Blackthorne: Heart of Fame, Book 8 (13 page)

“Because I wanted to make you smile.”

Her lips parted. A tiny gasp escaped her. She looked up at him, her eyes wide.

“Caitlin?”

“I think you should leave now, Josh.”

Her request, spoken with such calm, such seriousness, slammed into him like a fist. He blinked, a cold lick of confusion tracing up his spine. “Why?”

“Because right at this very moment, I want you to make love to me so badly, I don’t care that I only found out twenty-four hours ago my fiancé was killed by militants.”

His head roared. His throat grew thick. His body thrummed.

The urge to step forward, to cup her face and claim her lips as his, once and for all, flooded through him, more potent and compelling than any instinct he’d ever had. To do exactly what she wanted him to do, make love to her.

Instead, he stood rooted to the spot. He couldn’t move.

Not towards her, but holy fuck, not away from her either.

“Please, Josh,” she said, holding his stare. “I need you to go.”

Summoning more willpower than he thought he had, he nodded. “Okay.”

He placed his toast on the counter and turned. Strode from the kitchen, through her living room to the door.

“Josh?”

He paused at her call but didn’t turn. If he did, if he looked back at her and saw need in her eyes, saw desire in their striking-blue depths, he’d never leave.

He’d walk straight back to her, pick her up, deposit her on the kitchen counter and proceed to make her his. Thoroughly, completely and irrevocably. “Yes?”

“I’ll call you later,” she said. “About the performance.”

“You will?” Damn it, why did his heart have to skip a beat at her words.

“I will.” He heard the smile in her voice. “I think it’s an incredible idea.”

He closed his eyes, only just saving himself the embarrassment of running back to her and begging her to let him stay by the simple act of turning the door knob. “I’m glad,” he said, picturing her standing behind him. “Talk soon.”

He walked through the door and closed it behind him.

He made it to the foyer, six flights of stairs down, without looking back. She didn’t come after him.

His gut churned at the fact, a surreal mix of disappointment and pride. How was it possible to be so mixed-up and yet so clear on something? It made no sense and made all the sense in the world. It was the stuff of songs, and when he got back to his apartment, he would write it down. If Rhys was still there, his best mate would just have to play on the X-Box or, fuck, maybe even make them lunch. When he got back to his apartment, he was putting everything he felt for Caitlin Reynolds into lyrics.

It was the closest he could get to telling her. And maybe one day, in the coming months, or maybe at the unplugged performance itself, she’d get to hear it and not hate what
she
felt for him.

Not hate herself for feeling it.

Maybe. If he was—

Josh pulled open the foyer door and froze.

Half a dozen paparazzi ran at him, cameras raised, flashes firing. In amongst them, more than one television news reporter shoved their microphones in his direction.

“Blackthorne, how long have you been seeing Caitlin Reynolds?”

“Did you know her fiancé is dead?”

“Were you two having an affair while the doctor was still alive?”

The questions came, hard, fast, non-stop. The cameras flashed. The microphones stabbed at him.

He stumbled back a step, his injured knee choosing that moment to give out. His arms flailed, his elbows whacking the doorframe, his hip bouncing off it with a painful thud.

Jesus.

Spinning on his heel, he staggered back into the foyer and slammed the door shut.

Jesus.

Outside, the horde continued to shout questions.

He sucked in a quick breath and another. He had to get them out of here. He had to get them away from Caitlin’s apartment. ASAP.

Jesus.

He yanked his phone out of his back pocket and dialed Rhys.

“Dude.” His friend laughed into his ear. “Where the fuck are you? You’re all over the news. Did you know someone from the government made an announcement last night that your honey’s doctor of a fiancé is—”

“McDowell,” Josh cut him off, eyes squeezed shut, back pressed to the door. “I need you to do me a favour.”

“Fuck.” Shock registered in Rhys’s voice. “You okay? You sound stressed.”

“The paparazzi have me cornered at Caitlin’s place. And the media. I need you to come get me. Now. I want to draw them away from her. I want you to be your normal self and grab all the attention. Think you can do that?”

“Sure thing, dude. Where does she live?”

Josh gave his friend Caitlin’s address. “Get your arse here ASAP, Rhys.”

“Be there in ten.”

Josh blinked. “Ten?”

Rhys laughed. “I’m at the Tilbury Hotel, you lucky bastard. I’m having breakfast with the captain of the Socceroos. Hey, want me to bring him?”

“Rhys,” Josh growled.

His friend laughed. “Yeah, yeah. On my way, pretty boy. Be ready to run at the sound of the horn.”

The conversation over, Josh shoved his mobile back into his pocket, leant harder against the door and raked his hands through his hair.

And to think he’d come back to Australia to escape the madness of a stalker?

“Jesus,” he muttered with a wry chuckle.

Chapter Eleven

Caitlin knew she was meant to be grieving more for Matt. She knew that. But the tears for him that had wet her cheeks on the dance floor of the Chaos Room ten nights ago while being held by Josh Blackthorne were the last she’d shed.

Every morning since then, ten mornings in fact, she woke and lay in bed, waiting for the pain to claim her again.

It never did. There was a numb place in her heart for Matt she suspected would always be there, a bruise she didn’t think would go away, but the grief she’d experienced in the club had gone.

Every night since she’d found solace in Josh’s arms, in the tender warmth of his platonic embrace, she’d waited for the memories of Matt to assault her, to haunt her dreams.

They never did. Instead, she would lie in her bed and, no matter how often she tried to think of Matt, her thoughts would turn to the rock star who’d held her when she needed him to and left when she’d asked him to.

If Caitlin believed in Hell, she was certain she was heading for it.

A person didn’t recover from a loss like this. They didn’t.

And yet during the last ten days, she’d discovered she was ready to move on. She had, in fact, been ready for a long time.

She’d also discovered—via a hasty apology from the Federal Minister for Foreign Affairs the morning after she’d returned from Canberra—that someone from the government had sent out a press statement about Matt’s death not yet approved for release.

In the last ten days, she’d also learnt how nasty the media could be when they thought a story was there to dig up.

She’d stopped answering her home phone and any unknown or blocked number on her mobile. It was only members of the media wanting to know how long she and Josh Blackthorne had been having an affair, wanting to know if Josh’s charity performance at the club for the Doctors Without Borders was still going to take place given the revelation of their secret, wanting to know if she and Josh were going to get married.

The only calls she took now were those from Zach, her parents, her uncle and Josh.

A day hadn’t passed since she’d asked Josh to leave her apartment that they hadn’t spoken.

She’d called him that evening, asking for details about the performance. They’d talked long into the night, first about the unplugged concert he’d planned, then about the article Mackenzie Rogers was writing, and then about…stuff. Just stuff. Before she knew it, it was almost two a.m. and they were still talking. Somewhere in the hours between her saying hello to him and bringing the conversation to an end, she must have done some serious smiling, because her cheeks had ached when she’d plugged her phone in to charge.

The next day, she’d called him about when the article was going to be published. Three hours later, she’d ended the call promising she
would
watch his favourite movie,
Shaun of the Dead
. She’d almost asked him to join her. Almost. The invitation had danced on the tip of her tongue, but then she’d remembered the way he’d pulled away from her kiss on the footpath outside the Chaos Room, remembered the unreadable expression in his eyes as he’d told her she had to grieve, and she’d bitten back the words.

The next day, he’d called her, asking her what her favourite non-Synergy and Blackthorne songs were. When she laughingly told him anything by Justin Bieber, he’d told her he was never speaking to her again and hung up.

She’d laughed, counted to one hundred and called him back. “Okay,” she’d chuckled. “Anything by Miley Cyrus.”

They’d played that game for the day. She would make an outlandish claim, he would hang up in mock horror. He would declare the unthinkable—her favourite was that Zac Ephron was a better actor than Joseph Gordon-Levitt—and she would end the conversation with a gasp. By that night, as she settled on her sofa to watch
Shaun of the Dead
, she realized she hadn’t thought of Matt once.

And so the ten days went that way.

Ten days of being hounded by the media and paparazzi, of being harassed by them so much she didn’t dare go to work, of letting her answering machine take her calls until she’d finally decided it was better to just disconnect the damn thing.

Ten days of her mum and dad wanting to come and comfort her, of her dad telling her Matt was in a better place, that it was time to move on. Ten days of him calling often to subtly tell her he didn’t approve at all of her seeing a musician. “Not that you are, Caity,” he’d say halfway through each conversation. “I know you have better taste than that, but all these gossip magazines keep talking about the fact he was in your club, and showing photos of you talking. I know you’ve been lonely, and now that Matt…well, I know you’re not interested in that Blackthorne guy, but you know, people talk…”

Ten days of that, and ten days of Uncle L calling her to tell her he loved her and to not give a rat’s arse what the media was saying about her. “They’re vicious, kiddo,” he’d remind her. “Don’t let them hurt you. The people who care about you, who love you won’t believe or care what the bastards say. They’ll still care for you, still love you, okay?”

Ten days of sympathy cards sent to her by friends who’d heard of her loss and, just like Uncle L said,
didn’t
care what the media were saying about her and Josh.

Ten days of talking to Josh on the phone.

Talking with him.

Laughing with him, despite the distance between them.

Ten days.

Caitlin was going insane.

Which was why, on the eleventh morning, she stood in front of her bathroom mirror, her hair wet, water beading on her body, and made a decision.

Walking from her bathroom, she crossed to her mobile where it sat beside her bed, picked it up and dialed Josh’s number.

“Caitlin,” he answered on the second ring, the smile in his voice warming her heart.

She grinned. The junction between her thighs throbbed. Her nipples grew hard. “What are you doing tonight?”

“As far as I know,” he said, curious hesitancy drawing out the words, “watching reruns of
Sleepy Hollow
on the telly. Why?”

Caitlin closed her eyes. The throb between her thighs increased. Of course he would be watching her favourite show. Of course. She swallowed. Her heart beat faster. “Would you like to watch them here? With me?”

Silence stretched through the connection.

Caitlin’s heart thumped faster. God, what if he said no? “While eating lasagna?” she added, wincing at the uncertainty in her voice.

“What time?”

The question set off a frisson of base joy inside her. “Six okay?”

“Five would be better.”

“Get here any time after four,” she answered. Her belly knotted. Her breasts grew heavy, round with impatient need.

“What about any time
before
four?”

She caught her bottom lip. Pressed her thighs together. “
Now
would be perfect.”

Another stretch of silence filled the connection.

Caitlin swallowed. “Josh?”

“I’ll bring the garlic bread.”

And before she could utter another word, he hung up.

Nerves shot through Caitlin. A ribbon of tension unfurled through her. Fear, apprehension and excitement made it hard to breathe. She placed her phone on the bedside drawer, stared at it for a moment, rubbed her palms on her damp thighs and swallowed.

He was on his way. Josh Blackthorne was on his way here.

A thumping lump filled her throat.

Oh God. What…what had she done?

What if she…it had been so long. Over eight months…and she…

“Oh God,” she murmured.

Spinning on her heel, she ran back to the bathroom.

With a whimper of desperation, she snatched up her toothbrush, stared at it. No, she’d already cleaned her teeth. She needed to…

Her stare moved to the mirror, her chest heaving from her ragged breaths.

Her reflection watched her, horrified and bemused excitement burning in her eyes.

“Oh God,” she groaned. “What am I…?”

Eight months.

Eight months since anyone but herself had seen her undressed. Eight months since any hands but her own had touched her.

Pulse pounding, she ran a gaze over the naked woman looking back at her from the mirror.

She wasn’t a twig. She had flesh on her, curves. And muscle under those curves. In the last eight months she’d done a lot of working out…and a lot of chocolate eating. What if Josh didn’t like…what if he…

Her gaze fell to the dark nest of curls at the junction of her thighs and a soft cry escaped her.

Oh God, when was the last time she’d trimmed?

She looked like a hairy gorilla.

Another cry slipped from her.

Oh God, what was she doing? What was she
doing
?

With a hard stare at her reflection, she yanked open the vanity cabinet’s second drawer, withdrew a new razor and then, jaw bunched, turned on her heel and crossed to her shower.

A few minutes later—eight, to be exact, a strangely appropriate amount of time, when she thought about it—she stepped from the shower. She crossed to the window, wiped away the steam clouding the surface with a swipe of her hand and inspected her work.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”

Her belly knotted. Her breath grew shallow. Her breasts seemed to grow rounder, heavier. Her sex throbbed.

She met her eyes in the mirror. Saw her fear in their depths.

Saw her excitement.

“Okay,” she murmured.

With a slow, deep breath, she left the bathroom.

It took her longer to decide what to wear than logic dictated. She discarded more than one set of underpants and bra. She rejected more than one pair of shorts and T-shirt, more than one summer shift, more than one maxi dress.

When a knock sounded on her apartment door, she was still standing in her underwear, glaring at her open closet.

She froze. A horde of insane butterflies took flight in her tummy. Her pussy contracted.

“Oh no.” The words fell from her on a breath.

The knock came again.

She snapped her stare back to her closet. At the clothes within it.

“
Fuck
,” she ground out. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

What
was
she
doing
?

At the sound on knuckles once again rapping on her door, she reached into the closet, grabbed the first thing her brain registered being in there—a simple emerald-green sleeveless shift that hugged her breasts and hips and fell in soft waves to her mid thighs—yanked it over her head and ran from her room.

Why she had not yet exploded into a frenzied mess of nerves and excitement and terror was beyond her.

“Caitlin?”

At the sound of Josh’s voice—laced with concern—coming from the other side of the door, she hissed in a breath.

“Are you there?”

She stopped. Closed her eyes. Centred herself. Straightened her shoulders, rolled her neck, shook out her hands.

Okay. You can do this…

Opening her eyes, she closed her fingers around the doorknob and opened her door.

Josh smiled at her from the other side, looking like every sexual fantasy she’d ever had.

He wore black jeans and a T-shirt adorned with a Mohawk-sporting R2-D2. Both emphasized the muscular perfection of his body beneath. His hair hung around his face, an artful mess of dark waves, the dark stubble of his five o’clock shadow highlighting the squareness of his jaw, defining lips she ached to feel on her own. His eyes smoldered with open desire.

“You look beautiful,” he stated.

She smiled, heat filling her cheeks. “Thank you.”

He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t move.

Inside Caitlin’s belly, the butterflies whipped about in a crazy flurry. She stared at him, the open hunger in his eyes sending waves of tight urgency into her sex.

Dropping her gaze to his empty hands, she frowned. “Did you bring the garlic bread?”

He shook his head. “No. I brought this instead.”

With a single step, he crossed her threshold, snaked his arm around her waist and pulled her to his body, crushing his lips to hers.

He swept his tongue into her mouth, clicked his teeth against hers. She whimpered, burying her hands in his hair as she opened up to him completely.

Liquid heat pooled in her core. She pressed her hips to his, the rigid length of his arousal nudging her belly making her head swim.

When Josh balled his hand at the small of her back, bunching her dress in a tight fist as he kicked the door shut behind him, it was all Caitlin could do
not
to crumple in a puddle of wanton delight at his feet.

His desire for her turned the air in her lungs hot. The ferocity of his kiss sent raw need through her veins.

He walked deeper into her apartment, his lips never leaving hers. She went with him, willingly trusting him as he propelled her backwards into her living room. Her arse struck the back of her sofa, the sturdy piece of furniture bringing them to a halt.

Josh didn’t stop his assault on her lips however. He nipped them with his teeth, sucked on her bottom lip, plundered her mouth with his tongue. She groaned, wave after wave of exquisite heat rushing through her. She scraped her nails over his scalp, meeting his fervor with her own. The soft scratch of his beard on her chin and tip of her nose sent shards of wicked delight into the pit of her belly, a primitively carnal reaction to a thoroughly masculine contact.

Josh’s hand left the back of her dress, raking over her hip, up her ribcage, to her breast. He palmed the heavy swell of flesh, dragging his thumb over her erect nipple so many times Caitlin forgot to breathe.

God, it felt so good. So good, so right, so perfect.

Nipping at her lips again, he moved his other hand—previously tangled in her hair—down to her thigh. His fingers skimmed the back of her leg, a teasing caress that became a possessive grip as he tugged her knee high to the side of his hip.

Without delay, he ground his jeans-trapped erection to her newly spread sex, journeying his mouth up to her ear as he continued to knead and massage her breast.