Crazy about Cameron: The Winslow Brothers #3(15)
“Well, it’s settled now. Let’s not be late for Father.”
She turned to go, but he reached for her elbow again, pulling her closer to him and looking deeply into her eyes. “Do I have anything to worry about, Margaret?”
“Worry about?”
“You know what I mean. I’ve grown fond of you. I have . . . feelings for you, Margaret.”
Her face flushed uncomfortably “Oh, Shane . . .”
“I mean it,” he said, his voice lower and more serious than she’d ever heard it before.
The front door opened suddenly, and Margaret turned away from Shane, grateful for the distraction.
Her breath caught at the sight of Cameron Winslow dressed in a form-fitting royal blue tank top, black running shorts, and white sneakers. His inky black hair was windblown, his cheeks were ruddy, and his face glistened with sweat. The shirt clung to his damp chest, outlining his pecs and abs, but his arms were bare, and her eyes landed on them, lingering, unable to look away. Those tan, veined arms, corded with muscle, had hauled her against his body twice, once on the sidewalk and once in the doorway of her apartment, and all she wanted to do was reach out and touch them. She wanted to feel the hot slickness of his arms under the coolness of her fingertips.
As she slid her eyes up, she found his face bright, grinning at her with a smile so pure and beautiful it almost made her wonder if—
Suddenly his eyes narrowed, trailing down her shoulder to find Shane standing behind her, still holding her arm. Cameron clenched his jaw as he dropped his gaze to the floor, and when he looked up, his face was stony.
He’d stopped in his tracks when they made eye contact, but now he approached them, offering a clipped “Margaret. Olson.”
She kept herself from flinching at his tone, but it hurt to hear him call her Margaret. It hurt even worse that his eyes were so cold.
“Winslow,” said Shane, nodding.
“Hi, Cameron,” she said, wishing she could spend an extra moment chatting with him, but unable to think of anything clever to say or ask. “Were you just out jogging?”
He’d already sauntered past them, headed toward the elevator, so she asked the question of his back. He pivoted around to look at her, his eyes still narrow, almost furious. “No, Margaret. I was leading a world financial summit for the pigeons in the park across the street. This is the go-to look now for young urban bankers on Saturday afternoons.”
“You’re such an ass,” said Shane. “There’s no cause for—”
“Save it,” said Cameron to Shane, without dropping Margaret’s eyes.
He took a predatory step closer to her, though Shane still held her elbow. He seized her eyes with his, holding them fiercely before sliding to her lips, her throat, her breasts. Her nipples beaded for him as though on command, and he rested his gaze there for a long moment before leisurely sliding back up her body to find her eyes again and smirking with satisfaction. His voice was low and silky, edged with anger, when he said, “I guess we’ll have to save that glass of wine for another time, eh, Meggie?”
She couldn’t remember the last time a man had looked at her with such intensity, such hunger, and her heart raced from the sudden clench and release of her sex muscles, a surprise flood of wet heat dampening her panties.
As if he knew, he licked his lips slowly, glancing at her still-pert breasts before turning away.
“Have a good night, kids,” he said, heading for the elevator and pressing the call button.
Margaret pinched her lips together, staring at his back wistfully before dropping her eyes to the lobby floor. She hated that he’d seen her with Shane, obviously in the midst of an intimate exchange. She hated that he’d tried to embarrass her by speaking to her and looking at her so disrespectfully, and still her body had responded to him. But most of all, she hated that their truce, their playful warmth from Tuesday night that she’d loved so much, seemed lost. She grieved it. She wanted it back desperately.
“That guy is so full of himself, assuming you’d want to have a drink with him, when we’re obviously together,” said Shane, commandeering Margaret toward the front door, where his black Mercedes waited for them at the curb, guarded by a smiling Franklin. “Never liked the Winslows much myself. They’re all rather wild.”
“Please don’t speak about him that way,” she said softly, yanking her elbow away from Shane, her cheeks still flushed with heat.
“Why, Margaret . . .”
“We grew up together.”
Shane tsked softly. “Of course. How stupid of me. You’re family friends.”
He helped her into the car, and she chastised herself for rushing to Cameron’s defense when he had, in fact, just been a jerk to them.
“We were interrupted, Margaret,” said Shane, turning the key and pulling away from the curb. “And maybe now’s not the time, but I’d like to talk about our future at some point soon. As you know, I’m very vested in the success of Story Imports, and I feel strongly that you and I . . .”
She didn’t hear a word Shane was saying, because suddenly she was reminded of Cameron’s face when he first entered the lobby and saw her. He’d smiled, right? Yes. Oh Lord, yes. He may as well have tattooed that smile on her brain—she’d never be able to forget the beauty of it. He’d seemed glad to see her and then . . . and then . . . and then he’d been such an incredible jerk.