A Very Dirty Christmas Read online

  "Say it, Delaney."

  "We can't."

  "We can do whatever we want. Tell me you're mine."

  Returning to Dallas is not supposed to mean coming back to Gaige. Gaige is the last person I wanted to ever see again. Out of sight, out of mind, right? But now, standing here…it feels like no time at all has passed between us.

  "Delaney Marlowe." He stands up and walks over to me. Limps over to me, to be more accurate. He has a boot on his foot, one of those things you wear after you've had surgery. I wonder what the hell happened. Knowing Gaige, it'll be because he did something reckless on that motorcycle he races. He never was able to just race that thing, even when he was a teenager – it was always stunts, crazy shit, chasing the next adrenaline rush. And to Gaige, a rush wasn’t a rush unless it was death-defying.

  I'm distracted from asking what happened by the fact that, aside from the boot, he's wearing not much else. Boxer briefs made of some kind of material that hugs his ass and his whole package, like it's a second skin. I force my eyes upward toward his face. It's hard not to look at…it. What he's packing. His Tool. That's what people call it. I used to call him the same thing, but for a different reason – because he frequently acted like such a dick.

  His Tool is apparently legendary. I never got the chance to see it. The night I was supposed to meet him – the night it was supposed to happen between us – never happened. What can I say? Things were complicated between us from the first moment we met.

  When Gaige gets to me, he pauses, standing so close I can hear his breath, and reaches out to push a tendril of wet hair away from my forehead.

  Oh my God. My hair. My clothes.

  My face flushes warm, and I know it must be bright red. For a split second, I'd forgotten I was standing here looking the way I look in the middle of this.

  And now Gaige is standing in front of me, looking the way he does – with a perfect body, being photographed next to equally perfect-looking models.

  I want to sink into the ground, melt into a puddle of humiliation.

  "You're wet," he says. His voice is low and deep and honeyed. The way the words roll off his tongue, long and languid, make them sound more sexual than if he'd told me to take off my panties right now. Electricity courses through my body, down to my fingertips, as the pad of his finger grazes my skin.

  I can't tear my eyes away from his. I swear I'd forgotten what his eyes looked like. They're this deep chocolate brown, flecked with gold and framed with lashes so thick they would make any woman envious. His lids are hooded, giving him this perpetually seductive look, like he wants nothing more than to lounge around in bed all day.

  He looks deeply into my eyes, and for a second I think we're the only two people in the room. For a moment, this is like a scene in a movie, the kind where the hero scoops up the heroine, bedraggled and soaking wet from the rainstorm, and kisses her in slow motion.

  But my life is definitely not something out of a movie. I'm opening my mouth to respond to Gaige, when I'm cut off by the photographer, who's dressed head to toe in black and waving his camera behind Gaige from across the room. "We have shots we need to get, please," he says, motioning impatiently toward the models.

  Whatever moment was happening between Gaige and I evaporates, so quickly I might have imagined it. "You should finish your shoot," I say.

  Gaige grins. "You look like you'd like a hot bath."

  Why does everything that comes out of his mouth sound like an invitation for more? I put that thought out of my head. Thinking about Gaige – my stepbrother, for goodness' sake – that way is not good. It's not appropriate.

  I look down at my wet clothes. "Yes. I need to clean up."

  One of the blonde models appears by Gaige's side and places her hand on his bicep, jutting out her hip as she poses beside him. I recognize her from something – an ad, maybe – but I can't place it. She's tall and thin, with perky boobs and the kind of flat stomach I didn't think existed in real life. She wrinkles her nose as she looks at me, her expression unbridled disdain. That expression changes when she turns her focus back to Gaige. "Gaige," she says sweetly, "Is this your girlfriend?"

  It's more than just an innocent question. I know that by the way she touches him. She wants him; she's marking her territory.

  Gaige's eyes never leave mine, but with his other hand he pats the hand that rests on his arm. "No, Brooke," he says. "This is just my sister, Delaney."

  Just my sister.

  "Yes," I say, looking at Gaige. "I'm just his stepsister. And I'm just leaving."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Gaige

  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 tangle