Blackthorne: Heart of Fame, Book 8 Read Free

her chief bouncer. “What’s the problem, Strop?”
    Strop—roughly the size of an office block and twice as ugly—inclined his shaved head toward two men standing on the curb with their backs to the club. “Two jokers over there want to skip the queue. Reckon they’re Josh Blackthorne and Rhys McDowell.”
    Caitlin studied the two men’s backs with a slow inspection. Faded blue jeans hugged a tight, sculpted arse and thick, muscular legs of the one of the right. A skin-tight white T-shirt covered a torso equally as physically fit. Dark hair hung down his broad back in a thick plait, the end of which was wrapped in a bright red cord. The one on the left wore all black. Black leather pants, a black T-shirt and black biker boots, the colour emphasizing the corded strength of his body. His hair was a choppy dark mess, the kind that looked like the owner had just climbed out of bed after some serious sex. “Do you think it’s them?” she asked her bouncer, finding it a little tricky to drag her stare from them both.
    It had been a while since she checked out a guy. Quite a while, but damn, the two men were presenting her with a rather appealing view.
    Strop shook his head. “Can’t say. Neither had Australian ID when I asked for it, only US and UK drivers’ licenses. As far as I know Blackthorne is in New York. And what kind of celebrity tries to get into a club through conventional methods these days anyway? If they’re who they say they are, where’s their entourage? I’ve read McDowell doesn’t travel anywhere without his personal trainer in tow.”
    Forcing herself to turn her attention to her bouncer, Caitlin frowned. “Did they cause a ruckus trying to jump the queue?”
    She flicked the line of people waiting to get into the club a quick look. It extended down the footpath and around the corner. A line of people dressed to impress, checking out who was checking them out as they waited to enter the Chaos Room. A little thrill of pride shot through her. They were waiting to get into her nightclub, a business she’d created from the ground up, going into more debt than someone her age ever should. But she wasn’t in debt now. She’d done good, transforming a rundown dying bar into the nightclub to be seen at. Although at this point, most of the people in the line were straining their necks trying to get a look at the two guys standing at the curb. Straining their necks, whispering, shuffling about and giggling like little schoolgirls. Christ, even some of the guys in the line were giggling. Fuck.
    “Not much of one,” Strop’s droll voice drew her attention back to him. “They came to the front of the line, the one purporting to be McDowell said who they were and wondered if they could get in. The ruckus started when the women at the front got a look at them. There was squealing. And fainting. And tears.”
    Caitlin swung her stare back to the men waiting on the curb. “Seriously?”
    “Yep.”
    Narrowing her eyes, she ran a gaze over them both again. “What did they do?”
    “The one who says he’s McDowell grinned, waved a hand and gave me a look that said see? The one who is supposedly Blackthorne took a screaming woman’s phone from her and snapped a selfie with her before giving it back and kissing her on the cheek.”
    Caitlin cocked an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
    “Yep. They both helped up the women who’d supposedly fainted and signed a lot of boobs while I called inside.”
    “Signed boobs?”
    “Josh signed mine!” the woman at the front of the queue burst out, a feverish light in her eyes as she shoved her upper body toward Caitlin and yanked down the neckline of her top to reveal an unreadable signature scrawled in red over the top swells of her breasts. Was it lipstick?
    Caitlin stared at the excited woman’s exposed boobs for a second before lifting her head. “Maybe you should put them away,” she suggested.
    The woman straightened, carefully returned her neckline to where