Читать книгу Led into Temptation - Cara Summers - Страница 8

One year later …

I HAVE TO GET TO Haworth House. I have to get to Haworth House.

The words had formed an ongoing chant in Naomi’s mind on the short ferry ride from the mainland and they’d become more insistent once the gray turreted tower had come into view. From the moment she’d seen it, she hadn’t been able to tear her eyes away. In spite of the chill wind that had driven other passengers into the main cabin, she’d remained outside. Even now that the boat had docked and passengers were queuing up to disembark, she lingered at the railing.

Two weeks ago the life she’d built for herself in Boston had begun to unravel. First, she’d lost her fiancé and become a person of interest to the FBI. Then, two days ago, she’d been fired from her job at the law firm of King and Fairchild. The FBI thought she had something to do with the one-hundred-million-dollar-plus Ponzi scheme her ex-fiancé had been running during the six months they’d been engaged.

When she’d learned of their suspicions, she’d felt just like Humpty Dumpty after his fall—completely shattered. Every time she replayed the pivotal scenes of the past two weeks in her mind, she felt as if she were watching clips from a reality TV series. Everything seemed to have happened to someone else.

Only, they’d happened to Naomi Brightman.

But if she could just get to Haworth House, she’d figure out a way to put the pieces of her life back together. After all, Hattie Haworth had.

In the distance, a gull circled the tower, then soared into the brilliant blue sky. Little had she known a year ago when she and her sisters had toasted each other with champagne in Hattie’s boudoir that her life was going to run such a close parallel to the original owner’s. And Hattie had come here.

Naomi knew she was running away, something she’d never done before in her life. How could she? She’d been the oldest. It had been her job to provide a role model for her sisters. Some role model. In the space of half a month, her life had gone from girl success story to girl failure.

She simply had to get out of Boston. She needed a break from that damned prickling sensation at the back of her neck that told her she was being watched—24/7. By the FBI, the Boston police and perhaps by her ex, Michael Davenport, too. Everyone seemed convinced that her ex-fiancé was going to contact her.

The sudden sting of tears blurred her view of the tower. Blinking rapidly, she turned from the railing and bit down on her lower lip to keep it from trembling. No tears. She never cried. If it was the last thing she did, she was going to figure out how she could have been so wrong about Michael Davenport.

For a moment, she let her mind drift back to the night he’d ended things between them. He’d invited her to meet at the Four Seasons. That’s where they’d first run in to each other six months ago. She’d been entertaining clients with her boss, Leo King, senior partner and her mentor at King and Fairchild.

Michael had claimed it was love at first sight for him. Had it been the same for her? She’d certainly thought so. Their romance had been a whirlwind one, and Michael was really good at the romantic side of things. There’d been flowers and little gifts, funny little trinkets that he’d given her to commemorate everything they’d done together. The Michael gifts, she’d called them. She’d kept them lined up on a shelf in her apartment.

He’d even given her one at their final meeting, a souvenir of Boston he’d picked up in the hotel gift shop. How many times had she gone over that last meeting, not only in her own mind, but also for the police and the FBI? Hundreds of times. Michael had been kind, telling her that he had to go away for a while on business. He’d lifted her hand, kissed her fingers and said he’d be in touch. All she’d read was sincerity in his eyes. And she’d believed him, just as she’d believed everything else he’d told her.

Naomi Brightman, girl super-chump.

And she wasn’t sure she’d let go of him yet. In her hurry to leave her apartment without being tailed, she hadn’t dared to pack a suitcase. But she’d put all of the Michael gifts in the big tote she always carried.

That made her a super-super chump.

“Is there something wrong, miss?”

Jerking around, Naomi found she had to glance up, way up, to see the face of the man who’d joined her at the railing. An instant tingle of familiarity moved through her. Why? He was tall, broad-shouldered and he wore aviator-style sunglasses that reflected back her own image. So it wasn’t the eyes that made her think she might have met him before.

She quickly catalogued the dark hair escaping from beneath the hood of the sweatshirt, the strong line of his cheekbone and chin. But it was only as her gaze dropped to his mouth that the memory finally clicked.

Father Pierre Bouchard.

He reminded her of the young French priest who’d been her confidant at the boarding school where she’d been raised. No, more than her confidant, she admitted as a guilty thrill moved through her. When she’d been fourteen, she’d had a major crush on the young and handsome Father Bouchard. He’d dominated her fantasy life for over a year. And this man bore an uncanny resemblance to him.

“Do I know you?” she asked.

The lips curved a little. And Naomi felt the tingle of recognition grow even stronger. She also felt a blush rise to her cheeks.

“No. We’ve never met. You’re sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine.” She tilted her head to one side, not quite ready or willing to let it go. “You weren’t ever a priest at Our Lady of Solace boarding school near Lyons?”

“Never.”

It was relief she was feeling, not disappointment. He wasn’t Father Bouchard. How could he be? The voice was wrong. No accent. And what were the chances of Father Bouchard ending up at Belle Island? And why in the world would she want him to? She hadn’t thought of the young priest in ages. But he’d slipped into her mind frequently during the past year—ever since she and her sisters had opened up Hattie Haworth’s fantasy box.

Naomi could still picture the words on the parchment paper she’d pulled out: Your secret fantasy has always been to make love with a priest. Now you will experience all those forbidden pleasures.

Firmly, Naomi ignored the guilty thrill that moved through her again and pushed that memory aside. She had bigger problems to solve. Straightening her shoulders, she said, “Sorry. You reminded me of someone.”

“No problem.”

But the feeling of familiarity lingered even as she turned and followed the last of the passengers off the ferry. Once on the pier, she couldn’t prevent herself from glancing back. For a moment, their gazes locked and held. It wasn’t merely familiarity she felt this time. There was also a tug deep inside of her. For an instant, she wanted to go back and talk to the stranger again.

“Hey, sugar! Over here.”

Naomi snapped her head in the direction of the sound and spotted Avery Cooper, Jillian’s college roommate and the man they’d hired to run Haworth House. With his megawatt smile, he was a sight for sore eyes. She’d had a pretty smileless two weeks.

Tall and broad-shouldered with skin the color of milk chocolate, Avery was his usual impeccably dressed self in a pale gray shirt and black slacks. Gold glinted in the chain around his neck and the hoop on his left ear.

Blinking back a fresh sting of tears, Naomi broke into a run. The moment she reached him, he grabbed her off her feet and swung her around in a huge hug. “This one’s from me.”

Naomi blinked faster as he set her on her feet and then pulled her close again.

“This one’s from your sisters.” When he drew back the second time, he studied her more closely. “Love the Jackie O sunglasses and the scarf.”

“I used them to sneak out the back door of my apartment.” She raised her tote. “I didn’t even pack a suitcase. Good thing Jillian insists that we keep some clothes at the hotel. I was so afraid someone would notice and follow me. Not that I don’t have a perfect right to leave town. The FBI never told me that I had to stay in Boston. Besides, I just came here to Belle Island. I didn’t try to leave the country or anything.” She frowned. “I shouldn’t feel so guilty about this.”

“It’s your good-girl syndrome taking over.” Avery glanced over her shoulder. “Did anyone follow you?”

“I don’t think so. For the first time in two weeks, I don’t have that prickly feeling at the back of my neck.”

“Good.” Throwing an arm around her, Avery led her off the dock and along the boardwalk lining the beach area. “Reese and Jillian are bummed that they can’t be here.”

Truth told, Naomi was a bit relieved about that. After the hubbub of the past two weeks, she was looking forward to some alone time. Jillian was in Europe on a buying trip, and Reese was on a book tour for a cookbook she’d just authored.

“My job is to provide all the TLC they can’t shower on you in person. And we’re going to start with a late lunch.”

“I’m not—”

“Hungry. I know. I know.” His tone of voice all sympathy, Avery nevertheless propelled her into a small café on the pier that offered patio seating. “Humor me. Once we get to the hotel, I figure you’ll lay low in the tower, and I’ll be working.”

He pulled a chair out for her at a table that offered a view of the water. At the far end of the island, on a jut of land, she could just see the tower of Haworth House. The tightness inside of her eased.

Avery sat down across from her. “I figure you lost your appetite just about two weeks ago when the BFJ gave you your walking papers.”

“BFJ?”

“Big Fat Jerk. When I was getting over Lowell Bidderman, I didn’t eat much of anything for nearly a month.” He flexed his right arm. “Lost some good muscle tone.”

Naomi narrowed her eyes. As far as she knew, Avery had been in a relationship with his current partner, Matt Trudell, since his college days. “Lowell Bidderman?”

“Junior high. I must have been fourteen. Lowell was my first love, and the reason I discovered I was gay at an early age. But I was afraid to say anything, even to Lowell. In junior high I felt I had to at least pass as a heterosexual. Do you remember your first crush?”

She did, and for a second, Naomi felt heat rise in her face again.

“You’re blushing,” Avery said. “That good, huh?”

She waved a hand. “It was a crush. All fantasy and no substance.”

“The best kind.” Avery grinned. “Tell me.”

She’d never told anyone.

“Confession is good for the soul,” Avery urged.

“It’s silly. Not even Reese and Jillian know. But when I was fourteen, I had this super crush on a young priest who’d been assigned to our boarding school.”

“Really?” Avery’s eyes lit up. “Shades of The Thorn-birds. The young innocent girl, the handsome caring priest, forbidden love … all set against the rugged landscape of Australia. Adored the novel. And Richard Chamberlain in the movie—be still my heart.”

Naomi nodded, relaxing a bit when she saw that he wasn’t shocked. “Exactly. I’d bought the book and smuggled it into the dorm. I read it by flashlight under the covers. I loved it.”

“Forbidden treats are always so much more delicious. Tell me more about this priest.”

Naomi spread her hands. “Father Bouchard was assigned to the school. He was young, probably in his early twenties. He was so kind, and he was such a good listener. I could talk to him about anything. I fell hopelessly in love. I used to write about him in my diary every day, and then I would dream about him every night.”

And a year ago after she’d opened up that parchment in Hattie Haworth’s boudoir and the message had been indelibly printed on her mind, she’d unearthed those diaries and reread every one.

“Details. Give me the details. Did you ever actually do it with the priest—in your dreams?”

Heat burned her cheeks again. She’d fantasized about doing a lot of things—not just in her dreams, but in her diaries, too. “What do you think? I’d read The Thornbirds.”

“Atta girl. Did you ever tell him what you were feeling?”

Her eyes widened in shock. “No. Of course not. It was all fantasy. Pure fantasy.”

“Just like me and Lowell. Except for the priest part.”

She nodded. Except for the priest part. But the priest part had definitely been on the piece of parchment she’d pulled out of Hattie’s hatbox. Now you will experience all of those forbidden pleasures…. And that was what had motivated her to reread the diaries she’d written at fourteen. Then she noticed the expression on Avery’s face. “What?”

“Just thinking. You know, there’s a priest, a Father Dane MacFarland, who’s due to check in to Haworth House today.”

“Avery, you can’t be—”

He raised both hands, palms outward. “I’m not suggesting anything. Just providing information. Besides, he may be eighty and using a walker.”

He accepted a menu from the waitress and flashed her a smile. “We’ll have your best bottle of champagne and four lobster rolls.”

“Champagne?” Naomi echoed.

He turned his smile on her. “Sisters’ orders. My mission is to get you from mourning into celebratory mode ASAP. Before anyone finds you here.”

“My sisters are being pushy.”

Avery’s brows shot up. “Turnabout’s fair play. You’ve been taking care of them and pushing them for a long time.”

Her lips curved.

Avery patted her hand. “That’s better. They’re annoyed that they can’t talk to you in person. But since we’re pretty sure your phone is being tapped, they want you to have as much privacy here as you can get.”

“We were careful not to mention Haworth House when we talked. We have this code we’ve used since we were kids.”

“Right.” Avery raised both hands and wiggled his fingers. “They’re being very cloak-and-daggerish with me, too, using pay phones and only contacting me on my private line at the hotel.”

Naomi sighed. “It’s not going to take a Sherlock Holmes to trace me here.”

Avery shrugged. “Hey, if using codes and pay phones makes your sisters feel like they’re helping, I say it’s a good thing. And who knows? Might buy you twenty-four to forty-eight hours of privacy.”

The waitress arrived and began the uncorking ritual. Once she’d filled the glasses, Avery raised his. “To the new Naomi Brightman.”

Naomi blinked. “I’ll be perfectly happy to get the old one back.”

“I assumed that old Naomi’s bridges are pretty much burned.”

“And then some. But there’s got to be something I can do to fix that. I haven’t let myself think about it.” She lifted her glass thoughtfully and her gaze shifted beyond his shoulder to Haworth House. Something inside of her stirred. “I have a feeling that I’ll figure something out while I’m here.”

“Good plan. All I’m saying is that you should keep your options open. You don’t necessarily have to return to your life BMD.”

“Before Michael Davenport.”

He grinned at her. “You’re catching on, sugar. When one door slams shut, another one always opens. Hattie Haworth reinvented herself here. You might as well give it a shot, too. So I’ll drink to the new Naomi Brightman.”

“Cheers,” Naomi said, and they both drank champagne.

“ANYTHING ELSE I can get for you, Father MacFarland?”

Dane glanced up from his book, removed his sunglasses and smiled at the pretty redhead who’d been cheerfully refilling his glass of iced tea for the past hour. “No thanks, Tess.”

Except for an introduction to Naomi Brightman. That would be nice. She’d been in her room in the tower for over an hour now. He knew that because he’d kept her in his sights ever since she’d left the ferry. Dane had no doubt that the FBI and the police would soon figure out she’d come to her home on Belle Island. But for now MacFarland Investigations, the firm he ran with his brother Ian, appeared to be the only ones on the scene.

Except for Michael Davenport. Gut instinct told Dane that the swindler was probably already here and would make contact with Naomi soon. And so far, she hadn’t been lured out onto the balcony by the breathtaking view.

He handed Tess the bill he’d already signed to his room. “I thought I’d stay here and read for a bit more.”

“No prob. During the summer months, the courtyard is one of our most popular spots and it’s open to Haworth House guests twenty-four-seven.”

Dane considered that providential. The hotel itself was a three-story structure built around an inner courtyard lined with porticoes. One side opened into the lobby, and through an archway on the other, guests could access a stairway that descended to the beach. Dane’s location at a table beneath one of the porticoes offered him a perfect view of the balcony that opened off Naomi Brightman’s room. So far she hadn’t made an appearance, but that might be providential, too. He was going to have to tread carefully with her. She’d already managed to throw him off a bit. It hadn’t been a part of his plan to talk to her on the ferry.

But there’d been something about the way she’d looked, standing alone at the railing, and he’d felt the tug of sympathy in every fiber of his being.

He lifted his gaze to her balcony. He’d been in her bedroom two days ago on a reconnaissance mission. Once he’d cracked the primitive code she and her sisters used to communicate and learned that she was definitely coming to Haworth House, he’d assigned a man to watch her apartment in Boston, and he’d taken a quick trip to Belle Island to get the lay of the land.

Tess tucked the leather folder containing his bill into her pocket. “We’ve never had a priest stay here before.”

He and Ian had prepared for that question when Dane had chosen to masquerade as a man of the cloth. “My bishop is interested in finding locations for spiritual retreats.”

“Oh, Haworth House has a lot of spaces to retreat to. You should talk to our manager, Mr. Cooper.”

He smiled at her. “I’ll do that, Tess.” More importantly, he intended to talk to Naomi Brightman about it. It would be his initial reason for meeting with her.

“I’m going off the clock until tomorrow morning. Will I see you then?” Tess asked.

“You bet.” He’d be here until he got his hands on the elusive Michael Davenport. According to his FBI informant, Naomi Brightman had been quite candid with both the police and the FBI. Davenport had told her that he would be in touch. And every instinct that

Dane had told him the swindling con man would keep his word.

Part of Davenport’s method of operation was to use women as either partners or patsies in his schemes. During the last con he’d worked in Kansas City he’d stashed his ill-gotten gains with a woman partner until the heat was off. In the end, he’d gotten away with the money. His partner had ended up dead.

Davenport had stashed something with Naomi this time. Dane was sure of it. Because of her squeaky clean record, he figured her for a patsy, not a partner. But that didn’t mean she was in any less danger. What he knew for sure was that Davenport hadn’t left the Boston area. In the past fourteen days, he’d been spotted three times. There was only one reason for Michael Davenport to take the risk of hanging around. He didn’t have access yet to the one hundred million plus he’d embezzled.

Dane had a three-year-old score to settle with Davenport. This time, nothing would stop him from getting his man.

“See you tomorrow, then, Father.” With a salute, Tess whirled and hurried back into the hotel. The bubbly and talkative waitress had provided some background information, but thanks to Ian’s meticulous research, there was little that Dane didn’t already know about Naomi Brightman and Haworth House.

When his cell phone rang, Dane checked the caller ID and then grinned. Speak of the devil. “What’s up?”

“Just checking in,” Ian said. “How’s the priest thing going?”

“So far, so good.”

As an investigator, Dane often assumed different personas. During his early years when he’d been in foster homes or on the street, he’d discovered and honed a chameleon-like talent for becoming whatever was needed to get him out of a jam. The decision in this instance for him to pose as a priest had been influenced by Ian’s insight into Naomi Brightman’s very Catholic background.

Technically, Ian was his half brother. He’d been nine and Ian seven when their mother had died and they’d been split up by social services. They had two other half siblings—a girl and a boy. Somewhere.

“I’ve got the waitress completely fooled,” Dane said.

Ian gave an appreciative laugh.

Thanks to the family that had adopted him, Ian had become an expert on all things Catholic. And he maintained that Catholic women had an instant trust in priests. They confided in them. Ian swore his adoptive mother had been “best buds” with a whole string of parish priests. Dane’s only experience with women and their relationships with priests was the second season of The Sopranos, when Tony’s wife had been really chummy with one.

“I have yet to put this little masquerade to the test. I haven’t seen her since I arrived, and I still have to wangle an introduction.”

“It’s going to work like a charm. You’ll see.”

Dane was banking on it. He’d gone along with Ian because he needed a cover that would allow him to win Naomi Brightman’s trust in a short amount of time. The sooner he figured out just how she fit into Davenport’s scheme, the better. And he needed to be close by when Davenport contacted her.

Plus, posing as a priest might also help him with his other problem. He’d felt a connection to Naomi Brightman even before he’d seen her in person. That wasn’t like him at all. Long ago, he’d learned to keep an emotional distance between himself and any case he was working.

He’d decided that the reason for his reaction to her was because they’d both experienced the responsibility of being the oldest sibling. Of course, their stories were vastly different. She’d never been separated from her sisters, and he’d lost everyone.

He shifted his eyes to the balcony outside her bedroom. But when he’d first seen her in the flesh, his reaction had gone far beyond empathy. A raw sexual awareness had shot through him like a lance. It was a purely visceral response that he couldn’t seem to control. And the experience had repeated itself in one way or another each time he’d seen her since.

At first he’d tried to prevent it, then he’d tried to analyze it. Finally he’d settled for trying to get used to it.

And that wasn’t going very smoothly. He’d very nearly reached out to touch her when he’d talked to her on the ferry. The urge to lay a hand on her arm or on the side of her face had been so strong. As a priest, he’d have to keep that impulse in check.

“You still there, Dane?”

“Yeah.” Annoyed with himself, he dragged his eyes away from Naomi’s balcony.

“For a moment there, I thought I’d lost you. I take it you haven’t seen our other friend, either?”

“You’ll be the first to know. He wasn’t on the ferry.” But Dane hadn’t expected him to be. The man was smart. He’d have known that Naomi would come to Haworth House just as Dane had known. In the year since she and her sisters had purchased the hotel, this was the only place Naomi Brightman had escaped to.

It was a matter of time before Davenport showed. The island held a myriad of places for a secret rendezvous.

There was a brief pause, then Ian said, “Things are slow here at the office. I’m bored.”

Dane could picture his brother. He’d be sitting at his desk, feet propped up, wearing cutoff shorts and a T-shirt and shooting wadded-up balls of paper at the wastebasket strategically placed five feet away. When Dane had located Ian a year ago, he’d been seated behind a desk at the CIA wearing a suit, tie and a very serious expression on his face. It was the same face that Dane remembered from his childhood. But in the short time they’d worked together, the formerly uptight Ian had loosened up quite a bit.

“You know field work has its boring days. Don’t forget I’m just off two weeks of shadowing.” There hadn’t been much excitement in keeping Naomi Brightman under surveillance. In spite of the fact that her life had been thrown into major turmoil, she’d stuck as much as she could to a daily routine. She’d bought her latte at the same coffee shop each day. She’d arrived at her office and left at the same time. Except on Tuesdays. That was the day she worked late. Even her wardrobe had a routine to it. Though the colors might vary, she always wore a suit, and in addition to a briefcase, she carried the same enormous tote bag everywhere. She’d even had it with her when he’d talked to her on the ferry.

“Ian.” At the memory, Dane straightened in his chair. “There is something that you can look into for me.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I spoke briefly with Naomi on the ferry just as we were about to disembark. We didn’t exchange names or anything. Just a few casual words between strangers. But she thought she knew me. It shook her up. She asked if I’d been a priest at that boarding school she went to in France. Do you think you can dig up something on that?”

“Is the Pope Catholic? I’ll be in touch. And if things start to heat up on the island, let me know. I’ll gladly provide backup.”

“Will do.” After repocketing his cell phone, Dane stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. There was no one better at digging up information than Ian. With his brother’s help, Dane had no doubt that they would locate their younger sibs very soon. The little ones had been four and two on the day their mother had died and their life as a family had ended.

Dane put his sunglasses on and gazed out at the sea. Sharon MacFarland had been twenty-eight when her life had been snuffed out, a year younger than he was now. He remembered her as a good mother. She’d loved them. The problem was she’d had a dream that one day she’d find her Prince Charming. And Lord knows, she’d looked for him. Persistence had been Sharon MacFarland’s middle name. He and his three other siblings all had different fathers, and none of them had turned out to be the prince his mother was looking for.

A tingle of awareness moved through him. And Dane knew before he raised his eyes to the balcony that Naomi would be there. The moment that he looked at her, the awareness sharpened and he felt an irresistible pull.

Before he was even conscious of the decision, he rose from his chair and moved closer to the edge of the open courtyard to get a clearer view.

She stood at a waist-high railing, looking out at the sea. Though he couldn’t see them, he knew what her legs looked like, and he recalled the strength and athleticism in the way she moved. If he closed his eyes, he could recall every detail of the features that had been captured in her photo on King and Fairchild Web site. Gray-green eyes, pale skin with just a sprinkling of freckles, a straight, narrow nose, strong cheekbones and a chin that hinted at stubbornness.

But there was something different about her today. She had the same serious look on her face that she’d worn for the past two weeks. But he sensed less tension. Her shoulders were more relaxed and her hands rested on the balcony rather than gripping it.

That was when it struck him. Her hair—that was different, too. It fell loose to her shoulders, and the late-afternoon sun haloed it around her head. That had to be why he’d never noted the fiery red highlights before. His eyes narrowed then, focusing on her face. Her lips were moving. Not even a hint of a sound drifted to him. Was she whispering? Praying?

For a moment a vivid image flashed into his mind. She was in his arms, her cheek pressed against his, her breath hot in his ear. She was whispering to him. His blood heated, his pulse raced. He couldn’t make out her words above the pounding of his heart. Then her eyes shifted suddenly to him, and her gaze moved slowly up his body. He hadn’t thought it possible for his body to grow any harder, but it did.

When her eyes finally locked on his, there was a moment—an instant, he would convince himself later—when he couldn’t think of anything, anyone but her. And he barely blocked the urge to walk into the courtyard and climb up the stone wall to her balcony.

The thought was so ridiculous that it cleared his mind immediately. Who did he think he was? A comic book hero? Or Shakespeare’s hormone-driven Romeo?

Still, he wasn’t the one who broke the spell by walking away. It was Naomi Brightman who turned from the railing and disappeared into her room.