Nathaniel checked his phone again, but there was no response from Annabelle. Had she even picked up the message? Was she huddled in a heap somewhere, shivering with reaction?
He felt the bite of guilt, as he always did when he thought of Annabelle, and something deeper, some thing uglier—something moulded deep inside himself.
Pushing the phone back into his pocket, he wondered why he was even bothering trying to contact her. It wasn’t as if they were close. None of the Wolfe siblings did ‘close.’ The only common thread they shared was fierce independence. A reluctance to bond with anyone.
Nathaniel paced across the flat and glanced out of the window but the streets were empty apart from a loan woman slipping and sliding on the icy streets as she struggled against the icy wind.
There were no paparazzi. Miss Chatterbox-with-the-gorgeous-breasts had managed to lose them.
He stared blankly out of the window, and by the time the bedroom door opened again he had himself under control.
It was immediately obvious that she’d renewed her make-up and then scrubbed it off, afraid it would look as if she were trying too hard. Nathaniel gave a humourless laugh. She didn’t need to try. Make-up or no make-up, her mouth was still the same full tempting curve that made a man want to dive straight in and sample the flavour. Even seeing her wild, curling hair tied back in an unflattering ponytail didn’t kill the chemistry. All that chatter and unusual openness should have irritated him. Instead she was getting under his skin.
He wondered what she’d say if she knew how close he was to hauling her back into the bedroom. He wanted to lose himself. He wanted distraction from the mess that was his life.
‘Are you—?’ She cleared her throat, careful not to look at him. ‘Are you going to answer that?’
Answer what?
Drowning in his private hell, Nathaniel realised that his phone was ringing and he hadn’t even noticed.
It was his brother Sebastian and this time he took the call, conscious that Katie would be listening to every word of the conversation. ‘Yes, he was there…. Rafael must have given him the ticket…. I’ve no idea. All we can do is manage the situation.’ As he talked, Katie busied herself in the kitchen area, clattering away, trying not to listen. She was still wearing her skinny jeans and her bottom was a smooth curve straight from a bad boy’s fantasy. Deep in that fantasy, Nathaniel realised he’d missed half of what his brother had said. ‘Sorry? … No, that’s way too risky. I’m going to leave the country. I’ll be in touch and you have my private number…. The most important thing is that we protect her.’
What the hell was the matter with him? He should be concentrating on damage limitation, not working out ways to remove Katie from those jeans.
He pocketed the phone. ‘Do you have any bourbon?’
Still with her back to him, she stacked a week’s supply of breakfast bowls. ‘Sorry, no.’ Her slender shoulders were stiff and Nathaniel felt a flash of irritation.
‘Look at me, will you?’
‘The only way I can behave even remotely normally is if I don’t look at you. Sorry if that seems rude, but that’s just the way it is. I don’t have bourbon but I do have water, or—’ Still not looking at him, she tugged open the fridge. ‘Milk?’
‘I haven’t drunk a glass of milk since I was three years old.’
‘It’s full of calcium and vitamin D. Good for your bones.’
‘Alcohol is good for my stress levels. What’s this?’ He picked up a bottle of red wine that was sitting on the side and read the label.
She glanced over her shoulder, the movement sending the ponytail swinging. ‘You won’t be interested in that. It could double as paint stripper.’
Nathaniel was tempted to confess that the way he felt right at that moment he would have considered the paint stripper. ‘It can’t be that bad.’ Without waiting to be asked, he reached past her and grabbed two glasses from the cupboard. The scent of her wound itself around his senses and he tried to block his reaction.
She closed the fridge and moved away carefully. ‘Don’t pour one for me.’
Wondering how sexual tension could still throb when two people weren’t looking at each other, Nathaniel ignored her and poured two glasses. ‘Drink. We both need it.’ He took a large mouthful and winced as his palate was assaulted by flavours not normally associated with wine. ‘On second thoughts, maybe we don’t need it.’
‘I’ve changed my mind. I think I do.’ Visibly flustered, she picked up her glass and drank.
‘Clearly you don’t have a very discerning pal ate.’
‘I can’t afford a discerning palate, Mr Wolfe.’
‘What’s it going to take to get you to look at me?’
Still holding the glass, she stared at a point in the centre of his chest. ‘I just—I’m finding it really hard to behave normally with you. Sorry, but … aren’t you finding this at all odd?’
‘What’s odd about it?’
‘Well, I’m me.’ With a rueful smile, she glanced down at herself. ‘Jeans with a hole, tiny flat, modest job. And you’re—well, you know who you are. Let’s just say I feel as though I should buy a ticket before I’m allowed to look at you. I associate you with movies. I keep waiting for some bad guy to leap out from behind you with a gun.’
‘Talking of guys leaping out from behind me, is some jealous lover built like a sumo wrestler likely to turn up later and want to beat me to a pulp? Presumably not, as you’re speed dating.’
‘I live alone. Number of jealous lovers—zero. I’m going through a lean patch. Well, not lean as in lean, obviously.’ The words spilled out, uncensored. ‘Lean as in not much action. And not action as in—’
‘So you’re single.’ Why was he asking? Why the hell was he doing this to himself?
‘Completely single. Not that I mind being single,’ she added hastily, clearly worried he might think she was dropping hints. ‘Being single is good. I can do anything I like without having to check with anyone. I can be spontaneous. I can eat cereal for supper and wash up the breakfast things when I’m ready and until today no one ever knew or cared, although—’ she gave a tiny smile ‘—obviously from now on I’ll be tidier just in case a Hollywood star happens to drop by. And, being single, if I want to go and—and—well, whatever I want to go and do, I do it. Sorry. Talking too much again …’ Her voice faded and she shrugged awkwardly. ‘The short answer to your question is yes, I live alone. And now I’ve said that I’m realising that actually you’re a complete stranger and I’ve invited you into my home. And that is why this is weird. I feel I know you because I’ve spent so long staring at you in movies. I’ve seen you naked, but I don’t know you at all.’
‘You’ve seen me naked?’ The nerves on the back of his neck prickled. This wasn’t the way he’d intended the conversation to go. He should be on the phone, sorting out his monumental personal crisis, not flirting with a girl who had romantic stamped all over her.
‘You did that indie film.’ She stared down into her glass. ‘I think I saw it once—or maybe twice …’ The colour of her cheeks told him she’d watched it at least a hundred times. ‘The bit where you carried the daughter down to the beach was a bit of a cult scene when I was at university.’
Nathaniel struggled valiantly not to return the favour and imagine her naked. It didn’t help that they were having the conversation surrounded by red silk cushions and a deep, inviting sofa. Gritting his teeth, he blanked out a sudden image of him taking her, there and then, on that sofa. ‘I thought you studied costume design. Talk to me about what you do.’ Talk about something. Anything. Anything, but sex.
‘The naked body can be a costume—’ she sounded breathless ‘—if it fits the role. All I’m saying is that it’s weird to have seen you naked and yet actually not know you at all. You could be—well, I just don’t know you, that’s all.’
He bit back the suggestion that they get to know each other better. His life didn’t have room for any more complication
s. It was already a mess and looking to get worse.
‘You’ve worked with me for the past month so I’m not a stranger and I can assure you I don’t have any nasty habits,’ he drawled softly. ‘Don’t make the mistake of mixing me up with the parts I play. That’s not who I am. Just for the record, the only time I’d rip your clothes off is if you were ripping mine off too.’ And right now that sounded like a damn good idea.
‘Honestly, I’m not thinking for one moment that you’re going to rip my clothes off. I may be dreamy but I’m not delusional. I can distinguish between reality and fantasy, although—’ she kept it light ‘—there were definitely moments on my scooter when you seemed to think you were Alpha Man. Do people often do that? Mix you up with the parts you play? Mix fantasy with reality?’
‘All the time. The worst one was when I played a psychopathic doctor in Heartsink. For months people were coming up to me and asking me to diagnose their rashes.’ They were no longer talking about sex, so why was his body still throbbing? And why couldn’t he stop looking at her? ‘I haven’t thanked you for what you did tonight.’
‘You’re welcome.’
He was used to people behaving oddly around him—sometimes they were giggly, sometimes they were plain hysterical—but Katie was the first woman he’d met who was determined not to look at him. Exasperation flickered through him. ‘It’s really hard having a conversation with the top of your head.’
Finally she looked at him. Their eyes met and the explosion of awareness was mutual and instantaneous. ‘Are you feeling a bit better?’
‘Better?’
‘At the theatre you were incredibly stressed.’
‘Now you are delusional.’ He changed the subject smoothly. ‘Or maybe it’s the wine. How many glasses do you need to drink before you do the dance of the seven veils?’
Her laugh was nervous. ‘Your harem already seems a little crowded.’
‘It’s not crowded. Let me know any time you want me to play sheikh to your concubine. I could throw you over my shoulder and ravish you on that pile of silk cushions.’ And he was sorely tempted.
Who cared if she had pictures of him? He was more than willing to give her the real thing.
‘The sofa is really uncomfortable. Hence the cushions.’ Her cheeks were the same shade of scarlet as those cushions.
‘In that case I’ll make sure I’m the one on top.’ Without thinking, Nathaniel lifted his hand and stroked her face thoughtfully. ‘You’re very pretty. That’s why the Duchess of Gloucester has been so irritable for the past month. She hates working with people who remind her she’s ageing.’ His hand lingered and he saw her lips part as she snatched in a shallow breath.
It would have been so easy to kiss her….
So easy …
‘So—’ she backed away from him, snapping the tension ‘—er, what are your plans tonight?’
He found her tendency to speak without thinking surprisingly endearing. In his world, no one spoke without thinking. ‘I need somewhere to stay.’
‘Oh—’
‘That was your cue to invite me.’
‘You want to stay here?’ Her voice was a squeak. ‘Are you mad? You could be in the penthouse suite at The Dorchester ordering room service and wallowing in luxury.’
Or he could be lying on her decadent sofa, listening to the rain and wondering whether she slept naked or not. ‘Privacy is luxury. Can I sleep on your sofa?’
Her mouth opened and closed. ‘You don’t have any luggage. No pyjamas or anything.’
He managed to subdue the smile. ‘I don’t own pyjamas. So is that a yes?’
‘I—well, if that’s really what you want.’ She looked faint, and despite the dark clouds rolling into his life he couldn’t resist teasing her.
‘And if I’m cold in the night?’
Their eyes met. He watched the dreams chase across her face just before she gave a little shake of her head.
‘I’ll go and fetch you some blankets. You won’t be cold.’
CHAPTER THREE
HE WAS drowning.
The cold waters of the lake closed over his head, a murky coffin pulling him down to his death. As he opened his mouth to scream, the water poured into his lungs and the last thing he saw was the figure of a man as he walked away and left him to die.
Nathaniel woke drenched in sweat and shivering. Every bone in his body ached and his muscles screamed a protest at having been cramped in such an unforgiving position for a whole night. Despite the blankets, he was bitterly cold. His head ached from the after-effects of cheap wine and lack of sleep but he didn’t care. He was just relieved to be awake. If sleep meant the nightmare, then he’d choose insomnia every time.
He ran his hand over his face, still gripped by images of the lake. The vision lurked at the back of his head, refusing to fade. It had been years since he’d returned to the place—years since he’d had the dream. It depressed him to know that it was still lurking in the corners of his brain, waiting to burst to life. All it had taken was Jacob’s return.
Why the hell had he come back?
And why now?
Through the gap in the curtains Nathaniel caught a glimpse of a miserably wet February morning. The sky was a cheerless grey and he could hear rain sheeting against the window. He thought longingly of his enormous and extremely comfortable bed in his Californian home. He’d built a different life for himself and yet happiness was always just beyond the horizon. He’d thought doing live theatre would be a welcome change from the empty glass bubble that was Hollywood. He’d thought that in London he’d be safe from his past—he hadn’t reckoned on the past watching him from the front row on opening night.
Nathaniel stared up at the ceiling, reliving the moment when he’d been stranded in the spotlight, staring trouble in the face while a flabbergasted audience watched in shocked fascination.
Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he found a text from Annabelle, sent in the cold dark hours of the night. Just two words.
I know.
Nathaniel stared at the message, wondering what state she’d been in when she’d sent it.
Chased by his own thoughts, plagued by that feeling of powerlessness, he sprang from the sofa and stood for a moment in the centre of the tiny living room, forcing himself to breathe. He’d never been in a room where the walls were so close together. He was trapped with only his thoughts for company.
And he hated his thoughts.
A shout came from outside and Nathan moved silently to the window and glanced through a gap in the curtains to the street below.
Journalists and photographers were gathered four-deep, lenses poised, a sense of excitement in the air.
They were calling his name.
Nathaniel leaned back against the wall, cursing fluently, wondering why he was surprised. It was part of his life, wasn’t it? In no country in the world could he walk down the street unrecognised. And there was always someone willing to sell his whereabouts to a gossip magazine.
He glanced towards the closed bedroom door, his mouth tightening as he remembered how much she’d talked the night before.
‘Nathaniel! Katie!’
Hearing her name shouted alongside his, Nathaniel felt a flash of anger and launched himself towards the door she’d closed between them the night before. Without bothering to knock, he strode into the room. ‘Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. We’ve got crowd control issues.’
She came awake in an instant, her tousled dark curls spilling over her bare shoulders and her green eyes still dazed with sleep. ‘What? Who?’
Beautiful, Nathaniel thought, momentarily distracted by the arresting sight of a sleepy female. For a moment he thought she slept naked and then he caught a glimpse of the tiny lace straps of a camisole through the soft tumbling hair.
‘Thanks to your inability to keep a secret, we have company.’ Gripped by a vicious attack of lust, Nathaniel turned away and banged his elbow sharply on the wall. Pain arced up his arm and through
his shoulder. The place was so cramped he could hardly move. He eyed the narrow single bed in disbelief. ‘How do you have sex in a bed that narrow?’
‘What do you mean, crowd control issues?’ She ignored his question. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Photographers.’ Three sketchbooks were stacked by her bed. Everywhere he looked there were sketches of glamorous dresses and yet he’d never seen her in anything other than jeans and boring tops. ‘Our own little pack of journalists have hunted us down and now they’re staking out the place, waiting to get a really revealing picture. You’re looking particularly savoury this morning, wardrobe. If you stand in front of the window like that you might even make the front page.’
‘Journalists?’ His words finally penetrated and she shot upright, her eyes wide. ‘Here? How did they find us?’
‘Surprising, isn’t it? Or perhaps it isn’t so surprising given that you warned me you talk too much when you’re nervous. They’re also yelling your name,’ he drawled, ‘so don’t waste your time pretending you don’t know how they got here.’
‘My name?’ She froze and stared at him, her lips parted as she drew in uneven breaths. ‘Oh, no—’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘I did not call the press.’
‘Well, someone did, angel, because they’re banging on the door as we speak.’
She flung the covers back and he had a glimpse of legs long enough to make a man lose his grip on reality. Dragging his eyes from slender perfection, he encountered pretty lacy underwear and then she was pulling on the same brown jumper and jeans she’d worn the day before. Sexy underwear—boring choice of clothes, Nathaniel thought absently. Strange.
‘Stop looking at me.’ With a flick of her hands, she freed her hair from her jumper. ‘Give me some privacy.’
‘Like you gave me privacy?’ Ruthlessly shutting down his libido, Nathaniel folded his arms and watched her performance with grim-faced anger. ‘I need to know what you told them.’ The thought of what discovery might do to fragile Carrie sent a blast of cold anger through his system.
He’d promised he’d protect her and instead he’d exposed her.
Bad Blood Collection Page 4
