Blackthorne: Heart of Fame, Book 8 Read Free Page A

it should be and directed a dreamy look at the two men by the gutter. “He smells so delicious,” she gushed.
    Caitlin arched a brow. “Seriously?” she repeated. She didn’t understand fawning over celebrities. It made you look like an idiot as far as she was concerned.
    “Want me to call ’em over?” her bouncer asked, a humored chuckle in his voice.
    Shaking her head, she tapped Strop’s bulging biceps with her hand. “It’s okay. Let me check it out.”
    With another quick glance at the gawking, unsettled queue, she began to walk to the two supposed celebrities waiting by the street. She highly doubted they were who they purported to be. She’d only read yesterday the feds in the States had just arrested a crazy stalker who’d been dangerously obsessed with Blackthorne for months. What were the chances the guy would be prancing around Sydney, kissing fans on the street if something like that had happened? And if it was Blackthorne, where was his bodyguard. All celebrities of his fame had one. As did someone like Rhys McDowell. The striker for Manchester United and the Australian soccer team—along with the new face of Hugo Boss—was just as famous as the rock star. Word had it the guy was a major womanizer who had to beat off fans and lust-crazed admirers whenever he ventured off the soccer field. And sometimes on the soccer field too. Caitlin was sure she’d seen footage on the news last week of a naked female fan crash tackling McDowell during a match in London.
    All those facts led to the two guys standing with their backs to her not being who they said they were. There was no other way for it.
    Still, professional courtesy—an itch she never ignored—dictated she be one hundred percent certain before telling them to get to the back of the line and wait their turn like everyone else. It wouldn’t be good for business for the Chaos Room to be labeled by a vindictive PR rep or snippy gossip site as the nightclub that turned Josh Blackthorne and Rhys McDowell away.
    “Oi,” she called at their backs as she drew closer to them. “I hear you two think you don’t have to wait in line like…”
    The rest of Caitlin’s challenge faded on her lips. Not because she’d lost her courage, but because both guys turned to face her at once and she forgot for a moment how to breathe.
    Holy crap.
    They were both sexy as sin.
    “Everyone else?” the guy with the plaited ponytail finished for her. He grinned, his blue eyes dancing with mirth. “That’s about it. Probably because we’re not like everyone else.”
    Caitlin swallowed. Jesus, he was yummy. And cocky. She could see the devilish conceit dripping off him already.
    “That’s enough, Rhys.” A low drawl with its deep timbre sent a shiver up Caitlin’s spine and she swung her stare to his companion, her throat tightening as her eyes connected with an intense grey gaze. “Put your ego in check, dude.”
    Her pussy contracted. Her pulse quickened. Christ, the guy was hot. Hot with a capital oh-my-fucking-God-I-want-to-have-your-babies H. And he did look like Josh Blackthorne. He had those famous storm-cloud eyes, that famous hawkish nose and dark eyebrows. He had that killer smirk that made women everywhere want to strip naked and declare themselves his to do with what he chose, and that sinewy, corded body she’d seen undulating in more than one wickedly sexy video clip on MTV.
    He had all those things. But he didn’t have a bodyguard. And Josh Blackthorne would not be out in public without one of those. Caitlin didn’t think that was the case, she knew it for a fact. She’d spent enough time with celebrities, thanks to her uncle’s famous husband, to know that. If you were famous like Blackthorne was, it was vital you have one.
    No bodyguard, no Blackthorne.
    Sucking in a swift breath, she caught hold of the sexual libido taking her completely by surprise and crossed her arms over her breasts. Not because she was trying to hide the way her