Knowing the Score (3 page)

Liar.
Caitlyn had certainly kicked up his hormones. He glanced at her again. Not his usual type. She didn’t look like she spent hours at the gym honing her muscle tone and building a six-pack to rival his. In fact, she looked soft and warm, and he could imagine cuddling with her after going a few rounds in bed. His hands would have nice, plump places to rest instead of scrambling for purchase against tight skin.

Perhaps that explained his attraction. He desperately needed comfort right now, and she looked comfortable. Sexy with all that red hair and her wicked laugh? Fuck yeah. But also caring and gentle with a superhuman strength of character that had led her to put her mouth on a dying old man’s and breathe life into him. Spencer’s blood stirred, his own breath quickening as admiration flared.

“So, what do you do for a living?” Caitlyn asked.

Surprise hit him. He’d made the connection between her being American and knowing fuck-all about rugby. Of course she wouldn’t know much about his career. But he’d flashed his goods on enough adverts that many Londoners could at least recognize him. His groin tightened at the novelty of getting to know a woman without his minor celebrity status—both the accolades and humiliations—getting in the way. “What would you guess I do?”

Her gaze roamed over his body, warming him everywhere it touched.

“Mmm...nightclub bouncer?”

He froze. He resembled a
bouncer
to her?

A cute smile tipped the corners of her mouth. God, she had dimples. Fucking hot.

“No? Okay, let me think...pro wrestler?”

“Please tell me you’re having a laugh.”

She did laugh then and snapped her fingers. “I’ve got it! You’re a florist.”

He shook his head, unable to contain his smile, and they started walking again. “Not a florist. That was my second choice of careers.”

They neared the Highway. Once they crossed it they’d have left the crumbling public housing estates of Shadwell behind and entered a different world, one populated mostly with professionals and suits who worked in financial services. They would also pass the massive billboard with Spencer’s picture on it. He had seconds of anonymity left. Strange how disappointing that felt.

“You really don’t recognize me?” If she lived in Wapping, she must pass that billboard every day.

She stared hard into his face before shaking her head. “Sorry. Are you on TV? I don’t watch a lot of British TV, except the news. I’m not a big fan of reality—” she jerked to a halt with a soft gasp, her wide eyes focused on the billboard behind Spencer, “—TV,” she finished rather lamely.

Spencer’s heart sped, as if he were racing toward the try line as the game clock ticked down to zero. He knew what she saw—
him
in all his glory. Most of his glory, anyway. Naked except for the black boxer briefs he advertised, his abs, chest, arms and thighs oiled and sprayed with droplets of water to give the impression of sweat as he ran a hand through his hair—showing off his flexed triceps—and smoldered at the camera. The slogan
Hard men wear Woody’s
was scrawled beneath his package, which the pants cupped and accentuated.

The makeup artist who’d greased him up had been thrilled she didn’t need to stuff the front; he’d stretched the pouch on his own.

“Oh, my,” Caitlyn whispered. “Yep. I recognize you now. I guess I’d never really looked at your face up there before.”

He grinned, the tip of his tongue smoothing over his suddenly dry lips. “You’re probably not supposed to.”

The sun must’ve dipped behind the billboard because she blinked into the changing light. Her breathing had gone shallow, a sure sign of arousal if Spencer ever saw one. The tilt of her head elongated her neck, leaving plenty of nibble room for Spencer’s lips. Fuck Tower Bridge at sunset—he’d been waiting for
this
moment.

He reached around her, the tips of his fingers finding the curve of her lower back. Barely any pressure at all brought her chest flush with his sternum as he tilted his body toward hers. Her breasts brushed him as her breath quickened, and he leaned down to cover her mouth with his.

Soft.
Her lips, her breasts, the hip he stroked. Everywhere, her softness cradled him, bringing not the expected comfort but a burst of excitement so electrifying it bordered on painful. Concentrating his focus on her mouth, he teased her lips, nibbling, tugging, tasting an intoxicating hint of her sweetness before desire swept over him. Her body trembled beneath his hands, and he tugged her tightly against him to share his warmth, at the same moment moving one hand to cup her cheek and the other to insinuate under the hem of her shirt, resting on the hot skin of her back. Her mouth opened on a gasp, and he pressed his advantage, his tongue—

Pain!

He jerked back, hand flying to cover his mouth, where his tongue seethed in excruciating pain.

“You bit me?” The words sounded thick, and he gently tested his tongue against the roof of his mouth and backs of his teeth. Everything seemed intact. No tang of blood. The agony eased surprisingly quickly, leaving only a dull throb and a body nearly numb with shock.

Caitlyn’s wide, terrified eyes stared at him over the hands she pressed against her mouth. Her chest heaved with panicked breaths.

He’d scared her. He’d made a move and clearly scared the shit out of her.

“Did I hurt you?” she whispered through bloodless fingers.

“No.”
Not for lack of trying.
Jesus, he’d never felt like such a monster in his life. No matter what the papers said about him, he’d never,
never
made a move on an unwilling woman. He had to escape, to flee the humiliation before it trapped him again. “I’m sorry, Caitlyn. I—I’m just very sorry.”

He turned and left, dodging honking cars as he jogged across the Highway and never once glanced back. Oh God, of all the women in the world, he had to insult the one who’d saved his granddad? The old man was the only father he’d known and his single living relative. When he died, Spencer would have no one.

This woman had given him the most precious gift—a reprieve from life without a family—and what had he done? To be quite honest, he wasn’t sure. But something she hadn’t liked.

His jog slowed to a fast walk as he rounded the corner by the newspaper offices. Damn it, he’d even done it in front of the tabloids that had hunted him for years.

Bailey
,
you are a fucking moron.

* * *

Caitlyn’s heart hung heavy, weighed down with the fear she would never be normal. Too many memories barred her from enjoying simple intimacies.

God in heaven, she’d actually
bitten
him. How appalling!

When Caitlyn pushed open the door to her apartment, her flatmate and colleague, Emma Taylor, stood in the bathroom brushing her teeth. Emma took one look at Caitlyn’s face and, cupping a hand around her mouth to contain her toothpastey drool, said, “Wha’ ha’ened?”

“Can we talk about it tomorrow? It’s been a really long day.”

Emma stared at her a moment, clearly realizing something was wrong. After a few seconds, she bent over and spat into the sink. “I hate to make it even longer, but Postroom Pete gave me a letter for you before I left work. It’s on your bed.”

Caitlyn sighed. She should have known that, of all days, she’d get a letter today. Damn Postroom Pete for giving it to Emma instead of leaving it facedown on her in tray. He’d probably tried to pump Emma for information she didn’t have and would be too classy to divulge even if she did.

Caitlyn strode down the short hall to her bedroom doorway and stared at the unopened envelope on her twin bed. She closed the distance between her door and bed in one small step, picked up the envelope with the most infamous return address in California, and shoved it into a clear plastic folder under the bed. The folder held dozens of similar letters and was nearly bursting at the seams. “Thanks, Em. I think I’ll go straight to bed. I’m wiped.”

Emma wished her a good night and Caitlyn closed the door on her concerned face. Pulling her pajamas out from under her pillow, Caitlyn tried to change without knocking her arms against the walls. The twin bed—her only furniture other than a few bookshelves high on the wall—took up the room’s entire length and more than half its width. She couldn’t fully open the door because the bed got in the way, forcing her to shimmy sideways to enter or exit the room.

She basically lived in what was meant to be an office or storage room. Maybe a nursery. She had to hand it to Emma’s entrepreneurial skills for renting it out as living space to a full-grown adult. She charged very little, though, and Caitlyn’s charity salary left few options, most of them in slums. Plus, Emma had become such a good friend so quickly that Caitlyn could trust her not to blab about these horrible letters, even if Caitlyn couldn’t bring herself to explain who they were from.

Caitlyn dropped her clothes on the floor and climbed into bed. She hated having the letters under her bed but she had no storage space; everything she wanted to hide away had to be shoved under the bed. Whenever she received one, she thought about burning them all. She’d never read a single one. But she might need them one day, if she had to go to court.

The letters usually brought nightmares with them, so she pushed them from her mind and tried to focus on practical things, like the water purification tablets she needed to order for the Zimbabwe program and how many deep-drop toilets her team could build in a week. Her thoughts kept straying, though, to how she’d humiliated herself tonight. Spencer had shocked her, yes, but she’d lost control and clamped down before she could even decide whether she wanted the kiss. Her body had betrayed her. Again.

God willing, she would never run into him or Philip in the neighborhood again. Unfortunately, in her experience God seemed to have a wicked sense of humor.

Chapter Three

Nearly a week passed, and Caitlyn began to hope Philip had forgotten her promise to go over for dinner this Saturday.

No such luck.

She and Emma sat at her desk discussing how to bring the public’s attention—and donations—to a cholera crisis in Zimbabwe when her phone rang. She answered it, her mind still full of the horrific suffering she’d seen in southern Africa a few weeks earlier.

“Hello, my dear! It’s Philip Bailey.”

“Oh! Philip...how are you?” Her heart skipped even as her mind cursed Philip’s memory.

“I’m fine, just fine. I was discharged the other day, and I’m in the mood to celebrate. I do hope you’re still planning to come over to Spencer’s flat on Saturday?”

No no no!
But then she remembered the awful state Philip had been in the last time she saw him, and she caved faster than a spelunker. “I’d love to, Philip. What can I bring?”

“Nothing but your lovely smile.”

Which, of course, brought that smile out. “Easy. I never leave home without my teeth.”

“I sometimes do, dear. I wouldn’t recommend forgetting them.”

Caitlyn laughed and turned in her chair. Until she followed Emma’s gaze to her hands, she didn’t realize she was twirling the phone’s cord around her fingertip like a flirty teen. She dropped her hands and got Spencer’s address.

“That’s literally right around the corner from me.” If she had slept an extra two minutes on that fateful morning, she would’ve been at home when Philip had his heart attack. The thought chilled her.

“Splendid! Spencer can pick you up—”

“Oh, that’s all right! I’ll walk over.” She’d always erred on the side of caution when it came to men she barely knew having her address. After taking down Spencer’s phone number in case she was running late, she said goodbye and hung up.

“Sooo...” Emma’s brows raised in expectation. “
Philip
, huh? He’s English?”

Biting back a smile, Caitlyn said, “Mmm-hmm.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Well...” Caitlyn leaned back in her chair. “He’s a little taller than me. Quite thin—”

“Sounds like your type to me.”

Caitlyn paused a second, trying to puzzle out why Emma would assume she had a type. Emma must’ve caught her confusion because she explained, “Most of the men you drool over are scrawny. Orlando Bloom? That guy in fundraising?”

Caitlyn gasped and spun around, hoping no one heard. “I don’t drool over anyone in fundraising!”

“Just checking. Anyway, back to Philip.”

Caitlyn pulled out her ace. “He’s a bit older.”

“Older men can be very educational. And patient. And grateful. How much older?”

“Over sixty years.”

Emma blinked. “He’s in his sixties?”

“No, he’s over sixty years older than me. He’s around ninety.”

Emma’s chest seemed to collapse as the breath wheezed out of her. She slowly nodded, considering Caitlyn with a serious expression before going back to her own desk. “Well.” She shrugged. “I guess everyone’s got to start somewhere.”

* * *

On Saturday, Caitlyn took her precious time getting ready. She’d never spent more than a few minutes preparing for a night out before. Considering most of her career to this point had been in disaster zones where she ate at whichever chicken shack some enterprising survivor had set up, she’d never worried about things like makeup and matching her shoes with...whatever they were supposed to go with. Hair clips, maybe?

Obviously born without the girlie gene.

After spending the morning rooting through her tiny closet—which was really a cupboard housing the water heater—she realized she couldn’t go to Spencer’s apartment dressed in cargos and hiking boots. Sure, they kept her feet relatively safe from snakes and creepy-crawlies, but tonight she had other priorities.

Like apologizing to Spencer for biting his tongue.

She groaned aloud at the thought and dropped her head against the closet’s doorjamb.

“Want to borrow something?” Emma called out from the living room.

Caitlyn laughed and stuck her head around the corner to eye her five-foot-ten, perfectly proportioned flatmate. “What, like a scarf? I don’t think I could even fit into one of your toe rings.”

Brow arched, Emma asked, “Is old Philip going to get that close to your nekkid toes?”

Caitlyn suppressed a shudder. “If I’m a very lucky girl.”

Blech.

Decision made, she grabbed her purse. “I’m going shopping.”

Emma clutched her chest and spasmed. “Shopping! Is it the apocalypse already?”

“Very funny, pretty girl.”

Six hours and two burgeoning blisters later, Caitlyn stood outside Cinnamon Dock, one of the few Victorian warehouses lining the Thames to escape the Nazis’ bombs only to be converted into expensive apartments. The summery white eyelet dress brushed against the backs of her knees as she mounted the steps to the security door. Her new heels clicked against the brick stairs, echoing the excruciating pain shooting through her foot as the strap rubbed more skin off her Achilles. A guard buzzed her in and checked her name against his register. “Mr. Bailey lives on the top floor,” he said, escorting her to the elevator.

Top floor—how swish. Modeling must pay a hell of a lot more than digging toilets did—at least, when a model was as blessed as Spencer clearly was in the, um, underwear department.

Caitlyn rode the elevator with that memory blossoming into another, the familiar, uncontrollable jumble of nerves and terrifying attraction that had spiraled beyond her control when he’d kissed her. And then...

The elevator glided to a smooth halt and the doors slid open. She grasped her shoulder bag against her side and stepped out just as the door in front of her opened. Her heartbeat picked up speed until she realized Philip—not Spencer—stood in the doorway with a tremendous smile.

“Welcome!” He opened his skinny arms wide and Caitlyn stepped into the circle of his embrace, as naturally as if he were her own grandfather. Warmth spread through her like brandy. What would it be like to know hugs, laughter and love awaited you at every family holiday? Philip kissed each of her cheeks and beamed, his bushy brows rising as he leaned back to gaze at her. “Don’t you look lovely!”

“Thank you.” Damn, she really needed to get this blushing thing under control.

“Spencer, Caitlyn’s here,” he yelled across the flat before turning back to her. “I’m so glad you came. The boy and I’ve been living in each other’s pockets, and I’m happy to have someone pretty around here for a change. You smell better, too.”

He let go of her arms as Spencer squeezed himself out of a barely open door. He shook his leg before freeing it from the small gap between the door and jamb, then yanked the door closed with a scowl. His dark hair, fierce expression and a new cut on his face—this one on his cheekbone—combined to fill Caitlyn with dread. Maybe biting him had been her safest option, even though it had been a totally unconscious decision.

But then he turned toward her and his expression transformed. His whole body stilled, except his face. His gaze started somewhere near her hairline, skimmed her face and lowered to consume the rest of her. Along the way, a smile gentled his hard mouth. He approached slowly, and Caitlyn gripped her bag harder, desperate to blurt out an apology but biting her tongue—ha-ha—so she didn’t do it in front of Philip.

“Welcome,” Spencer said softly. Unlike most Brits, he didn’t kiss her cheek in greeting. He’d probably learned that lesson too well. Maybe he thought she’d nip his earlobe if he got that close.

“Thanks. I, um, brought a present.” Thank God for conversation starters. She reached into her bag and pulled out a powder-blue tin box, which she handed to Philip. Spencer peered over his shoulder as Philip’s gnarled fingers brushed over the tin’s embossed crown and words,
Keep Calm and Carry On
.

“It’s lovely,” he said. “We used to see this motif on posters during the war.”

“Open it, Granddad.”

Philip did and let out a hoot of laugher. “A first-aid kit? This is perfect.” He turned to his grandson. “Though I imagine I’d mostly use it to patch you up.”

“Right. I think your recent track record speaks for itself.” Spencer grinned at Caitlyn and said, “Bloody good gift.”

Caitlyn’s smile answered his, and she followed the two men farther into the flat, freezing when the short entryway opened into the apartment’s main living area. The apartment’s freaking
massive
living area.

“Holy
shit.
” She slapped a hand across her potty mouth and glanced askance at Philip, horrified her language might have offended him.

He didn’t even blink, beaming with obvious pride. “He’s done well for himself, hasn’t he? Spencer, why don’t you show Caitlyn around while I finish dinner?”

And with that, they were alone. It would’ve been the ideal time to apologize, if Caitlyn weren’t still transfixed by her surroundings. She didn’t think apartments came this size in London, since all the ones she’d been in had been perfectly proportioned for a family of mice.

“It’s incredible,” she whispered. She walked into the middle of the huge open-plan space, taking in the dark hardwood floors and high ceilings held aloft by gnarled wooden beams. It was furnished mostly with colonial-style pieces—a big wooden table that could seat eight, a cream-colored sofa and a dark wood bookcase half filled with hardcover books and half with framed photos.

The two side walls were made of what appeared to be the original nineteenth-century bricks with a few whitewashed markings that must have meant something to the dockworkers who’d unloaded spices into this building in previous centuries. Caitlyn walked over to a wall and lightly stroked her fingertips along the rough bricks. “It’s like being surrounded by history.”

“You’re a history buff, huh?”

Caitlyn nodded, making her way to the glass doors on the adjoining wall. She gestured toward the handles. “May I?”

“Please.” Spencer strode toward her. By the time she’d opened one of the doors, he stood right behind her, his large body radiating enough heat to set her hormones raging. She tried to shove her nervy hands in her pockets, only to remember she wore a dress, not cargos. Damn impractical garment. Making sure she didn’t lodge one of her heels into any gaps, Caitlyn stepped carefully onto a wrought-iron balcony that jutted out about seventy feet above the murky, churning Thames. She grasped the rail to give her hands something to do—other than shake or grab Spencer and yank him against her—and leaned over to stare at the muddy shore below. “This is amazing. Omigod, look! You have a view of Tower Bridge!”

He laughed. “Yeah, I’ve noticed that. Ugliest bridge on the river. I prefer the view of the old warehouses across the river.”

He perched his arms against the rail next to her, his shoulder brushing hers as he pointed across the river to the left. “Here’s a fact for an American history buff. The Mayflower docked right up there before she set sail for the New World. And somewhere close to there is a pub that’s the only place in Britain licensed to sell American stamps, because it used to act as a post office for the American ships along the river.”

A sensation bordering on pain settled in Caitlyn’s heart as it bloomed and filled with a weird affection for this man. She struggled to keep her breath even when his arm settled on the rail next to hers. So close. Close enough to tilt her head forward and taste the beautiful mouth that had given her such fascinating tidbits. But that thought sparked another memory. She met his gaze and read in it attraction and hesitation—probably much the same expression that he saw written across her face.

“I’m sorry,” they both blurted at the same time.

“What?” they echoed before laughing, more from nerves than amusement.

“Me first,” Caitlyn said.

“Always.” Spencer’s ironic grin gave Caitlyn the impression he alluded to something sexier than apologies. Her belly took a tumble.

“I’m sorry for biting your tongue. I swear I didn’t mean to—it was purely a nervous reaction, and I’m just glad I didn’t—”
bite it clean off
“—do any real damage.” She paused, suddenly panicked. “I didn’t, did I?”

“Just to my pride. I’m sorry too, Caitlyn. For doing something you clearly didn’t want.”

How to explain that she
had
wanted it,
wanted
to want it, without revealing her almost freakish lack of experience? More important, how could she convince him to try again when she couldn’t guarantee her body wouldn’t attack any of his invading body parts?

“Friends?” she asked, because friendship was the safest relationship she could offer.

He glanced down at her extended hand and grasped it. “Sure. If that’s what you want.”

Had he hoped for something more? Or had he been thinking they’d probably never see each other again after tonight?

She shook her head. This kind of schizophrenia was exactly why she avoided attractive men. Nothing confused her more than her own reactions to them.

“It’s not what you want?” he asked.

Her body clenched at the thought that he could read her mind. Then she realized she’d shaken her head to clear it, but he would’ve taken that as a negative to his last statement. “I...”

Oh, screw it. Why not be honest? What did she have to lose, other than whatever pride she hadn’t flushed away when she’d bitten him? “I don’t know. You’re...” She gestured toward his torso, struggling to find a less embarrassing way of saying
more sinful-looking than a heaping portion of Thai fried bananas covered in coconut with whipped cream
,
and ooh
,
I
bet you could do a thing or two with whipped cream.
“You’re
beautiful
, but big men make me nervous.”

She squeezed her eyes shut as blood rushed to her cheeks. “That sounded so stupid.”

Sure enough, when she opened her eyes again she discovered Spencer had backed up a few inches and his gaze searched her face.

“Forget I said anything.”

His lips quirked. “Could do. Or we could just relax and see what happens. I find you...intriguing, Caitlyn.”