Whose Bed Is It Anyway? (7 page)

They already were sleeping together. Properly sleeping in just the one—albeit luxury—room. That brought a wholly different kind of intimacy. She was getting to know more about him than she ever would if they'd just had a one-night stand. But she merely nodded.

‘It wouldn't be right,' he said softly.

Wanting her wasn't right? How insulting was that? She itched to rebel, to retaliate. Or better still, prove a point—take him, make him...

She halted her crazy vixen thoughts. As if she
could
make him. What a joke. He'd just proven he had far greater will power than she did. And hadn't she grown out of brattish behaviour? No more being Caitlin ‘always wants more' Moore.

But that didn't stop her annoyance with his ‘perfection'.

‘And you always do the right thing?' she jeered softly.

A strange expression crossed his face—he looked almost wistful. ‘Like most people, I try.'

Silently she stared at him, trying to figure out how the hell to extricate herself from this nightmare with just a shred of dignity intact. To her relief, her mobile phone rang. She pounced on it, ruefully wishing it had rung five minutes earlier and saved her from the humiliation of all but begging him to screw her.

She turned her back on him as she breathlessly answered. She had to get the caller to repeat everything until she understood what the woman was saying. She still refused to turn and face him after hanging up.

‘They've finally found my bag,' she said crisply, though he'd have got that from hearing her end of the conversation.

‘Great. They're sending it over?'

She nodded. This was good. There'd be no more sharing of clothes. No more bare skin at night. And she wouldn't have to spend money she didn't have. ‘I'm going to get dressed.'

She stalked into the bathroom, locking the door and flicking the shower to cold. She lifted her burning face into the frigid stream. Wished
she
were frigid. Instead she'd been writhing all over him—ready to orgasm within ten seconds of snogging. What must he think of her?

She grimaced. No worse than what he already had once thought—that she was a tart who'd sleep with anything.

She soon had enough of the ice water treatment and turned on the heat. She stood in the shower for ages, refusing to worry that James might need to use the room too. She was hoping he'd have left the apartment by the time she deigned to leave the shower.

When she did finally open the bathroom door and peer out, she saw the bed was now neatly made and—joy of joys—her small suitcase sitting on the lower corner. The airline lady hadn't been kidding when she'd said they'd already sent it right over.

She grabbed the case and darted back into the bathroom, changing into one of her favourite floral dresses. Nice-fitting clothes were as good as iron armour. She brushed her hair and lifted her chin at her reflection. She could face him and not flush. No problem.

But he wasn't in the bedroom when she walked out into it. She went downstairs, listening hard but hearing nothing. She sniffed, slightly miffed that he'd gone. Then she sniffed again. She could smell something
amazing
. She got to the lower floor and stopped and stared. He'd set up some kind of camp kitchen down in the stripped-back, barren room? And even better, he'd cooked up something mouth-watering—that he was now eating.

He glanced at her and swallowed his mouthful with a muffled choking sound. ‘I like those clothes much better.' He breathed in deep.

‘I'm supposed to be flattered?' She locked into safe sarcastic mode.

‘If you want my delicious breakfast, yes.' He retaliated by zooming back to flirt zone. And smiling.

Which was so brutally unfair of him.

‘Then I'm flattered.' She bestowed a saccharine smile on him. ‘Thank you, kind sir.' It wasn't a total lie; she was a little pleased—this dress had been one of the first she'd designed herself when she'd been playing about. But she wasn't letting him win any real points.

He continued to smile right back at her—his gaze warm and lingering. She clamped down on the warmth working its way through her. Did he really think he could charm them through this embarrassment?

‘I'm sorry about before,' he said easily, clearly thinking exactly that. ‘Maybe it was inevitable with two single people staying in such close quarters. It needed to happen. But now we've broken that tension, right?'

Oh, it so hadn't
needed
to happen. And as for breaking the tension? It had left her yearning for more. Hell, her nerves were screaming at her to jump him this second. As far as she was concerned, the tension was way worse. ‘Yeah, well, guess we're just two little animals who can't resist basic instinct.'

‘But we can. We just have.'

And they'd continue to? No giving in to the searing temptation? ‘Of course,' she replied through gritted teeth.

James turned back to the small grill and took another pace away from her to get some very necessary space for the gas ring. And himself. But she stepped after him again, wide-eyed at the prep work he'd done yesterday before she'd got home.

‘You didn't want to go to your diner?' she muttered.

He gave her a feeble grin. He'd go to the diner in a heartbeat. But he knew she wouldn't. A coffee wasn't enough. It was economics—he'd already known it before her confession of last night. He cracked an egg into the pan. ‘I like a home-cooked breakfast.'

Hard boiled, over easy, sunny side up, runny yolk... He liked it all ways. Lots of ways. Just lots of it. Ugh. He winced at himself and the deep, single, smutty groove his mind was stuck in.

Treat her like the sister he'd never had
. That was the only way to get through. He'd think of her as a sister. Put her firmly in the ‘untouchable' basket. She needed a break away and apparently had nowhere else to go. George had said she'd had a hard time. She might make herself out to be a tough nut, but James wasn't messing round with her. And he did only ever mess about.

Except she'd gotten him so hot he'd almost come without even penetrating her. It was pathetic. No way could he have lasted even a few seconds more. He'd been rough, ready to slam inside her the second he'd touched her, and would have come the next second if they'd kept kissing. Worse than a youth fumbling through his first time. He wasn't doing that to her or any woman.

He blanked out the tiny voice telling him that she'd liked it. That she'd wanted it. That she'd been close to coming herself given the way she'd been riding him. And that he'd have gotten hard again in record time.

He burned inside. There was no getting away from it. He wanted sex. Couldn't stop thinking about it. These last few months were the longest he'd gone without all his adult life. It wasn't that he was a player, but he had flings. One nighters here and there. Until the last few months when he'd been back-to-back working.

He'd fixated on Caitlin because of her proximity, right? So there was the scene, the bars and clubs. Plenty of places to find another woman with come-hither eyes and soft lips who'd let him lose himself for a few hours. Except there was no losing ‘James Wolfe'. His face had been plastered over the cover of the world's leading current affairs magazine. That image was everywhere over the Internet.

And way more crucially, there was only the one image in his mind now—Caitlin's blonde hair draping over the pillow, over
him
the way it had before. Caitlin's lips, Caitlin's eyes, Caitlin's curvy body. The desire for her had taken root and he couldn't get rid of it. He ached to pull her beneath him and pin her to the bed. He wanted to take advantage and tame that subversive spirit, that spark within her. He'd tussle and torment her until she was silenced and sated and looking at him with nothing but appreciative pleasure in her eyes.

He wanted her to look at him as if he were her sex-god hero. How tragic was that? Given he hated anyone else looking at him that way.

But the way she'd kissed him—hungry, passionate, raw—had heated him alarmingly quickly. Too quickly. He snorted as he flipped her eggs. He'd hardly been a sex god this morning.

George's warning rang again in his ears. If she'd had a rough time then she didn't need him complicating things for her. He shouldn't ask. Shouldn't delve. She just wanted her little sightseeing holiday.

So what he should do was pack his bag and leave before temptation grew too great. He served up the eggs together with the mushrooms and tomatoes he'd cooked onto one of his camp plates. Holding it, he turned to offer it to her.

One last look into those blue eyes?

He was doomed.

FIVE

Leaning against the
wall, Caitlin took the plate James offered with a cautious smile. He looked uncomfortably intense. He didn't resume eating his own meal, leaving his plate to the side of the small camp cooker—next to his iPad. But he didn't look at that either. He only looked at her.

‘Tell me,' he said.

She paused, her fork partway lifted, her mind still on the electronic gadget. Had he been searching? ‘Tell you what?'

‘Everything. Why are you here? What is it you've run from? Why did my brother say you could stay here? How do you even know him?'

She lowered her fork. ‘Why do you want to know?'

‘Why do you think?'

She rolled her eyes. Didn't he get that she refused to dance that dance? If he wanted to know, he could explain why or find out for himself. ‘Look it up on the Internet.' She pointedly looked back at the iPad.

‘I'd rather hear it from you,' he countered.

Had he really not looked already? Or was this some kind of test?

She forked some egg into her mouth and took her time chewing. The guy could cook, she'd say that for him. She had another mouthful because it was so damn good. He stepped alongside her, leaning a shoulder against the wall so he was at right angles to her. Surveying her with that teasing smile on his lips. Clearly waiting.

He'd be waiting a while.

But her taste buds suddenly went on strike, her appetite kicking the bucket too. She struggled to swallow her latest mouthful. What was it he wanted to hear? Would he actually
listen
or would he leap to conclusions? And if she did tell him the truth, would he believe her? People tended not to. People tended to think the worst.

Maybe telling him would clear the sultriness of the air between them. He'd end this flirtation. He certainly wouldn't want to kiss her again. Wouldn't that make her life easier? Wouldn't that stop
her
stupid yearnings?

‘Okay.' She put her plate down on the floor and reached out for the iPad.

He grabbed her arm to stop her.

‘
Tell
me.' He frowned.

‘Think school,' she said crisply. ‘Show
and
tell.'

He released her and she took the device, switching it on and plugging in a search. In a second she'd pulled an old promo pic for her show. She turned the iPad so he could see the screen.

He took a second to find her in the centre of the group of youths and read the advertisement. His jaw fell open. ‘You were a teen soap star?'

‘Never a
star
,' she corrected with a wry smile. ‘More notorious.'

‘You told me you don't want to act.'

‘I don't. I'm hopeless at it.'

‘But you were—'

‘In a British school drama for a couple of seasons, yes. Before then I'd mainly done ads, modelling work and stuff.'

‘As a child?'

She nodded.

‘
Why?
' He looked as if he couldn't think of anything worse. He wasn't far wrong.

‘My dad was an actor. At holiday parks, cruise ships, panto, a few walk-ons in the West End. You name it, he did it. Then he got a few bit parts on TV shows. One episode appearances in “character” things. He wanted us to do the same.'

‘Your mother?'

‘Died when I was seven,' she said. ‘We needed money and there was good money in TV. I did some child modelling, had that cute factor. Did a lot of clothing catalogues. Then I did some stage stuff and eventually I landed the part on the show.'

‘But you said your sister is famous.'

‘She is.' Caitlin braced herself. ‘My sister is Hannah Moore.'

His brows lifted. ‘The movie actress?'

Caitlin nodded, waited for it.

He frowned. ‘She doesn't look anything like you.'

Bingo.

Hannah was brunette to Caitlin's blonde. Was taller, coltish, had darker eyes, bigger lips. Caitlin had been the stereotypically ‘pretty' one with the blue eyes and the blonde hair. Hannah was more ‘different' looking. Now she'd gone raven she was even more striking.

‘So how come you're afraid of being recognised?' His eyes narrowed. ‘What happened?'

‘What happened?' She stared down at the pretty young blonde smiling out from the centre of the posed photo. ‘I was young and stupid and spoiled.'

Silently he waited.

With an impatient growl she confessed. ‘I come from this “luvvie” family. We grew up backstage. The modelling work paid bills but it was assumed we'd act eventually. I had basic technique but no real talent. But I got on the show and it turned to custard.' She frowned. ‘I'd always worked, right from when I can remember. And yeah, I might have been spoiled but I'd worked hard. But I knew it wasn't my strength. I didn't really want to do it but I couldn't say that. So I acted out. And I was stupid. So stupid. I partied, I talked back...'

‘You were the wild child.'

‘And my off-screen dramas elevated our name.' She winced. ‘I couldn't live up to it. The expectation, the pressure was huge. And there was no getting away from it. But my mistakes were my own. There's no one to blame but me. I earned myself this diva-bitch label and it got fixed with perma-glue. And like all good stories mine were embroidered—some elements magnified. Some just plain made up. I wasn't as bad as it began to appear.'

‘So what happened?'

‘I got fired, of course. I think, all along, that's what I'd wanted. I haven't been on stage or on a TV show since. Six years. That's for ever in telly time.' She'd escaped and gone to study. It was only recently that she'd been dragged back under. She wrinkled her nose. ‘Except for repeats. They like to repeat some episodes.' She grimaced.

‘Where was your father?'

Right in the centre. ‘He was my manager.' Her father had let her down. He'd never stepped in to stop her. Never defended her. ‘That's how it all started. With me. Hannah had always wanted to act—was dying to. But she'd not got any jobs. Instead I got them. It was the cute little blonde girl thing,' she said cynically. ‘Eventually Hannah did a piece in an indie film. Wasn't even paid for it. But she got spotted. They finally realised her talent. And she flew from there.'

‘And what did you do?'

‘Stuck on the show for another season. Hated it and got worse in terms of behaviour.'

‘Why didn't you just quit?'

‘I couldn't. We needed the money. Hannah hadn't quite hit the jackpot then, she was a slow build before becoming an overnight sensation—that's the way these things really work. I brought in regular money that we needed. So you can imagine how mad Dad was when they finally called time on me.'

She'd lost all worth. All her value. He'd turned to Hannah. Helped Hannah. She supposed he'd had to.

‘But by then Hannah was hitting her stride?'

Caitlin nodded. ‘She has that quirkiness that the camera loves. There's no mistaking her for anyone else. She's passionate about acting. It's absolutely her thing and she is incredibly good at it. She disappears for weeks when she's right into a part.'

‘You're close?'

Caitlin hesitated. ‘She's very busy and I'm working on a new phase in my life.' She read the disapproval in his eyes. ‘We really didn't spend that much time together as kids. But she's a darling,' she rushed to add. ‘She deserves all her success. And she doesn't need to be dragged down by me. It was because Hannah knows George that I got the loan of this place. She is supportive of me. But I think it's better to keep some kind of distance.'

‘You've shut her out?'

‘No,' she said defensively. ‘I just don't think she needs to have my affairs thrust in her face. She doesn't need to have her publicist deflecting questions about me. She needs to concentrate on her career and not have me as the sideshow.'

‘But that leaves you alone.' He looked at her. ‘Because I'm guessing you and your dad aren't close.'

‘He's very busy too. He's still Hannah's manager,' Caitlin said softly. ‘She has a whole team these days, but he's still very involved. And that's fine. I'm a big girl. I don't need a manager. I'm loving being in New York and being anonymous.' She glared at him, hating how exposed she felt right this instant in the face of his inscrutability. She didn't want to go any further—not into the nightmare of the last few months and the real reason she'd had to run. ‘Anyway, you can't talk. You've shut out your family.'

‘I haven't shut them out.' His smile went fixed.

‘Really? When you won't even go and see them in the few days you have back in the country?'

‘You think they'd want to see me when I'm tired and grumpy?' The smile disappeared altogether.

‘Would it be so bad if they saw you tired and grumpy? Or is your image too important to maintain?'

‘I don't care about my image.'

‘No? So you have no problem with having that picture of you being sent around the world?'

‘Okay,' he conceded with a sigh. ‘I hate that picture.'

‘Why?' Didn't he feel some kind of pride that he'd been able to help that girl?

He shook his head. ‘I work as part of a
team
. No one person is a hero. We need each other. We're there to do a job but we have each other's backs. There's no room for egos. We all do what we have to do. It's never down to one person.'

Sometimes it was. He was the one who'd found that girl and pulled her free. Sure, maybe others in his team had found others as well, but for that one little girl James Wolfe was her lone hero.

‘Are your colleagues bothered by the attention you receive?' Was that where his ‘reluctant hero' mode sprang from?

He stepped back, his bottomless eyes fixed on her. ‘There was some ribbing. But no, I know they'd rather it were me than them. In many ways it was great—it raised the profile of the organisation and that helps with fundraising and stuff.' He shrugged.

It was clearly a line from the publicists that he'd repeated a hundred or more times. ‘And it's only having your picture taken. It's not that awful.'

Sure, against the backdrop of things he must have seen, it wasn't, but he couldn't deny the impact on him personally. She wanted him to acknowledge it. ‘But it changes your life.'

‘Again,' he noted, ‘it's nothing compared to what some people go through.'

‘You're being heroic again.' She chuckled. ‘But you don't like it.'

‘No.'

‘It's so awful to be admired? To be adored?' She'd far rather that than be thought of as the wicked witch.

‘People see what they want to see. But it's not real. They don't see through that image.'

His words pierced her defence. They were words she'd say and mean. But she couldn't believe
he
really meant then. That he could possibly understand. So she teased. ‘Maybe you don't let them.'

He chuckled. ‘Do you try to let them see through
your
image? Do you try to change what they think?'

She waved a hand as if brushing off the idea. ‘People have this thing about leopards and spots.'

‘So once bad, always bad?' He leaned forward, coming too close again.

‘Angels can fall from grace, though, so you better be careful,' she whispered.

He didn't laugh, didn't pull away as she expected him to. As she was warning him to.

‘I'm not afraid of what people think about me,' he said.

‘Really?' She turned, tapped the iPad back to life and entered his name in the search box.

‘You're Googling me? Right now?' he asked, sounding somewhat stunned.

‘Why not? I get the feeling there's something you're not telling me. What else is it you're hiding from?'

Something flickered in his eyes before he looked down so she couldn't see into them.

‘Search away.'

His careless drawl spurred her. To find something wicked about the so-perfect one? She wished.

In a second she had a spate of webpages listed. A number of links to one article in particular. The one that had come first in the search rankings.

She clicked on it.

Dated a few months ago, the article was illustrated with that iconic image from the flood-ravaged South American village. There was another, smaller picture of him walking along the pavement outside his local coffee shop. In the grey tee, of course, but with jeans this time.

There was a fact box about his family—the wealth, the travel bug they all had—briefly profiling his two brothers as well, labelling the three ‘the Wolves of Manhattan'. Then the main thrust of the article caught her attention. A tabloid piece from a gossip site, the main ‘source' was a woman who couldn't contain her enthusiasm for James.

My Night With The Scarred Hero.

...He's as generous in bed as he is in his rescue missions. A strong, loving partner who gives a woman his all... He's so fit I could hardly keep up. He had me seven times in the one night, I've never known a man to have such stamina. He didn't seem to want to sleep at all...

Oh my. Caitlin looked up to gauge his reaction.

‘It's embarrassing,' he muttered. ‘Fiction.'

Determined to stifle her smile, she tapped her fingers on the edge of the iPad and surveyed him. ‘So she's making up how great you are in bed?'

‘Well...' He laughed uneasily. ‘It's just not something you want to see in print, you know.'

‘Some guys would love that.' Most guys she could think of, in fact.

‘I'm not some guy.' He frowned and then sighed. ‘I was already...popular, if you like. I come from a wealthy family. I've got all my limbs...'

And he was so hot it was unreal. Plus he was clever, and a good conversationalist. He knew how to look at a woman. Then there was that edge. She'd seen it that first night, caught glimpses of it since. The dangerous glint, the possibility of strength, determination—he was capable of taking charge.
Control
.