Whose Bed Is It Anyway? (12 page)

It was minutes before he could see again, could breathe easily again. With a rueful smile he rolled off her, kicking his legs free of his trousers. He scooped her into his arms, loving the way she clung—not just with her arms, but with her dazed eyes.

No wonder people got fixated on sex. Who'd have thought it could be so restorative? Was he really that shallow that all he needed was regular sex to keep him happy? But this was vastly different from the wild-oats, different-woman-a-week phase of not that long ago. Different in that this was with the same woman.

His gut tightened. No, it wasn't just sex. It was sex with Caitlin. And there was no one in the world like Caitlin. He carried her up to bed, running his hand down her smooth, pale skin, appreciating the way she arched into his touch as he placed her on the mattress. Undeniably pretty, yes, but also smart, spirited. Sassy.

And sad. It appeared in her eyes when she thought he wasn't looking. In the moments before he touched her and made her forget everything. Or before he teased her about something and made her laugh. He liked it when she laughed.

So he ran his fingers down the vee of her dress now, teasing as he unbuttoned it and got her blessedly naked. He pinned her down to kiss her and summon the sighs and smile he found so addictive. He loved that it was so easy.

Nothing felt as good as her climaxing around him, her cries filling his ears, her hot damp body collapsing as he wrung the last drops of tension from her. She was as eager for abandonment as he, passionately throwing herself into the heat that flared between them. Physical was everything. It wasn't always fast; sometimes he made it a slow drawn-out tease.

And it was always pure ecstasy.

EIGHT

The sated feeling
never stayed. James, himself, never stayed. Not anywhere. Not even in bed. And Caitlin had cottoned on quick.

‘Do you never sit on a park bench? Never lie down in the grass?' she teased as they walked through the Riverside Park after they'd been to the Guggenheim.

‘No. I like to keep busy.' He fobbed her off with a smile.

‘You don't know how to relax?'

‘I don't like being bored.' He didn't like lying still. If he wasn't kept busy, his brain started to replay things he preferred to forget.

‘No rest for the wicked?' she joked.

‘That's right,' he answered with a smile, but was perfectly serious.

So for the next few days they stuck with the plan—gallery, park, place and no PDA. They took in an outdoor screening of a classic movie at Bryant Park, rode the Staten Island Ferry past the Statue of Liberty, walked down Wall Street, went to several indie, abstract, out there galleries in Chelsea. They visited memorials and museums, watched musicians in parks, stood by sculptures, went to another Broadway play, lunched in Little Italy, Chinatown, and ate yet more from street vendors, from urban markets, scoffed pancakes in small diners. They explored the flagship stores—from Apple to Lego to Tiffany's—and the boutiques in the Meatpacking District, Tribeca. He kept them on the schedule—and he was liking it a hell of a lot more than he'd ever thought he would. They saw loads, talked incessantly, laughed often.

But on the fourth day, Caitlin rebelled.

‘My feet
hurt
,' she explained.

She marched to a stand and bought herself an ice cream. ‘You want one?'

He shook his head. ‘Come on.'

‘No,' Caitlin said bluntly. She was not walking another five miles around a park. It wasn't that she was unfit or anything, but she just wanted to sit. It was a beautiful, sunny day. She wanted to watch the world go by and relax.

‘No?'

‘No.' Passive resistance. That was the way. She took her ice cream and walked onto the spring lawn, selecting a spot far enough away from other people for some privacy—though she still planned to enforce the no PDA rule. It made life fun. ‘You can sit for ten minutes.' She told him. ‘It's not that hard.'

He rolled his eyes. ‘Ten.'

‘Maybe twenty—it's a big ice cream.' And she proceeded to lick it ve-e-ery slowly.

He muttered something unintelligible under his breath and flung himself down on the grass beside her. Caitlin ignored him, just kept on licking her ice cream. He turned his head to the side, she knew he was staring at her, willing her to look at him. She wasn't going to. Ten minutes of doing nothing. How hard could it be?

She rested back on one hand, enjoying the warmth of the sun, the taste of the ice and the fascinating mix of people making the most of the park. So many people. So much to see. And someone so gorgeous to do it all with...

She glanced down to flash him a quick teasing smile but to her utter astonishment his eyes were shut. Was he asleep? She leaned closer. His face was fully relaxed, his breathing regular, deep, slow. Oh, he was asleep. And gorgeous. Warmth flowed through her—not just the usual ‘I-need-to-jump-him' warmth, but something else. She sat back, crumbled the last of her cone and tossed it for a pigeon or twenty.

Holiday fling, Caitlin. Just lust.

She could remember that, right? Because that was all this could be. But she looked down again, fascinated to see him like this. Almost vulnerable, utterly relaxed. And a little alone. She felt oddly protective of him. She'd known he'd been tired, but he never seemed to want to stop—why was that? Why couldn't he give himself a day or two to just laze about? He so obviously needed it. He might even enjoy it if he gave himself the chance.

A kid suddenly bellowed—a sound of despair and outrage. Caitlin glanced up and winced. The poor little girl had dropped her ice cream. Caitlin hoped the indignant wails wouldn't wake James. But of course they did. His eyes snapped open, that slight edge returned, that tension never seemed to leave him. It was a thread running right through his fabric. Caitlin smiled ruefully, wishing he hadn't woken and that he'd been able to relax a little longer.

‘Hell, I fell asleep?' Looking sheepish, he sat up. ‘You should have woken me.'

‘Don't worry, you didn't snore.'

He didn't look any more comfortable, if anything he looked more embarrassed. And confused. ‘I
never
sleep in public places.'

Coyly amused, she shrugged. ‘Guess you must need it.'

‘You think?' He drew in a deep breath and then released it with a huge sigh. He looked at her and smiled, that winning, slightly wicked smile. ‘I have to go to a gala tonight.'

She lifted her brows, not sure what he wanted her to say.

‘Fundraiser, for the foundation I work for. There'll be benefactors there. Medical people. All kinds really.'

She was pondering a benign reply when he spoke again.

‘Come with me.'

‘No.'

‘What if I said please?'

‘No.'

‘Why not?'

‘Leaving the invite a little late, aren't you?' She cocked her head. ‘If it's tonight.'

He smiled wryly. ‘I wasn't sure you'd have something to wear and I didn't think you'd let me
Pretty Woman
you.'

‘You were right, I wouldn't,' she admitted. But his frankness eased one of her reservations.

‘Then I decided I didn't care what you were wearing,' he continued, ‘so long as you're there with me. But I didn't want you to feel uncomfortable.'

‘I won't,' she said quietly, her breath stolen by the sweetness of his comment. ‘I have something to wear.' She always packed one glam dress, because you just never knew and because she'd spent hours making it and couldn't bring herself to leave it behind.

‘So you'll come?'

She shook her head. It so wouldn't be wise.

‘I need you there.' The wickedness entered his eyes. ‘You'd be protection for me.'

‘Protection?'

‘From all the women who've read that article.' He waggled his brows.

‘Oh, from the hordes throwing themselves at you, you mean?' she said tartly. She so didn't want to witness that, thanks.

‘That's right.' He winked, back to all arrogant. ‘And you know it's too posh for paparazzi,' he said in a conspiratorial stage-whisper. ‘The place will be full of the elite, discreet New Yorkers who have no desire to be pictured in any society magazine. There won't be any hounds there. They're not allowed.'

Admittedly she was tempted. But it was still too public. ‘Wouldn't it contravene the terms of our contract if I went as your date?'

‘You're a real stickler for that, huh?' He rose onto his knees and placed his palm over his heart. ‘What if I, James Wolfe, do solemnly declare to touch you not?'

Hmm. Not bad. It helped that he was on his knees—it made her smile. ‘No kissing. No dancing.'

‘Not even dancing?' He looked aghast. ‘Just scintillating conversation?'

‘That's as good as it gets.'

‘Then let's not bother with a “place” this afternoon.' He stood and started walking. ‘You'll want to go home and get ready, right?'

She nodded.

Turned out James' idea of getting ready meant aerobic, intimate acts of pleasure lasting nigh on two hours, leaving her not nearly long enough to get ready. In the end she marched him to the shower—using any and all seductive means necessary—and then banished him from the room so she had the personal space to put on her make-up. Not that she needed blusher—her cheeks had the glow that only multiple orgasms could bring.

Forty minutes later he knocked on the door. ‘Are you ready?'

As ready as she'd ever be for something so daunting. She gulped in an extra hit of oxygen before opening the door. Then she went giddy.

‘You scrub up pretty well.' She coughed. Understatement.
Vast
understatement. ‘Total Cary Grant.'

The black tux fitted him in that way that only bespoke could. It was the most formally dressed she'd seen him and he looked devastatingly debonair.

‘And that's some dress you're wearing.' He stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him, not taking his eyes from her.

‘It's appropriate?' she asked, anxiously turning towards the mirror to ensure the layers of green silk were sitting properly.

‘No.'

‘What's wrong with it?' Wide-eyed, she spun back to face him.

He paused, watching the way the skirt flared as she moved. ‘What's wrong,' he said slowly, ‘is that I take one look and want to rip it from you. It clings—'

‘It's tarty?' she all but shrieked in panic.

‘No.' He laughed. ‘No, no, no.' He reached out, lightly running his hands over her bare shoulders, pausing to toy with the delicate thin straps. ‘It's not tarty or inappropriate. It's perfect. It hints at curves... It suggests...' He stepped closer.

‘You can't do this,' she said, breathlessly stepping back out of his reach. ‘You'll ruin my make-up.'

‘But you look incredible.'

‘That's very nice. I want to stay incredible.'

He drew a deep breath and then released it. ‘Then we'd better go.'

They walked out of the building. Caitlin choked on a laugh as she saw their taxi driver waiting for them. ‘You have this guy permanently on your payroll, don't you?'

James just winked.

His assurances were correct—there were no paparazzi. It was very dignified, discreet and yet opulent. You could almost smell the money in the air. The room sparkled with jewels, silk and satin. But the majority of the people present were over the age of forty.

‘Where are your hordes?' she whispered as he passed her a champagne flute.

‘Cougars,' he whispered back. ‘The scariest of all.'

He walked over to a very small, elderly woman.

‘Peggy, may I introduce you to Caitlin? She's a friend of the family visiting us from London for a while.'

Caitlin smiled at the woman, warmed inside by James' introduction of her. He'd made it clear she wasn't his ‘date', knowing how much privacy mattered to her. She appreciated it. And this woman was no octogenarian cougar. They chatted pleasantries for a bit, talking about places Caitlin had visited, Peggy offering advice on where else she should visit. Caitlin relaxed, realising that for the first time she was just ‘Caitlin'—not Hannah's sister, not Dominic's ex, not the wild child failed telly diva. She was just herself and this woman had no preconceptions. No judgment. It was liberating.

‘I really do like your dress,' Peggy commented. ‘I hope you don't mind my asking who the designer is?'

He'd only been half listening to the conversation, but James now tensed as he saw the colour running up under Caitlin's skin. Why? She looked incredible—the dress fitted her like a glove. Was it from some off the rack chain store and she was worried about admitting that?

‘Actually I made it myself,' she answered, her chin lifting.

‘You did?' he interrupted, startled.

Caitlin turned to him with a glint in her eye. ‘Well, I did study costume design, James. I ought to be able to make a dress.'

Well, yeah. He guessed so. But that wasn't just a dress; in his opinion that was a masterpiece. It fitted her so beautifully, just like— He paused. Realising. All her other dresses? She'd made those too? She was talented.

Peggy cackled at his obvious surprise and went back to her interrogation of Caitlin. ‘You don't want to do fashion design?'

‘No.' Caitlin turned back to her. ‘My heart really is in theatre design. Costumes.'

‘Have you been to the Met yet?'

‘Not yet. But I've seen a couple of Broadway shows and the Shakespeare the other night, in the Park.'

Yeah, he'd known Peggy was a good person to introduce to Caitlin. The woman was a major benefactor of the arts and theatre scene as well as the foundation. She knew everything and everyone of importance to do with it.

James smiled, relaxing for the first time since they'd got there. He should have invited Caitlin sooner—as soon as she'd agreed to come with him he'd felt better about the event himself. Just knowing she was going to be here—even if they weren't going to be touching—put something at ease within him.

‘Well you must get to the Met,' Peggy was saying in her inimitable, authoritative way. ‘The opera costumes are works of art. You have to see the detail up close to believe it. If you'd like I could put in a call, get you in there—backstage?'

Caitlin's blush was fiery, her eyes alight with excitement. ‘Really?'

‘It would be a pleasure. You could spend the day. Are you in New York for long?'

‘A month.'

‘Then you can spend two days,' Peggy declared. ‘Now tell me what you thought of that Shakespeare set.'

James took a step back as Caitlin and Peggy leaned in together, fully engaged in the conversation. He felt as if his tie had been tightened, his whole chest constricted. The reminder of Caitlin's length of stay grated.

He watched her holding court with two women now, talking costumes and sets and fashion. Getting info, displaying her knowledge. Talking about some of the things she'd seen already. With
him
. He felt like interrupting and pointing that irrelevant fact out.

Well, hell, was he feeling left out of the conversation like some petulant child?

Impossible. He never felt left out. Because, he realised, he never really felt
in
.

He spent months of his life living in cramped quarters but he'd always been able to maintain a sense of isolation. Some degree of privacy—even if it was just within the confines of his sleep roll and a mosquito net. To be sharing a bed, bathroom, and his body with Caitlin, there was no degree of separation. Right now his life was incredibly intertwined with hers. They were involved with everything together—their every waking and sleeping moments. He shook his head. He couldn't be fretting about losing that intensity, could he? It wasn't
real
—it was just a holiday fling after all. Yet the thought of her spending the day without him—seeing those treasures without him?