Blackthorne: Heart of Fame, Book 8

by Lexxie Couper

  She licked her lips, her gaze shifting about. “Okay.”

  She moved then, walking toward the stage. Each step grew stronger, more purposeful, until she climbed the small flight of stairs leading up to the raised platform without any hint of uncertainty.

  Josh watched her move to the side of the stage and flick a switch high on the wall.

  The stage was plunged into darkness, the only light in the club the dull green glow of the exit signs above the main door, another on the far side of the dance floor and one upstairs.

  When Caitlin didn’t immediately return, he squinted into the blackness. “Caitlin?” he called, his concern reverberating around the silence.

  “I’m okay,” she called back, disgruntled exasperation tingeing her answer. “Just forgot where the damn steps were for a second. Almost fell off the stage.”

  He chuckled, the wry sound amplified by the acoustics of the club.

  “You can laugh,” she muttered, suddenly directly in front of him in the darkness. “You already have a limp. I’d rather keep my natural-born gracefulness, thank you.”

  Josh chuckled again, sliding an arm around her to pull her to his side. “All the cool kids limp. Didn’t you know that?”

  She grunted a response, a grunt that turned to a sob.

  Before he could move, she pressed her face to his chest, her shoulders shaking with fresh, silent tears.

  He stood there, lips on the top of her head, eyes closed.

  A few minutes later, she pushed away from him. “Okay, I’m better. Let’s go.”

  He couldn’t see her face clearly in the dark, but suspected better wasn’t an accurate word to describe her state of mind.

  He didn’t raise the issue though. Instead, he nodded, curled his arm around her back and walked her across the dance floor.

  “You’re limping badly.”

  He shrugged. “It’s all good.”

  Silence stretched between them. They left the club, Caitlin locking the door and activating the alarm system while Josh waited at her side. He walked her to where he’d parked the Jag earlier that afternoon, not holding her even though he wanted to.

  He knew what the life of a celebrity was like. He didn’t want someone photographing them and the image appearing all over the social networks along with conjecture and gossip so close to Caitlin’s loss.

  It wouldn’t take the media long to learn of the discovery of Matt’s body. When they did, he didn’t want them to sink their fingers into her grief and twist it into something insidious and tainted by posting vicious rumours about her relationship with him so close to the announcement of her fiancé’s death.

  If anyone recognized him as they walked the block and a half to the Jag, they didn’t react to it. That was good. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with his fame tonight.

  When they reached the rental and he opened the passenger door for her, Caitlin raised her face to his. “Thank you, Josh.” The words left her on a shaky whisper.

  He could see fresh tears glistening in her eyes. He brushed her cheek with his thumb. “Just doing my job.”

  Puzzled confusion tugged at her eyebrows. “Your job?”

  He gave her a soft smile. “Don’t you know it comes with the whole rock-star thing—singing songs, offering shoulders?”

  Her responding ahhh was a soul-tearing mix of sorrow and mirth. “Good you were here then. For your expertise.”

  He touched her cheek again, aching to press his lips to it. “Any time.”

  Before he removed his hand, she covered it with her own and turned her face into his palm.

  He didn’t know how long they stood that way. He didn’t know if anyone photographed them. He only knew he would do anything he could to see her smile, to hear her laugh, again.

  The drive to her apartment was silent. Caitlin sat in the passenger seat, her forehead resting against the window, her eyes sometimes closed, other times open as she watched Sydney pass by.

  Four blocks later, he drew to a halt outside her place.

  “I want to ask you to come up,” Caitlin’s husky murmur stroked Josh’s control. “But I’m scared you’ll say no because you think I will try and kiss you again.”

  He stared at her. His gut churned.

  “But I won’t,” she went on, still looking out the window. “I promise. I just…I just want you to be with me. In my home. In all honesty, I will probably fall asleep, but I don’t want to do that without you there.” Turning away from the view of her apartment, she gave him an uncertain frown. “Is that okay?”

  Josh nodded. “It is.”

  They moved inside. Caitlin walked to her bedroom. A few seconds later, Josh heard the shower running.

  It took him a few moments to find her kettle and tea caddy. In that time, Fluffy wandered out from under the fridge, flicked his blue tongue in the air a few times and looked up at Josh.

  “She’s in the bedroom, mate,” he said, dropping a tea bag into the biggest mug he’d found in the cupboard.

  Fluffy poked his tongue out again, three times, and then slowly wandered away, the soft rasping of his belly scales on the kitchen floor strangely comforting to Josh.

  Turning back to his tea-making efforts, he popped another tea bag in a smaller mug, spooned three sugars into it, flicked on the kettle and then leant his butt against the counter, watching Fluffy as the lizard made his lopsided slither-limp toward Caitlin’s bedroom.

  “Go help her find her happy, mate,” he murmured.

  Fifteen minutes later, with Caitlin’s mug still waiting to be filled, his own tea sitting cold and forgotten on the coffee table in front of him and the sound of the shower long silenced, Josh pushed himself from the sofa.

  He had to check on her. He was sure she was asleep, but he had to check.

  Endeavoring to make as little sound as possible, he walked to her bedroom and tapped twice on the doorframe with the back of his knuckles. “Caitlin?”

  No answer came.

  His chest constricted. With a deep breath, he stepped up to the open door and looked into her room. He let out a sigh when he found her asleep, curled on her side on top of her bed, her damp hair tangling around her face, her long limbs bare.

  She wore a pair of shorts covered in Elmo’s perpetually laughing face and a bright red tank. At her feet, Fluffy stretched flat, his tail draped over her ankle. In the background, playing so softly Josh could only just make it out, was the sound of Bach.

  A slow smile curled Josh’s lips. Warmth, tight and undeniable, threaded through his chest, down into his very core. He studied her, watched her body move ever so slightly with her deep breaths, and then he left.

  Back to the living room and his cold tea.

  Dropping onto the sofa, he dug his mobile from his back pocket, woke it up and tapped out a text message:

  Rhys, don’t think I’m coming home tonight. Maybe not for a while. Let me know when you’re heading back to the UK. I’m sure by now you’re in that much shit with your coach he’s likely to skin you alive. Which would make for an interesting match to watch, I must admit—a skinless McDowell, running around the field, leaving bloody puddles everywhere.

  JB

  He hit send, waited until the phone told him the message had been delivered and then turned it off and shoved it back into his pocket. He didn’t need it on. He didn’t need to talk to anyone.

  Nothing mattered except being here when Caitlin woke.

  Closing his eyes, he laid his head on the back of the sofa and crossed his ankles on the coffee table.

  He had no idea what was going to happen when Caitlin woke. No idea at all. Maybe he should plan something…

  The aromatic smell of fresh coffee brewing woke him hours later. So much for planning something. The last thing he’d expected to do was fall asleep.

  Pushing himself upright from the sofa, he squinted against the early morning sun flooding the apartment. “Caitlin?”

  “Coffee’s coming,” Her voice floated from the directio
n of the kitchen.

  He frowned. There was no sorrow in her answer. In fact, she sounded…chirpy. “Okay.”

  A shot of pain lanced up from his knee and, biting back a wince, he gave it a rub.

  “You good with toast for breakfast?” Caitlin called.

  Rising to his feet, he limped into the kitchen, his breath catching at the sight of her whizzing around the small area in her Elmo PJs. On the counter beside her, Fluffy sat munching on what looked like a tiny bowl of raw minced beef. “Hey.”

  She tossed him a look over her shoulder before snatching the freshly popped toast from the toaster. “Morning. Thank you for staying last night. I’m sorry I was…well…you know.”

  He narrowed his eyes. He hadn’t expected this.

  Actually, he didn’t know what he’d expected. He’d fallen asleep before he could make any kind of plan or consider what was going to happen when she woke.

  Moving deeper into the kitchen, he dragged his hands through his hair and scratched at the scruff on his jaw. Yep, it definitely seemed like he’d grown a beard over the last few days. “How you feeling?”

  “Better. A little foolish.” She yanked open the fridge and studied its contents. “I don’t have Vegemite, but I do have peanut butter. Are you okay with that?”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Sure. What do you mean foolish?”

  Closing the fridge with a nudge of her hip, she opened the jar of peanut butter she’d withdrawn from it and scooped out a dollop with a knife. “The way I carried on. The crying and the…the kissing. I won’t do it again.”

  None of it?

  The unworthy, far-from-chivalrous thought whispered through Josh’s head.

  She turned and handed him a plate with two slices of toast smeared in peanut butter. “Here you go.”

  He took it, his head buzzing. “Caitlin, do you want to talk about—”

  “Why were you at the club last night?”

  He blinked at her abrupt question.

  She looked at him, her eyes bright, her shoulders square. There was a charged tension about her. An almost feverish energy. “When I got back from Canberra, you and my second-in-command were at the club. You were singing on the stage. Why?”

  “I was…” He paused. What would she do when he told her?

  She raised her eyebrows. “What?”

  “I was testing the acoustics.”

  “Why?”

  “For an unplugged performance I’m going to do there in three weeks.”

  Confusion rippled over her unnatural vibrancy. “A what?”

  He swallowed. “An unplugged performance, to raise awareness of Doctors Without Borders and Matt’s work with them. I started organizing it with Zach three days ago. Mackenzie Rogers, the journalist, is writing a story about it for both the Sydney Morning Herald and The New York Times.”

  She stared at him. “W-why…why would you…”

  “Because I wanted to make you smile.”

  Her lips parted. A tiny gasp escaped her. She looked up at him, her eyes wide.

  “Caitlin?”

  “I think you should leave now, Josh.”

  Her request, spoken with such calm, such seriousness, slammed into him like a fist. He blinked, a cold lick of confusion tracing up his spine. “Why?”

  “Because right at this very moment, I want you to make love to me so badly, I don’t care that I only found out twenty-four hours ago my fiancé was killed by militants.”

  His head roared. His throat grew thick. His body thrummed.

  The urge to step forward, to cup her face and claim her lips as his, once and for all, flooded through him, more potent and compelling than any instinct he’d ever had. To do exactly what she wanted him to do, make love to her.

  Instead, he stood rooted to the spot. He couldn’t move.

  Not towards her, but holy fuck, not away from her either.

  “Please, Josh,” she said, holding his stare. “I need you to go.”

  Summoning more willpower than he thought he had, he nodded. “Okay.”

  He placed his toast on the counter and turned. Strode from the kitchen, through her living room to the door.

  “Josh?”

  He paused at her call but didn’t turn. If he did, if he looked back at her and saw need in her eyes, saw desire in their striking-blue depths, he’d never leave.

  He’d walk straight back to her, pick her up, deposit her on the kitchen counter and proceed to make her his. Thoroughly, completely and irrevocably. “Yes?”

  “I’ll call you later,” she said. “About the performance.”

  “You will?” Damn it, why did his heart have to skip a beat at her words.

  “I will.” He heard the smile in her voice. “I think it’s an incredible idea.”

  He closed his eyes, only just saving himself the embarrassment of running back to her and begging her to let him stay by the simple act of turning the door knob. “I’m glad,” he said, picturing her standing behind him. “Talk soon.”

  He walked through the door and closed it behind him.

  He made it to the foyer, six flights of stairs down, without looking back. She didn’t come after him.

  His gut churned at the fact, a surreal mix of disappointment and pride. How was it possible to be so mixed-up and yet so clear on something? It made no sense and made all the sense in the world. It was the stuff of songs, and when he got back to his apartment, he would write it down. If Rhys was still there, his best mate would just have to play on the X-Box or, fuck, maybe even make them lunch. When he got back to his apartment, he was putting everything he felt for Caitlin Reynolds into lyrics.

  It was the closest he could get to telling her. And maybe one day, in the coming months, or maybe at the unplugged performance itself, she’d get to hear it and not hate what she felt for him.

  Not hate herself for feeling it.

  Maybe. If he was—

  Josh pulled open the foyer door and froze.

  Half a dozen paparazzi ran at him, cameras raised, flashes firing. In amongst them, more than one television news reporter shoved their microphones in his direction.

  “Blackthorne, how long have you been seeing Caitlin Reynolds?”

  “Did you know her fiancé is dead?”

  “Were you two having an affair while the doctor was still alive?”

  The questions came, hard, fast, non-stop. The cameras flashed. The microphones stabbed at him.

  He stumbled back a step, his injured knee choosing that moment to give out. His arms flailed, his elbows whacking the doorframe, his hip bouncing off it with a painful thud.

  Jesus.

  Spinning on his heel, he staggered back into the foyer and slammed the door shut.

  Jesus.

  Outside, the horde continued to shout questions.

  He sucked in a quick breath and another. He had to get them out of here. He had to get them away from Caitlin’s apartment. ASAP.

  Jesus.

  He yanked his phone out of his back pocket and dialed Rhys.

  “Dude.” His friend laughed into his ear. “Where the fuck are you? You’re all over the news. Did you know someone from the government made an announcement last night that your honey’s doctor of a fiancé is—”

  “McDowell,” Josh cut him off, eyes squeezed shut, back pressed to the door. “I need you to do me a favour.”

  “Fuck.” Shock registered in Rhys’s voice. “You okay? You sound stressed.”

  “The paparazzi have me cornered at Caitlin’s place. And the media. I need you to come get me. Now. I want to draw them away from her. I want you to be your normal self and grab all the attention. Think you can do that?”

  “Sure thing, dude. Where does she live?”

  Josh gave his friend Caitlin’s address. “Get your arse here ASAP, Rhys.”

  “Be there in ten.”

  Josh blinked. “Ten?”

  Rhys laughed. “I’m at the Tilbury Hotel, you lucky bastard. I’m having breakfast with the cap
tain of the Socceroos. Hey, want me to bring him?”

  “Rhys,” Josh growled.

  His friend laughed. “Yeah, yeah. On my way, pretty boy. Be ready to run at the sound of the horn.”

  The conversation over, Josh shoved his mobile back into his pocket, leant harder against the door and raked his hands through his hair.

  And to think he’d come back to Australia to escape the madness of a stalker?

  “Jesus,” he muttered with a wry chuckle.

  Chapter Eleven

  Caitlin knew she was meant to be grieving more for Matt. She knew that. But the tears for him that had wet her cheeks on the dance floor of the Chaos Room ten nights ago while being held by Josh Blackthorne were the last she’d shed.

  Every morning since then, ten mornings in fact, she woke and lay in bed, waiting for the pain to claim her again.

  It never did. There was a numb place in her heart for Matt she suspected would always be there, a bruise she didn’t think would go away, but the grief she’d experienced in the club had gone.

  Every night since she’d found solace in Josh’s arms, in the tender warmth of his platonic embrace, she’d waited for the memories of Matt to assault her, to haunt her dreams.

  They never did. Instead, she would lie in her bed and, no matter how often she tried to think of Matt, her thoughts would turn to the rock star who’d held her when she needed him to and left when she’d asked him to.

  If Caitlin believed in Hell, she was certain she was heading for it.

  A person didn’t recover from a loss like this. They didn’t.

  And yet during the last ten days, she’d discovered she was ready to move on. She had, in fact, been ready for a long time.

  She’d also discovered—via a hasty apology from the Federal Minister for Foreign Affairs the morning after she’d returned from Canberra—that someone from the government had sent out a press statement about Matt’s death not yet approved for release.

  In the last ten days, she’d also learnt how nasty the media could be when they thought a story was there to dig up.

  She’d stopped answering her home phone and any unknown or blocked number on her mobile. It was only members of the media wanting to know how long she and Josh Blackthorne had been having an affair, wanting to know if Josh’s charity performance at the club for the Doctors Without Borders was still going to take place given the revelation of their secret, wanting to know if she and Josh were going to get married.