Chapter One
Today
Wapping
,
East London
The old man walking in front of her gave an agonized groan and fell to his knees. Caitlyn’s breath caught in her throat, her brain scrambling to understand what her eyes were telling her. When the man clutched his chest and sank forward, his forehead scraping the asphalt of the narrow pedestrian path behind the Tower of London, she dropped her bag and sprinted the ten yards separating them.
“Sir? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” She laid her hand on his back, then slid it to his shoulder so she could help him sit up.
He shook his head. “Pain.”
She frantically glanced around, but at 5:00 a.m. they were the only two people on the path. “It’s all right. You’ll be all right. Lean back against me.”
He was so skinny that she had no problem kneeling behind him, supporting his back as he sat on the asphalt. According to the first-aid courses she’d taken, this position might help stave off the big one long enough for her to call—
Crap!
Her phone was in her bag—the bag lying on the ground, far out of her reach.
You are such a moron.
She stroked his silver pompadour as she tried to figure out what to do. “You’re going to be okay. What’s your name?”
“Philip,” he whispered in a slurred voice, as if his mouth had filled with peanut butter. Or—more likely—as if a vise was squeezing his breath from his chest. “Please...”
“It’s okay, Philip. You don’t need to speak. I’m Caitlyn and I’m going to help you.”
He moaned, his body jerking. He collapsed against her and, on the verge of panic now, she eased herself out from under him and lowered him onto his back.
One
,
two
,
three.
Caitlyn kept her arms straight as her flat palms compressed Philip’s chest, pushing hard so his rib cage would do the work his heart should be doing. She’d spent years working in countries the State Department warned people to avoid, but she’d never once had to use her first-aid training—and she’d prayed she would never have to. Go figure, on a normal London morning...
Don’t die
,
Philip.
Fifteen...no
,
seventeen?
Crap, she’d lost count.
Sunrise bathed the Tower’s white stones in pink light, and she was the only help poor Philip had.
This path was normally clogged with tourists taking photos as business-suited Londoners politely elbowed their way through to the neighboring financial district, but this early it was deserted. She wouldn’t have been here herself if she hadn’t been shaking off jet lag from her Sumatra trip. As an American who’d recently moved to London, she went out of her way to pass by the thousand-year-old Tower every chance she could. To think she might not have been here at all...
Twenty-eight
,
twenty-nine...please don’t die.
She tilted the man’s head back, pinched his nose closed, sealed her mouth over his wrinkled lips and blew two sharp breaths into him. She paused to watch his chest. Still not moving.
Shit
,
shit!
She started chest compressions again. A man’s drunken voice, singing off-key, echoed off the tunnel leading to Tower Hill Tube station. Caitlyn’s arms burned but she ripped her gaze away from Philip’s chest long enough to see a young man in a suit stumbling toward her. Considering their proximity to the City, he was most likely an investment banker who’d spent the night getting shit-faced in a lap-dancing club at the company’s expense.
“Help!” Her yell was more of a pant, but it seemed to make a dent in his drunken haze. “We need help!”
The man glanced around as though he hoped to hell she was talking to someone else.
“Get your ass over here and help me
now!
” she shouted. The Suit paused, as if he wanted to ignore her, but his shoulders slumped and he veered her way.
“Call 999,” she demanded.
He fell onto his ass next to Philip, swaying as he patted his pockets.
“If you don’t have a phone, mine’s in my bag back there.”
Twenty-nine
,
thirty.
She tilted Philip’s head again and breathed into him. No movement. And his skin was turning gray. “Hurry!”
The Suit pulled out his phone, a model so expensive that Caitlyn’s charity could’ve fed a family of six for a year with it. When he hung up, he looked at her through sobering eyes. “Ambulance is on its way.”
“Thanks.” She broke off her chest compressions to breathe into Philip again. Her arms trembled from the strain. “Watch what I do. It’s your turn in a sec.”
She looked up to find the Suit leering down her shirt. Good to know Britain’s financial well-being was in such responsible hands.
“Count to thirty,” she told the jerk and started pushing, über-aware now of how her body jiggled.
It was so much easier in her first-aid class, where the dummies were made of plastic and something inside them clicked when you hit the spot in just the right way. She hoped she didn’t hear any clicking from Philip’s chest because it would probably mean she’d broken a rib. Her arms were ready to fall off by the time the Suit said thirty.
“Your turn,” she wheezed.
“N-no way I’m putting my m-mouth on him,” he stuttered.
You stupid piece of
... But she couldn’t waste any more breath on him. She quickly shifted her body down to Philip’s chest and pushed thirty more times. She tried to ignore the pain radiating down her furiously pumping arms by examining Philip. His light brown sweater and cords seemed more country than city. He wore a wedding ring. Someone was probably waiting for him at home, not knowing they might never see him again.
God
,
please.
She thought she heard a siren in the distance but in London it could just as easily be the cops on their way to an early-morning stabbing. It seemed like a thousand hours before the ambulance arrived.
While the paramedics loaded Philip into the ambulance and asked the Suit how long ago he’d collapsed, Caitlyn fumbled around in her massive shoulder bag. She found the generic business cards from work and, with shaking hands, wrote her name and phone extension on the back. Giving it to a paramedic, she said, “Will you ask the hospital to let me know if he...if he makes it?”
* * *
“Please leave me alone. I’m begging you, Spencer!”
Spencer sat next to the hospital bed, laughing as his tiny grandfather propped his wrinkled hands against Spencer’s broad shoulder and shoved with all his might. If he hadn’t laughed, he would’ve wept at how little strength those once-capable arms had in them. “Stop it, old man, you’ll hurt yourself.”
“Then don’t make me get out of this bed and rugby-tackle you. Just go to the pub and get drunk. Meet a woman.
Anything
but stay here irritating me.”
“Why couldn’t you be like this when I was sixteen and desperately wanted to get pissed and meet women?”
“Because you didn’t drive me mad when you were sixteen.” Granddad paused, exchanging annoyance for pensiveness. “Okay, you
did
, but in an entirely different way. You were always gone, probably at the pub instead of hovering over me asking if I feel okay. I don’t feel okay. I feel fed up.”
Spencer swallowed the terror that had threatened to swamp him ever since he’d been woken by the hospital’s call four days ago, the morning after Granddad had arrived for a visit. “Fine, but I’m only going to the hospital coffee shop—”
Granddad’s shaggy brows snapped together, his face turning an unhealthy shade of red. “Over my dead body! I may be a temporary invalid, but that doesn’t mean I’ll stand for you treating me like I’m your dying child. For God’s sake, boy, I used to change your nappies.”
Shock slapped at Spencer, and he stared in disbelief. “No you didn’t.”
Please
,
God
,
say you didn’t.
Philip’s ire dissipated and he shrugged. “Okay, I left that particular task to your gran. But my point stands. My faculties may be failing me, Spencer, but as long as I’m aware of what’s going on around me I don’t want you treating me like I’m half dead. You’ve always been a complete pain in my arse, and as long as I’m alive I expect that to continue.”
Granddad’s message was clear: we’ll pretend everything’s normal because to do otherwise wouldn’t be manly. Worse, it wouldn’t be English.
“Fine,” he sighed. “I’ll wander home—”
“Take your time about it.”
“—and I’ll return in time for dinner.”
Granddad’s face lit like a bulb. “Bring me something nice? A fish supper from that chippy near the river?”
“Nothing breaded and fried for you for a long time. I’ll find some carrot sticks you can gnaw, if those ancient gnashers of yours are up to the task.”
Granddad’s eyes might have narrowed, but Spencer sensed his relief at their return to normal relations. “They’ll chew your arse if you don’t treat me with the respect I’m due.”
Spencer pushed himself out of his chair. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
He ruffled his granddad’s gray hair—just to irritate him—dodged his swatting hand and walked out of the room. After winding through dozens of corridors, he burst into the bright midday sunshine and squinted against the blinding pain. He’d been folded into that tiny chair every daylight hour since receiving the phone call he’d dreaded for two years, since his granny died. He’d nearly lost his grandfather—his gentle, affectionate granddad—who now wanted nothing more than to get rid of him.
Instead of heading straight home, where his granddad’s belongings and barmy dog would remind him of all he’d nearly lost, Spencer strolled into the riverside pub next door to his building. He pushed his way through the working lunch crowd to the bar, remembering why he hated this place. Too many journalists from the nearby newspaper offices. Dozens of the parasites sitting around waiting for a story. Didn’t even have to be true. His arrest eleven years ago might have been short-lived, but the memories of how the tabloids vilified him would never die. Like zombies. But he was only here to give Philip some breathing room. One drink and he’d break his promise, go back to the hospital and hover again.
“What kin I gitcha?” the blonde Aussie behind the bar asked.
Spencer stifled a shudder at her accent, which doused him like ice water splashed on his bollocks. Australian women’s voices had filled him with sickening shame for over a decade. Why couldn’t he meet an Italian or Spanish woman? “Pint of lager.”
He reached into his pocket for his wallet, but his hand grabbed the cheap white business card the nurse had handed him the day his granddad had been admitted.
International Disaster and Emergency Aid
, the typeface on the front read. In an unsteady hand, the name of his granddad’s savior had been scrawled on the back.
Emergency aid—exactly what Granddad had needed a few days ago, when Spencer had been too soundly asleep to know any better. Not that he’d have had any fucking clue what to do if he had been with the old man that day.
Spencer carried his pint to one of the booths under picture windows big enough to drive a double-decker bus through and stared along the river at Tower Bridge.
“Anyone sitting here?” a throaty—English—woman’s voice asked.
Spencer glanced up from his glass into eyes that promised him everything. “Be my guest,” he replied, leaving it up to her to figure out whether he was answering the question posed by her mouth or her eyes.
“I’m Kendra,” she said, sliding into the booth across from him.
“Spencer.”
“I know. My ex was a fan.”
Strike one.
Not being a baseball fan, he wasn’t sure how many strikes she would get before being out. He figured it’d be obvious when it happened, though.
“I went to a game with him once. I was amazed at how you move. I thought maybe you could show me some of your moves.”
Strike two.
Too easy.
He caught himself.
Too easy?
A week ago he wouldn’t have thought there was such a thing. Okay, he avoided women during rugby season because they were too distracting, but he loved easy women in the summer, right? Every summer he had one month off. One month with no training, no practice. One month when he could drink beer and even eat fat if he wanted to. One month to get a year’s worth of sex. This was his rutting season because he’d stayed celibate every autumn, winter and spring since he was nineteen to focus on his game. On rebuilding his career and his reputation. This past rugby season had lasted longer than most; he’d been chosen to play for England during the June tour of South Africa, so his month off had been delayed. He hadn’t had sex in a year. A fucking
year.
“I’m not up for moving much right now, Kendra,” he heard himself say.
She pouted in a way he once would have found sexy as hell but now just seemed immature and pathetic. “Are you injured? I could help ease your pain.”
How could he answer that? The truth was, he felt injured. Battered and bruised to within an inch of his heart’s life. But no way would he explain to a stranger that he’d nearly lost the person who meant the most to him.
“No, just tired. It was nice to meet you, Kendra, but I have to get back home.” He stood to leave. Apparently it took two strikes to walk away from a willing woman and a full pint.
He strode out of the pub. Within a few steps he faced his building’s security door. Instead of punching in the numbers on the keypad, he fingered the business card again.
Caitlyn Sweeney.
Irish?
Suddenly he couldn’t wait to hear her voice—the voice of the woman who’d blown the breath of life into his granddad’s wrinkled lips, who’d kept his heart going until the paramedics arrived.
The woman who’d kept Spencer’s own heart beating.
Chapter Two
Caitlyn stood outside the crumbling Victorian hospital and wiped her sweaty hands on her cargos. Adrenaline shot through her, making her fingers tingle with painful jolts as if she peered over the edge of a precipice without a harness or rope.
Hospitals. She hadn’t completely avoided them in the past nine years, but the ones she spent most of her time around these days were housed in tents and treated disaster survivors. This one—being an actual building in the middle of a city—resembled the nightmare of her freshman year of college.
She swallowed the anxiety beating like a gorilla at her chest and jogged up the brick steps.
You’re okay
,
you’re okay
, she chanted as she pushed through the revolving glass door and strode to the information desk, determined to outrun the panic already clawing at her. “I’m here to see a patient—a Mr. Philip Bailey. He had a heart attack a few days ago.”
The woman staffing the desk clicked at her keyboard for a couple of seconds before a deep, rumbly voice behind Caitlyn drowned out the clacking keys. “Ms. Sweeney?”
She turned. Saw a magnificent manly chest topped by the broadest shoulders ever. Slowly let her gaze drag upward to meet a rugged, scruffy face. Disheveled black hair fell in waves over his brow, and his nose appeared to have been broken once or thrice. The hazel of his irises matched the fading bruise tinting the skin around his eye. She would’ve dropped her bag and bolted except the uncertain look in his eyes arrested her. Despite his menacing appearance, he seemed unsure of himself and that made him oddly...vulnerable.
“Pardon me,” he said, sounding far more educated and polite than she would’ve guessed, and she suddenly recognized his voice from the phone. “I thought I heard you ask for my grandfather’s room. Are you Caitlyn Sweeney, by any chance?”
She nodded, mentally kicking herself for letting a strange man and this hospital overwhelm all her hard-fought-for composure.
“I’m Spencer Bailey. Philip’s grandson.”
“Hi.” Her voice sounded breathless. Blood rushed to warm her cheeks until they probably matched her hair.
Get.
A.
Grip.
She held her hand out to shake. He grasped it gently. “I’m Caitlyn. But you know that. You don’t look like your grandfather.”
He grinned, and it transformed his face, making him look rakish instead of dangerous. His eyes glinted. “I favor my granny. Thank you for coming. Are you ready to meet him?”
“Yes.” Nervous energy bounced around inside her. After her initial shock at being cornered by a man who could crush her using only his fingertips, the adrenaline seeped away. She stole glances at Spencer as he silently led her through the maze of hospital corridors. Probably six-three to her five foot six, and nothing about him was gangly. He sported a cotton top with wide horizontal green-and-white stripes and filled it out impressively well. His jeans were worn enough to give the impression of softness, though they were probably the only thing soft about him. One word described the rest: chiseled.
She glanced up to check out his face again and caught him checking her out. She came to a dead halt. Correction:
he
caught her checking
him
out.
Cue cheeks even redder than her hair.
The corner of his mouth twisted—upward, thank God. She’d probably wet herself if this big man glared at her.
He waved his hand in front of him, signaling they should continue walking down the corridor. “I’ve been trying to figure out your accent,” he said. “Canadian?”
“No. American. I’m from Oregon.” She paused. “Why do Brits always ask if I’m Canadian?”
“Self-preservation. Ask an American if they’re Canadian and they’ll correct you. Ask a Canadian if they’re American and they’ll rip your lips off.”
A surprised chuckle burst out of Caitlyn at his deadpan description.
“I should probably prepare you. Granddad had an angioplasty yesterday. He doesn’t really look like himself at the moment.” Spencer directed a sad smile in her direction. “Not that you know what he looked like before. But he looks quite poorly.”
Caitlyn steeled herself before they entered the room. A brief memory flashed—another hospital, a different patient. No hope of survival, and all of the gut-twisting anguish that had smothered her for months. Years.
“Caitlyn?” Spencer’s quiet voice broke through the vision. He touched her elbow and led her away from the door. “I didn’t ask before—are you sure you want to do this? You don’t have to. I didn’t tell him I called you.”
His concern brought her fully back to the present, and she nodded. “I’m sure. Sorry—I’m just not good with hospitals.”
He grimaced and glanced at an orderly pushing a wheelchair-bound patient down the hall. “They’re horrible. I should’ve waited until he was discharged, but...”
A dark cloud passed over him, and the sentence finished in her own mind.
But I didn’t know how many days he had left
,
and I still don’t.
Suddenly Spencer ceased being a large, attractive man—two characteristics that never failed to ignite her nerves. Instead, he became someone’s grandson, a man terrified of losing a loved one, and she could definitely relate to that quality. She reached for his forearm and gave it a squeeze. Good God, her fingers didn’t even reach halfway around it. “What did the doctor say?”
“That his prognosis for recovery is good.” Spencer shrugged. “He’s ninety-one. His days are numbered anyway.” His scowl and seemingly heartless words would have triggered Caitlyn’s temper a few minutes ago, but her thoughts toward him had shifted to compassion, and she understood he battled fears of his own.
“I’d like to see him.”
Spencer led the way into the room, and Caitlyn squared her shoulders, ready to vanquish the past so she could be what Philip and Spencer needed her to be right now. The private room had enough space for the bed and one chair upholstered in a color Caitlyn could only describe as “hospital blue” since every hospital she’d ever been in seemed to have the same furniture. Spencer perched against the windowsill and motioned for her to take the chair. Philip lay sleeping, his narrow chest moving with deep, even breaths. Beeping machines and the acrid smells of alcohol and gloopy food brought all the memories back, but Caitlyn fought them off.
She sat on the edge of her chair and lifted Philip’s hand—careful not to jostle the needles taped to his thin, wrinkled skin—so it nestled on top of hers. His languid eyelids blinked into consciousness, and he stared at her for a second.
“Granddad, you have a visitor. Recognize her?”
The old man cleared his throat but his voice still came out scratchy. “Of course. I never forget a pretty face. How are you, my dear?”
Caitlyn opened her mouth to answer but Spencer interrupted. “Look closely. Maybe you’ll remember.”
Philip tore his gaze from Caitlyn to glare at his grandson. “How could I forget a woman like this? She’s...” He turned to peer at Caitlyn again, his eyes taking in everything from her red curls to the hand she cradled his in. “She’s the spitting image of...”
“Of the woman who saved your life, y’old goat?”
Caitlyn’s jaw unhinged. She prepared to take Spencer to task for speaking so disrespectfully to a vulnerable old man, but Philip’s hand seized hers, squeezing so tightly she realized he possessed more strength than she imagined. His mouth opened and closed several times before he produced speech.
“You,” he whispered. “I didn’t see you...I don’t think.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “I don’t remember...anything.”
A ghost of a smile touched Spencer’s lips. “The paramedics told the nurse on duty that Granddad wouldn’t have had a chance if you hadn’t helped him.”
The words hit Caitlyn hard. Overcome with a wretched tangle of emotions, she held Philip’s hand and forced a smile. “Then thank God for jet lag.”
Such an inane comment, but the two men seemed to appreciate it. Both relaxed noticeably, as if they’d been bracing themselves for tears and bear hugs.
Caitlyn could’ve killed for a bear hug herself.
* * *
His granddad’s angel looked anything but angelic.
Oh, her face shone sweetly with compassion as she spent the next hour chatting and laughing with her patient. But her body—a devil’s playground. And hadn’t Spencer been likened to the devil more times than he could count? Her body wore its curves in the locations Spencer appreciated most. Visions of her generous breasts—above him, below him, next to him—would keep him awake at night if he didn’t rein in his randy imagination.
Spencer kept up with the conversation flowing around him, even contributing a few times himself, but his mind had escorted Caitlyn to his bedroom and kicked the door shut.
Her hair fascinated him, miles and miles of curls a shade of red that belonged in Hades—the same place sexually frustrated men who lusted after women sitting at an old man’s sickbed belonged. She wore it pulled back now, but let loose that hair would tumble over her shoulders and cover her breasts. It would tickle his belly as she pressed openmouthed kisses against his hot skin on her way down—
“I said,
isn’t that right
,
Spencer.
”
Shite.
His granddad’s voice sliced through Spencer’s daydream. Nothing wilted him faster than that voice. “Of course, Granddad.”
Philip grinned at Caitlyn, who stared at Spencer with her brows drawn together, as if her X-ray vision had bored through his skull and caught the peep show. “See, my dear? We won’t take no for an answer.”
The unfortunate phrase doused Spencer’s remaining arousal.
“In that case, I’d be honored,” Caitlyn said, her voice sounding more hesitant than honored.
What the hell had he just agreed to?
“Excellent! Spencer will arrive at your flat at seven to pick you up.”
Interesting.
Spencer would have to wheedle more details out of someone—like a date and what he should do with Caitlyn once he’d picked her up—but the prospect of spending time with her made his body thrum with anticipation. Even if his granddad had been the one to ask her out.
Philip made no effort to stifle the yawn that stretched his face to nearly twice its normal size. Spencer could identify a hint when it was thrust in his face.
“Tired?”
“I’m afraid so.” Granddad’s eyelids drifted shut then flew open, as if their heaviness surprised him. Spencer straightened from his perch against the windowsill, thankful to get the blood flowing to his legs again. For a while there, it had all pooled just north of his legs, leaving his feet prickling.
“Spencer, you’d better walk Miss Sweeney home.”
Caitlyn protested before Spencer had a chance to react. “I don’t live far. I’m in Wapping, near the docks.”
“That’s fortunate,” Spencer said. “So am I. It must be nearly dark, and I don’t want to walk through Whitechapel and Shadwell on my own. You can protect me.”
Caitlyn’s lips flattened into an ironic smile and she glanced at Philip. “All right. I’ll see you next Saturday.”
Good girl.
Seven o’clock
,
a
week Saturday.
This detective malarkey was a hell of a lot easier than they made it seem on TV.
Philip lifted her hands to his lips and pressed a shaky kiss against her knuckles. “I look forward to it. And don’t feel you need bring anything. Spencer has plenty of wine.”
A
dinner date.
Nice one
,
Granddad.
It wouldn’t do, though, to have the old man thinking he could manage Spencer so easily, even if Spencer suspected his granddad stood a better chance with this woman than he did. Spencer cocked a mocking brow at Philip, earning himself a smug smile in return.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. “If you can keep your ancient heart pumping that long.”
“I’ll keep this heart pumping long enough to blister your backside. Now go away and promise not to visit me tomorrow.”
“Can’t, I’m afraid. I’ll be here as soon as they open the hospital to visitors.” Spencer sensed his granddad’s secret relief in the way his body relaxed back into the pillow. “And if you’re lucky I’ll bring the highlights DVD from South Africa. All of my best moments—how they managed to pack them in to a five-hour program I’ve no idea.”
The DVD ran more like two hours, and Spencer’s highlights only a fraction of that, but why let the truth get in the way when goading his granddad?
Philip sighed and turned toward Caitlyn. “See what I have to put up with? It will be a pleasure to have dinner with someone whose ego fits in the room.”
Caitlyn’s gaze bounced between them like she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or punch Spencer in the mouth. Spencer decided to rescue her—and his face. He gestured toward the door. “Shall we?”
They left the hospital and stepped into an East London street bathed with fading pink sunlight. The sunset would be remarkable over the river, near where he and Caitlyn both lived. What woman—what
American
woman, especially—could resist a kiss or two next to the Thames as the light bounced off the water and set behind Tower Bridge?
Whitechapel bustled with people wearing various forms of Islamic dress—from Saudi women in full niqab to Somalis with only their faces uncovered to Bangladeshis adorned with makeup and colorful, sparkly saris. Only as Spencer watched them all rushing around did he realize today was Friday, and they were probably going home or to mosques for their sunset prayers.
“I love London’s diversity,” Caitlyn said, stepping over fast-food wrappers blowing down the road.
“Don’t get this mix of people in Oregon?”
“Not in the town I grew up in. There it’s more a mix of hippies and loggers.”
“What town’s that?”
She kept silent a moment. “You wouldn’t have heard of it.”
He glanced down to find her lost in thought.
It’s Friday
,
and you’ve been stuck in a hospital all week.
His granddad was right—he should be out with his mates, enjoying his freedom before the season started and turned him into a monk again. But he couldn’t relax in a pub knowing his granddad lay in a hospital bed. Not to mention that his sex drive had taken a nosedive the second the nurse had called him.