back pocket. A photo he always carried with him
onstage.
“Are these for me?” he asked. She nodded and handed him the
bouquet, her smile as soft as the petals.
A proud-looking man offered him a small blue book. “Mind giving
my daughter your autograph? You’re all she talks about, sunup to sundown.”
“No problem.” And it wasn’t, at least not in this case. “What’s
your name, sweetheart?”
She twisted a lock of baby-fine golden hair around a chubby
finger. “Megan.”
Brett’s smile came naturally now. “Pretty name for a pretty
girl.”
She shrugged and returned the smile, revealing deep dimples
creasing her cheeks. He could appreciate little-girl innocence, before the
little girls grew up and wanted more from him than just an autograph.
He laid the flowers across his thighs, took a pen from the
father and quickly scrawled his name on one of the pages.
“Could you date it?” the man asked.
Brett shot him a wry grin. “I’m not sure of the date.”
“The sixteenth.”
His hand froze in place. March 16. He hadn’t even realized it,
at least not consciously. Maybe that was his brain’s way of protecting his
heart.
How many years had it been? Eight? No, nine. Nine years ago his
world had come to a halt, ironically coinciding with his big break and the
chance of a lifetime. So far he’d been unable to completely recover from the
loss, even when he should be counting his blessings. After all, he’d finally
realized his dream, at the cost of giving up another.
Shoving the sadness back beneath the surface where it belonged,
he handed the child the book of memories and gently kissed her cheek, then
straightened and accepted her father’s handshake and thanks.
The little girl grasped him around the knees, stared up at him
and said in an angel’s voice, “I love you, Brett.”
At least someone did.
When she released him at her dad’s insistence, Brett strode
past the remaining fans and into the back entrance of the arena, working his way
past the catch pens containing massive, snorting bulls, the railing lined with
cowboys spitting the occasional stream of tobacco onto the ground. Several of
the men—stars in their own right—grunted greetings. Others shook his hand as he
passed by. He fought the urge to borrow a horse and ride away like an Old West
hero. But he wasn’t a hero. He was only a man, and a flawed one at that.
The guards pushed open a heavy metal door, led him down a
corridor and then up the stairs into a wire jungle, huge speakers and intricate
sound equipment the wildlife within. Dust from the rodeo arena, blended with
smells of smoke and manure, settled into his nostrils. He coughed and traded the
roses for a bottle of water offered to him by one of the crew. Sweat beaded on
his forehead that he swiped away with the back of his arm before readjusting the
black felt hat.
After fitting the guitar strap over his shoulder, he walked to
the outskirts of the stage where he could see a few eager faces. He attempted to
draw energy from the spirited roar, the passionate applause. It should have been
enough to sustain him, but lately, it wasn’t. He felt restless, as if something
big was brewing inside his soul. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. But as
sure as he knew every word of his songs by heart, he somehow knew his life was
about to take a turn. That prospect worried him. Change wasn’t always good.
He tucked away his intuition and drew a deep breath, prepared
to give it everything he had in spite of his sour mood. They expected the best.
He had sworn from the day he’d publicly performed for the first time in a
run-down Texas dive, he would be the best. His music, the only part of himself
he was willing to share, forced him to play dual roles in the scheme of
things—the man and the performer.
Tonight he was the performer.
That thought thrust him on the stage to work his magic like an
illusionist as he willed his all-too-human persona to disappear. In its place
came the reluctant superstar.
Destined for greatness. Undeniably gifted. Many a woman’s
fantasy.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Give a big Houston
welcome to one of country music’s finest, Brett Taylor!”
* * *
T
HE
MASSIVE
BUS
LOOMED
majestically before her, a black raven with
distinctive blue eyes and outstretched wings spanning one side. An appropriate
greeting. For Camille Carson, this particular vehicle symbolized long-awaited
freedom.
After the taxi driver deposited her bags on the lot and drove
away, she lugged her oversize duffel to the entrance, the black nylon tote
thrown over her shoulder bumping against her ribs in time with her pounding
heart. Her head kept telling her to settle down; she’d seen buses before. Driven
so many she’d lost count. But none had been quite as fancy as this.
The top half displaying the raven was bronze, the bottom black
with a bronze stripe swirling a path over the division of the two tones of
color. And in the corner above the dark rear window, the initials of the owner
etched in beige block text:
B.T.
Just seeing the
letters sent a succession of tingles down Cammie’s spine.
She could blame those tingles on the weather, but the Texas
spring morning was warm, sunny and clear with no real wind to speak of. A good
day for driving. After a quick mental pep talk to restore her composure, she
rapped on the heavy door.
When the latch released, Cammie’s heart skipped into her
throat. She wasn’t sure who she might encounter, but the face before her looked
familiar and welcoming.
“Hey, kiddo,” Bud Parker bellowed as he hurried down to the
pavement and swept her off her feet with a roughness that belied his gentle
nature.
After he put her down, she tugged at her shirt and laughed.
“And hello to you, too. It’s been way too long, Bud.”
He grinned. “You’re mighty right about that, little girl.”
Cammie stepped back and studied his face. Still the same Bud,
except for a bit more visible gray tingeing his brown hair and goatee, his face
a little fuller. Over time, a kinship had developed between the two, bonding
them like siblings for more than fifteen years. And now he seemed incredibly
happy.
“I believe impending fatherhood suits you, Parker,” she said.
“So how’s Jeanie feeling?”
“She’s restless as hell and ready for our kid to make an
appearance, which is scheduled to happen in a week if it doesn’t happen before
then. My being home should help.” Bud affectionately patted her cheek. “I think
you’ve gotten even prettier since the last time I saw you.”
Cammie lowered her eyes and twisted a tress of hair into a
spiral, a habit she’d long since abandoned in childhood. Oddly, Bud had a way of
making her feel like that shy, all-knees-and-elbows kid from years past. “Are
you going to let me in now?”
“After you,” he said with a bow, moving aside so she could
climb the three steps into the interior cab.
Bud took Cammie’s three bags and piled them on the passenger
seat, then scaled the remaining step leading into the living area of the
elaborate home on wheels. “Come on up. The guys will be back in a minute.”
He showed her to a plush white leather sofa that took up most
of one interior wall. As soon as Cammie lowered herself onto the cushions, Bud
dropped down beside her, his kind expression fading into a blanket of concern.
“Are you sure you want to do this, Cam?”
Good question. “I have to. Until the business picks up again,
someone needs to make some money.”
“Jeanie and I have a few dollars put back—”
“Yeah, Bud, that would go over real well with Granddad. He
considers charity blasphemous. He won’t even go to the bank for a loan,
hardheaded man.”
“Jed’s like a second father to me, Cam,” he said. “Hell, you’re
both like family. I’d do anything for you guys.”
“I know.”
Uncomfortable over the course of the conversation, Cammie took
a look around, amazed at how so much could be crammed into such a small space.
The place was relatively neat with the exception of a thin layer of dust and a
few water rings etched into the side table to her right. The bus held all the
amenities of a small apartment, decorated in a way exclusive to an owner with
good taste, and a lot of money.
The far wall housed a recessed liquor cabinet displaying a
couple of bottles of top-grade whiskey. An intricate stereo system, two
flat-panel TVs and DVD player were built into the inlaid paneling next to that.
Underneath, two white leather-covered benches framed an oak table where a pile
of pennies and several crumpled beer cans sat adjacent to abandoned hands of
cards.
The scent of a driver’s most important staple—strong
coffee—wafted from the galley kitchen to her left, barely masking the residual
odor of cigars. Stainless-steel appliances sparkled without any sign of wear and
tear, leading Cammie to believe they’d rarely been used. Nor would she be
putting them to use. Driving the bus, yes. Cooking, no way.
She leaned forward and glanced down the corridor, nodding
toward the closed door at the end of the hallway. “Is that where he sleeps?”
“Yeah, his stateroom.” Bud stood and walked past the
refrigerator to a division equivalent to the bulkhead on an airplane. “There’s
only one berth in this middle compartment right here, which is where you’ll
sleep. It’s got a TV on the wall and it’s pretty comfortable.”
“As long as it has a mattress, I’m good.” She pointed at a
remote control set in a bracket hanging from the wall. “What’s that?”
Bud smiled. “That’s high tech at its best. It controls the two
slides that expand the front cabin, and all the stereo equipment. It’s pretty
easy to operate.”
Easy was good. “The bathroom?”
“It’s opposite your berth and there’s a washer and dryer next
to that. The shower’s kind of small, but it’s workable.”
“Who needs a large shower when you have the means to wash
clothes?” She did have one major concern. “Do I have to share the bath with the
star?”
Bud shook his head. “Nope. He has his own, along with a fancy
steam shower. He might even let you try it out if you ask nicely.”
Not going to happen. “I assume the band members have their own
bus.”
“Yeah, lucky for you. Sometimes they travel together on this
one, but they sack out on their bus.”
“Who drives for them?”
“His name is Dennis, but don’t expect to see him too often.
He’s kind of antisocial. I think it’s because he gets tired of the guys. They
can be kind of crude, but basically they’re a pretty decent group.”
