THE WATSON BROTHERS contains the stories of Sam, Gil, and Pete Watson. My House, My Rules, Bringing Up Baby, and Good With His Hands.
My House, My Rules - Tough, rugged cop Sam Watson has a reputation for being a hero on the job and delivering mind-blowing pleasure in the bedroom. But the only woman who drives him over the edge is the one who's completely wrong for him - the sweetly sexy and extremely determined Ariel. When Ariel's headstrong ways nearly wreck one of Sam's string operations - ruining her alluring dress in the process - Sam offers her a ride to his place to clean up. But once there, Ariel seems to have her own agenda, and Sam decides it's time to show the lady that if she wants to play games of seduction, he'll be calling the shots, turning her every fantasy into a night of unimagined bliss.Bringing Up Baby - Gil Watson has always been the responsible one, running the family business and keeping his brothers out of trouble. Of course there was that one wild night on a business trip... the one that resulted in a daughter he never knew he had. By the time Gil finds out about her, the little girl's mother is already gone. Gil is determined to do the right thing, even if it means a marriage of convenience with the woman who's been raising his baby. Anabel Truman is sarcastic, free-spirited, and totally wrong for him. But the sensations she rouses in him feel totally right - stirrings that have nothing to do with being good and everything to do with being very, very naughty. Once Gil gets unbuttoned, there's no going back.
Good With His Hands - As next-door neighbors and best friends, Pete Watson and Cassidy McClannahan have a "no sex" relationship. "No sex" equals continuing friendship. "Ohmygodyes" sex equals big problems and probably some serious dish throwing. It may be a rigid rule, but it works. Until Pete decides he wants to push the line. If sensible Cassidy won't take his hints, he's ready to transform himself into the perfect "black tie" guy he thinks she wants. And once she's in his arms, he'll show her just what else that black tie can do...
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Excerpt from My House, My Rules
He knew that damned aggravating little giggle anywhere. It was throaty and pure and never failed to set him on edge. He'd listened to it every Sunday for two long months when Pete, his baby brother, had been infatuated with her. That giddy laugh was often directed at him, instead of his brother, as it should have been.
With a heavy dose of dread and a visible grimace, Sam Watson slewed his head away from his whiskey and toward that annoying twitter. Shit. Sure enough, there sat Ariel Mathers. At the bar no less. And there were two men chatting her up.
What the hell was she doing in this dive? He glanced around but didn't see his brother anywhere. As to that, no one particular man appeared to be with her. Huh. The little twit was slumming.
So many times since first meeting her, Sam had wanted to put her over his knee. For leading his brother on at a time when he'd been vulnerable. For flirting with him, Sam, a man much too old for her. And especially for being so damned adorable, he almost couldn't stand it.
And now this.
His palm itched at the thought it and his mind conjured the image of her over his knees, her tush bared. He started to sweat, knowing that if he had her in such a position, punishment would be the very thing on his mind. She was so petite that her bottom would be small. And pale. And no doubt silky soft...
Shit, shit, shit.
His eyes burned as he stared at her slim back. She had her hair up with a few baby-fine blond curls kissing her nape. Little gold hoops in her earlobes glittered with the bar lights. The heart-shaped tush he'd so often fantasized over, now perched on a bar stool, was easily outlined beneath the clinging silk skirt of her dress.
At twenty-four she was twelve years too young for him. His mind understood that. His dick didn't care.
She paused in whatever nonsense she'd been uttering to the hapless fool beside her. As she started to look around, Sam twisted in his seat to face the window. Do not let her see me , he prayed. He waited, pretending to be drunk when he was more alert than he'd ever been in his life. He'd nursed one whisky since coming into the bar, but he'd pretended drunkenness on his way in. Anyone who noticed him would assume he was there to top off an already inebriated night.
Fifteen seconds ticked by, then thirty, a minute - no one approached him. Sam relaxed, but kept his face averted, just in case. No way could he carry off his assignment tonight if Ariel got in the way.
He should have known better than to stare at her. People felt that sort of thing, just as he'd felt the big bruiser at the far booth watching him. He would have liked to order another drink, to call further attention to his feigned drunkenness. But with Ariel sitting there, it would be too risky.
Better to get this over with now, before he did something stupid. Like staring at her again.
Opening his wallet to show the bloated contents - two hundred dollars worth - he pulled out a ten-dollar tip. He laid it on the tabletop, stumbled to his feet and staggered out the door.
Once outside, he deliberately started across the street toward the abandoned, shadowed building where he would supposedly retrace his path home - and where his backup could clearly see him. Sam took his time, singing a crude bawdy tune about a woman from Nantucket , who according to the men, liked to suck it. It was a favorite limerick from his youth and he knew it by heart, but this time he missed some words, slurred a few others.
He pitched into the brick wall, laughed too loud, and started off again, only to trip over a garbage can, causing an awful racket. He gave a rank curse, stepped in something disgusting that he didn't want to identify, and dropped up against the side of a broken, collapsible fire escape.
Sam was fumbling for a more upright position when a meaty paw grabbed his upper arm - filling him with satisfaction. The perp had taken the bait.
"Give me your wallet."
Jolting around, Sam acted surprised, then spat in the big chap's face, "Fug-off."
A ham-sized fist hit him in the side of the head and he saw stars for real. Jesus, he hadn't expected the fellow to get nasty so quick. Most of the thefts in the area - and there'd been plenty of late - had been done without any real personal damage.
Across a six-block area that covered three bars in Duluth Indiana , more than twelve muggings had taken place in less than a month. It wasn't the best part of the city, so muggings weren't uncommon. But twelve? And all against men carrying substantial amounts of money. That smacked of premeditated, organized activity, and grabbed the attention of the police.
Sam twisted away, but was brought back around for another punch, this one in the gut. He bent double and almost puked.
Because he knew the guys would never let him live it down, he managed to keep his supper in his belly where it belonged. Just barely.
Where the hell were they anyway? Taking their own sweet time?
Before Sam could decide to take another punch, or sneak in one of his own, a female banshee cry split the air, making his ears ring and his hair stand on end. Two seconds later his perp got hit from behind by a small tornado and the momentum drove him straight into Sam, against the side of the metal stairs. It felt like his damn ribs cracked.
Everyone started struggling at once and they went down in a heap, Sam on the bottom so that his head and back hit the hard gravel-covered ground with jarring impact. The wind left his lungs in a whoosh.
While supine and wheezing, Sam got a good look at the familiar blond clinging tenaciously to his perp's hair with one hand while trying to use her purse like a club with the other. Sam couldn't quite tell if she attempted to bludgeon him to death, or scream him into submission.
Wincing, the would-be robber reached back and caught her shoulder to flip her over his head and the next thing Sam knew, Ariel's behind was atop his face, her thighs pressed to his ears. Her dress had fluttered open and there was nothing more than a thin layer of silk keeping his nose from glory.
Damn it, why did things like this happen to him at all the wrong times?
He fought for air, breathed in her warm musk scent, and managed to shove her rump a few inches off his face. He was just in time to see the same meaty fist that had dazed him now headed straight toward her very tiny and very cute nose. Outrage exploded inside him.
He was supposed to be drunk, an easy mark.
He was undercover for the night.
But goddammit, no way could he let her get hurt.
Moving quicker than any drunk could, Sam caught the oversized fist in his own, gave one evil, toothy grin - which was somewhat smothered by Ariel's bottom cheeks - and twisted. Hard.
He heard crackling, and then a loud pop.
The startled shock of pain on his target's face abruptly turned to one of sheer agony, accompanied by a guttural roar. Sam wanted to break his damn arm. Maybe a leg too, just for good measure.
How dare he attempt to hit a woman?
Sam was still considering the possibility of doing more injury, when his backup finally charged onto the scene with a cliched, "Hold it right there!"
Hold it? They had to be fucking kidding, right? He had a woman straddling his neck, an unethical bastard trying to strike her, and they wanted him to hold it?
He gave the fist another squeeze, then shoved, causing the man to shout and recoil to the ground on his side in the fetal position, cradling his impaired wrist.
Sam didn't have a chance to move Ariel. Fuller Ruth, one of the cops working the undercover sting with him that night, caught her under her arms and lifted her up and away. Sam got a bird's eye view of her more womanly parts in silky panties while her high heels poked him in the abdomen, the thigh, and damn near his groin.
"You okay?" Fuller asked her, while still letting her dangle in the air. Fuller was as big as the assailant, but unlike the assailant he had a very fastidious nature. He kept his brown hair well trimmed, his clothes wrinkle free, and he was always clean-shaved. His blue eyes were so pale, they reminded Sam of a Husky.
Ariel clutched at the front of her dress where it had gotten torn. "Put me down, you oaf. I'm fine."
Fuller set her on her feet, but then had to grab for her again when she turned in a rush, trying to get to Sam.
"Hey lady, easy now. Just come with me."
Fuller attempted to lead her away, but she turned on him, too, thumping him in the chest. "Turn me loose! I have to see if he's all right." In her fit, she forgot about the tear in her dress and the whole right side drooped down, exposing the top of one pale breast and a good bit of her beige satin bra.
"Hey! Stop that." Fuller looked to be playing paddy-cake with her the way he swatted at her flying fists. "Damn it, lady, you're spilling your purse. Just settle down. He'll be all right. Let the officer check him."
The officer he meant was Isaac Star, half Native American, half junkyard dog. People considered Sam dark, but that was until they saw him next to Isaac. Much leaner than Fuller, Isaac had the blackest hair and eyes Sam had ever seen. He was currently snapping handcuffs onto the giant, who yelled and complained of a broken arm. The big sissy.
"Let - me - go."
It was a toss-up who made more noise, the perp or Ariel. Since he was supposed to be a drunken slob, Sam couldn't very well just sit up and explain to her that he was plenty fine, other than the damage she'd inflicted. He did, however, work his way to his elbows to mutter drunkenly, "Whass goin' on?"
Isaac grinned at him, making himself look like a pleased Sultan. "I just saved your sorry ass, my man. This goon was set to roll you for your wallet."
Feigning confusion, Sam patted his chest, his front pants pockets and finally his ass until he located the pocket holding the packed wallet. He wrested it out, held it up, and said, "S'that right? Thank you, of'ser. Got my paycheck inside."
Isaac was lean, but his size was deceptive. He was strong as an ox. He pulled the giant to his feet with no effort. "Not too smart. Stay put while I stick this guy in the car."
Not more than twelve yards away, two official police cars lit up the block with flashing red and green lights. To the spectators, it looked as though the cops had just happened onto the mugging - not like the whole thing had been planned.
As soon as Isaac had the giant out of hearing range, Sam pulled himself to his feet. For the benefit of onlookers, he stood there weaving, but he gave one barely perceptible nod to Fuller, who then let Ariel go with a shrug.
She launched herself at Sam, big tears glittering in her hazel eyes, her mouth open to blast him with questions, with mothering concern that he neither wanted nor needed.
Sam grabbed her close, squeezed her so tight she couldn't say a single word, and growled into her ear, "I'm working , goddammit, so you better have a good excuse for this stunt."
"Working?" she squeaked out.
Damn, it felt good to hold her so close. He shook his head and tried to ignore the way her belly pressed into his crotch, how her breasts flattened on his chest and how her soft hair smelled so sweet.
Better than half the customers from the bar were now out front to watch the proceedings. Sam had to keep his head, because he had to keep his cover. "That's right, and since you jumped into the middle of things, you damn well better play your part." So saying, he slumped into her, forcing her to stagger under his considerable weight. She was five-two, maybe. He was six-three and outweighed her by damn near a hundred pounds.
The twit.
She grunted and nearly fell, until Fuller flattened a hand between her shoulder blades, pushing her upright again. Under normal circumstances, no cop worth his salt would let a drunk manhandle a woman. But these weren't normal circumstances, he wasn't really drunk, and his two buds had already figured out that she was an acquaintance.
Cops were notorious for trying to help each other get laid. If they thought Sam wanted her - which he did, but would never admit to anyone - they'd happily let him take advantage of the situation.
"Yer an angel," Sam said, leering at Ariel's breast with sincere interest. He'd seen more of her tonight than he had in the entire two months she'd been hanging around the family.
He rubbed his nose into her neck, making her lose her balance once more.
She tried to shove him away, but he snaked one hand down her back and grabbed her ass. Oh, now that was nice. Real firm and plump. Not quite as generous as he liked, being he was a dedicated ass-man, but still nice.
She gasped and struggled, but Sam didn't let go. Huh uh. No way.
Fuller rolled his eyes. There was a limit to how much help he'd give in this particular campaign. "Here now." He dragged Ariel behind him, out of Sam's reach, then held Sam up with one outstretched arm. "You're drunk, man. I hope you weren't planning on driving home."
"Nope. Gonna walk."
"Well, you can thank the lady for being a good citizen and trying to help you."
Ariel stood there, her enormous eyes luminous in the dark night, her hair mussed in what Sam could only call a 'just laid' way, and her make-up smudged. She smoothed her skirt with one hand while clutching her bodice with the other.
"That's quite all right, officer. I did what anyone would have done under the circumstances." She looked at Sam with malice glinting in her golden eyes. "The poor drunken fool might have gotten killed otherwise."
Excerpt from Bringing Up Baby
No two ways about it: Anabel just wasn't proper mother material. He thought of mothers as being like his own - no-nonsense, understated, ready with a hug and advice. His mother looked like a mother. Soft, a little rounded, casual and comfortable.
Anabel looked like... not a mother. He couldn't label her, but there was nothing comfortable about her. Exciting, yes. Hot, definitely. But not maternal.
Even while she'd been pouring her heart out to him, a part of his mind kept thinking how sweet it'd be to push her to her back on his desk, to tug those threadbare jeans down her hips and thighs so he could...
Suddenly she slid off the desk and started toward him. "I know what you're thinking, Gil."
Along with the look in her eyes, that throaty tone brought him out of his reverie. "You haven't got a clue." If she did, she sure as hell wouldn't get so close to him.
"Wanna bet?" He caught his breath when she leaned into him, her hands sliding up his chest to rest on his shoulders. Her cool fingertips brushed the heated skin of his nape. Eyes direct, even challenging, she whispered, "You're thinking about sex. With me. I've seen that look on your face before."
He didn't back down. "What look?"
Her smile curled, lighting up her eyes, flushing her cheeks. "Well, the look before you just went blank. It's this sort of heated expression, very direct and interested and naughty."
He caught her shoulders to hold her away - and instead, he just held her. His heart thundered and the muscles of his abdomen and thighs pulled tight. "You're mistaken."
"Oh really?" She went on tiptoe to brush her nose against his throat. "Mmm. You smell good, Gil."
Her breath whispered over his skin with the effect of a lick. Her breasts, shielded only by a clinging shirt, brushed his chest.
"Anabel." He meant his tone to be chastising, and instead it reeked of encouragement.
Her hand left his shoulder to glide down his chest, down, down to the waistband of his slacks where she lingered, making him nuts, causing his lungs to constrict. Her lips moved nearer to his and at close range, she stared into his eyes.
"You want me, Gil. Admit it."
He wouldn't admit a damned thing. But neither could he deny it.
The darkening of her eyes should have given him warning. But when her slender fingers drifted lower, cupping his testicles through his slacks, he was taken completely off guard. To call her brazen would be an understatement. To call him unaffected would be an outright lie.
She held him, gently squeezed, expertly stroked. "You're already hard," she whispered.
Yeah, from his ears to his toes, but did she have to sound so pleased about it?
Still in that soft whisper, she purred, "Gil, I want you, too. I always have." As she said it, she moved her fingers up to his throbbing cock, teasing his length, deliberately arousing him further, pushing him. "We would be good together. I know you, know what you like and what you want. I'll do anything, Gil. Anytime you want, any way you want. I'll - "
Excerpt from Good With His Hands
Pete Watson smiled as he watched Cassidy McClannahan get out of her spotlessly clean white Ford Contour. It was a familiar thing, smiling at the sight of Cassidy. Which meant he smiled a lot these days because he saw her everyday, everywhere he went. They worked together at the Sports Therapy center and they lived in adjoining condos, thanks to the fact that Cassidy told him when one of the units became available. They left the same time in the morning, came home the same time each day.
It was nice. Routine. As predictable as being married - but without the chain chaffing around his neck.
And no sex.
But hey, that kept it simple and easy. Besides, he could probably have sex with Cassidy if he wanted. But he didn't. Not really.
Not bad anyway.
The spring breeze played havoc with her super long, too curly brown hair, whipping it into her face until, in disgust, she dropped her grocery bag and grabbed the mass with both hands.
She was such a contradiction, so much a woman in some ways, so oblivious to her own femininity in others.
Sidling up next to her, Pete said, "You should have put it in a ponytail."
"Bite me."
He laughed. Her reaction to him fell into the oblivious category. She treated him like an asexual pal. Joking with him, putting him down sometimes. And she never, ever primped or prettied up for him. Nope, Cassidy didn't want him. Still, he could get her if he wanted to.
He just didn't want to.
Scooping up her bag, which weighed a damn ton, Pete said, "Come on, Rapunzel. I'll help you inside."
She eyed his bulging biceps as if she didn't see them every day at work. But it wasn't a look of admiration, just one of observation - the same sort of look she always gave him. Unaffected. Non-sexual.
Finally she looked away, saying, "Don't strain anything."
Yeah right. She knew better than most that he was in great shape. "What the hell did you buy, anyway?" Part of their routine for Friday was stopping at the grocery store. Since their eating habits were like night and day, the separated in the store, but met up again in the parking lot. He'd only bought enough lunchmeat and bread to last him through the week, but it felt like Cassidy had bought bricks.
While she rolled up her driver's side window and locked her car door, she listed off her purchases. "Baking potatoes, steak, corn on the cob, and a six-pack of pop."
"Got a big night planned?" Pete knew she didn't. Cassidy almost never dated. In fact, he couldn't remember ever seeing her date. That made him stop and think.
"Not really."
Well. That was pretty damn vague. Frowning, Pete waited to see if she'd invite him to join her. But she didn't. She never took the initiative. If he asked, she'd smile and tell him what time to show up. But why the hell did he always have to ask? Couldn't she just once extend the invitation? Another contradiction. They always enjoyed each other's company, but she never deliberately sought him out.
He loped beside her as they went up the tidy walkway to her front stoop - which was right next door to his, a mere fifteen feet away.
Assuming he'd follow, she unlocked her door, pushed it open and strolled inside, kicking her sneakers off the moment she got in. Out of the wind, she released her long hair and Pete watched as it tumbled free down to the small of her back, swishing above her plump ass.
Pete shook his head. She stayed in great shape, was always clean and well dressed, but she paid zero attention to feminine details like her hair and nails. She didn't wear make-up or perfume - not that she needed to. She always smelled great, even sweaty. And she had a healthy, robust complexion.
Robust? Yeah, that's how normal men should think of women. Half disgusted, half embarrassed, Pete shook his head at his odd musings.
He'd asked Cassidy once about her long hair and found out she only washed and dried it. No curlers, no trims, no highlights. He'd never known a woman who didn't spend hours on her hair. When it got humid outside, her hair drew into long bouncy ringlets that looked adorable.
Like Cassidy, her place was clean and comfortable but not overly decorated. It overflowed with plants and posters and throw pillows. By rote, Pete trailed her into the kitchen.
"You want some coffee or something?" She didn't wait for him to reply, but began filling the carafe, proving how predictable he'd become. He should politely decline and head home, maybe throw her off a bit. But he didn't.
"I can take one cup." Pete set their groceries on the counter, pulled out a kitchen chair and sat.
With the coffee preparations complete, Cassidy set out mugs and sugar before turning away. "Be right back."
"Where're you going?"
"To change. It's warm tonight."
She disappeared around the corner into the hall leading to her bedroom. Pete knew the set-up of her condo because it was the mirror image of his. Where his bedroom ran to the left of the front door, hers ran to the right. He'd never been in her bedroom though - and she'd never been in his.
Today she'd worn loose navy blue athletic pants and sneakers with the red unisex polo shirt supplied to all employees at the Sports Therapy center.
Pete tilted his chair onto the back legs. It dawned on him that he'd known Cassidy about eleven months now. Not that he was counting or anything, but maintaining a close platonic relationship with a woman other than his sisters-in-law for almost a year had to be some sort of personal record. Usually if he knew a woman any length of time at all, he either dated her or was merely acquainted, not friendly.
The thing he'd first noticed about Cassidy - after that abundance of super soft, crimped hair - was her focus. They'd spoken for about an hour his first day on the job, and in that time he realized that she had it together more than anyone he knew. If you asked Cassidy where she wanted to be five years from now, she could tell you. She knew where she wanted to work, where she wanted to live. She even claimed to know the type of guy she wanted to one day marry.
In comparison, Pete didn't even know where he wanted to be next week. Not that he intended to leave his job, his home, or Cassidy's friendship. But after finishing school and working three different jobs before settling at the sports center, he often felt unsettled, as if he was somehow missing the big picture.
Not Cassidy. She set new goals daily and worked hard to reach them. Maybe that's why she didn't date, she was too busy meeting her goals. Pete frowned in thought, trying to remember if any of their male clients had ever hit on her.
No one specific came to mind, but then everyone, young and old, male and female, loved Cassidy. She laughed a lot, honest laughter, not the trumped up, polite kind. She also had nice eyes. Sort of a wishy-washy blue/green that managed to be awesomely direct. Honest, like her laugh.
She was built well enough, of course. On the short side. A little too muscular, given all the time she spent being physical on the job, but trim and fit. She had a body guys would notice...
And why the hell was he dwelling on her body anyway?
Pete stood up and went to her patio doors. With his hands stuck in his back pockets, palms out, he contemplated the darkening sky. Looked like another spring storm on the way. Trees swayed under the wind. Heavy gray clouds raced by. He slid the glass door open so the fragrant, moist air could come in through the screen, wafting around him, stirring his senses.
Now that he'd thought of Cassidy's bod, he couldn't stop thinking of it. And that was strange because he preferred his ladies on the prissy side. He enjoyed watching a woman fuss with her hair, fret about her nails, and reapply her lipstick. It was so intrinsically female.
Dawn, the woman he'd most recently stopped dating, had done a lot of fussing. She was a corporate exec, smart, lots of ambition, and sexy as hell in a power suit. It had teased Pete, the way she'd pair a short snug skirt, high heels and red lipstick with a business jacket that begged to be unbuttoned. The attire emphasized rather than diminished her femaleness. Her glasses were a bonus. The way she pulled them off whenever she meant to get intimate had really turned him on.
"Coffee's done."
Speaking of turned on... Pete watched as Cassidy strode back into the room. No business suits, heels or glasses for her, but unlike Dawn, Cassidy never bored him.
Her hair was now pulled up into a high, sloppy knot, haphazardly clipped into place. Long twining hanks of hair fell loose to her shoulders, around her small ears. She'd changed into a football jersey and cutoffs. A really big jersey - and really short shorts.
Being male, and healthy, and for some reason kind of horny on this almost-rainy, quiet Friday, Pete automatically gave her the once over. Maybe there'd be a full moon tonight, or maybe the tide was high. Something, some unknown force, was making him contemplate Cassidy naked. Eyes narrowed and mouth pursed, he watched as she filled the mugs with coffee. He'd seen her in everything from sweats to bike shorts, so he knew she had lots of soft, squeezable curves to go with the muscles.
As if she felt his gaze, Cassidy looked over her shoulder, caught him staring at her butt, and looked away again. She didn't care that he was looking. She didn't care if he didn't look.
Damn abnormal woman.
Driven by some inner perversity heretofore undeveloped, Pete leaned back against the doorframe and smiled. "Your ass looks nice in those shorts."
A slight pause, then: "Thanks. You want a cookie with your coffee?"
His jaw locked. Thanks? That was it? No more reaction than that? Pete folded his arms over his chest. "How about I take your ass with my coffee?"
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