Page 39 of The Biker's Brother

“I’m tired. I hope you don’t snore,” he said.

“I don’t snore. And I hope you don’t kick and hog covers.”

“I don’t.”

“Good.”

He was lying on his right side, facing the door, when he felt the bed move as she got in on her side. She switched off the bedside lamp, which momentarily plunged the room into darkness, but within a couple of minutes their eyes had adjusted and the light seeping in around the window curtain made everything in the room distinctly visible.

“Good night.” She said it in a small voice that reminded him that, regardless of her bravado, she was a woman who was running scared.

It wasn’t hard to make his voice sound comforting. He did want to give her comfort, make her feel safe.

“Good night, Rose.”

He lay awake in the darkness for a while listening to the relentless rain. It didn’t take long for her breathing to become even. He could feel her body generating heat under the covers they both shared. Truthfully, a queen-size bed wasn’t very big once somebody his size was occupying half of it, or more.

The first conscious thought that made its way to his awareness was the strangest sense of well-being, like everything was okay with the world. If that had ever happened before, he didn’t remember. The cause was immediately evident. Sometime during the night Cami had taken refuge against his body and was spooned to his back like she’d been made to fit there. Perfectly.

The conflict was excruciating. On the one hand, he knew he should get up and get started. On the other hand, the feeling of being cocooned in a magical spell was too wonderful to give up without first savoring just a little. In the end the decision was snatched away from his control.

Cami stirred awake, realized where she was and what she was doing and, thinking he was asleep, rolled away saying, “Jesus, Cam. What are you thinking?” under her breath.

Brandon waited until she was asleep again before getting up. He took care of bathroom essentials and dressed before waking her.

The motel was cheap, but they were kind enough to provide a functioning coffee maker with two paper cups, two lids, and two plastic sleeves of sweetener, creamer, and stir stick.

He threw the pillow from his side of the bed at her head and said in a voice that sounded every bit as gruff as Brant’s, “Rise and shine! I’m making coffee to go. And you’ve got ten minutes to get the lead out.”

She groaned. “This pillow throwing thing has lost all trace of amusement.” She rolled over and looked at him with sleepy eyes that caused him to imagine crawling back in to spend the day in bed with Cami making love and listening to the rain. Of course first he’d have to explain how she’d wrongly concluded that he wasn’t heterosexual and that could definitely be a mood killer.

He turned his back as he used bottled water to fill up the little coffee maker reservoir. “Nine and a half minutes.”

“Okay. So it’s Mr. Hyde this morning and not Dr. Jekyll. Whatever, Brandon.”

She didn’t quite slam the door to the bathroom, but she did punctuate that sentence by closing it soundly. He appreciated every little show of protest he drew from her. Perhaps one day she’d be a woman who didn’t flinch when a man reached for the visor on her side of the car.

CHAPTER SIX

New York

Richard Hillfort had been Severn Carmichael’s executive assistant for fifteen years. During that time he’d come to appreciate the rarified air of billionaire lifestyles.

At the same time, Severn Carmichael had come to not only appreciate Richard, but to rely on him like the ground under his feet. Richard suspected that Mr. Carmichael might even love him like a son. After all, on Monday mornings Mr. Carmichael always inquired as to whether or not he’d enjoyed his weekend, on occasions when he’d actually had a weekend off.

That was all well and good, but Richard had gradually come to realize that it wasn’t ever going to get him a yacht, or a seat on the board, or even his own office.

He’d come to realize that, when he was invited aboard yachts, it was to serve the administrative needs of Mr. Carmichael. There was no room for someone in his position to advance. He was already at the top of his occupation with a lot of unsatisfied ambition.

Of course Mr. Carmichael trusted him implicitly. He’d sooner doubt the Pope than Rich Hillfort.

Trey Michaels had a gift for discerning unfulfilled desires. Like a computer he could analyze a person’s carriage, or eye movements, or hand gestures, and accurately pinpoint what that person was missing in his or her life. It was an uncanny ability that had served him beautifully and, perhaps, was largely responsible for his financial success. Unlike most of the men at the City Club, he hadn’t inherited a thing except for a proclivity for bending rules to suit him.

When Trey Michaels realized that Cami wasn’t coming back, and that his wealth, power, and influence weren’t going to grow exponentially by benefitting from a spousal inheritance shortcut, he went through the stages of a foiled plan.

Surprise.

Disbelief.

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