Whose Bed Is It Anyway?

‘I’ll drop you at the condo, then I’ll head straight to the airport.’ He broke the silence.

‘You don’t have to pack?’

‘I have all I need with me.’

Of course. Combat pants and grey T-shirts. ‘You always have your passport with you?’

‘Yeah.’ He nodded, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. ‘You never know when you might get a call.’

‘Of course.’

He really was action man. She froze inside as she listened to him. He was excited. Of course he was. Off to Japan. Off to meet with other heroic beings.

He’d obviously forgotten what was currently splattered all over the Internet—the conjecture, the criticism. He didn’t care about that anyway. Of course he didn’t. None of it would stick to him. But to her?

‘Stay in the condo. Keep on sightseeing,’ he said.

As if she wanted to do that alone? As if she wanted to sleep in that big bed by herself? ‘Thanks.’

That was when she realised it.

The headlines were right. She was selfish. She wanted more, more, Moore. Always had. Probably always would. She wanted to be first in someone’s life. For once. Just once. But that she’d imagined even for a moment that it could have been him?

The drive back to Manhattan flew by in half the time it had taken to get to the Hamptons only those two days ago. It was with utter relief that she saw his building come into view. She could hold it together for only a little longer.

As soon as he pulled over, she grabbed her bag and stepped out of the car. ‘You’d better go,’ she said husky and quick. ‘You don’t want to miss your flight.’

‘Caitlin—’

‘Go,’ she interrupted. She didn’t want to hear any kind of platitude. She waved and turned away. A split second later she turned back.

But just like that, he was gone.

TWELVE

Part of the condo was almost complete—the kitchen. In the couple of days they’d had away the builders had installed the cabinetry and the beautiful marble slab for the counter. Caitlin barely glanced at it as she dashed upstairs. She flung herself face down in pillow mountain and let the tears fall from her eyes.

Five minutes. Five minutes of moping. Then she was pulling herself together.

But she hurt so much inside. She squeezed her eyes shut. It didn’t make the world go away. What an idiot. She sat up and scrubbed the tears from her face with her palms. She looked around the lovely room. Then her gaze rested on the slim black rectangle he’d left on the beside table.

It was the last thing she should do. She knew that. But she couldn’t help it. She might as well see the worst. She switched it on and opened up the Internet.

Yeah. There it was. Caitlin swallowed and quickly closed down the programme. Put the iPad back. Then stood and raced to the bathroom. But as if she could run away from it at all? How could she hide from that?

How could it be that this latest round of Internet abuse upset her more than the mess with Dominic? Why was the public pillory worse this time?

Because this time it was true.

Caitlin wasn’t good enough for James. He was too good for her. But not only that, he didn’t feel the same about her. Once more she’d put her hopes in someone who cared more for his career than he did for her. Would she never learn?

Now she was left to deal with it alone. Again.

She couldn’t stay here. She refused to take what he’d offered her. It wasn’t enough. The question was where she was going to go.

She’d never ask her father for money. Or Hannah. She’d never be a leech. Hannah mightn’t see it like that, but so many others definitely would. And Caitlin wasn’t giving anyone any reason to doubt her—especially the sister that she’d seen so little of. With Caitlin working so much as a kid, and Hannah so much since, they’d really never had a normal kind of sibling relationship. Not the teasing and laughing James had with his brothers. She wished she could be a better sister, but for Hannah’s sake Caitlin believed it was better to be an absent sister. Then she could pretend it didn’t hurt so much.

She stared at her reflection and told herself to suck it up. She’d known she couldn’t call on the little family she had, and she’d known she shouldn’t fall for James. It just wasn’t going to happen for her.

She was going to have to figure her own way through her finances, through her heartbreak. To do that she needed to go back to London as soon as she could. She’d find a job. She’d survive. She was smart. She could sew. She was strong.

She could come up with a plan.

* * *

Four days later James landed back at JFK airport. Shattered again after another flight with no sleep. But that didn’t matter. He had to get home asap. He had a bad feeling. He’d called the landline at the condo several times while he was away—at the oddest of times.

She’d never picked up.

He paid off the cabbie and raced inside. The refurbished kitchen in the condo looked beautiful. But empty. The whole place felt empty.

‘Caitlin?’ He ran up the stairs, his heart thudding.

He didn’t want this. But he already knew. His sanctuary of a bedroom was empty. And huge. And lonely. His massive bed was made—the covers unrumpled. As if they’d never been touched.

Cold.

He didn’t need to look in the wardrobe to check for her clothes. She was gone. Then he saw it—the note she’d left on top of his pile of damn T-shirts.

Thanks so much, I had a fabulous holiday.

James swore. What the hell was that? Some courteous note a schoolgirl might write? It was so nothing.

His chest burned as if he’d been overdoing a sprints session. He’d underestimated how much he’d been looking forward to seeing her again. Now panic seized him as it hit him. He’d been aching to see her. Only he hadn’t realised it. Hadn’t let himself. But now? Now he knew he’d been missing her every waking and sleeping moment. And he wanted to see her. He wanted her here—right now, giving him one of her defiant, teasing looks as she cut him down to size with one of her quips. And

he wanted her flushed and sparkling and welcoming him with her warm body—all the while still teasing him in the way only she did.

He wanted that warmth. That acerbic wit. All the spirit and generosity that was in that woman. Only Caitlin.

Now it really hit. Just how far he’d fallen. How much he wanted her. Needed her. Loved her.

And she wasn’t here.

Where had she gone? Was she okay? He didn’t even have her phone number. So how the hell was he going to find her now?

He grabbed his phone and called George. ‘I need Hannah Moore’s number.’

‘Really?’

‘Urgently.’

‘Okay.’ George caught the desperation. ‘I’ll get it to you.’

Less than three minutes later James’ phone chimed with a text. A number. He didn’t care what time it was wherever in the world Hannah was right now, James was calling.

A woman answered after five interminable rings. ‘Hello?’

‘Hey, is this Hannah Moore?’

‘Who is this?’ she asked, all frigid caution.

‘Don’t hang up.’ James clenched his empty fist in frustration. ‘I really need to find Caitlin.’

‘Caitlin?’

‘Your sister.’ He spoke through gritted teeth.

‘Who is this?’

‘Look, my name’s James Wolfe. I’m George Wolfe’s twin. I met Caitlin when she came to New York and I—’

‘She’s in New York?’

James paused. Stunned. ‘You didn’t know that?’

‘No, I—’

‘When did you last talk to Caitlin?’ Fury rose in him. And it was obvious Hannah heard it.

‘Look, I’m really sorry,’ she said in a far too quiet voice. ‘I don’t know where she is.’

‘Well, would your father know?’

There was a pause. ‘He’s with me. And no. He doesn’t know.’ Another pause. ‘I really am sorry.’

‘You should be,’ James snapped. ‘All this crap she’s been through and you don’t even know where she is?’

‘She doesn’t tend to get in touch much.’

‘Do you try to? Or is it just easier for you to leave her out in the cold?’