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 tangled strands. And...a towel wrapped around her, tucked between her breasts. I tell myself to keep my eyes up, but shit, it's damn near impossible, and she catches me staring. "Oh my God, Gaige, just stop."
"What?" I ask innocently.
"You know what," she whispers.
Okay, so I'm a shithead. The fact that she caught me staring at her tits makes me grin and I can't hide the smile on my face. She notices that too.