Whose Bed Is It Anyway?

Caitlin stared at the man now sprawled out on his stomach. Sound asleep already, his limbs stretched out over a good three quarters of the bed.

She should have known it was too good to be true. Walking into this apartment only a few hours ago she’d been so excited. Sure, the rest of the place was unlivable, stripped back to bare, but then she’d climbed the stairs—and hit heaven. Up in the clouds, this beautiful, glass-walled white room offered the most incredible view of Manhattan. She’d stood at the window and looked out at the inspiring constructions of concrete, iron and glass, interspersed with the greenery of parks and the blue patches of sky. She’d felt free. Positive. Safe.

And now? Grumpy bear had returned to his lair.

She glared at him. He was too handsome for his own good with his dark hair, stubble, and long eyelashes. The thin scar marked but didn’t disfigure—it told of courage, sacrifice, determination. His long legs and arms were obviously strong but not bench-press-addict bulky. Hastily she drew the sheet up to cover him. She didn’t need to ogle the jerk. What kind of man automatically assumed a woman sleeping in his bed was there waiting only for his pleasure? An arrogant one who’d had way too many women, way too easily.

She drew in a deep steadying breath. Tried to consider her options. Drew a blank. Just what was she supposed to do now? She was so tired from the last few weeks’ media nightmare, from the hellish flight over from London, from the hour-long battle with the airline over her lost luggage, from facing all these battles alone...

So damn tired.

She looked at the strong man lying so contentedly asleep in the big bed. If she couldn’t beat him, maybe she should just join him?

Caitlin jammed a couple of pillows right up next to him, refusing to note once more just how fine his body was. Then she slipped between the sheets on the small space on the other side and turned her back to him, curling herself into a small ball.

Just for tonight.

TWO

James Wolfe sank deeper into the decadent, erotic dream. He tasted sweet mixed with salt, felt heat and hardness contrast with softness and smiles. Saw aquamarine eyes shimmering with defiance and desire. Heard words whispered with a wild edge. He reached out, wanting to touch...

But his hand slid over a cold sheet.

He slowly opened his eyes, trying to drag his reluctant, relaxed mind back to the realm of reality. First thing he saw was the empty stretch of mattress beside him. Frowning, he blinked—certain his dream woman had been in bed with him.

Then he heard the sound of running water emanating from behind the closed bathroom door. He smiled. It was okay. She was in the shower.

But then his mind, so briefly and blissfully rested, froze. He stiffened, then sat bolt-upright as actual memory returned and shredded the remnants of fantasy.

There had been a woman in bed with him. A woman who’d worn his shirt and nothing else. A woman he’d thought was...hell.

His stomach curdled.

George had said she could stay here. George never invited random women to stay. Not for more than a night and not without him. Which meant this woman was special. James rubbed his aching temples with tense knuckles as the blindingly obvious hit him.

She had to be his brother’s girlfriend.

George had been single a while, earning a reputation as a slayer—‘making up for lost time now he was off the leash’ as all the blogger types sniped. James knew some of George’s supposed escapades were fabrication, but not all. Still, it wasn’t impossible to believe George might’ve fallen for a blonde with soft-looking lips, and blue eyes that widened in surprise and sparkled in annoyance. Uh-huh. Why George wanted her was easy to see. She was easy to want. But letting her stay in their private condo was more than want. That meant serious.

And what had James done? All but called her a whore and told her to leave. He winced. All class, he was. George was, rightly, going to be pissed. James was going to have to grovel. To both of them.

The sound of running water ceased and James tensed. Maybe he could convince her to forgive and forget the whole incident? But how to convince her? Throw himself on her mercy? Explain he was so exhausted he hadn’t been thinking straight? Blame the stress of his last assignment?

He glanced down, frowning at the white cotton sheet covering him. He didn’t remember sliding under it last night, which meant she must have—

An entirely inappropriate image flashed in his head. An entirely enjoyable one. Hell, he wished he’d never seen her legs, or how curvy her unfettered breasts looked in one of his T-shirts.

His clothes. His bed. His.

If she was Goldilocks, he was definitely the bear. But he hadn’t done a very good job of chasing her away. She’d been way more defiant than that thief from the fairy tale. She’d been almost desperate to stay. He wondered why that was.

The door to the bathroom opened. She walked out, her expression guarded. James’ innards shrivelled in excruciation. She couldn’t look less like a hooker. Her pale face peeked out above the turtle-neck roll of a giant black sweater. Baggy black jeans hung on her, hiding the figure he knew was lithe. She’d scraped her wet hair into a function-over-form ponytail, the bedraggled twist nothing like the swathe of colour that had blanketed his pillow so enticingly. Given her pallor he guessed she’d not brushed any make-up on. Cloaked with an air of wariness, she looked smaller, tired. But still determined. Still sexy.

Yeah, part of him wanted to haul her back to his bed, strip her out of the oversized gear and help her relax enough to sleep soundly. She looked as if she needed it as much as he and he still had seven hours’ straight sleep in him. He could forget the world with her. Make her forget her own name. And George’s?

Guilt skewered his chest. What was he thinking? To contemplate—even for a second—messing with the woman his brother had sent here? Maybe he was screwed up after his last assignment. Maybe he’d seen too many hearts broken. Maybe he’d got so desensitised he’d forgotten what was right and what was wrong. Because this was wrong.

He shifted, tugging up the sheet for something to do, cursing himself for not getting up and dressing while she was in the shower. Glancing back up, he caught a flash in her gaze.

James saw emotional extremes all the time—inconsolable grief, terror, pity, relief. Apocalyptic events pushed people beyond human endurance. He knew the keening wails of distraught villagers who’d lost loved ones, homes, land—people who’d lost everything but the ability to breathe. He emotionally distanced himself from them. Had to. Couldn’t get his job done if he felt every hurt along with them. But he wasn’t used to someone looking at him as if she wanted him to disappear. Or as if she wanted to be the one to make him disappear. Usually people fell over themselves in relief when they saw him. So this was novel. And frankly?

Interesting.

Inappropriate again. He gritted his teeth. He needed to get his head together. Find out the facts. And get her to leave.

‘I’m thinking we need proper introductions,’ he said carefully. ‘As you know, I’m James, but I didn’t get your name last night—’

‘Caitlin.’

Her voice was every bit as cool as her expression. Both set him on the boil. Caitlin who? Caitlin why? The temptation to tease was impossible to resist. ‘You like wearing other people’s clothes, Caitlin?’

The ones she had on now sure weren’t hers. Three sizes too big and not nearly stylish enough for her figure.

Colour touched her cheeks. ‘My luggage got lost somewhere between London and New York.’

Luggage? So she’d only recently arrived? ‘So that’s why you were wearing my shirt?’

She inclined her head. ‘I’d washed my clothes and they were still wet.’

‘Those are really yours?’ His brows lifted. He caught the resurgence of defiance in her eyes and checked himself. Tempting as it was to bait, he wasn’t supposed to be making this worse. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘You weren’t interested in listening.’

‘You were too busy talking.’

‘You were too busy assuming.’

‘You were too—’ He broke off. Too tempting—with her beautiful hair and long, lush legs. Of course he’d thought of sex. Hell, what man wouldn’t when he was beyond tired, who’d lived in hell the last three weeks on top of a previous assignment that had been shorter, but even worse. Confronted with that vision—a sleeping, soft, hot woman? The idea of losing himself in her vitality, in feeling alive for a moment before diving into a deep, ideally dreamless sleep?

Oh, hell. He was a sick unit.

‘So you’re heading out to get some new clothes?’ He dropped the previous topic and aimed for something less inflammatory. Fingers crossed she’d find a new place to stay while she was out.

She looked away, studying the room. ‘I’m hoping my bag will arrive today.’

‘There are a ton of shops to tide you over,’ he said, wondering the best way to bring up the topic of her and George.

‘That’s not why I’m here.’