Recovery

by JC Harroway

  The call ended, but Jess’s words buzzed around my head like a bee stuck in a jam jar. Was I at risk of getting too close to Nathan?

  Jess was right—I was guarded. My small but close circle had strict entry requirements and rigorous codes of conduct. If he was sneaking in by stealth, I’d have to be extra vigilant.

  But as I made my way downstairs my friend’s words followed me, hovering at the forefront of my thoughts, reminding me that when faced with the choice of a media frenzy picking at the scab of my family’s wounds, a game of charades with Nathan seemed like the easy option. That didn’t make it any safer.

  ***

  Following the smell of burnt toast, I found Nathan in a gleaming white kitchen filled with light. I paused in the doorway, admiring the view of him casually dressed in a worn pair of drawstring track pants hanging low on his hips.

  The burnt toast discernible from the bedroom two floors up sat in the toaster. As he rushed to a pot on the stove, swearing and flipping off the heat, I hid my laughter behind the hand I pressed to my mouth. Stirring the contents of the pan furiously, he suddenly shook his hand like he’d been burned and hopped around the kitchen in his bare feet, a steady stream of obscenities colouring the air around him.

  I gasped, worried that he might be genuinely injured while I had stood sniggering at him from the doorway. His head shot up, his pain forgotten when he spied me and his eyes lit up. ‘Just in time. It’s seems I’m in need of medical attention again.’

  ‘Oh? I rested my hip against the doorjamb. ‘Run it under the tap.’ I was now well acquainted with that hungry look in his eyes—it couldn’t be sated with burnt toast.

  He threw the tea towel onto the bench and stalked towards me, his eyes intent on mine. The part of me worried about the integrity of my defences panicked, my heart pumping faster to prepare my muscles for escape. But the curve of his sexy mouth dissolved my flight instincts, gluing my fickle feet to the floor.

  ‘But I’m in need of care that’s a little more … personal.’ His voice was a low rumble that promised pleasure and then I was pressed against him, the delirious recipient of a smouldering kiss. Brushing my hair back, he held my face in his hands, exploring my mouth with languid licks and soft nibbles. Panting hard, we broke apart and pulled back to grin at each other.

  He dazzled me, like the sunshine glinting outside. ‘You said you’d show me the photos from last night.’ I’d already been swept away by the insane chemistry between us this morning. I couldn’t forget why I was doing this.

  ‘I did. Business first, eh?’ He pressed a quick peck to my mouth and led me over to the small round table in front of a set of French doors that opened to the gardens. He took a seat, pulling me down into his lap and bracketing his arms around my waist so he could operate the iPad in front of us.

  He opened a celebrity blogging site and I gasped, taking the device from him so I could scroll through the shots of us from the red carpet at last night’s premiere.

  Sitting here on the lap of a shirtless and sex-rumpled Nathan, it was easy to forget he was a world-famous actor, but the images in front of me left no doubt. He was radiant; backdropped by hordes of screaming fans, he embodied the word ‘star’. I’d managed to maintain a small smile, despite the nerves and utter bewilderment of standing next to him on the red carpet. My frock hadn’t let me down and whilst it lacked the edgy glamour of some of the creations paraded, I wasn’t too out of place next to Nathan.

  ‘Speculation is rife,’ Nathan mimicked a newsreader tone, his chin resting on my shoulder. ‘Is serial philanderer Nathan Banks finally settling down with the doctor he met on a recent trip to New Zealand, Sophia King?’ He turned his head to nuzzle the side of my neck, sending ripples of electricity down to my toes.

  His fingers traced circles on my thigh, edging closer to the hem of his T-shirt, and my voice could only be mustered to a husky whisper. ‘Is that what they’re saying?’ My eyes rolled back, the sensation of his warm mouth on the delicate skin behind my ear too intense.

  ‘Probably words to that effect.’ He moved his other hand from my waist, sliding both hands down my bare thighs and up again, lifting the hem of the oversized T-shirt.

  ‘Serial philanderer?’ My voice broke as his fingers glided to the apex of my thighs, finding me bare, even as I fought to hold on to the niggle of doubt his words generated. Desire spiked my blood like a potent narcotic and I marvelled after so much sex, that I had any pleasure neurotransmitters left.

  Spreading his legs under me, he opened my thighs as his fingers pressed against my sex, slicking through the moisture pooling there. The iPad clattered to the table as I was sucked into the haze of arousal once more. I lifted my hands over my head to tangle my fingers in his hair as he continued to nuzzle my neck with his firm lips and scratchy beard.

  I leaned back against his chest, his erection pressing into my buttocks as his other hand slipped under the T-shirt to tease my nipple.

  ‘That’s my reputation, right?’ His voice held a hard edge, his tiny snort of bitterness gusting against my neck. ‘It’s in the papers, so it must be true.’ His teeth found the skin of my shoulder where the neck of his T-shirt gaped, grazing a line of tingles back up to my neck. The hand between my legs stroked me, his fingers dipping through my curls.

  My thighs juddered. I was slipping under the wave of arousal, my cognition fading, overcome with the needs of my libidinous body. But his words pulled at me, sucking me surface bound to mingle with the seeds of doubt already sown by Jess.

  ‘Is it true?’ The fog cleared and I lifted my head from his shoulder, slipping forward along his thighs so I could get some distance from the evidence of his arousal pressing into my back.

  ‘What?’ His hand slipped from between my thighs, coming to rest on my hip again.

  I turned my head, twisting to witness the lust that, like my own, had distracted him from the conversation. Sensing my withdrawal, his face cleared, confusion replacing the heavy-lidded hunger of seconds before.

  I stood, distancing myself. ‘Serial philanderer? Reputation? Is it true?’ I was hot and flustered, the bad kind joining and replacing the good kind he’d instigated with his wandering hands.

  Jess was right. I didn’t do this. Bad boys held no attraction for me. I didn’t want to change anyone. And if, as my friend suspected, I was erring dangerously close to feeling something for this man, I was going to get myself hurt.

  His face hardened. ‘What are you asking me, Soph? Do you want to know how many sexual partners I’ve had?’ He jabbed his fingers into his hair, standing up and adjusting his shrinking arousal in his track pants.

  Jealousy forced acid into the back of my throat. ‘No!’ Yes. I don’t know. ‘But I guess I should have asked you your sexual health status before last night.’ I paced to the kitchen island, my eyes roving over the remnants of the aborted brunch. I shrank a little inside, the humiliation of bringing this up now, after the proverbial horse had bolted, sagging my shoulders. Part of my brain screamed at me to cease. I was deliberately sabotaging this afternoon’s fun. But it was too late.

  ‘I guess we should have discussed it. You’re right. I assumed, as you’re a doctor …’ He joined me at the island, resting his hands on the edge, his knuckles white. ‘As for me, I’m all clear. I’d never have touched you otherwise.’

  My gaze flew to his, my head spinning. ‘Me too.’

  The spell was broken, the moment passed, and I watched the cracks appear in our new and fragile intimacy as the jagged pieces fell away by my own doing. Awkward and tongue-tied, I retreated behind self-preservation. ‘Hey, we don’t need to do this. Forget I asked. I’m going to head home. Can you tell me where you put my suitcase?’ I hadn’t seen it since it disappeared into the boot of the Bentley yesterday at my parents’ house.

  His scrutiny pinned me to the spot, his features revealing nothing of his own feelings. ‘Soph, I thought we were doing this for a reason? You draw the heat away from your father’s past indiscret
ions—’

  ‘And your credibility is boosted, giving you a shot at the roles you want? You’re right.’ I swallowed down the bitter taste of disappointment, more convinced than ever that this was a dangerous game we played and If I didn’t stick to the rules, I’d wind up so damaged, no amount of stitching could put me back together. ‘That’s what we’re doing and it’s working.’ I forced a smile, the work smile I used when I feared the worst diagnosis but didn’t yet have the test results back—a false, hopeful smile. ‘Mum texted me—the paparazzi have all but disappeared. Only one or two stragglers remain.’

  He covered my hand with his. ‘See? I told you it would work.’ His gaze was uncertain, flitting over my features as if trying to decipher some hidden clue.

  I nodded. Yes, it seemed to be working. I should leave the game with my defences intact.

  ‘A few more pictures of us to seal the deal and they’ll have completely forgotten you’re Paul King’s daughter? I could ask Lucy to issue a statement—how you helped me prepare for my role as the father of an autistic boy—a small white lie, but they’ll never know. The celeb sites will love it, claiming our relationship blossomed in New Zealand and I begged you to come back to the UK so we could continue to date.’

  ‘You sure you don’t write those articles yourself?’

  He laughed, a cynical snort. ‘I’ve stopped reading them now, but when I first started, I scoured every one, sifting through the lies for any scrap of critical acclaim.’

  Could I continue this charade? Was I strong enough to present an image of a couple to the world’s media whilst hardening my heart to the seep of emotions Nathan instilled in me?

  If I needed to, to protect my family, I would do this—vaccinate myself against him until I was immune. With any luck, by tomorrow normal life would resume and I could withdraw before I developed feelings for Nathan.

  Ignoring the crush of disappointment, I said, ‘We’ll see. Perhaps we’ve already done enough. My suitcase?’

  ‘You don’t want … food?’ He indicated the burnt toast.

  I glanced away from his dulling eyes, swallowing back the stone lodged in my throat. ‘I should get going. I need to open up my flat, unpack, collect my mail …’ Right? Like mundane chores could compete with an afternoon rolling around in Nathan’s king-sized bed.

  Wordlessly, he took my hand and led me to a spare room on the second floor, ushering me inside and pointing out my suitcase in the dressing room. ‘I don’t know what happened just now, Soph.’ His breathtaking face was hard. Inscrutable. He sighed, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. ‘I promised you’d enjoy yourself.’ His gaze searched mine and my throat closed.

  I almost relented, the urge to touch him, to place his hands back on me as they’d been in the kitchen so strong, I had to press my fingernails into my palms to stop myself.

  ‘I did. I did enjoy myself.’ I smiled, trying to repair some of the damage I’d done. ‘And the premiere was fun too.’

  He nodded, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth before he stepped back, away from me. ‘When you’re ready, I’ll take you home.’

  I closed the door, hoping that when the time came, I’d be able to shut him out of my life just as easily.

  Chapter Eleven

  I was a prisoner in my own home—staying inside, the curtains drawn, slowly going insane. I’d put clean sheets on my bed, dusted throughout, and opened every window to allow the fresh air to circulate. It was on one such trip I noticed the paparazzi on the pavement outside my building. They’d seen me at the window, calling out to me, their flashes firing like strobe lighting. How had they found me?

  I had weeks of house arrest to endure, and even then their interest in me might continue once I’d started my new job at St Mildred’s Hospital. But what I feared most was that they’d approach Matty—he couldn’t deal with stress, noise or strangers touching him.

  I sat on my bed and opened my laptop to check for an e-mail from Jess—if we met in LA as we’d planned, at least I could escape from the gossip and speculation prison.

  Nothing.

  Twitching with impatience, I booked a ticket to LA, forwarding the details to Jess, and then composed a follow-up e-mail to Dr Sewell at the Saban Research Institute of LA’s children’s hospital. This was the perfect solution. Jess and I would have the holiday we’d planned to take at the end of our time together in New Zealand and I would get away from the media, away from the paparazzi camped on my street, and away from Nathan.

  Nathan. My restless fingers hovered over the keys, finally succumbing and typing his name into Google. The first entry was his Wikipedia page. It was all there, everything I could want to know—his date of birth, schooling, family, charity work, award nominations and career achievements to date. I scoured every detail, an addict greedy for any fix.

  The section on his relationships made uncomfortable reading, and I was torn between irrational jealousy, morbid curiosity and guilty voyeurism. Unsurprised, I discovered Nathan favoured beautiful models and actresses, many of whom had been his leading ladies. There was also a photo of him with a stunning brunette, Amy Hamilton, to whom he’d had a short engagement before they split two years ago. My heart raced and a sour taste stung the back of my throat. That immunity I sought couldn’t come quickly enough.

  I clicked to images, gasping as a screen full of Nathan popped up. It was the sweetest hedonism and the worst from of torture combined. I scrolled through image after image of his handsome face, which either featured his dazzling Hollywood smile, the charm of his dimple-flashing grin or his angry scowl as his privacy was invaded.

  I groaned, pushing away the laptop and rolling over onto my back to stare at my ceiling. It was futile. If I closed my eyes, he was there, tattooed on the insides of my eyelids. With my eyes open, his image danced across my ceiling, mocking me for the foolish woman I was and heating my blood on a tidal wave of erotic memories. I was doomed—infected, contagious and desperate for a cure from Nathan Banks.

  A ping from the laptop alerted me to an incoming e-mail. Had Jess replied to my message? If I could catch her online, we could video chat and plan our LA itinerary. Anything to distract me from Nathan.

  It wasn’t Jess.

  Soph,

  I hope you found your apartment in a satisfactory condition. I’m not sure what happened this afternoon, but I would like to take you somewhere tomorrow if you are free? No press, no paparazzi, no performance.

  Get an early night. I’ll pick you up at 7a.m. Wear comfortable clothing and sports shoes.

  Nate.

  P.S. Don’t forget to draw your curtains. Those telephoto lenses are a bitch.

  The e-mail contained a scanned drawing of two stick figures on the side of a mountain, one above the other, reaching out a hand to assist their ascent.

  I closed my eyes, my head dropping into my hands. I should reply. Immediately.

  … Sorry I have plans … Checking the street every five seconds to see if they’ve left their vigil.

  … The cat ate my sports shoes …

  … I’m allergic to mountains …

  Anything other than what I knew I was going to say. Perhaps if I didn’t answer, he’d assume I hadn’t seen the message and he wouldn’t show up?

  Coward.

  I was anything but that. I’d spent most of my adult life holding people at an arm’s length. I could keep Mr Banks there too.

  With my heart racing, I typed a reply.

  Nathan,

  I do indeed have uninvited guests on my street. How did you know? Rest assured, my curtains are already drawn and have been all day. I am at risk of vitamin D deficiency-induced rickets.

  The outing you propose intrigues me, although 7a.m. is a little early for someone still recovering from jet lag.

  I take it I won’t need a ‘killer frock’ this time?

  Soph.

  After a hot shower, I crawled between clean crisp sheets, fatigue so acute I almost sobbed with relief. The last thing I di
d before sleep claimed me was set my alarm for six a.m.

  ***

  I swung open my front door to find Nathan filling my doorway, one elbow braced on the doorframe and his crooked smile greeting me like the best wake-up call a girl could get. My chest seized, the sting of trapped air pinching my lungs. He was casual in jeans, a T-shirt and a baseball cap, and I battled to keep my hands at my sides instead of dragging him down the hallway to my room where I could reacquaint myself with his birthday suit and spectacular bedroom skills. Who was I kidding? The carpeted floor of the hallway would be perfectly adequate.

  On the street behind him, the handful of photographers who’d either camped out all night or been up with the birds yelled our names, calling for Nathan to turn round as their flashes popped relentlessly.

  I grasped a handful of the shirt over his sternum and pulled him inside, slamming the door on our audience with a scowl.

  ‘Hi.’ Embarrassed by the direction of my thoughts a few seconds ago, I focused on the dark fabric covering his firm chest.

  He closed the distance between us, stalking me until my back hit the wall and I was forced to raise my eyes to his. ‘Ready to go?’ His minty breath gusted over my lips, the space between his mouth and mine tantalisingly scant.

  I nodded, his mouth fascinating me as I waited, my lips tingling and my body swaying toward him of its own volition.

  The kiss never came. He lifted his hand to the side of my face, brushing back a lock of hair before he straightened. I was left frustrated on both counts as his fingers hadn’t even made contact with my skin.

  His lazy perusal travelled down my body and back up again. ‘You look well rested.’

  Well rested? The banal descriptor should have pleased me, cementing our relationship firmly back into neutral territory, but my body craved the scorch of fire it had developed a taste for. Pretty, beautiful, or even fuckable would have been preferable.

  ‘Thank you. I slept well, despite the early start. So where are we going, and how are we going to lose them?’ I pointed at my closed door.