Whose Bed Is It Anyway?. Natalie Anderson
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are you and what did George tell you?’ he asked. He looked both confused and...intense.
James Wolfe was a medic, a rescue man. A hero who worked in disaster-ravaged countries. She knew exactly who he was. She knew all those amazing things about him. But he had no idea who she was, where she’d come from. Nothing about the recent nightmare she’d left in London. He’d not read the headlines, the worst of the bile from the Internet. So wasn’t it just typical that even someone so ‘good’ automatically doubted her? Did he honestly think she was his paid plaything for the night? That she was here for his personal use and pleasure?
Caitlin sucked in a breath. Unhelpfully the air burned her lungs. She was already hot enough—with anger, right?
‘You think I’m here to do whatever you want me to?’ Caitlin ditched the sheet to reach out and flick on the reading lamp. She remained on the bed. Possession was nine tenths of the law and this was her sleep space tonight.
He didn’t answer. Instead he stood frozen at the foot of the bed, staring at her with those wide, bottomless, ninety-eight-per-cent cocoa eyes. Finally a half-strangled sentence emerged. ‘You’re wearing my T-shirt.’
What, and that then made her his property?
With the light on, Caitlin saw the flush deepening in his upper cheeks and the tension humming through his body—pulling him taller, tighter. Bigger. Her eyes widened as she saw the interest in his. To her horror she felt reciprocal heat build inside. She breathed out, hoping to cool it. No way. No way.
But was the guy attracted to her?
No. She mentally clarified. Not her. It was what he could see. What was with the Paleo instinct that kicked in when men saw skin? Insta-lust central.
Mind you, at this moment she might be found guilty of the same crime. All the muscles and skin he was showing were sure having an effect on her basic instincts. Not that he needed to know it. Not when he’d made such an out-of-line assumption.
‘Be grateful I didn’t take a pair of your boxers,’ she said coolly. ‘It was a close-run thing.’
‘My...?’ He stopped and swallowed. ‘So what else are you wearing?’
He almost looked pained. And Caitlin couldn’t resist the urge to turn the screw a little tighter.
‘Just your T-shirt.’ She faked a careless shrug and glanced towards the bathroom. ‘My clothes are drying.’
His slightly glazed focus didn’t leave her body. ‘Just my T-shirt?’
‘I figured you had more than enough to spare.’ There were about twenty in that walk-in wardrobe. All neatly pressed and stacked and exactly the same colour.
He blinked, clearly unable to get his head together. What was the guy—all animal? Yet she was certain he wasn’t. Oddly, despite her near nudity, despite the bizarreness of the situation, she didn’t think for a second that she was in any real danger. So she wasn’t afraid to bite.
‘Who’d have thought that James—hero with a capital H—Wolfe likes to have a woman of ill repute waiting for him in bed when he gets back from his oh-so-honourable missions?’ she said. It was unbelievable.
He stared at her with that dazed-and-glazed look, obviously trying to process her words. Was he drunk or something?
‘So, you’re not here for...’ He broke off and almost looked uncomfortable. ‘Me.’
‘No, your brother did not pay me to come and be a sexual plaything for you.’ Caitlin smiled sweetly. ‘And don’t you think—’ she cocked her head ‘—that if I were such a “professional”, I’d have chosen to be in your bed wearing something a little more sexy than one of your thousands of identical T-shirts?’
Though the shirt was damn sexy on him—the grey bringing out the depth in his eyes and the fit stretching across his chest in a seriously pulse-pounding fashion.
His lips thinned as he turned back to glare at her. She was used to full on media ‘glare’, but his dark-eyed look was just about the fiercest, most cutting, scrutiny she’d had to withstand.
‘I’m—’
‘Sorry,’ she snapped. ‘The word you’re looking for is sorry.’
‘Tired,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m tired and I made a mistake. And I’m sorry but you can’t stay here.’
Okay, maybe she was a little in the wrong here too, given the guy actually owned a third of this apartment. But she couldn’t afford to go anywhere else. And with her only clothes hanging wet in the bathroom? Damn.
Because worst of all she needed this space for more than piffling money reasons. She needed to hide. ‘Well, it’s just that your brother said I could stay for the next month.’
‘Month?’ His jaw fell open. ‘No. No. No.’
Yeah, she already got that her month wasn’t going to happen. But she needed to buy time to find a new plan. ‘Well, I’m not going anywhere else tonight.’
‘You have to.’
She needed this bed. George had said she could use it. But Grumpy James here was going to ruin it for her.
‘Look.’ She abandoned all dignity and pride. ‘We can figure something out. I’ll take the floor.’
Rigid, his glare pierced deeper. It was a wonder her bones didn’t snap from the force emanating from him.
‘You are not sleeping on the floor.’
Caitlin sighed. ‘Don’t pretend to be all chivalrous now. I’ve seen the real you unmasked, remember? You know, the guy unsurprised to find what he thinks is a hooker in his home.’
‘You are not sleeping on the floor.’
Implacable? Yeah—he had the whole stubborn attitude on.
‘Fine.’ She switched tack. ‘We’ll share.’ She glanced at the massive mattress. ‘The bed is big.’
‘Not big enough.’ He looked shell-shocked.
She swallowed. He was probably right. He was not short and he had shoulders broad enough for a nation’s sorrows. But she had nowhere else to go. ‘Plenty big enough,’ she argued stoically. ‘I’ll have this small edge here. We’ll put some pillows down and you can have the rest. Will that do?’
‘No.’
‘What, you have some Victorian sense of propriety now?’ she said.
‘I never pay for sex. Nor do I sleep with unwilling women.’
Caitlin stared at him, momentarily lost for words. What did he expect her to say to that? A horrendous sizzle slid over her skin as her body whispered the word she surely should deny—willing. So willing.
Oh, no, that just wasn’t right. The guy might be gorgeous, but he was a jerk. He’d just thought she was a prostitute. She shook her head.
Mindless with exhaustion, James just wanted the talking to stop. The drama to stop. Damn it, he needed everything to stop so he could sleep. For a good twenty hours. He’d been going on less than three hours for the last three weeks and that was before the forty-hour travel hell. He was past it.
‘Look, I can control my debauched urges enough not to attack you,’ he slurred more than spoke.
This sure wasn’t some ‘paid-to-please’ woman—she was doing everything possible to displease him. And he supposed he couldn’t really blame her for that.
He felt bad. His whole body ached, especially his brain. But worst of all was the flicker of desire. He didn’t want her to stay in his bed. Not her with her stunning legs and curves and sparkling-for-all-the-wrong-reasons eyes. It was impossible.
Because he wanted but shouldn’t. Besides that, couldn’t. And she most definitely wouldn’t.