Knowing the Score (7 page)

“I know. She’s huge, isn’t she?”

Even two years after she’d died, he still sometimes referred to her in the present tense, Caitlyn noticed. She was just as real to him today as she was when she’d been alive.

“I wish you could’ve seen them together.” He grinned. “They were a right pair.”

He settled his butt back against the back of the couch, his shirt pulling tight across his muscular chest. “She was larger than life in every way possible. I once saw her heave a sick calf over her shoulders and carry it uphill to the local vet. And she handled all the business aspects of the pub so Granddad could focus on cooking.”

What would it be like to be cloaked in such a beautiful family history? To grow up seeing the people you loved the most take care of each other, and to spend more of one’s childhood laughing than preparing for the next crisis? She reached the boundaries of her imagination here. She could envisage all the possible effects of an earthquake or hurricane and plan accordingly; she couldn’t picture what it was like to be in a loving relationship.

Spencer closed the album and slid it onto the bookshelf. Reaching out, he tucked a curl behind Caitlyn’s ear. “You sure you’re all right? You seem subdued.”

“Probably just the wine.” She lifted her glass, as if it were evidence.
See?
I
have wine.
Hence subdued.

His gaze flicked down to her lips, which seemed suddenly Saharan dry so she wet them. Spencer’s nostrils twitched as he breathed deeply. He settled his hands on her hips, pulling her forward until mere centimeters separated their bodies. Hands full of wine and Granny, Caitlyn struggled for a second until finally deciding to wrap her arms around his waist. Maybe concentrating on not spilling would focus her mind away from Seth’s haunting words.

But no. Spencer lowered his mouth, his lips settling gently on hers, and the mocking voice returned.
If you can’t even figure out how to kiss
,
who would want to fuck you?
You’ll probably lay there like a corpse and be just as shitty at fucking as you are at kissing.

Caitlyn’s whole body seized. The crunch of shattering glass reached her before she registered wetness on her hand. Slashing pain swiftly followed as Spencer thrust her away from him and cursed. Stunned, she blinked down at the shards that used to be a wineglass clutched in her tight fist. The sauvignon blanc now resembled rosé as it dripped onto Spencer’s granny’s photo.

“Oh, shit,” she muttered, settling the picture frame onto the bookshelf with jerky movements.

“Don’t move.” Spencer’s hard voice cut through the fog of unreality. He jogged away from her as she stared in horror at Lillian’s bloody face. She frantically searched for anything to wipe up the blood before it reached the edge of the glass and seeped under.

Nothing except a cream-colored couch.

She rushed to the bathroom, choking down nausea and ripping wads of toilet paper off the roll with her left hand while her right still clung on to glass. The pain tore through her but her brain told her it would be worse the second she relaxed her hand.

“Caitlyn!”

Gathering her courage and the toilet paper, Caitlyn ran back to the booming voice. Without peeking at what must be two hundred and twenty pounds of furious male, she rubbed the frame’s glass face with the paper. “It’s okay—it’ll be okay.”

“Leave that. Don’t worry about it.” Spencer grabbed her arm, and Caitlyn flinched, blocking her head and waiting for the blow.

Everything stilled for several awful heartbeats.

Spencer panted with heavy emotion. Finally, his gentle fingers wrapped around her wrist just above her injured hand. He drew it forward and propped it against one of his forearms as his fingertips stroked the tightly closed fist. Nearly breathless, he said, “Open for me, love. I’ve got the first-aid kit.”

Foolishness swept through her, and she lowered her protective arm. An embarrassed sob and a few tears escaped. Spencer mentioned neither as he encouraged her to unclench. She stared at her hand—knew she shouldn’t, but did it anyway—and the pain magnified tenfold when she saw the bloody mess of her shredded palm.

“Fuck the first-aid kit. I’m taking you to hospital.” Spencer swept his arms under her knees and gathered her against his chest. “Keep your hand above your heart. We don’t want you to lose more blood.”

Resting her head in the crook of his neck, she struggled to keep her hand in the air while he raced to the elevator and then to his car in the underground parking garage. He strapped her in, and she collapsed back against the passenger seat, willing the wooziness away as they tore through the streets of East London.

“Keep talking to me so I know you’re okay,” he demanded.

“I’ve never passed out before,” she muttered. “I don’t want to now.” She put her foot on the car seat and propped her right elbow on her knee, hoping it would take some of the strain out of her shoulder. If only she’d stayed clearheaded enough to tell him how to make a sling to support her hand against her opposite shoulder; holding her arm up like this made the muscles of her upper arm feel like they’d been doused in kerosene and set alight.

“I have. Or at least I’ve been knocked out before,” he said, clearly trying to keep some sort of conversation going. “I guess it’s not quite the same thing. It’s still pretty scary, though.” He barely paused before saying roughly, “Keep talking.”

She said the first thing that popped into her mind. “I feel like such a moron.”

He whipped the car around a corner, throwing her against the door. She sucked in a breath as her injured fist hit the window.

“Sorry,” he said. “We’re here.” He parked the car and ran around to help her out, picking her up again and carrying her into Accident & Emergency.

He sat her on a hard plastic chair while he went to check her in. She distracted herself from the throbbing pain by checking out the other people waiting. Clearly a busy night for clumsy people in East London. Some of her fellow patients seemed much worse off, and doctors and nurses rushed in to help them first. When she noticed a man with a metal bar sticking out of his thigh being brought in by paramedics, she turned away and tried to focus on Spencer, who spoke sternly to the nurse behind the counter.

Despair welled up inside her. Her hand truly ached now but not nearly as much as her heart. What an idiot. Biting down on her lower lip, she struggled to keep her arm raised and her tears off her cheeks.

Spencer carried a clipboard over and dropped into a chair with a look of resigned fury. She couldn’t blame him. “We may have to wait awhile,” he bit out, exchanging a mutual glare with the nurse. Caitlyn nodded slightly to show she’d heard him, but she didn’t trust her voice. What a hideous way to spend an evening. She was just glad she hadn’t cut him.

“What’s your middle name?” he asked. He waited a few seconds and then glanced up from the form on his lap. “Caitlyn?”

She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut and swallowing convulsively, trying to battle back the tears. In vain.

“Aw,” he whispered and set the clipboard down on the empty chair next to him. He lifted her onto his lap and propped her elbow on his shoulder so she wouldn’t have to hold her arm up anymore. The thoughtfulness of the gesture turned Caitlyn’s despair into self-loathing. “Try not to think about it and it won’t hurt so much.” He rubbed his hands up and down her back.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” she cried, no longer trying to hold the tears in. “I’m mortified! Who the hell would ever want to kiss me? God forbid I ever have sex. I’ll probably find some way to accidentally hang myself with the sheets!”

He pulled her so close his heart pounded against her chest. “Don’t berate yourself.”

“Don’t...? Spencer, I’m twenty-seven years old! And I can’t even say I’ve ever been kissed. At least, not without humiliating myself somehow.” Her voice broke.

He leaned back as far as he could and brought a hand up to her cheek, forcing her to look at him. “I’m sure you have your reasons for reacting the way you do.”

He held up a hand to stop her when she started to interrupt. “Caitlyn, there’s no way you can convince me you just never got around to practicing on boys when you were younger. You don’t want to share the reason with me, and that’s fine. It’s up to you. But whatever happened, it affected you deeply and it’s going to take time. Besides, this was my fault.”

Her brow furrowed in disbelief.

“Seriously, it was. I knew you were nervous and I still tried to kiss you. My bloody impatience got you hurt.” He pressed his lips next to her ear. “I’m really sorry,” he whispered. “I just wish you’d cut me instead of yourself.”

She felt an almost overwhelming need to sob now and tried to make a joke instead. “You’re right. Bastard.”

He laughed, causing the walking wounded around him to stare. “That’s my girl. Now let’s fill out this form. What’s your middle name?” Keeping her on his lap with an arm wrapped around her shoulders, he balanced the clipboard on her legs and wrote on the form. After getting her full name and date of birth, he cleared his throat. “Um, not that it’ll be necessary, but they want to know your next of kin.”

She always hated that question. “Just put my flatmate down. Emma Taylor.”

He blinked at her in surprise, and she shrugged. “I don’t really care. Like you said, they’re not going to need it.” She risked a glance at her hand, just to make sure, and was relieved to see the blood trails down her arm had mostly dried. The bleeding must have stopped, and the pain had faded to a dull ache.

“Good thing I didn’t hit an artery,” she muttered. “Why is it I’ve never had to wait more than five minutes to see my GP and I’m kept waiting ages at the ER?”

“It’s one of the eternal mysteries of the NHS. You’d probably have been better off nicking an artery.”

Chapter Seven

When the nurse escorted Caitlyn to a bay, Spencer’s every instinct shouted at him to go with her, sit beside her and hold her healthy hand while she suffered the ordeal.

She’d waved him away, though, obviously preferring to go through it alone, leaving Spencer in the waiting room to sort through the disparate thoughts swirling through his mind. His planned night of seduction had clearly backfired. This time, instead of Caitlyn injuring him, she’d hurt herself. Was she a complete nutter?

Fuck’s sake, weren’t all women a bit nuts? It was what made them women—that weird, emotional rubbish they all seemed to suffer. He’d never found himself asking whether he should stick around to suffer it with them. At least, not unless there was amazing sex involved.

With Caitlyn, he didn’t know if there would be any sex at all. So why did he think about her all the time? Why put all this effort in just to help her out, especially when he appeared to be doing more harm than good?

Her flinch haunted him, the way she’d instinctively protected herself against a phantom blow. He might’ve bought her story about simply putting other goals above exploring sex when she was a teenager, but not now. Something much worse had happened, something he might not have the time or patience to confront. Did he really want to be part of this?

He scrubbed a hand over his weary face, rubbing his eyes. They throbbed as a headache burrowed through his brain. Maybe he’d developed an allergic reaction to hospitals, or just to this particular hospital since he’d been here twice this month—

Shit! Granddad.

Spencer bolted out of his chair and dug in his pocket for his mobile as he made his way out of the hospital. He’d put his phone on silent when he’d picked Caitlyn up, and now it told him he’d missed three calls from the old man. Hunching his shoulders against the damp air outside, Spencer leaned against the brick hospital wall and called home.

“Spencer! What happened? Is everything all right, son?”

“Yeah, Granddad. Caitlyn had an accident with a wineglass and we’re at A&E. They’re patching her up now.”

His granddad released a deep sigh. “She’ll be okay?”

He sure as hell hoped so. “They took her about a half hour ago, so I should find out soon. Hey, Granddad?”

“Yes, son?”

Spencer swallowed hard. “Could you check that Granny’s picture is okay?”

“It is. I’ve given her a good scrub.”

“Thanks.” He glanced inside, eager to get back in case they’d finished with Caitlyn. “I’d better go. Hopefully we’ll be able to leave soon.”

The two men said goodbye, and Spencer walked back into the waiting room. Just as he was resigning himself to more time in the torture instrument they called a chair, a nurse wheeled Caitlyn into the room. In a wheelchair.

He shot up and rushed across the room. “What happened?”

The nurse smiled. “We gave her something to help with the pain. She’s having a bit of a reaction to it.”

Caitlyn grinned up at him, her eyes sleepy and happy. “Hey. I know you.”

He laughed. “Yes you do. I’m glad you recognize me.”

“’Course I do. You’re on a billboard near my apartment.” Her voice dropped to what might pass as a whisper if she were on a West End stage. “In your underwear.”

“Ooh, yes.” The nurse gave him an appraising glance, nodding her approval. “I knew I recognized you from somewhere. I don’t think I’d ever looked at the face on that advert before.”

“You’re not supposed to,” Caitlyn informed her.

“Right,” he said, cheeks burning, “let’s get you home.” He lifted her from the chair and carried her to the car, helping her settle into the passenger seat and hooking the seat belt across her. She closed her eyes, her breath hitching as she let out a tired sigh.

He snuck glances at her as he drove to Wapping. Faint smudges of mascara streaked her cheeks where he’d brushed away her tears earlier. His chest clenched. She wouldn’t let him in on what had gone wrong, leaving him fearing scenarios that had nothing to do with the piss-poor excuses she’d given him.

By the time he pulled up outside her building, her head was propped against the car window, her hand cradled in her lap. “Caitlyn?” He gently shook her shoulder.

No reply. The painkillers had knocked her out. He thought briefly about getting her keys out and carrying her up to her flat, but then he realized her bag was at his place and he didn’t even know which flat she lived in.

Trying to ignore the perverse sense of triumph he felt, he put the car in gear and headed back to his apartment.

There was really no other choice.

When he carried her into his flat, her head lolled against his shoulder. He’d had her in his arms for most of the evening, but not at all in the way he’d hoped.

For some reason that didn’t seem too bad, though. He hadn’t been able to indulge the burst of lust he usually experienced when he saw her, but instead he’d been able to comfort and take care of her. It was nearly as good.

Philip and Minnie came into the living room when he walked in carrying Caitlyn. Philip looked down at his dog and pressed his finger to his lips, as if the little idiot would understand.

As if a yipping dog would wake Caitlyn up.

Spencer gestured toward his bedroom with his chin and Philip rushed ahead to open the door, Minnie trotting along behind. He laid Caitlyn on his bed and took off her shoes. Not wanting to alarm her, he left everything else alone, covering her with his duvet and putting her pills and a glass of water on the nightstand.

Closing the door as quietly as he could, he joined Philip and Minnie on the couch and told his granddad about his evening, leaving out the fact that she’d overreacted to his kiss again. Not that Philip knew anything about the first time she’d overreacted to his kiss.

“I’m so glad you were here to help her,” Philip whispered. Spencer didn’t point out that she wouldn’t have been hurt if he hadn’t been there.

“I don’t think you need to whisper, Granddad. The painkillers they gave her could knock out a lock.”

Philip sighed and settled back into the couch, absentmindedly stroking Minnie who nearly purred with satisfaction. “I remember the first time I had to take your granny to A&E. We’d been married about two years. It was her first miscarriage.” He cringed, the wrinkles of his forehead deepening. “There was so much blood, and I just kept thinking how scared she looked. She was always the brave one, the strong one, but that day I had to be the strong one. Terrifying.”

He fell silent and closed his eyes at the memory.

Spencer had felt petrified when he first realized Caitlyn had cut herself. He’d fumbled with the first-aid kit in the kitchen, spilling its contents everywhere. Then he’d seen her—deathly pale and panicked as she scrubbed his grandmother’s picture—and he’d grabbed control of the situation. He could understand what his granddad had felt all those years ago, the utter helplessness of seeing someone he cared about in pain, bleeding and upset. All he’d wanted to do was wrap his arms around her as she’d wept into his chest. He’d needed her to draw from his strength and take courage from him, which meant he’d had to reach deep down to discover those traits.

But she’d fought against taking them from him and instead faced the most painful part of her ordeal alone. She’d actually flinched away from him, like she’d expected him to tackle her to the floor.

* * *

Pain.
Ripping
,
burning pain.

Caitlyn woke with a gasp. She’d dreamed her hand was caught in a vise, which crushed it while tearing the skin to shreds. Even now, pain shot through her arm like...

Like she’d really injured herself and was lying facedown with her hand wedged between her hip bone and the mattress.

She rolled onto her back, and the released blood flowed down to her hand. Pins and needles jabbed an area already exploding with agony. Gripping her hair with her good hand, she tried to ride out the pain. Something else had woken her—some niggling thought prodding her memory.

Oh, crap! The TV interview.

She swung her legs over the side of the mattress, gripping the side of it when the head rush made her woozy. What time was it? The car would be here at quarter past five. Had she overslept? Her gaze darted around the room.

More important, where was she?

She took in the monstrously big bed with its blue sheets rumpled only on the side she slept on. The room was so huge it had a couch and an imposing wooden wardrobe. Through a doorway she spied a familiar-looking luxury bathroom. She sank into the pillows, most of last night rushing back at her. Spencer, the wineglass—oh, no, his granny’s photo!

She’d have to find out how badly she’d damaged it and see if a specialist could fix it. First, though, she had to figure out the time. Spencer had no digital clock next to his bed, and rummaging around didn’t produce her phone. Still unsteady on her feet, she stumbled to the door and down the short hallway to the living room.

Spencer was sprawled on his stomach wearing only his famous dark blue boxer briefs. Her breath fled and her mouth dried at the vision of perfect masculinity on the couch. His face was hidden under some pillows, one arm thrown over them, as if he tried to block out the moonlight streaming in through the big balcony doors. His right arm flopped off the side of the couch.

Her gaze swept down his muscular back to his trim waist. She fought the urge to stroke her fingertips lightly down the smooth skin, from his powerful shoulders to the waistband of his tight underpants. Moving toward him slowly, she wondered how deeply he slept. Would he notice if she gently tugged his shorts down and ran her fingers and lips over the swell of his ass?

His legs were a few inches apart. He was too tall for the couch, so his shins rested against the sofa’s arm and his feet were in the air. She wanted to pull his shorts all the way down his legs, spin his famous underpants in circles around her head like a yee-hawing cowgirl, and throw them across the room in triumph over finally being in a room with a naked man. She would gently part his legs a bit more and see what she could see, explore his body from behind so he couldn’t look at her and make her nervous.

A jolt of pure lust speared her lower belly, leaving a delicious warmth like hot brandy in its path. She stood right next to him, over him, close enough to touch. She reached out to stroke his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the stark white bandage wrapped around her hand.

It bought her crashing back to reality. What the hell was she thinking? He was a real person, not some porn fantasy, and how would she feel if she woke up in the middle of the night with some man stroking her?

Pretty good, she imagined, if the man was Spencer. But she was not the female version of Spencer. And as clear as he’d made it that he would sleep with her to help her out, she was sure that was different than being woken up by some lustful virgin who’d probably freak out and accidentally stab his testicles with her fingernails.

She turned to search for her bag when she heard him yawn behind her.

“Where are you going?” he drawled sleepily.

He’d turned his head and propped it on his arm. His hazel eyes stared at her from under heavy lids and a lock of dark hair that had flopped onto his forehead. He was sex personified. Just looking at him made her whole body ache. Forget accidentally hanging herself. If they ever slept together, she would spontaneously combust.

He slowly stretched his arm out toward her. “C’mere, Yank.”

Keeping her eyes on his, she walked toward him. Could she blame her trancelike state on the pills? She’d keep it as a backup excuse, in case she did something foolish, like whip his underpants down and press her lips to his bare ass.

When she got close enough, she took his hand with her good one and let him tug her gently onto the couch next to him. He sat up and curled her against his chest, one strong arm wrapped around her shoulders. The position gave her an awesome view of his ripped abs and an underwear bulge even more impressive up close than it was on a billboard. She swallowed hard, her gaze shooting back to meet his slumberous eyes.

“How does your hand feel?” he asked, sliding his fingers into her hair.

“Not too bad, considering,” she whispered, unable to take her eyes off his.

“Mmm.” The rhythm of his fingers gently tugging through her tangled hair was hypnotic. Her eyelids drifted closed. Where should she put her bandaged hand? The most comfortable place would be to rest it against his lap, but no way in hell could she do that. She kept it hovering in the air a few inches above his bare stomach until her shoulder muscles burned.

“What were you thinking about when you were staring at me?” he murmured.

Her eyes flew open and, just a second too late, she remembered her excuse. “I don’t know. I’m pretty doped up.”

He chuckled. “Caitlyn, I’ve had lots of experience with painkillers. Yours have worn off. I can see it in your lovely green eyes. Now what were you thinking about when you were standing there staring at me?”

She pursed her lips and shook her head, desperately trying to think of some lie that would sound plausible.

He scooted closer and looked at her with a wicked glint. “Were you thinking naughty thoughts? I think you were. Tell me.”

“No.”

“Come on,” he coaxed. “Maybe I’ve had the same thoughts.”

She snorted. “Not unless you’re gay.”

His sexy smile, the one that made her insides turn liquid, spread across his face. He put a hand against her cheek and leaned in.

On impulse, and out of a sense of self-preservation, she jerked back. “Crap! I’m sorry, I...” But she didn’t know what to say. She felt like one of Pavlov’s dogs, overreacting before he’d even touched her.

He sighed. “When you walked in here earlier, I wasn’t asleep. I’ve been thinking all night.”

Fantastic.
Heave-ho.
Who could blame him for giving up? Nothing was worth this prolonged humiliation—certainly not sex with her.

“I think I may have figured this thing out, but I want you to tell me something first.”

She waited warily. She knew he would ask about her problem’s origins, and that was one thing she couldn’t tell him.