Whose Bed Is It Anyway?

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.

There was no making this bad situation better, not while he was this sleep deprived and frankly addled. He closed his eyes but she was still talking. Something about pillows and space again. Infuriating, sexy-as-hell creature.

‘I’m tired,’ he interrupted, holding his hands up as he surrendered. ‘I’m sleeping. Talk tomorrow.’

He pitched face first onto the bed, gave over to the dark.

Caitlin stared at the man now sprawled out on his stomach. Sound asleep already, his limbs stretched out over a good three quarters of the bed.

She should have known it was too good to be true. Walking into this apartment only a few hours ago she’d been so excited. Sure, the rest of the place was unlivable, stripped back to bare, but then she’d climbed the stairs—and hit heaven. Up in the clouds, this beautiful, glass-walled white room offered the most incredible view of Manhattan. She’d stood at the window and looked out at the inspiring constructions of concrete, iron and glass, interspersed with the greenery of parks and the blue patches of sky. She’d felt free. Positive. Safe.

And now? Grumpy bear had returned to his lair.

She glared at him. He was too handsome for his own good with his dark hair, stubble, and long eyelashes. The thin scar marked but didn’t disfigure—it told of courage, sacrifice, determination. His long legs and arms were obviously strong but not bench-press-addict bulky. Hastily she drew the sheet up to cover him. She didn’t need to ogle the jerk. What kind of man automatically assumed a woman sleeping in his bed was there waiting only for his pleasure? An arrogant one who’d had way too many women, way too easily.

She drew in a deep steadying breath. Tried to consider her options. Drew a blank. Just what was she supposed to do now? She was so tired from the last few weeks’ media nightmare, from the hellish flight over from London, from the hour-long battle with the airline over her lost luggage, from facing all these battles alone...

So damn tired.

She looked at the strong man lying so contentedly asleep in the big bed. If she couldn’t beat him, maybe she should just join him?

Caitlin jammed a couple of pillows right up next to him, refusing to note once more just how fine his body was. Then she slipped between the sheets on the small space on the other side and turned her back to him, curling herself into a small ball.

Just for tonight.

TWO

James Wolfe sank deeper into the decadent, erotic dream. He tasted sweet mixed with salt, felt heat and hardness contrast with softness and smiles. Saw aquamarine eyes shimmering with defiance and desire. Heard words whispered with a wild edge. He reached out, wanting to touch...

But his hand slid over a cold sheet.

He slowly opened his eyes, trying to drag his reluctant, relaxed mind back to the realm of reality. First thing he saw was the empty stretch of mattress beside him. Frowning, he blinked—certain his dream woman had been in bed with him.

Then he heard the sound of running water emanating from behind the closed bathroom door. He smiled. It was okay. She was in the shower.

But then his mind, so briefly and blissfully rested, froze. He stiffened, then sat bolt-upright as actual memory returned and shredded the remnants of fantasy.

There had been a woman in bed with him. A woman who’d worn his shirt and nothing else. A woman he’d thought was...hell.

His stomach curdled.

George had said she could stay here. George never invited random women to stay. Not for more than a night and not without him. Which meant this woman was special. James rubbed his aching temples with tense knuckles as the blindingly obvious hit him.

She had to be his brother’s girlfriend.

George had been single a while, earning a reputation as a slayer—‘making up for lost time now he was off the leash’ as all the blogger types sniped. James knew some of George’s supposed escapades were fabrication, but not all. Still, it wasn’t impossible to believe George might’ve fallen for a blonde with soft-looking lips, and blue eyes that widened in surprise and sparkled in annoyance. Uh-huh. Why George wanted her was easy to see. She was easy to want. But letting her stay in their private condo was more than want. That meant serious.

And what had James done? All but called her a whore and told her to leave. He winced. All class, he was. George was, rightly, going to be pissed. James was going to have to grovel. To both of them.

The sound of running water ceased and James tensed. Maybe he could convince her to forgive and forget the whole incident? But how to convince her? Throw himself on her mercy? Explain he was so exhausted he hadn’t been thinking straight? Blame the stress of his last assignment?

He glanced down, frowning at the white cotton sheet covering him. He didn’t remember sliding under it last night, which meant she must have—