Whose Bed Is It Anyway?

An entirely inappropriate image flashed in his head. An entirely enjoyable one. Hell, he wished he’d never seen her legs, or how curvy her unfettered breasts looked in one of his T-shirts.

His clothes. His bed. His.

If she was Goldilocks, he was definitely the bear. But he hadn’t done a very good job of chasing her away. She’d been way more defiant than that thief from the fairy tale. She’d been almost desperate to stay. He wondered why that was.

The door to the bathroom opened. She walked out, her expression guarded. James’ innards shrivelled in excruciation. She couldn’t look less like a hooker. Her pale face peeked out above the turtle-neck roll of a giant black sweater. Baggy black jeans hung on her, hiding the figure he knew was lithe. She’d scraped her wet hair into a function-over-form ponytail, the bedraggled twist nothing like the swathe of colour that had blanketed his pillow so enticingly. Given her pallor he guessed she’d not brushed any make-up on. Cloaked with an air of wariness, she looked smaller, tired. But still determined. Still sexy.

Yeah, part of him wanted to haul her back to his bed, strip her out of the oversized gear and help her relax enough to sleep soundly. She looked as if she needed it as much as he and he still had seven hours’ straight sleep in him. He could forget the world with her. Make her forget her own name. And George’s?

Guilt skewered his chest. What was he thinking? To contemplate—even for a second—messing with the woman his brother had sent here? Maybe he was screwed up after his last assignment. Maybe he’d seen too many hearts broken. Maybe he’d got so desensitised he’d forgotten what was right and what was wrong. Because this was wrong.

He shifted, tugging up the sheet for something to do, cursing himself for not getting up and dressing while she was in the shower. Glancing back up, he caught a flash in her gaze.

James saw emotional extremes all the time—inconsolable grief, terror, pity, relief. Apocalyptic events pushed people beyond human endurance. He knew the keening wails of distraught villagers who’d lost loved ones, homes, land—people who’d lost everything but the ability to breathe. He emotionally distanced himself from them. Had to. Couldn’t get his job done if he felt every hurt along with them. But he wasn’t used to someone looking at him as if she wanted him to disappear. Or as if she wanted to be the one to make him disappear. Usually people fell over themselves in relief when they saw him. So this was novel. And frankly?

Interesting.

Inappropriate again. He gritted his teeth. He needed to get his head together. Find out the facts. And get her to leave.

‘I’m thinking we need proper introductions,’ he said carefully. ‘As you know, I’m James, but I didn’t get your name last night—’

‘Caitlin.’

Her voice was every bit as cool as her expression. Both set him on the boil. Caitlin who? Caitlin why? The temptation to tease was impossible to resist. ‘You like wearing other people’s clothes, Caitlin?’

The ones she had on now sure weren’t hers. Three sizes too big and not nearly stylish enough for her figure.

Colour touched her cheeks. ‘My luggage got lost somewhere between London and New York.’

Luggage? So she’d only recently arrived? ‘So that’s why you were wearing my shirt?’

She inclined her head. ‘I’d washed my clothes and they were still wet.’

‘Those are really yours?’ His brows lifted. He caught the resurgence of defiance in her eyes and checked himself. Tempting as it was to bait, he wasn’t supposed to be making this worse. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘You weren’t interested in listening.’

‘You were too busy talking.’

‘You were too busy assuming.’

‘You were too—’ He broke off. Too tempting—with her beautiful hair and long, lush legs. Of course he’d thought of sex. Hell, what man wouldn’t when he was beyond tired, who’d lived in hell the last three weeks on top of a previous assignment that had been shorter, but even worse. Confronted with that vision—a sleeping, soft, hot woman? The idea of losing himself in her vitality, in feeling alive for a moment before diving into a deep, ideally dreamless sleep?

Oh, hell. He was a sick unit.

‘So you’re heading out to get some new clothes?’ He dropped the previous topic and aimed for something less inflammatory. Fingers crossed she’d find a new place to stay while she was out.

She looked away, studying the room. ‘I’m hoping my bag will arrive today.’

‘There are a ton of shops to tide you over,’ he said, wondering the best way to bring up the topic of her and George.

‘That’s not why I’m here.’

Surprised, he frowned. She was in no hurry to go buy a new wardrobe? What woman didn’t like to go shopping? He glanced at her worn outfit again and mentally kicked himself. A woman who couldn’t afford to.

Was that why she’d resisted leaving last night? She couldn’t afford to go anywhere else? The defiant pride beaming from her eyes showed she wasn’t about to admit it. Fair enough.

‘Why are you here?’ he asked.

‘Just for a holiday.’

‘For a month?’

She nodded but he got the impression she was keeping something back from him. George had said she could holiday here for a month? To be fair, James really hadn’t kept his family up to date with his itinerary. He figured this mess-up served him right. If she couldn’t afford to go anywhere else, he was going to have to do the gentlemanly thing—especially given his brother had offered the place to her. Except James didn’t want to stay somewhere else. This was as ‘home’ as it got for him. It offered him isolation. Peace and quiet—something he only ever needed for a couple of days in between assignments.

If she was here on the tourist ticket she’d be out sightseeing all day, dining out, dancing half the night in the clubs. They’d hardly notice each other, right?

Aside from the minor detail that they’d have to share. Only this one room in the apartment was in action and, while sharing a room would be bad enough, sharing a bed with his brother’s woman was on the ‘forbidden’ list. Assuming she was his brother’s woman?

‘George said you could stay.’ He drew his knees up and leaned forward to watch her reaction.

She nodded again, glancing away. ‘But it’s clearly inconvenient.’

He thought rapidly. If he chased off his brother’s girlfriend, he’d never hear the end of it. As it was he got too much grief for not being involved with the family enough. To be the ‘beast’ who’d scared beauty out of the castle would be too much for his brothers to stand. Doubtless they’d stage an intervention. ‘George doesn’t open up to many people.’

‘He’s been a good friend to me.’

Friend. Was that all he was? James ran his hand through his hair and down to rub the back of his neck. If he’d bothered to be in touch with his brothers more, he’d know. He wouldn’t have to ask. As it was, he did. ‘You know him well?’

‘Not intimately. Which is what you’re really asking, right?’ She shot him a look. ‘What does it matter to you?’

His blood heated at her defiant spark. ‘You really need me to explain?’

The inappropriate reply was out before he cou

ld think to stop it. And really, the fierce surge of desire needed no explanation. With those blue eyes, blonde hair, the legs, and the curves that called out to be admired. Held. Tasted. And as for the spirited tilt of her chin and the colour seeping into her cheeks...

‘In some ways you’re very like your brother,’ she said, her voice rougher than before.

‘But I’m not him.’

George, though he was trying hard to deny it, was a commitment man. A keeper for the right woman. James was definitely not. No matter how right the woman, he was all wrong. And knowing that, he probably shouldn’t be thinking all things sexy about his unexpected house-guest. He probably should back off and be good.

Except he was tired of being good.

She angled her head, studying him. ‘Does it bother you? People confusing you?’

They weren’t identical but were so alike most people thought they were. Until recent times, when James’ injury made it obvious. But the scar was superficial. Their real differences had been etched inside years ago when, because of James, a man had died and a family had been destroyed. That old cold feeling sluiced down his spine. He stiffened, pushing it out. He was over that. He was busy, content. Doing something with his life. Slowly he shook his head. ‘Used to. But we’re very different. Sometimes I wish I were more like him.’

‘In what way?’

Caitlin watched a remote look cross James’ face, then his smile twisted and a surprisingly wicked gleam sparked in his eyes. She couldn’t help thinking he’d summoned the charm to scare away the devils.

She knew George Wolfe was the ultimate playboy. Charming, witty, a master at making women willing, biddable, all too easily beddable. Not that she’d succumbed. And truthfully, she’d not received his interest that way, he’d felt pity for her rather than attraction. Because they had that one thing in common. They’d both felt the bite of the press, the judgment of the ill-informed masses.

Notoriety.

But all George had offered her was a safe haven—a hideaway. Turned out the cave came with the big, growly bear who wanted isolation to hibernate. And James Wolfe was more predator than playboy. For all his supposed heroism he had a streak of the hunter. She felt far more at risk here and now than she ever had with George—far more at risk of succumbing. Because James Wolfe, with his sleep-mussed hair, stubble and smoky eyes, was compelling.