Taboo by Mallory Rush Page B

watched him stalk to the door, frustration and anger evident in each step.
    "Grant, wait. Listen—"
    "No, you listen." He swung around and pointed a stern finger at her. "While you're thinking it all over this week, keep one thing in mind. What we could have together is something a lot of people don't find in an entire lifetime. The guilt that's all over your face is going to poison what could be honorable and good between us. Think hard, Cammie. Because what I want with you has no room for guilt."
    She stared after him as he shut the door firmly behind him. Almost immediately he opened it again and reached in to flip the latch.
    His face was still thunderous as he ordered, "Don't forget the chain."
    Slumping onto the couch, she nearly sat on the paper sack reminder. She hurled the bag across the room, then buried her face into an old pillow she had made when Mom had taught her to cross-stitch.
    "Damn it all to hell," she cried, pounding the cushions.
    Raising her head, she stared at the door he had locked, and felt the familiar sense of protection Grant had always provided. She also felt the unfamiliar ache between her thighs he had created and left unsatisfied.
    How was she not supposed to feel guilty about that? For once Grant hadn't been understanding when she really needed it. He was different as a man, and even alone now she flushed to remember the intimacy he had initiated while she had been so shamelessly eager to succumb.
    Sweet Lord, they had almost made love. She had only herself to blame for letting it get out of control. But hadn't Grant loved her enough to stop when she had asked?
    Love. Why did there have to be so many kinds and why did one have to be sacrificed for another? Or choices made of whom you loved more loyally?
    The questions gave birth to so many others, she finally shut them all out. Emotionally drained, she wrung what few tears she had left onto the couch.
    It held no warmth or comfort. It held no heat, no flesh and blood reminder that there was a man who loved her and had the power to make her body weep.

 
     
     
    Chapter 5

     
    The problem with safe but outdated cars, Cammie decided, was that in their old age they had a propensity for failing health. She grimaced as the oil light flashed on. Thank goodness she was only a few miles away from Mom and Dad's. She had some extra oil with her, but come Monday she was going to have a transportation problem.
    Grant had always been there to help her out before, glad to give her a lift about town. She would have to find another alternative this time.
    Her stomach lurched at the thought of him. It had been lurching for the last five and a half days. She wondered if she was working on an ulcer.
    Food was tasteless. She couldn't sleep. She couldn't think straight, even with his all-too-blatant absence. She missed him like crazy, and misery was her only company.
    As it must continue to be. She still couldn't come to terms with what they had done, any more than she could accept the responsibility for possibly creating a rift in the family.
    The question she had pondered about Grant's attitude toward his parents' ability or inability to deal with the situation had at least come into focus. He belonged to the family by birth, and therefore felt he had the right to call his own shots.
    She, on the other hand, had been taken in because of their generosity. Because of that, she felt compelled to earn her right to belong, to prove she was worthy of their unconditional love.
    As she rounded a last familiar curve, the white wood house gleamed in the sun, the bright red shutters winking in welcome. She had always found comfort in coming home, but not today. Grant's car was parked out front.
    The twist in her stomach was joined by a tightening in her lungs. An ominous and disturbing sense of premonition shot through her fragile resolve to stay calm.
    Pulling behind his car, Cammie frantically wondered how in heaven's name she was going to pull this off. She was