The Closer You Get Read Free

hinted at how he’d come by his nickname.
    “And this is Roland Williams on keyboards and steel guitar,”
Bud said. “He prefers to be called Rusty.”
    The clean-shaven redhead squeezed between the two men and gave
her a brief salute.
    “And finally, the newest member, Jeremy Black, guitar and
fiddle.”
    Cammie looked over Rusty’s shoulder and met the shy eyes of a
boy who couldn’t be older than twenty, his blond hair pulled low into a
ponytail. He hung back from the group as if his presence was an intrusion,
simply raising his hand in acknowledgment. She could relate to his
discomfort.
    She afforded them a welcoming smile while she wondered over the
absence of the star of the show. Probably holed up in the hotel room with some
buxom babe. “A pleasure to meet you all.”
    “You can close your mouth now, boys,” Bud said. “I know she’s a
damn sight prettier than I am, but she can drive the hell out of a bus. I taught
her everything she knows.”
    Rusty gave Bud a playful punch on his way toward the sofa to
take a seat, Bull and Jeremy following behind him to claim a place at the booth.
“That’s reassuring.”
    “Haven’t killed you yet, have I?” Bud said.
    Pat eased forward. “Sorry we look so surprised, Cammie. Bud
here told us you were coming but—”
    “What Pat’s trying to say is they weren’t planning on you,” Bud
interrupted. “They were expecting someone with hairy arms who dips snuff and
pitches pennies.”
    Pat shot Bud a go-to-hell look. “Not that it matters you’re a
woman, mind you. We’re just not used to having a girl on board.” He addressed
his cohorts with a shrewd grin. “At least not for more than a night.”
    “That’s okay,” Cammie said. “I’ll try to stay out of the way.
In fact, you probably won’t even know I’m here.”
    “Oh, we’ll know you’re here,” Rusty said. “And so will he .”
    He, as in Brett Taylor. Well, he could just get used to it. And he was apparently
coming into the bus, she decided when the door opened again.
    Cammie’s first view consisted of the top of a dark head bent
down to allow his six-foot-plus frame into the passage. When he looked up, she
noticed right away he was in need of a shave, at least two days’ worth of
stubble covering his sculpted jaws. A crescent cleft engraved into his chin set
off a sensual mouth that released extraordinary sounds when he sang, generating
endless emotions. He wore a pair of threadbare jeans and a faded black T-shirt,
not the usual trappings of success, but she sure couldn’t register any
complaints considering the perfection of the fit.
    Yet the cut-glass blue eyes and raven hair were affirmations of
the stunning good looks of a man said to have “squeal appeal.” And a reputation
as the consummate heartthrob of country music.
    Some performers had charisma, some had phenomenal talent. Brett
Taylor had it all.
    Cammie stepped behind Bud, silently admonishing herself for
sinking into wilting-flower mode, yet she couldn’t quite gear up to face him
when considering the possible fallout. The rest of the group just stared at
their boss as if he’d grown a second head.
    “What are you guys looking at?” he asked.
    Bud pulled Cammie forward with a little more force than
necessary. “This is Camille.”
    Brett leveled his unearthly blue eyes on her, letting it be
known he had no qualms about using them to his advantage. “Pleased to meet you,
ma’am,” he said, followed by a blatant size-up from her sneakers to the
sunglasses perched atop her head.
    Cammie tugged at the hem of her flannel shirt and wished
someone would turn the air conditioner up to arctic mode. “Same here,” she
muttered, but failed to look directly at him, or least not at his face. For some
reason her gaze drifted to his thumbs now hooked in his pockets. Not a bad idea
at all.
    She forced her attention to his eyes and held out her hand. He
took it without hesitation, his gaze fixed on her in a