The Mistresses Collection. Оливия Гейтс

him so hot he’d almost come without even penetrating her. It was pathetic. No way could he have lasted even a few seconds more. He’d been rough, ready to slam inside her the second he’d touched her, and would have come the next second if they’d kept kissing. Worse than a youth fumbling through his first time. He wasn’t doing that to her or any woman.

      He blanked out the tiny voice telling him that she’d liked it. That she’d wanted it. That she’d been close to coming herself given the way she’d been riding him. And that he’d have gotten hard again in record time.

      He burned inside. There was no getting away from it. He wanted sex. Couldn’t stop thinking about it. These last few months were the longest he’d gone without all his adult life. It wasn’t that he was a player, but he had flings. One nighters here and there. Until the last few months when he’d been back-to-back working.

      He’d fixated on Caitlin because of her proximity, right? So there was the scene, the bars and clubs. Plenty of places to find another woman with come-hither eyes and soft lips who’d let him lose himself for a few hours. Except there was no losing ‘James Wolfe’. His face had been plastered over the cover of the world’s leading current affairs magazine. That image was everywhere over the Internet.

      And way more crucially, there was only the one image in his mind now—Caitlin’s blonde hair draping over the pillow, over him the way it had before. Caitlin’s lips, Caitlin’s eyes, Caitlin’s curvy body. The desire for her had taken root and he couldn’t get rid of it. He ached to pull her beneath him and pin her to the bed. He wanted to take advantage and tame that subversive spirit, that spark within her. He’d tussle and torment her until she was silenced and sated and looking at him with nothing but appreciative pleasure in her eyes.

      He wanted her to look at him as if he were her sex-god hero. How tragic was that? Given he hated anyone else looking at him that way.

      But the way she’d kissed him—hungry, passionate, raw—had heated him alarmingly quickly. Too quickly. He snorted as he flipped her eggs. He’d hardly been a sex god this morning.

      George’s warning rang again in his ears. If she’d had a rough time then she didn’t need him complicating things for her. He shouldn’t ask. Shouldn’t delve. She just wanted her little sightseeing holiday.

      So what he should do was pack his bag and leave before temptation grew too great. He served up the eggs together with the mushrooms and tomatoes he’d cooked onto one of his camp plates. Holding it, he turned to offer it to her.

      One last look into those blue eyes?

      He was doomed.

       FIVE

      Leaning against the wall, Caitlin took the plate James offered with a cautious smile. He looked uncomfortably intense. He didn’t resume eating his own meal, leaving his plate to the side of the small camp cooker—next to his iPad. But he didn’t look at that either. He only looked at her.

      ‘Tell me,’ he said.

      She paused, her fork partway lifted, her mind still on the electronic gadget. Had he been searching? ‘Tell you what?’

      ‘Everything. Why are you here? What is it you’ve run from? Why did my brother say you could stay here? How do you even know him?’

      She lowered her fork. ‘Why do you want to know?’

      ‘Why do you think?’

      She rolled her eyes. Didn’t he get that she refused to dance that dance? If he wanted to know, he could explain why or find out for himself. ‘Look it up on the Internet.’ She pointedly looked back at the iPad.

      ‘I’d rather hear it from you,’ he countered.

      Had he really not looked already? Or was this some kind of test?

      She forked some egg into her mouth and took her time chewing. The guy could cook, she’d say that for him. She had another mouthful because it was so damn good. He stepped alongside her, leaning a shoulder against the wall so he was at right angles to her. Surveying her with that teasing smile on his lips. Clearly waiting.

      He’d be waiting a while.

      But her taste buds suddenly went on strike, her appetite kicking the bucket too. She struggled to swallow her latest mouthful. What was it he wanted to hear? Would he actually listen or would he leap to conclusions? And if she did tell him the truth, would he believe her? People tended not to. People tended to think the worst.

      Maybe telling him would clear the sultriness of the air between them. He’d end this flirtation. He certainly wouldn’t want to kiss her again. Wouldn’t that make her life easier? Wouldn’t that stop her stupid yearnings?

      ‘Okay.’ She put her plate down on the floor and reached out for the iPad.

      He grabbed her arm to stop her.

      ‘Tell me.’ He frowned.

      ‘Think school,’ she said crisply. ‘Show and tell.’

      He released her and she took the device, switching it on and plugging in a search. In a second she’d pulled an old promo pic for her show. She turned the iPad so he could see the screen.

      He took a second to find her in the centre of the group of youths and read the advertisement. His jaw fell open. ‘You were a teen soap star?’

      ‘Never a star,’ she corrected with a wry smile. ‘More notorious.’

      ‘You told me you don’t want to act.’

      ‘I don’t. I’m hopeless at it.’

      ‘But you were—’

      ‘In a British school drama for a couple of seasons, yes. Before then I’d mainly done ads, modelling work and stuff.’

      ‘As a child?’

      She nodded.

      ‘Why?’ He looked as if he couldn’t think of anything worse. He wasn’t far wrong.

      ‘My dad was an actor. At holiday parks, cruise ships, panto, a few walk-ons in the West End. You name it, he did it. Then he got a few bit parts on TV shows. One episode appearances in “character” things. He wanted us to do the same.’

      ‘Your mother?’

      ‘Died when I was seven,’ she said. ‘We needed money and there was good money in TV. I did some child modelling, had that cute factor. Did a lot of clothing catalogues. Then I did some stage stuff and eventually I landed the part on the show.’

      ‘But you said your sister is famous.’

      ‘She is.’ Caitlin braced herself. ‘My sister is Hannah Moore.’

      His brows lifted. ‘The movie actress?’

      Caitlin nodded, waited for it.

      He frowned. ‘She doesn’t look anything like you.’

      Bingo.

      Hannah was brunette to Caitlin’s blonde. Was taller, coltish, had darker eyes, bigger lips. Caitlin had been the stereotypically ‘pretty’ one with the blue eyes and the blonde hair. Hannah was more ‘different’ looking. Now she’d gone raven she was even more striking.

      ‘So how come you’re afraid of being recognised?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What happened?’

      ‘What happened?’ She stared down at the pretty young blonde smiling out from the centre of the posed photo. ‘I was young and stupid and spoiled.’

      Silently he waited.

      With an impatient growl she confessed. ‘I come from this “luvvie” family. We grew up backstage. The modelling work paid bills but it was assumed we’d act eventually. I had basic technique but no real talent. But I got on the show and it turned to custard.’