Blackthorne: Heart of Fame, Book 8

by Lexxie Couper

  Her nipples pinched tight, the pit of her belly fluttered, her breath caught and the junction of her thighs contracted.

  Pulsed.

  Grew heavy and hot and eager.

  Oh God. For the third time.

  Chapter Seven

  He didn’t expect her to say yes. Why would she? Especially after what he was seeing on the morning news programs and in the newspapers—images and footage of him and her facing each other down on the sidewalk outside her club, guarded uncertainty in her face, an arrogant smirk on his.

  Yeah, like she was going to agree to spend any more time with him.

  But here he was, calling her now.

  He had no other choice. The moment his conversation with Zach Chapman had ended, he’d felt compelled to hear her voice.

  Without consideration or contemplation, he’d acted on that compulsion. He’d played soccer the same way back when he’d been Sydney’s highest paid striker—without consideration or contemplation, just on instinct. Instinct had told him when to attack and take possession of the ball, when to shoot and score.

  He wasn’t hoping to take possession of Caitlin Reynolds, not now, knowing what he did about her missing fiancé. Nor did he want to score—not in the way he’d originally wanted when he’d first laid eyes on her. But he couldn’t ignore the driving need to talk to her.

  To see the smile he’d only fleetingly glimpsed last night.

  A smile that stirred inside him a rhythm that had teased him all last night.

  “Breakfast,” he said when she didn’t answer. His blood roared in his ears. “At the Rocks Café?”

  Silence stretched over the connection.

  “Or maybe just coffee?” he continued, pulse growing quicker. “At the nearest Starbucks?”

  More silence.

  “Would you go for a bottle of water at McDonalds?”

  The sound of her laughter, soft and almost reluctant, sent a wave of joy through him. Relief flowed through his muscles like liquid. He closed his eyes and then opened them again at the sound of the door of his apartment opening.

  “Oi!” Rhys called, his voice rising above the music playing in Josh’s living room. “Where the hell are you, Blackthorne? Time to open up, loser, ’cause I scored big time last—”

  Josh spun away from the open concertina doors separating the balcony from his living room. Damn it, had Caitlin heard his best mate? “I’ll pick you up in half an hour,” he blurted into the phone, all too aware she hadn’t actually said yes to his breakfast request.

  “On two provisos,” she answered back.

  Fresh relief washed through him, pooling in his groin. Fuck, he was going to have to do something about that. Listening to her voice made him somewhat horny. “What’s that?”

  Behind him, making his way through the apartment, Rhys began describing in minute detail and a triumphant shout, what had transpired between him, the pneumatic blonde from the nightclub and her very buff boyfriend.

  “You don’t try to kiss me again,” Caitlin instructed, not a hint of jest in the words. “And you don’t flirt with me. Deal?”

  “Deal,” he agreed without hesitation. “We will have the most platonically beige breakfast two people who’ve kissed each other senseless can ever have.”

  “If you’re going to—”

  “Half an hour,” he said before she could retract her acceptance. Damn it, why the hell couldn’t he play it cool like a normal bloke? “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  And before she could protest, he disconnected. Just as Rhys slapped him on the back, damn near sending him over the railing as he did so.

  “So.” His best friend grinned at him, hair a mess, shirt unbuttoned, the dark bruise of a hickey marking the side of his muscular throat. “Did you score?”

  Josh tossed him a look. His heart was hammering in his chest, a wild beat that would rival Noah’s insane work on drums. “Nope. Gotta go.”

  He turned from the rail and hurried into his living room.

  “Whoa, whoa whoa,” Rhys called after him. Josh didn’t need to turn to know his best mate was following him. “Wait up. You gotta go? Where? And you didn’t score? Since when does the Josh Blackthorne not score?”

  Josh tossed him a grin over his shoulder. “Since last night. Since I found out Caitlin is engaged to a doctor.”

  Rhys paused mid pursuit. “Engaged? Whoa.”

  Continuing to his bedroom, Josh scanned the room for his boots. Where were they?

  “So who you going to see now?”

  Without looking at Rhys, he answered. “Caitlin.”

  Rhys dropped onto the end of the bed. “So you didn’t score with her last night, she’s engaged to a doctor and you’re going to see her now?”

  Still looking for his boots, Josh nodded.

  “Whoa,” Rhys repeated.

  Giving up in his search for a moment, Josh fixed his friend with a puzzled frown. “That’s five whoas. What’s the deal?”

  Rhys shrugged, an unreadable light in his eyes. “Never seen you so worked up over a girl you’re not trying to get into the sack is all.”

  A tight knot twisted in Josh’s stomach. “Who says I’m not trying to get her in the sack?”

  Rhys’s responding laugh bounced around the room. “You are prone to bouts of conceited narcissism, Blackthorne—have been that way since we were kids—and you’ve only gotten worse since you hit it big. But you’re not a bastard. If Caitlin Reynolds is engaged, you’re not going to make a move. It’s one of the reasons I still put up with your pretty-boy prima-donna shit.” He grinned, that unreadable light gleaming brighter in his eyes. “Now me on the other hand, would go after someone off-limits like a fucking dog to a bone. ’Cause I’m a selfish prick who exists for pleasure and satisfaction.”

  It was Josh’s turn to laugh. “That you are, McDowell. It’s one of the reasons I love you. Now shut the fuck up and help me find my boots. I told Caitlin I would pick her up in half an hour and I’ve wasted five minutes talking to you.”

  Stretching his arms above his head in a display of melodramatic languor, Rhys flopped back onto the bed and spread his legs. “Nope. You owe me a blowjob. You lost. I won. I don’t make the rules. I just have to live by them.” He moved his hand to his fly and tugged open the zipper. “Get to it, boyo.”

  “You do make the rules, fuck-knuckle,” Josh responded, returning to his search for his boots. Where the hell were they? “And it’s not going to happen. Ahh, there they are.”

  He strode to the en suite, scooped up his boots from beside the toilet, turned and threw one at Rhys, still stretched flat on his back on the bed.

  It hit his best mate right in the middle of the stomach.

  “Now that’s a score.” Josh chuckled as Rhys jack-knifed into a laughing ball around Josh’s boot.

  “Bloody spoil sport.” Rhys threw the boot back at him with a smirk. “You owe me one.”

  Snatching the air-born boot mid trajectory, he snorted. “Yeah, yeah. You wish.” He shoved his foot into his boot, hopping about on one leg—his good one, thankfully—as he did so in an awkward dance. “There’s fresh groceries being delivered in a few minutes, so make sure you’re decent when they arrive.”

  “I’m always decent,” Rhys protested, once again lying flat on his back, the devil in his voice.

  Josh rolled his eyes. “Of course you are.”

  Rhys chuckled, staring at the ceiling as he scratched his bare stomach with lazy strokes. “Is this what you do when you’re not scoring with an engaged woman? Online grocery shopping?”

  Josh smirked at his friend. “Gotta find something to do with my hands, right? Don’t forget to put the cold stuff in the fridge. I bought milk, bacon and eggs, so you should be okay for a few hours. Oh, and that disgusting protein powder you exist on when you’re in training.”

  “You’re a prince, Joshua Robbins-Blackthorne,” Rhys crooned, waving a hand above his head with regal indulgence. “A prince. Now fuck off to your untou
chable girl. I’ll be waiting for that blowjob when you get back.”

  With a snort, and a grin, Josh left his bedroom. He found his wallet and his apartment keys, stuffed them into his back pocket along with his mobile phone and closed the door to his Sydney home on his way out.

  Rhys was one of the best soccer players the world had met, but Josh knew him well. He’d be in a hangover-induced coma before Josh reached the apartment complex’s foyer.

  “Mr. Blackthorne—” the complex’s residential concierge hurried over to him as he exited the lift on the ground floor, “—can I help you with anything?”

  Josh gave the man—who, by his own admission, was his father’s biggest fan—a warm smile. “Two things, Demetri. I need a taxi ASAP, and there are groceries being delivered to my apartment any moment now. Can you make sure they get to my kitchen and the cold stuff is packed away if Rhys is catatonic, please?”

  Demetri nodded. “Yes, sir. Easily done. But are you sure you want a taxi? I can arrange a limousine for you within the—”

  Josh shook his head. “A taxi is perfect, Demetri. I’m going to try and keep low today.”

  The concierge chortled. “With the number of times I’ve seen you and that pretty girl’s face on telly this morning, keeping low may be tricky.”

  Before Josh could respond, Demetri strode over to his counter and picked up the phone, leaving Josh to stand and wait with an image of the pretty girl in his head.

  Scrubbing at his hair with his fingers, he frowned. What was he doing? Breakfast with Caitlin Reynolds? To achieve what? Wasn’t he just torturing himself by constant exposure to her company? Their time together last night, their kiss, was enough to tell him he wanted something he couldn’t have, and yet here he was now, heading to her home to subject himself to more of that which was off-limits.

  Why?

  “Your taxi, Mr. Blackthorne.”

  Demetri’s affable declaration pulled him from the puzzling contemplation.

  “Thanks, Demetri.” He handed the concierge a hundred dollar note. Tipping wasn’t a thing in Australia, but he spent so much of his time in the US now it had become second nature to him.

  The taxi ride to Caitlin’s home in Woolloomooloo took longer than he wanted it to. The driver was a chatty guy who recognized Josh from his soccer days. He spent the entire trip dissecting every game Josh had played for Sydney and Australia, his enthusiasm for the sport filling Josh with a bittersweet joy. Josh missed playing soccer. Missed not limping almost as much. But fate had decided this was the way his life was to be and he was rolling with it. In the same way fate had decided the first woman who’d truly stirred something deep inside him was engaged to a missing doctor.

  It sucked, but he was rolling with that as well. What other option did he have?

  All he could do now was play the hand he’d been dealt, rock Caitlin’s socks off with his unplugged charity performance and hopefully give her a reason to smile, to find a moment of respite from the uncertain anguish fate had dealt her.

  “That’ll be thirty-seven fifty, Mr. Blackthorne,” the taxi driver announced on arrival of the address Josh had supplied, an address Liev Reynolds had given Josh only forty-eight hours ago.

  Handing over a fifty, Josh cast the small apartment building on the other side of his window a quick look. Caitlin lived in apartment 7C on the sixth floor. Would she be waiting for him? Would she let him in?

  “By the way,” the taxi driver said, drawing Josh’s attention back to him. He was twisted around in the driver’s seat, a curious frown on his seamed face as he looked at Josh. “What’ve you been up to since your injury took you out of the game?”

  Josh laughed. “Not much. Play a bit of music from time to time.”

  The driver pulled a face. “That sucks. Any chance your knee is going to let you return to the field?”

  “I’m afraid not, mate.” Josh opened his door and climbed out into the warm summer morning air, leaning back into the cab a little to give his driver a smile. “I’m afraid not. Thanks.”

  “No worries, Mr. Blackthorne.” The driver grinned, showing nicotine-stained teeth. “Wait until I tell me mates I had Josh Blackthorne in me cab. They’re gonna be spitting jealous.”

  Josh let his smile stretch wider. “Better than having Rhys McDowell in your cab?”

  His driver burst out laughing. “Fuck no. He still plays.”

  Josh couldn’t stop his own laugh. “Take care, mate,” he said, straightening as he closed his door with a thud. “Have a good one.”

  “You too, Mr. Blackthorne.” More nicotine-stained teeth flashed at him. “And you keep a hold of that pretty girl I saw you in the paper with. I remember her from when her bloke got attacked by militants somewhere overseas. She could do with a nice bloke in her life.”

  Before Josh could reply, the taxi pulled away from the curb, its vacant light illuminating a few yards down the street.

  Josh raised his eyebrows. “Well, if I ever decide to go after Caitlin, at least I’ve got that guy’s blessings.”

  Turning away from the road, he looked up at Caitlin’s apartment building and scrubbed his palms on his thighs. A knot of something tight and hot twisted in his gut.

  Nerves.

  Jesus, he was nervous.

  He hadn’t been this nervous when, at the age of fifteen, he’d unexpectedly found his rock idol, Nick Blackthorne, in the kitchen of his home. He’d worshipped Nick since he was just a kid. He’d been excited beyond description to find the living legend in his home. And then completely blown away to discover, only a few hours later, that Nick was his father.

  That day had changed his life. Changed everything.

  Was this day going to be the same?

  Swiping a hand over his mouth, he sucked in a deep breath, straightened his shoulders and walked toward Caitlin’s building.

  Apartment 7C.

  He found her place with ease. There was no building security, nor locked doors to deal with. Just a flight of stairs leading to the sixth floor and a long corridor leading to a door painted in cheery orange, with an equally cheery flame-pink metal 7C screwed onto the wood just above the spy hole.

  He studied the door, noting the fake dog door big enough for a Chihuahua drawn in what looked like magic marker at the bottom. The whole thing was overtly happy and it stirred up the nerves in his stomach some more. Along with something else.

  Something like…sympathy.

  How hard was it for Caitlin to approach that cheery door every day knowing the life she’d planned on the other side had been stolen from her?

  Much like the life you’d planned as a professional soccer player for Australia over six years ago? How often do you find yourself looking at the scar on your knee and thinking about the hours you spent running around the field?

  His stomach churned again. His chest squeezed tight.

  Swallowing at the sudden lump in his throat, he balled his fist, raised it to his shoulder and knocked on Caitlin’s door.

  Three sharp raps of his knuckles on cheery-orange wood.

  A few seconds passed. Long enough for Josh to wonder if she wasn’t home. And then, just as he was about to knock again, the door swung open to reveal Caitlin Reynolds in all her morning beauty, and Josh forgot how to breathe.

  Goddamn it, why did he have to look like that?

  Breath caught in her throat, Caitlin stared at the famous man on the other side of her threshold. He was barely recognizable.

  Last night, he’d been the ultimate rock star, dressed all in black and oozing smug, potently sexual energy.

  This morning, standing in her open door with the muted-down lights of the corridor casting him in a warm golden hue, his jeans faded and blue, his plain T-shirt white and snug, he looked like a normal albeit nervous guy.

  It messed completely with Caitlin’s head.

  And body.

  If she’d thought her body reacted with overwhelming, adulterous zeal to rock-star Josh Blackthorne, she didn’t know the w
ords to describe the way she felt looking at this Josh Blackthorne.

  Oh boy.

  She stared at him, the unsettling throb in her sex making her want to whimper…or throw herself at him and do stuff.

  Oh boy.

  “You look incredible.” Josh’s compliment—uttered on a reverent breath—shattered the silence between them.

  Caitlin blinked, heat flooding her cheeks. She ducked her head, unable to meet his gaze any longer. It would be no good for him to see in her eyes the way he made her feel. No good at all. “Thank you.”

  She flicked a look over her clothes—a simple pair of denim cut-off shorts complete with frayed edges and a black Guns N’ Roses tank top. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  Or I would have changed? Into a hessian bag? Or something even more evocative?

  His chuckle raised her focus to his face again. “I told you I was coming.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “I didn’t think you would, given I told you kissing and flirting were off-limits.”

  He gave her a boyish grin. She wished he hadn’t. It made that place between her thighs that never lied constrict. “I think I can control myself. Besides, you’re not that adorable.”

  Despite herself, Caitlin laughed. “Thanks. I think.”

  “So, breakfast at The Rocks Café? For no other reason than I can report in with your uncle when I get back to the States that you’re eating healthy?”

  Caitlin narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you sure that’s your only agenda?”

  He put his right hand to his chest—a chest, she couldn’t help but notice, far more muscular and broad than the black shirt he’d worn last night had revealed—and raised his left hand to beside his head. The universally acknowledged taking-an-oath pose. “Promise. That’s it.” His grin stretched wider. “Well, that and maybe to convince you to let me back into your club again, as well.”

  She laughed. “In that case…” She held his stare for a moment, enjoying the way his lips curled as she made him wait for her answer. “Breakfast would be nice.”