Once again, he was impressed with the sheer lack of celebrity-fawning and arse-kissing from the guy. It was a pleasant change. “Understand,” he answered with a nod. “Let me assure you, all I want to do is help.”
“Help what? The boss forget her fiancé?”
The question, ringing so true to Liev Reynolds’s hope and reason for giving Josh Caitlin’s number, made Josh’s chest squeeze tight. It also cleared up another reason why Zach was so protective of his boss—he knew of her tragic situation.
Perhaps most of Australia does? If you were living here when it happened maybe you’d know about it as well. It’s the kind of story that would make the news. The kind the government would milk to their advantage during an election year as well—find the missing Australian doctor and reunite him with the love of his life…
A thick lump filled Josh’s throat. A hot beat throbbed in his temples.
He shut his eyes on the sight of Sydney Harbour in all its morning beauty and kicked his toe in a soft, repetitive beat against the railing. “I want to help raise money for Doctors Without Borders,” he said, forcing himself to picture Caitlin in the arms of a man he’d never met, her beautiful face beaming with joy, her striking blue eyes alive with happiness. “Help raise the public’s awareness of what her fiancé was doing before he—”
“Was killed?”
Zach’s blunt delivery of the rest of Josh’s sentence jarred Josh. He opened his eyes and stared at his toe. Watched it connect with the steel railing. “Before he went missing,” he finished.
Believing Matt Corvin was going to come back would stop him fantasizing about Caitlin.
He hoped.
“So you’re that altruistic then?”
Zach’s question, asked with equal parts sarcasm and uncertainty, made Josh snort out a laugh. “Believe it or not, I’m actually a pretty decent guy. Dad’s drilled it into me how destructive the hedonistic rock ’n’ roll lifestyle can be. Mum’s told me if I ever behave the way Dad did when he found fame she’ll disown me. And the band—who all lived it at the start of their careers—have made it their mission to make certain I never get my head so far up my arse I forget I’m just a guy who can sing well and play a guitar.”
He fidgeted. Why did he feel like he was being interrogated? Telling Liev Reynolds he’d kissed Caitlin had been daunting enough. Talking to her second-in-charge shouldn’t be this stress-inducing.
Especially when all he wanted to do was offer his services as a performer with a certain amount of fame.
Man, why hadn’t he let Pepper set all this up like she’d suggested when he’d called her?
Because he wanted to do it. Not the band’s manager, not his agent, not a Sydney PR firm. Him.
Why? So you can get into Caitlin’s pants?
“So?” he asked, the unclear motivation for his plan a hot pressure on his mind. “Would the Chaos Room go for something like what I’m suggesting? Me? Maybe even Synergy if the rest of the band can get here? What do you say?”
“I think it sounds fantastic,” Zach answered, the cautious edge to his voice gone. Once again, he sounded relaxed and friendly, just like he had last night in Caitlin’s club. “I’ll take a look at the live-entertainment schedule when I start work and let you know what slots we have available.”
Lifting his face to the morning sun, eyes closed, heart thumping fast, Josh smiled. For some reason, he liked the fact Zach wasn’t prepared to bump an already-scheduled act for him. “Excellent. Think I’ll drop in. Scope the place out a bit more.”
Zach chuckled on the other end. “Why did I know you were going to say that?”
Josh felt his smile turn to a grin. “No idea. Thanks, Zach. See you later.”
“Oh, before you go?”
Opening his eyes, Josh watched the growing number of boats and yachts dart under the Harbour Bridge. “Yeah?”
“If it’s okay with you,” Zach said, “I think I’ll keep your name…and Synergy’s name off the table when I initially talk to the boss about this. I’m thinking a surprise attack might be our best option.”
A frown pulled at Josh’s forehead. “Okay. Why?”
Zach’s laugh was surprisingly devilish. “Because I don’t want her to say no.”
The prickling pressure wrapping Josh’s head grew tighter. “About the band?”
“About you,” Zach answered. “She really does need to start living again.”
And before Josh could respond, the Chaos Room’s second-in-charge ended the call.
A charged lick of tension shot through Josh. A thrumming of something he’d never experienced before. He turned from the view of Sydney Harbour and strode back into his living room.
He headed to his bedroom, tossed his mobile phone onto the bed and stripped his clothes from his body. Pausing for a moment, he rubbed the knot of twisted tendons and flesh beneath the long white scar running the length of his right knee, before moving to the shower of his en suite.
Rhys hadn’t made an appearance since Josh returned to his apartment. Who knew where the guy was? In someone’s bed, no doubt. Which meant Josh would get shit when Rhys did turn up and discovered Josh hadn’t scored with Caitlin. But Josh didn’t care. His best friend could give him all the shit he liked. Josh would take it with a smirk.
Because he was about to do something incredible. He was about to do something special.
And for the first time since hitting the rock-charts stratosphere with Synergy, he fully understood what his fame could do.
He may not be able to find Caitlin’s fiancé, but he was going to do a damn good job of making the world aware of what Matt Corvin had been doing when he disappeared. Helping those who desperately needed help.
It was, Josh decided, the least he could do.
And if it made Caitlin smile, if it helped her find, as her uncle put it, her happy, then that was even better.
For some bizarre, inexplicable reason, Caitlin’s home phone wouldn’t stop ringing. She stood in the shower, the morning sun streaming through her bathroom window, the warm water washing away the fuzzy fog of a fitful, sleepless night, and listened to the distant sound of her phone constantly ringing. Ringing, cutting to the answering machine and then ringing again a few moments later.
Someone was seriously trying to get hold of her.
Refusing to rush, Caitlin rinsed the conditioner from her hair. She never rushed her morning ritual. Every minute of her day, she existed in a state of finely organised chaos and tightly controlled structure. Running your own business did not allow you to waste time or meander about directionless. For the first sixty minutes after rising from her bed however, Caitlin allowed herself the luxury of a forty-minute yoga session, followed by a leisurely ten-minute shower and ten minutes of relaxed caffeine appreciation and consumption.
It prepared her for whatever happened after she finished her morning coffee—always a double-strength flat white on low-fat milk with three sugars. Usually whatever happened entailed some kind of situation at the Chaos Room from the night before. When over five hundred people got together in one environment while drinking alcohol, things always got interesting. When those people were bumping and grinding together to frenzied music written primarily to make the listener think of sex, there were bound to be situations.
Her phone ringing in the morning didn’t surprise Caitlin. It happened daily. But ringing constantly?
Whoever was calling really, really wanted to talk to her. And wasn’t satisfied with just leaving a message.
Maybe it’s Josh Blackthorne?
A prickling blush spread over her breasts and up to her cheeks. Her sex contracted, a traitorous, elemental reaction to the unwanted thought of the rock star.
Caitlin ground her teeth and turned the water icy cold. Damn it. It was bad enough she’d spent the few hours between her sheets thinking about him no matter how hard she tried to think of Matt, now the guy was joining her in the shower?
“Great,” she growled. “Just great.”<
br />
An image of Blackthorne crossing the bathroom floor—naked and sexy as hell—tickled her senses. Her breasts grew round and heavy. Her nipples pinched into tight tips of wanton agony.
If only she could blame the cold water. She’d be lying to herself if she did.
Despite the fact she still ached for Matt to return, missed him with every breath she drew, she was sexually attracted to Josh Blackthorne.
Enough to wish the rock star was here in the shower with her, running his long-fingered hands over her wet, naked body. Dipping those long fingers between her thighs. Finding her willing heat…
“Enough.” She killed the water. So much for her morning ritual.
The sound of her phone ringing in the living room replaced the soft patter of the shower stream, louder in the sudden silence. Somehow impatient.
With a grunt, Caitlin snatched a towel from the nearest rail, gave herself the most perfunctory drying and stormed from the room.
If it was Blackthorne on the phone, she was going to tell him to take a long walk off a short pier. One kiss—two if you counted the first barely touching of lips that made her knees weak and her breath catch and her belly flutter—and he thought he could just sweep into her life and mess it up? Huh. He had another thing coming. He may be able to snap his fingers and get anything and everything else he wanted, but he wasn’t getting her.
For starters, she had a fiancé.
No, you don’t. And not just because he isn’t—
A long beep sounded in her living room, her answering machine no doubt about to take Blackthorne’s umpteenth message.
She stormed towards her phone, preparing herself for the smooth huskiness of his voice seconds away from being recorded on her machine.
“Hello, Ms. Reynolds,” an unfamiliar male voice with a broad American accent came through the machine’s speaker the instant its beep ended. “This is Ira Tibbs from Us Weekly. I’d love to talk to you about your interaction with Josh Blackthorne for the magazine. If you can return my call on…”
Caitlin blinked, feet stumbling to a halt.
She listened to Ira Tibbs recite his contact number, confusion mingling with disbelief.
What interaction? Surely to God, no one knew she’d kissed Blackthorne, did they? Surely to God the guy hadn’t told anyone? Had he?
Hot guilt and something else, something much more carnal, razed through her. Something like…primitive victory.
From caveman days, every woman wanted the best of the male species to desire her whether they admitted it or not. Caitlin knew that from her university social psychology classes. And Josh Blackthorne truly was the epitome of physical, carnal perfection. And he wanted her. He’d kissed her. And now it seemed the world knew it.
Oh God, why did that idea excite her? Even as it terrified and repulsed her?
Fixing her towel around her breasts, she hurried the rest of the distance to the phone where it sat on a lamp table beside her sofa. Shocked at the little LED numbers telling her she had fourteen messages—fourteen—she stabbed at the play button on the answering service.
“Hi, Ms. Reynolds,” a chirpy female voice emanated from the speaker. “This is Cindy Winslow. I’m the entertainment reporter with The Sydney Morning Herald and I’d love to discuss what happened between you and Josh Blackthorne last night at your club.”
As was the case with Ira Tibbs, Cindy Winslow left a number Caitlin could contact her on.
And, as she had after listening to Ira Tibbs, Caitlin stood dumbstruck, a disquieting sense of puzzlement and feminine triumph licking through her.
“What the—”
Before she could finish murmuring the expletive, the next message began.
“Ms. Reynolds, this is Eleanor Carter, the executive producer of Channel Seven’s Sunrise program. We saw what happened between you and Josh Blackthorne last night at your club and we are wondering if you would like to come in and share your side of the story with our viewers on Monday? Please call me back to discuss what we might do to help you come to a decision.”
Another contact number. This time, however, Caitlin didn’t stare at her phone stunned. She stood frozen, her heart a wild sledgehammer, her pulse equally crazy in her throat.
Did Eleanor Carter say she’d seen what had happened?
Caitlin’s mouth went dry. Her belly knotted.
The memory of Blackthorne’s kiss on the dance floor, of her own far-from-reluctant and not-passive response to that kiss sent a flush of wicked heat through her.
A soft whimper of dismay escaped her lips.
Saw? How could they see? Who at her club would have released the CCTV footage of that kiss? Who had access to the footage apart from her and Zach? Was there footage? Hadn’t she turned the security system off before exiting her office?
Or had she been so…so…out of sorts thanks to her traitorous reaction to Josh Blackthorne she’d forgotten?
Oh God, if there was footage of her kissing Josh Blackthorne, how would she explain it to Matt’s parents? How would she—
“This is Rodney Surtees from the Today radio network, Ms. Reynolds,” the next message on her machine announced, Surtees’s voice a deep, gravelly growl. “Please call me about your confrontation with the singer Josh Blackthorne on the footpath outside your club last night. We are willing to pay you for your side of the—”
Caitlin stabbed her finger against the end button on her answering machine, killing Surtees’ blunt invitation.
Silence fell over her living room, thick and oppressive.
Outside.
The word whispered through her head, at once bringing relief and frustrated disbelief.
Outside. Rodney Surtees wanted to talk to her about her run-in with Josh Blackthorne outside her club, when she thought he was just a guy trying to cash in on his similarity to a celebrity. When she’d refused him and his friend—the real Rhys McDowell, as it turned out—entry into the Chaos Room.
Not the kiss he’d stolen on the dance floor. Not the kiss she’d returned like a horny freaking teenager finding heaven in the arms of the hottest guy in the room.
The confrontation. Her talking to him like he was a wanker, him proving her wrong.
Captured on the smartphones of those waiting to get into the club, it seemed.
Captured, loaded onto Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and God knew what other social media platform for all the world to see.
A prickling pressure crept up the back of Caitlin’s neck. Her knotted belly twisted some more. Publically humiliated. She’d been publically humiliated. And she had no one to blame but herself.
She should have known better. The moment those waiting to get into the club had started taking photos of her and Blackthorne, she should have known better. She should have remembered how quickly those kinds of images made it into the media.
Like they had when Matt went missing. When people photographed you crying alone in the park, or as you left Parliament House with Matt’s parents after being told another lead had been a false alarm.
The media were kind to her then, even if heartless people on the street weren’t. Considerate and sympathetic. Would they be the same now? Especially given Josh Blackthorne was a national golden boy, born from Australian music royalty? Would they remember who she was in regards to the missing Australian doctor lost to a militant attack in Somalia? How could they not, given her name, Matt’s name, was raised by the media whenever there was strife in Somalia on the news?
Grief and guilt sheared through Caitlin, dark and mocking.
She stared at her answering machine, its blinking light telling her there were still eleven unheard messages waiting for her attention.
Eleven.
Would they all be similar to the four she’d just heard? Members of the media wanting to talk to her about the fool she’d made of herself outside her own club?
Turning from the small black device, she dropped into the nearby sofa. “Oh God,” she muttered. “Oh God.”
She
hated this. The uncertainty, the attention, the time wasting…her lack of courage.
She’d prided herself on being strong, on not breaking Matt’s parent’s hearts with the truth of her relationship with their son. On not crumpling into a puddle of confused misery when Matt’s disappearance continued. But the idea of being hounded by the media to talk about Josh Blackthorne turned her belly to jelly and her pulse to a thumping tattoo in her neck. Talking about him meant she was thinking about him, and she didn’t want to think about him.
She wanted to think about—
Her phone burst into life at her elbow and she let out a squeal.
“Oh God,” she muttered a third time, this time with disgust.
Shooting the annoying thing a dark glare, she ground her teeth. She was going to put this insanity to rest once and for all. Whoever was on the other end desperate for the story of her and Blackthorne was going to get it—that she hadn’t recognized him on the footpath, after she realized who he was she’d let him in and he spent the rest of the night in the club buying everyone drinks. And that she had no plans to see him again.
A simple, truthful interview to end any speculation.
Giving her head a determined nod, she snatched up the hand piece and rammed it to her head. “This is Caitlin Reynolds,” she snapped, transferring her glare to the morning sunshine flooding into her living room through her gauzy curtains. “And before you ask, no Josh Blackthorne and I do not know each other, are not in any kind of relationship and I have no plans on changing that…or of seeing him again.”
“Well, that kinda sucks,” a deep, smooth familiar male voice chuckled in her ear, “given I’m hoping you’ll agree to let me take you to breakfast this morning.”
The blood drained from Caitlin’s face.
“And as for not being in a relationship with me,” Josh Blackthorne went on, more laughter in his voice, “I did buy you a drink last night. Does that count?”
Caitlin swallowed, her mouth dry. Not just because she’d made a total fool of herself—again—but because the second his voice has caressed her senses, her body had gone into sexual hyper-awareness.
Blackthorne: Heart of Fame, Book 8 Page 9
