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.”

Caine’s fingers bit into my arms. I didn’t think he even realized. “I remember,” he said, his voice gruff.

“His sister offered me a job with her events management company in Paris. I accepted the offer today. I leave in four weeks.”

For a moment he searched my face as if attempting to discern my seriousness. Eventually his hands dropped from my arms and he took a step back. “Is that why you were crying?”