"Not true." His eyes glinted and my body flushed.

Oh yeah. Sometimes I was "Alexa" in bed.

"Speaking of ..."

He looked back at the screen. "Don't ruin this. Outside these walls, life is fucked right now. This here ... it's the only thing I have. Don't ruin it."

I hesitated, wanting to give him what he wanted since he was caring for me. But I couldn't. "This here ... it isn't real."

"Bullshit," he snapped, glaring at me. He seemed genuinely affronted by my assessment of our friendship. "It's the only real-" He cursed and cut off his words before returning his gaze to the television.

"If it was real, there wouldn't be secrets between us."

Caine's answer was to gently remove my legs from his lap and walk across the vast room. He disappeared upstairs and all the while my stomach churned with anxiousness.

When he returned thirty minutes later he was dressed in a shirt and slacks, his hair freshly washed and brushed.

"I'm going out," he threw over his shoulder before grabbing his car keys.

The door slammed shut behind him.

I closed my eyes and the movement put pressure on the tears that were filling them. They scored tracks down my cheeks and I burrowed my face into the couch so I could muffle my sobs.

A minute or so later I jerked at the gentle touch on my shoulder and peered out from under my hair to find Effie there. She was perched on the sofa, gazing at me compassionately. "Caine asked me to come sit with you while he went out."

I shifted around with care so I could rest my head on her lap and I just cried harder, hating that the bastard had the power to hurt me so badly.

CHAPTER 29.

"Well, it all looks good. No sign of infection," Liz said.

I stared at my outpatient care nurse, a little dazed. I'd been feeling that way since I left the apartment for the first time escorted by Caine, Arnie, and Sly. "I took the Keflex as prescribed," I murmured.

"Good. Now that the staples are out, try not to forget about the injury. You've still got a minimum two weeks of healing to do."

"I don't think I'll be forgetting this anytime soon."

She gave me a sympathetic smile. "I don't suppose you will. Have they found the guy yet?"

"Nope." I stood up and Liz steadied me. "I'm ready to just get on with my life, you know, but with this hanging around my neck ..."

She squeezed my arm. "I hope they get him soon, hon."

I smiled gratefully and she walked me out into the waiting room, where Caine stood talking quietly into his phone while Arnie and Sly stood by the doors. Their real names were Griff and Don, but they answered with good humor to the nicknames I'd given them.

Caine saw us and quickly ended his conversation. He slipped his phone into his pocket and strode over to us. He homed in on Liz. "Everything's okay?"

"Staples are out. No infection. Lexie's on the road to recovery."

"Great." I gave him a pointed look. "Now I can go home."

He frowned. "If by 'home' you mean my home, then yes, you can go home."

"Caine-"

"No argument." He slipped his arm around my waist, thanked Liz, and started to walk me out.

I glanced over my shoulder to give Liz a grateful smile. The whole time I tried to ignore Caine's body pressed up against mine. I could manage walking by myself just fine, but I didn't want to cause a scene in the hospital by telling him to back off.

After he'd disappeared last night, Effie helped me upstairs and into bed. No words were needed. I think even this time she was pissed at Caine and understood I'd reached the end of my fight on this one. When I heard him return from his drive a while later, I half hoped he'd come to my room. To say what? I didn't know. Something. Anything. However, he didn't, and that was when I decided it was time for me to finally let him go. I lay in bed that night thinking of all the things I needed to sort out in my life that didn't revolve around Caine.

Solving my career crisis seemed like the place to start. Antoine's sister, Renee, had been in contact and had given me these two weeks to mull over her offer before she offered it to someone else. Antoine had e-mailed me a few times over the last fourteen days, each e-mail pontificating on the delights and benefits of living in Paris. I had to admit for the last week I'd made it all up my mind that if I could get Caine to confide in me, then I'd stay in Boston. That would have meant looking around the city for a new job anyway, because there was no way I was continuing on as his PA if we were going to be in a serious relationship.

Now, however, I found myself considering Renee's offer.

Before I even thought about Paris, though, I had to deal with my father. There were too many unresolved issues there. I could not get it out of my head that I would even contemplate that he would hurt me. Yet the thought that the person behind my attack might be him had flittered through my mind, however briefly. Of course upon reflection I was a little horrified with myself for even thinking it. In fact, it more than horrified me-it startled me into realizing that I was never going to get a fresh start anywhere until I found some kind of closure with my father. I had to talk to him, and hoped to God when I did he could make me understand his actions better. If he could, then I might be able to forgive my mother for choosing him over me. After all, the hurt my mother's choices had inflicted on me were at the core of my issues. How could I let go and move on in Paris if I didn't come to terms with that hurt, that rejection? I wouldn't. I'd just take it with me.

"You're quiet. Are you in pain?" Caine asked as we settled into the car.

"It's a little tender but I'm okay. I really wish you'd let me go back to my own apartment, though."

He sighed. "Not until your attacker is found."

"And if we don't find him?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there."

"I'm warning you it'll be a wooden rope bridge riddled with dry rot with a big sign that says 'Cross at your own risk.' "

Caine didn't say anything. I looked at him. He was staring out of his passenger window, wearing the ghost of an amused smile.

It was on the tip of my tongue to say, "You're going to miss my smart ass." But I knew his answer-or more likely nonanswer-would sting worse than the staples I'd just had removed.

We traveled back to Caine's apartment in silence. Arnie and Sly walked us up to his apartment and left once I was safely ensconced inside. I was sick of the security. The lack of any leads on my attacker made me suspect I'd been stabbed by some random psycho on the street. The security and lock-down in the apartment felt like overkill.

"I have to get back to work, but Effie will be over soon," Caine said.

"Effie doesn't need to be here anymore." I kicked off my shoes, holding a hand up to stop Caine coming toward me to help. "I can get around on my own now. I'm sure she has better things to do than help you keep me prisoner."

"It's just for a little while longer, Lexie."

"How would you feel?" I scowled, leaning against the wall for support. "Wouldn't this be killing you?"

Instead of answering-not that he needed to, because I knew it would be killing him-Caine reminded me to call if I needed him and then he was gone.

I didn't call him, because I was determined to never need the handsome son of a bitch ever again.

Perhaps in my frustration I moved around the apartment that night more than I should have. Now that I was resolute in my decision to go see my father before accepting Renee's offer, I wanted to do it as soon as I could. The choice was made and I wanted to start living by it, for many reasons, including the fact that it distracted me from thinking about leaving Caine behind for good. Anytime I let myself dwell on the idea of not getting to see him every day, dread and utter desolation crept over me.

Anything was better than that feeling.

To not feel it I'd spent the rest of the day and early evening planning. I'd e-mailed Renee instead of calling-the six-hour time difference meant it was late in Paris. I had my fingers crossed I'd hear something back from her in the morning. From there I'd gone online and started apartment-hunting. Feeling out of my depth, I'd e-mailed Antoine for help and received an enthusiastic response saying he'd start making inquiries for me in the morning.

I'd then done a lot of pacing before heading up to bed early to avoid Caine.

The pacing and the jitteriness were the culprits behind why I'd woken up in the middle of the night in pain. Groaning at my own stupidity, I got up and headed slowly and quietly downstairs, where I'd left my Percocet. I reached the kitchen counter, where I was sure I'd put the pills. No luck.

To my annoyance I spent the next five minutes opening cupboards and drawers, aggravating the pain in my stomach. No luck. I glowered in exasperation around the low-lit room, trying to think where the hell I had put the pills. My eyes alighted on the side table near the dining area. I never used it because it matched the dining table exactly and looked more like a piece of art than a usable piece of furniture, but I wondered if perhaps Effie had put my pills away when she dropped by after Caine left. As soon as she'd appeared I'd told her in frustration that I appreciated her taking so much time for me, but I didn't need a babysitter any longer. Apparently she agreed, because after she made me coffee and pottered around a little she left.

I huffed. I loved Effie to pieces, but every time she came over there was always something I couldn't find because she'd put it away. I couldn't work out how someone with a home as cluttered as hers could be so obsessed with decluttering Caine's.

I pulled open the side-table drawer and pushed around some miscellaneous junk. Nope. No Percocet.

I practically growled.

I was just about to shut the drawer when something shiny caught the light. The realization that it was a bunch of photographs made me stop. Caine didn't have any photos out on display. I'd never even seen any hidden away.

Until now.

Curious, I pulled out the small pile of photographs and held them up under the light. The defeat and disappointment I'd been feeling over Caine suddenly hit brand-new levels of complexity.

Every photo was of me. There were six of them and I remembered they were taken on his phone. Two were ones I had taken. Selfies of us lying in bed. One was of me lying with my head against his, grinning up into the camera while he stared into the lens in smoldering bemusement. The other was of me holding the camera up high while I kissed him.

The other four were photographs Caine had taken of me. In one I was sprawled on his bed on my stomach, the sheet draped across my lower half. It was a modest but sensual photograph because although I was hiding all my good bits I was staring into the camera with a look on my face I'd never seen before. It was filled with desire. For Caine.

I blinked back the tears that suddenly stung my eyes.

The other two pictures were of me at Quincy Market the week before I was attacked. And the last was of me standing in the doorway between Caine's bedroom and master en suite. I wore only his T-shirt. The shoulders were much too big, so it hung down, revealing lots of skin. Caine had made a crack about how he'd never known a guy's shirt could be so sexy. In response I'd turned around and struck a pose, pouting ridiculously, my hair wild around my face.

Crying hard now, I shoved the photographs back in the drawer where he had hidden them.

I kicked the sideboard and immediately felt a sharp burn of pain tear through my abdomen. The tears came faster and I stumbled away into the hallway, suddenly desperate to get my hands on the pills so I had something to do, something else to concentrate on.

I found them immediately on the telephone table, and so I was back at square one with nothing else to contemplate but those goddamn photos.

Attempting to see through my blurry vision and all the while trying to soften the sounds of my crying, I hurried into the kitchen and fumbled with a glass as I pulled it out of the cupboard.

"Lexie?" Caine's questioning voice came to me.

I stiffened, shoving the glass under the tap.

"Hey, hey," he said soothingly, his heat hitting my back as he reached beyond me for the glass. With his other hand he reached for the Percocet, and in doing so trapped me against him. "Are you in pain?"

"I'm fine."

He was silent a moment. And then, "You're not fine. You're crying."

"I said I'm fine. I just need to take the Percocet." I took his hand and tried to peel the bottle out of it. "Give it to me."

"Lex, let me help you."

"I don't need your help."

I did not need to be saved by a man who couldn't even save himself.

"Lex-"

"I said I don't need your help!"

Suddenly his hands were on my arms and he was gently turning me to face him. I resisted, squirming against his hold with as much ferociousness as my wounded body would allow.

"Lexie, stop," he huffed in confusion.

I couldn't stop it now that my emotions had been unleashed on him.

All I could see were those photographs. All I could hear was his denial of how he felt about me. His rejection. His lies.

"Get off me!" I yelled, struggling hard now.

His grip on me tightened. "Lexie, stop it."

But I wouldn't. I couldn't.

Every hurt I'd felt in the last few weeks erupted into violence. I was yelling and crying and pounding my fists against his chest.

"Stop it-you'll hurt yourself," I heard him growl.

It didn't stop me.

His hold on me became bruising and he gave me a gentle shake. "Stop it," he commanded hoarsely. "Lexie, stop." And then he was kissing me. Hard. Desperate.

Stunned, I stopped struggling.

I let him kiss me, his hands moving from my arms to my hair, holding me to him as he kissed me like he needed to do so more than he needed to breathe.

Finally my brain blinked back into action and I froze, my lips no longer moving against his. Caine felt my reluctance and his kiss gentled. He brushed his mouth once, twice, over mine before pulling away.

We stared at each other, equally confused by what had just happened.

"I'm leaving" were the first words out of my mouth. "Not the apartment. I mean yes, the apartment, but more than that. Do you remember Antoine Faucheux? I introduced him to you at the airport."