Blackthorne: Heart of Fame, Book 8 (9 page)

Caitlin blinked, feet stumbling to a halt.

She listened to Ira Tibbs recite his contact number, confusion mingling with disbelief.

What interaction? Surely to God, no one knew she’d kissed Blackthorne, did they? Surely to God the guy hadn’t told anyone? Had he?

Hot guilt and something else, something much more carnal, razed through her. Something like…primitive victory.

From caveman days, every woman wanted the best of the male species to desire her whether they admitted it or not. Caitlin knew that from her university social psychology classes. And Josh Blackthorne truly
was
the epitome of physical, carnal perfection.
And
he wanted her. He’d kissed her. And now it seemed the world knew it.

Oh God, why did that idea excite her? Even as it terrified and repulsed her?

Fixing her towel around her breasts, she hurried the rest of the distance to the phone where it sat on a lamp table beside her sofa. Shocked at the little LED numbers telling her she had fourteen messages—
fourteen
—she stabbed at the play button on the answering service.

“Hi, Ms. Reynolds,” a chirpy female voice emanated from the speaker. “This is Cindy Winslow. I’m the entertainment reporter with
The Sydney Morning Herald
and I’d love to discuss what happened between you and Josh Blackthorne last night at your club.”

As was the case with Ira Tibbs, Cindy Winslow left a number Caitlin could contact her on.

And, as she had after listening to Ira Tibbs, Caitlin stood dumbstruck, a disquieting sense of puzzlement and feminine triumph licking through her.

“What the—”

Before she could finish murmuring the expletive, the next message began.

“Ms. Reynolds, this is Eleanor Carter, the executive producer of Channel Seven’s
Sunrise
program. We saw what happened between you and Josh Blackthorne last night at your club and we are wondering if you would like to come in and share your side of the story with our viewers on Monday? Please call me back to discuss what we might do to help you come to a decision.”

Another contact number. This time, however, Caitlin didn’t stare at her phone stunned. She stood frozen, her heart a wild sledgehammer, her pulse equally crazy in her throat.

Did Eleanor Carter say she’d
seen
what had happened?

Caitlin’s mouth went dry. Her belly knotted.

The memory of Blackthorne’s kiss on the dance floor, of her own far-from-reluctant and not-passive response to that kiss sent a flush of wicked heat through her.

A soft whimper of dismay escaped her lips.

Saw
? How could they
see
? Who at her club would have released the CCTV footage of that kiss? Who had access to the footage apart from her and Zach?
Was
there footage? Hadn’t she turned the security system off before exiting her office?

Or had she been so…so…out of sorts thanks to her traitorous reaction to Josh Blackthorne she’d forgotten?

Oh God, if there was footage of her kissing Josh Blackthorne, how would she explain it to Matt’s parents? How would she—

“This is Rodney Surtees from the
Today
radio network, Ms. Reynolds,” the next message on her machine announced, Surtees’s voice a deep, gravelly growl. “Please call me about your confrontation with the singer Josh Blackthorne on the footpath outside your club last night. We are willing to pay you for your side of the—”

Caitlin stabbed her finger against the end button on her answering machine, killing Surtees’ blunt invitation.

Silence fell over her living room, thick and oppressive.

Outside
.

The word whispered through her head, at once bringing relief and frustrated disbelief.

Outside. Rodney Surtees wanted to talk to her about her run-in with Josh Blackthorne
outside
her club, when she thought he was just a guy trying to cash in on his similarity to a celebrity. When she’d refused him and his friend—the
real
Rhys McDowell, as it turned out—entry into the Chaos Room.

Not
the kiss he’d stolen on the dance floor.
Not
the kiss she’d returned like a horny freaking teenager finding heaven in the arms of the hottest guy in the room.

The confrontation. Her talking to him like he was a wanker, him proving her wrong.

Captured on the smartphones of those waiting to get into the club, it seemed.

Captured, loaded onto Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and God knew what other social media platform for all the world to see.

A prickling pressure crept up the back of Caitlin’s neck. Her knotted belly twisted some more. Publically humiliated. She’d been publically humiliated. And she had no one to blame but herself.

She should have known better. The moment those waiting to get into the club had started taking photos of her and Blackthorne, she should have known better. She should have remembered how quickly those kinds of images made it into the media.

Like they had when Matt went missing. When people photographed you crying alone in the park, or as you left Parliament House with Matt’s parents after being told another lead had been a false alarm.

The media were kind to her then, even if heartless people on the street weren’t. Considerate and sympathetic. Would they be the same now? Especially given Josh Blackthorne was a national golden boy, born from Australian music royalty? Would they remember who she was in regards to the missing Australian doctor lost to a militant attack in Somalia? How could they not, given her name,
Matt’s
name, was raised by the media whenever there was strife in Somalia on the news?

Grief and guilt sheared through Caitlin, dark and mocking.

She stared at her answering machine, its blinking light telling her there were still eleven unheard messages waiting for her attention.

Eleven.

Would they all be similar to the four she’d just heard? Members of the media wanting to talk to her about the fool she’d made of herself outside her own club?

Turning from the small black device, she dropped into the nearby sofa. “Oh God,” she muttered. “Oh God.”

She hated this. The uncertainty, the attention, the time wasting…her lack of courage.

She’d prided herself on being strong, on not breaking Matt’s parent’s hearts with the truth of her relationship with their son. On
not
crumpling into a puddle of confused misery when Matt’s disappearance continued. But the idea of being hounded by the media to talk about Josh Blackthorne turned her belly to jelly and her pulse to a thumping tattoo in her neck. Talking about him meant she was thinking about him, and she didn’t
want
to think about him.

She
wanted
to think about—

Her phone burst into life at her elbow and she let out a squeal.

“Oh
God
,” she muttered a third time, this time with disgust.

Shooting the annoying thing a dark glare, she ground her teeth. She was going to put this insanity to rest once and for all. Whoever was on the other end desperate for the story of her and Blackthorne was going to get it—that she hadn’t recognized him on the footpath, after she realized who he was she’d let him in and he spent the rest of the night in the club buying everyone drinks. And that she had no plans to see him again.

A simple, truthful interview to end any speculation.

Giving her head a determined nod, she snatched up the hand piece and rammed it to her head. “This is Caitlin Reynolds,” she snapped, transferring her glare to the morning sunshine flooding into her living room through her gauzy curtains. “And before you ask, no Josh Blackthorne and I do
not
know each other, are
not
in any kind of relationship and I have no plans on changing that…or of seeing him again.”

“Well, that kinda sucks,” a deep, smooth familiar male voice chuckled in her ear, “given I’m hoping you’ll agree to let me take you to breakfast this morning.”

The blood drained from Caitlin’s face.

“And as for not being in a relationship with me,” Josh Blackthorne went on, more laughter in his voice, “I
did
buy you a drink last night. Does that count?”

Caitlin swallowed, her mouth dry. Not just because she’d made a total fool of herself—
again
—but because the second his voice has caressed her senses, her body had gone into sexual hyper-awareness.

Her nipples pinched tight, the pit of her belly fluttered, her breath caught and the junction of her thighs contracted.

Pulsed.

Grew heavy and hot and eager.

Oh God. For the third time.

Chapter Seven

He didn’t expect her to say yes. Why would she? Especially after what he was seeing on the morning news programs and in the newspapers—images and footage of him and her facing each other down on the sidewalk outside her club, guarded uncertainty in her face, an arrogant smirk on his.

Yeah, like she was going to agree to spend any more time with him.

But here he was, calling her now.

He had no other choice. The moment his conversation with Zach Chapman had ended, he’d felt compelled to hear her voice.

Without consideration or contemplation, he’d acted on that compulsion. He’d played soccer the same way back when he’d been Sydney’s highest paid striker—without consideration or contemplation, just on instinct. Instinct had told him when to attack and take possession of the ball, when to shoot and score.

He wasn’t hoping to take possession of Caitlin Reynolds, not now, knowing what he did about her missing fiancé. Nor did he want to score—not in the way he’d originally wanted when he’d first laid eyes on her. But he couldn’t ignore the driving need to talk to her.

To see the smile he’d only fleetingly glimpsed last night.

A smile that stirred inside him a rhythm that had teased him all last night.

“Breakfast,” he said when she didn’t answer. His blood roared in his ears. “At the Rocks Café?”

Silence stretched over the connection.

“Or maybe just coffee?” he continued, pulse growing quicker. “At the nearest Starbucks?”

More silence.

“Would you go for a bottle of water at McDonalds?”

The sound of her laughter, soft and almost reluctant, sent a wave of joy through him. Relief flowed through his muscles like liquid. He closed his eyes and then opened them again at the sound of the door of his apartment opening.

“Oi!” Rhys called, his voice rising above the music playing in Josh’s living room. “Where the hell are you, Blackthorne? Time to open up, loser, ’cause I scored big time last—”

Josh spun away from the open concertina doors separating the balcony from his living room. Damn it, had Caitlin heard his best mate? “I’ll pick you up in half an hour,” he blurted into the phone, all too aware she hadn’t actually said yes to his breakfast request.

“On two provisos,” she answered back.

Fresh relief washed through him, pooling in his groin. Fuck, he was going to have to do something about that. Listening to her voice made him somewhat horny. “What’s that?”

Behind him, making his way through the apartment, Rhys began describing in minute detail and a triumphant shout, what had transpired between him, the pneumatic blonde from the nightclub and her very buff boyfriend.

“You don’t try to kiss me again,” Caitlin instructed, not a hint of jest in the words. “And you don’t flirt with me. Deal?”

“Deal,” he agreed without hesitation. “We will have the most platonically beige breakfast two people who’ve kissed each other senseless can ever have.”

“If you’re going to—”

“Half an hour,” he said before she could retract her acceptance. Damn it, why the hell couldn’t he play it cool like a normal bloke? “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

And before she could protest, he disconnected. Just as Rhys slapped him on the back, damn near sending him over the railing as he did so.

“So.” His best friend grinned at him, hair a mess, shirt unbuttoned, the dark bruise of a hickey marking the side of his muscular throat. “Did you score?”

Josh tossed him a look. His heart was hammering in his chest, a wild beat that would rival Noah’s insane work on drums. “Nope. Gotta go.”

He turned from the rail and hurried into his living room.

“Whoa, whoa whoa,” Rhys called after him. Josh didn’t need to turn to know his best mate was following him. “Wait up. You gotta go? Where? And you didn’t score? Since when does
the
Josh Blackthorne not score?”

Josh tossed him a grin over his shoulder. “Since last night. Since I found out Caitlin is engaged to a doctor.”

Rhys paused mid pursuit. “Engaged? Whoa.”

Continuing to his bedroom, Josh scanned the room for his boots. Where were they?

“So who you going to see now?”

Without looking at Rhys, he answered. “Caitlin.”

Rhys dropped onto the end of the bed. “So you didn’t score with her last night, she’s engaged to a doctor and you’re going to see her now?”

Still looking for his boots, Josh nodded.

“Whoa,” Rhys repeated.

Giving up in his search for a moment, Josh fixed his friend with a puzzled frown. “That’s five whoas. What’s the deal?”

Rhys shrugged, an unreadable light in his eyes. “Never seen you so worked up over a girl you’re not trying to get into the sack is all.”

A tight knot twisted in Josh’s stomach. “Who says I’m not trying to get her in the sack?”

Rhys’s responding laugh bounced around the room. “You
are
prone to bouts of conceited narcissism, Blackthorne—have been that way since we were kids—and you’ve only gotten worse since you hit it big. But you’re not a bastard. If Caitlin Reynolds is engaged, you’re not going to make a move. It’s one of the reasons I still put up with your pretty-boy prima-donna shit.” He grinned, that unreadable light gleaming brighter in his eyes. “Now
me
on the other hand, would go after someone off-limits like a fucking dog to a bone. ’Cause I’m a selfish prick who exists for pleasure and satisfaction.”

It was Josh’s turn to laugh. “That you are, McDowell. It’s one of the reasons I love you. Now shut the fuck up and help me find my boots. I told Caitlin I would pick her up in half an hour and I’ve wasted five minutes talking to you.”

Stretching his arms above his head in a display of melodramatic languor, Rhys flopped back onto the bed and spread his legs. “Nope. You owe me a blowjob. You lost. I won. I don’t make the rules. I just have to live by them.” He moved his hand to his fly and tugged open the zipper. “Get to it, boyo.”

“You
do
make the rules, fuck-knuckle,” Josh responded, returning to his search for his boots. Where the hell were they? “And it’s not going to happen. Ahh, there they are.”

He strode to the en suite, scooped up his boots from beside the toilet, turned and threw one at Rhys, still stretched flat on his back on the bed.

It hit his best mate right in the middle of the stomach.

“Now that’s a score.” Josh chuckled as Rhys jack-knifed into a laughing ball around Josh’s boot.

“Bloody spoil sport.” Rhys threw the boot back at him with a smirk. “You owe me one.”

Snatching the air-born boot mid trajectory, he snorted. “Yeah, yeah. You wish.” He shoved his foot into his boot, hopping about on one leg—his good one, thankfully—as he did so in an awkward dance. “There’s fresh groceries being delivered in a few minutes, so make sure you’re decent when they arrive.”

“I’m always decent,” Rhys protested, once again lying flat on his back, the devil in his voice.

Josh rolled his eyes. “Of course you are.”

Rhys chuckled, staring at the ceiling as he scratched his bare stomach with lazy strokes. “Is this what you do when you’re not scoring with an engaged woman? Online grocery shopping?”

Josh smirked at his friend. “Gotta find something to do with my hands, right? Don’t forget to put the cold stuff in the fridge. I bought milk, bacon and eggs, so you should be okay for a few hours. Oh, and that disgusting protein powder you exist on when you’re in training.”

“You’re a prince, Joshua Robbins-Blackthorne,” Rhys crooned, waving a hand above his head with regal indulgence. “A prince. Now fuck off to your untouchable girl. I’ll be waiting for that blowjob when you get back.”

With a snort, and a grin, Josh left his bedroom. He found his wallet and his apartment keys, stuffed them into his back pocket along with his mobile phone and closed the door to his Sydney home on his way out.

Rhys was one of the best soccer players the world had met, but Josh knew him well. He’d be in a hangover-induced coma before Josh reached the apartment complex’s foyer.

“Mr. Blackthorne—” the complex’s residential concierge hurried over to him as he exited the lift on the ground floor, “—can I help you with anything?”

Josh gave the man—who, by his own admission, was his father’s biggest fan—a warm smile. “Two things, Demetri. I need a taxi ASAP, and there are groceries being delivered to my apartment any moment now. Can you make sure they get to my kitchen and the cold stuff is packed away if Rhys is catatonic, please?”

Demetri nodded. “Yes, sir. Easily done. But are you sure you want a taxi? I can arrange a limousine for you within the—”

Josh shook his head. “A taxi is perfect, Demetri. I’m going to try and keep low today.”

The concierge chortled. “With the number of times I’ve seen you and that pretty girl’s face on telly this morning, keeping low may be tricky.”

Before Josh could respond, Demetri strode over to his counter and picked up the phone, leaving Josh to stand and wait with an image of the
pretty girl
in his head.

Scrubbing at his hair with his fingers, he frowned. What
was
he doing? Breakfast with Caitlin Reynolds? To achieve what? Wasn’t he just torturing himself by constant exposure to her company? Their time together last night, their kiss, was enough to tell him he wanted something he couldn’t have, and yet here he was now, heading to her home to subject himself to more of that which was off-limits.

Why?

“Your taxi, Mr. Blackthorne.”

Demetri’s affable declaration pulled him from the puzzling contemplation.

“Thanks, Demetri.” He handed the concierge a hundred dollar note. Tipping wasn’t a thing in Australia, but he spent so much of his time in the US now it had become second nature to him.

The taxi ride to Caitlin’s home in Woolloomooloo took longer than he wanted it to. The driver was a chatty guy who recognized Josh from his soccer days. He spent the entire trip dissecting every game Josh had played for Sydney and Australia, his enthusiasm for the sport filling Josh with a bittersweet joy. Josh missed playing soccer. Missed not limping almost as much. But fate had decided this was the way his life was to be and he was rolling with it. In the same way fate had decided the first woman who’d truly stirred something deep inside him was engaged to a missing doctor.

It sucked, but he was rolling with that as well. What other option did he have?

All he could do now was play the hand he’d been dealt, rock Caitlin’s socks off with his unplugged charity performance and hopefully give her a reason to smile, to find a moment of respite from the uncertain anguish fate had dealt
her
.

“That’ll be thirty-seven fifty, Mr. Blackthorne,” the taxi driver announced on arrival of the address Josh had supplied, an address Liev Reynolds had given Josh only forty-eight hours ago.

Handing over a fifty, Josh cast the small apartment building on the other side of his window a quick look. Caitlin lived in apartment 7C on the sixth floor. Would she be waiting for him? Would she let him in?

“By the way,” the taxi driver said, drawing Josh’s attention back to him. He was twisted around in the driver’s seat, a curious frown on his seamed face as he looked at Josh. “What’ve you been up to since your injury took you out of the game?”

Josh laughed. “Not much. Play a bit of music from time to time.”

The driver pulled a face. “That sucks. Any chance your knee is going to let you return to the field?”

“I’m afraid not, mate.” Josh opened his door and climbed out into the warm summer morning air, leaning back into the cab a little to give his driver a smile. “I’m afraid not. Thanks.”

“No worries, Mr. Blackthorne.” The driver grinned, showing nicotine-stained teeth. “Wait until I tell me mates I had Josh Blackthorne in me cab. They’re gonna be spitting jealous.”

Josh let his smile stretch wider. “Better than having Rhys McDowell in your cab?”

His driver burst out laughing. “Fuck no. He still plays.”

Josh couldn’t stop his own laugh. “Take care, mate,” he said, straightening as he closed his door with a thud. “Have a good one.”

“You too, Mr. Blackthorne.” More nicotine-stained teeth flashed at him. “And you keep a hold of that pretty girl I saw you in the paper with. I remember her from when her bloke got attacked by militants somewhere overseas. She could do with a nice bloke in her life.”

Before Josh could reply, the taxi pulled away from the curb, its vacant light illuminating a few yards down the street.

Josh raised his eyebrows. “Well, if I ever decide to go after Caitlin, at least I’ve got
that
guy’s blessings.”

Turning away from the road, he looked up at Caitlin’s apartment building and scrubbed his palms on his thighs. A knot of something tight and hot twisted in his gut.

Nerves.

Jesus, he was nervous.

He hadn’t been this nervous when, at the age of fifteen, he’d unexpectedly found his rock idol, Nick Blackthorne, in the kitchen of his home. He’d worshipped Nick since he was just a kid. He’d been excited beyond description to find the living legend in his home. And then completely blown away to discover, only a few hours later, that Nick was his father.

That day had changed his life. Changed everything.

Was this day going to be the same?

Swiping a hand over his mouth, he sucked in a deep breath, straightened his shoulders and walked toward Caitlin’s building.

Apartment 7C.

He found her place with ease. There was no building security, nor locked doors to deal with. Just a flight of stairs leading to the sixth floor and a long corridor leading to a door painted in cheery orange, with an equally cheery flame-pink metal 7C screwed onto the wood just above the spy hole.

He studied the door, noting the fake dog door big enough for a Chihuahua drawn in what looked like magic marker at the bottom. The whole thing was overtly happy and it stirred up the nerves in his stomach some more. Along with something else.

Something like…sympathy.

How hard was it for Caitlin to approach that cheery door every day knowing the life she’d planned on the other side had been stolen from her?