Knowing the Score (17 page)

He reached down and placed his thumb at the top of her slit. Sensation exploded. She cried out as her body detonated in a breathtaking, shuddering climax.

Relief, intense and debilitating. Spencer collapsed, wrapped his arms around her. She struggled to catch her breath as awe settled over her. That wasn’t sex. Couldn’t have been. She’d expected to feel nice. Maybe even to have an orgasm. But
this.
This was all-consuming wonder.

Spencer stirred, lifting enough to stare down at her. His too-perceptive gaze surveyed her face, and he pushed her damp hair off her cheeks with a shaky hand. “Are you okay?”

No, not really. She would never be the same again. But no way could she tell him that, so she told him a half-truth. “It was a lot more than I was expecting.”

She expected him to give her a self-satisfied grin and to crow about his size, but his face grew more concerned. “Did I hurt you?”

“No. Not at all.” She’d done that all on her own.

He rolled them onto their sides and pressed exhausted, sated kisses along the bridge of her nose, her cheekbones, her jaw. His chest heaved, and she squeezed him closer, desperate to overcome the sensations that overwhelmed her.

Love. Because what else was love but this intense connection, this feeling she’d do anything, sacrifice anything to spend every minute of her life curled in his arms?

Panic beat against her breastbone, and she let it grow, scared of the stupid choices she would make if she squelched it. She couldn’t allow herself to fall in love. She’d seen where love could lead, and it wasn’t to the pretty places poets described. Wretched degradation followed when women lost their identity to men. Not for every woman, certainly. But Caitlyn knew she was particularly susceptible, so she had no reason to trust her heart to lose itself to a man who wouldn’t hurt her.

“You’ve stunned me.” Spencer shifted onto his back and tucked her against his side, stroked her hair.

“Me too.” She squeezed her eyes closed. How could she have gone and fallen in love with him when she’d been so determined not to? How could she do it to either of them? The night they’d gone camping, he’d admitted he worried she would become too attached to him.

He snuggled into her, affectionate as a sleepy cat as he let out a jaw-cracking yawn. “You need anything?”

She shook her head and let him squeeze her close as he pulled the comforter up to cover the both of them.

Spencer would hurt her. Even if unintentionally. Right now, she wanted to weep at the thought of ever leaving his arms. What kind of mess would she be when they had to break things off?

After convincing herself and Spencer that she wanted a purely physical relationship, she realized how deluded she’d been. Such a thing wasn’t possible for her. She should never have thought she could separate sex from love, given that both required an obscene amount of trust from her.

As Spencer’s breathing deepened with sleep, she brutally reminded herself of their deal. Sex and friendship. Nothing more. She owed it to both of them not to forget that. But what if she couldn’t have either with Spencer without love?

Chapter Sixteen

“Last but not least,” Emma told the small group gathered in one of IDEA’s meeting rooms, “if journalists approach any of you directly about Afghanistan, send them my way. We’re saying as little as possible until we know how we’re proceeding with the relief program there, and Claire assures me we’ll be taking a decision on that in the next few days.”

Claire, Caitlyn’s manager and the head of disaster management, wrapped up the weekly meeting between operational and communications staff, but Emma lingered behind.

“Got a sec? I wanted to go over the interview schedule for the rest of the day and prep you.”

“Sure thing.” Caitlyn settled herself on the edge of the meeting room table, stifling a yawn.

Emma narrowed her eyes. “Why are you here?”

Mid-yawn, Caitlyn froze. “Is that one of the questions the journalists will ask?”

“No. It’s one of the questions I’m asking. Why’re you here?”

“I have nowhere else to be.”

Emma snorted. “Of course you do. You could be at home resting. Or seeing that bloke again—Spencer.”

Telltale warmth spread over Caitlyn’s chest and up her neck. When she’d arrived home at four this morning, Emma had woken up to give her a big hug and a funny look. Caitlyn hadn’t told her she’d made a stop on the way home from the airport to lose her virginity. But Emma’s eyes grew sharp now, so Caitlyn rushed to push the conversation in a different direction. “Claire tried to tell me to go home this morning, but it was so halfhearted I knew she was overwhelmed. I’m here to help, even if that means taking all the crappy interviews you force upon me so Claire can do some real work.”

Emma slid her notepad onto the table and perched next to Caitlyn. She braced her hands against her knees and sighed. “Look, Cait. You’ve just lived through a life-changing ordeal.”

“Yes, and Claire’s already given me the occupational shrink’s phone number and ordered me to use it.”

Emma bumped her shoulder. “That’s not what I’m referring to, and you know it.”

Embarrassment swept over Caitlyn, and her breath hitched. Fortunately, Emma didn’t wait for her to respond. “I saw it on your face when you got home, Cait. You looked shell-shocked in a way that clearly had nothing to do with Afghanistan.”

Caitlyn threw horrified glances over her shoulders. “You can tell? Oh my God, do you think everyone can tell?”

“No!” Emma choked on a laugh and wrapped her arm around Caitlyn. “I’m sorry, but no, you don’t have it written all over you now. At least, you do a little, but I’m sure everyone thinks that dazed, glassy expression in your eyes is from the bombing.”

“Well, it is.”

“Of course it is.” Emma squeezed Caitlyn’s shoulder. “I had the added benefit of smelling you when you got home. You usually come back from missions stinking of sweat and mud. This time you smelled like you’d just showered. And used a man’s body wash.” She leaned her head against Caitlyn’s. “I was kind of turned on.”

A raw chuckle worked its way from Caitlyn’s throat. “Me too.”

Emma laughed and dropped her arm. “Was it that bad?”

“No. The opposite.”

Emma’s brow curved. “That good?”

“Wonderful.” Her voice sounded wistful and morose at the same time.

“Ah.” Emma nodded sagely. “The horrible kind of wonderful.”

“Yeah.” How could she have left him? But how could she have stayed? Everything about him overwhelmed her, smothering her resolve to hold herself separate even as their bodies joined. “It was a lot more than I expected.”

Emma gave her a sad smile. “You’re so lucky. For most women it’s a lot less.”

The thought startled Caitlyn out of her self-pity, and without another word on the subject she and Emma shifted focus to the series of interviews and careful answers Caitlyn would spend the day giving.

When she got back to her desk ten minutes later, the red light on her phone blinked repeatedly with messages. As she grabbed the handset to check them, the phone rang. Left with no choice but to answer or hang up on someone, she pulled the receiver to her ear and stifled a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that she knew who was calling.

“Poor show, Sweeney. Poor show.”

The last she’d heard from Spencer had been his contented, deep breaths in her ear as he’d slept. Even hours later, his rumbly voice sent her pulse skyrocketing. She struggled for control. “Good morning.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what you should’ve said when I woke up a couple of minutes ago—preferably as you scrambled me some eggs. But you weren’t here to say it. Why not?”

“Because I had to go to work?” Crap. Clearly she’d needed a few more hours to plan her response to the situation she’d created.

“You needed to go to work? Are you kidding me? That’s why you snuck out at shameful-o’clock like some common trollop I sent packing with a slap on the arse and a couple of hundred quid?”

Her face on fire, she turned her back so Claire, who shared her office, couldn’t see. Dropping her voice, she said, “A couple hundred quid? That’s how much a
common
trollop makes?” She was so in the wrong line of work.

His pained sigh echoed in her ear and she could practically hear him raking his hands through his hair in frustration. “No. I don’t know. I don’t fuck common trollops.
Shit
—I didn’t mean—”

“It’s all right. I know you didn’t. Look, I’m sorry, but I’m at work now. I really can’t talk about this.”

“When are you off?”

“I never know.”

He stayed quiet for a second. When he spoke again, his voice sliced through the line. “Could you take a guess?”

She swallowed hard. “Late. Really late. Too late.”

He let his pause linger beyond the point where it was bearable. Caitlyn’s chest seized, and she nearly caved in before he said, “Right. Got it.” A funny sound—Caitlyn couldn’t tell if it was her dragging in a ragged breath or him. Then he ended it. “Enjoy yourself, Caitlyn.”

And he hung up.

She dropped the phone in its cradle and glanced up to find Claire staring at her.

“Everything okay?”

She nodded and tried to swallow the scratchy lump in her throat.

“I still think you should go home and rest.”

“No way. The last thing I need right now is time to think. We’ve got bigger problems to figure out.”

* * *

Thousands of fans around Twickenham chanted Spencer’s name—“Bai-ley! Bai-ley! Bai-ley!”—the way rugby fans never did but always seemed to happen in every American sports film he’d ever seen. Faster, faster, picking up speed until they reached a fever pitch that matched the adrenaline surging through him. The ball spun through Liam’s hands, its trajectory perfectly aimed for Spencer to catch it, sidestep the cauliflower-eared beast bearing down on him, and run it in for a try.

But one voice screamed above the rest, jerking Spencer’s attention away long enough for the ball to slip through numb fingers.

Caitlyn. Screaming, not chanting like the others. Desperate, hurt, panicked. He looked to the stands, saw her flinch and throw her arms up the way she had when he’d tried to bandage her cut hand. He sprinted toward her, but one opponent after another tackled him.

A shrill siren sliced through her screams as he yelled for her, pushing himself off the grass only to be slammed face-first into the mud again.

The siren...

No, not a siren. His phone.

Spencer woke with a gasp and panted, staring at the ceiling as he waited for his thundering heart to calm down. He fumbled for his mobile and squinted across the room to the dark window, trying to gauge what time it was. “’Lo?”

“Spencer? I’m sorry I woke you, but I need your help.”

“Hoos thiz?” His jaw felt like it’d been wired shut from lack of sleep. He vaguely remembered arriving back home after barely scraping together a win against Leicester. It seemed like only minutes ago.

“Spencer? I can’t hear you. Can you hear me?”

He pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it. Upside down. When he turned it over, he pressed a button to illuminate the screen. Five thirty-two. In the morning.

He was suddenly more awake than he wanted to be. “Who is this? What’s wrong?”

“It’s Emma and nothing’s wrong. Not really. But I need some help and I didn’t know who else to call.”

That somehow struck Spencer as funny. He’d never been anyone’s go-to guy before. Considering his main skill was playing rugby, he couldn’t imagine it happening too often.
Scrum emergency!
Quick
,
get Bailey!
“What do you need, Emma?”

“Caitlyn’s ill. I think she picked up something unsavory in Afghanistan, and I have to leave for a week of family hell before my sister’s wedding. Are you around? Do you think you could check up on her later?”

He collapsed into his pillows. For four days he’d forced himself not to check his mobile a dozen times, not to give in and call her, yell at her, knock down her door and demand some answers. He’d lacked focus in training all week, and after yesterday’s match he’d seen the doubt in Liam’s and their coach’s eyes.

His career had begun to slump, and he needed every ounce of concentration to pull it out of the porcelain bowl before he screwed himself out of a World Cup slot.

“Spencer? Look, I’ll be honest with you. I know things went sour between you two this week. And Cait’s been moping around here with a face like a slapped arse. I probably shouldn’t ask you to do this, but I got this barmy impression you care about her, and she’s really not well enough to look after herself right now. She needs you, mate. Desperately.”

He jabbed his fingertips into his achy eyeballs. Gritting his teeth, he slammed his fist against the mattress, repeatedly.
She needs you
,
mate.

Desperately.

Damn it.

“It’s all right, Emma. I’m free this morning. When do you need me there?”

“Thank you so much. I’m leaving in a few. If you can get here quickly, I’ll put the keys in our postbox. Look for a Victoria’s Secret catalogue. They’ll be hidden under that.”

A quick shower later, he pulled up to their building. He felt like an idiot driving around the corner but hoped he might move Caitlyn back to his place. He was pretty sure she wouldn’t have any sports channels, and God only knew how else he’d entertain himself while she slept.

When he entered the third-floor flat, he looked around cautiously, feeling like an intruder. “Caitlyn? It’s just me.”

One thing he knew about Americans—they owned guns and weren’t afraid to use them. A quick glance into the living room told him she wasn’t on the couch. The bathroom was thankfully empty. There was a little hallway with two doors, one of them closed. He walked to the open door at the end of the hall and saw the messiest bedroom he’d ever laid eyes on. Clothes were strewn everywhere. The closet vomited out shoes and bags and things he couldn’t immediately identify. He shuddered and hoped this wasn’t Caitlyn’s room. He doubted it was. Too many skirts and heels and other girlie things. No combat trousers.

The second door stood on his left. He put his ear to it and didn’t hear anything. “Caitlyn?” he whispered, quietly turning the handle.

She was stretched out on her back on a twin bed with her hands flung over her head. He couldn’t open the door all the way because the room was so small that the bed got in the way. He slid through the gap and stared down at her.

She’d kicked a blue duvet off the bed and tangled herself in a lilac sheet. Her skin was flushed as red as her hair, and her mouth hung slightly open as if she found breathing a struggle. She wore a blue ribbed tank without a bra. Her breasts relaxed slightly to the sides, the edges of them peeking out from the top’s thin straps. The bottom of the tank had worked its way up during her fitful sleep so it rested just below the bottom swells of her breasts. Her tummy was bare and she wore black panties that looked like they were part of her skin. Her legs had wrapped themselves in the sheet.

“Jesus.” He scrubbed his hand over his weary face. “You’re exactly what I didn’t need right now.”

He let out a shaky breath. He’d spent all week denying it, but he was a fucking goner.

“First things first, Yank. Let’s untangle you.” Why was he whispering? She slept like the dead. He picked up each leg and unwound the sheet, laying it over her. As soon as it touched her, she groaned and kicked at it.

“All right, I can take a hint.” He pulled it back. “I’ll fold it up at the bottom of your bed so you can reach it if you get cold.”

Job done, he searched the room for a place to sit. “This is ridiculously small, you know that, don’t you? I’ve seen rats’ arseholes bigger than this. How much does she charge you?” The only place to sit was on the edge of her bed and he doubted she’d be willing to share that space with him.

He left the room and found a folding chair in the living room. Closing it to fit through the crack of the door, he brought it into Caitlyn’s room and opened it next to the head of the bed. If he wanted to sit in it, he’d have to close the door, so he tried to figure out what he needed to do.

He placed the back of his hand against her burning cheek, and worry convulsed his stomach. He’d never been responsible for someone before. When Granddad had been discharged from the hospital, Spencer had
felt
responsible for him, but truthfully the old man had done most of his recovering under the watchful eye of the hospital nurses. No matter how they’d parted, he hated to see Caitlyn sick and miserable, and would gladly do anything to help her get better.

He cast his mind back to when he’d had flu as a little boy. His grandparents had taken it in turns to bathe him in cold water, braving his flailing arms and legs to submerge him in the painfully frigid tub. He couldn’t bear the thought of forcing Caitlyn into an icy bath, even if it might lower her temperature. He remembered how badly it hurt and how frustrated he’d been at his grandparents’ superior strength. How angry he’d been because he felt helpless, even though he knew they hated the experience as much as he did.

He could never use his physical strength to force Caitlyn to do anything. Even the thought turned his stomach.