Читать книгу Led into Temptation - Cara Summers - Страница 9

THE MOMENT NAOMI entered the suite she and her sisters shared, she felt a bit more of her tension ease. Lunch and champagne with Avery had been fun, but this was really where she wanted to be.

Slipping out of her shoes and dropping her tote bag on the bed, she moved to the love seats facing each other in front of a bay window. A gift basket sat on the small coffee table. Opening it, she found a box of candy, a business card from the village of Belle Bay and two notes.

The first one was from Reese.

Naomi,

Sorry we can’t be there. Jillian and I have asked Avery to take very good care of you. The one thing we’re sure of is that you’re going to get past this. All of our lives, we’ve seen you set goals for yourself and meet them. We can’t wait to see what you’ll do next. The chocolate is to inspire you to indulge yourself.

And don’t forget what you always told me when

I was small and didn’t think I would ever reach my goal. “Little steps. Just take little steps.”

Love,

Reese

Naomi blinked, the back of her eyes burning. She knew without opening the small box that it would contain the special chocolate truffles Reese had created as a trademark confection for Haworth House. Chocolates were Naomi’s weakness, so she rationed her consumption. In a stressful job, it paid off to eat healthy. Her youngest sister had always considered chocolate good therapy. Then she reread the note. We can’t wait to see what you’ll do next.

But what if the thing she wanted most was to go back to her old job and her old life—before Michael Davenport? Little steps were good advice if she just knew where she was headed….

With a sigh, she picked up the next note.

Naomi,

Avery is always telling me “When a door closes, another door opens.” I hope that by coming to Haworth House you’ll figure out how to open that door. The place has opened up a whole new career for me.

The business card is from a new boutique in the village called Discoveries. I was thinking that you might want a different wardrobe for when you decide to open that door. And, hey, shopping is the best way I know to destress and get your mind ready to explore new paths.

Love,

Jillian

Blinking again, Naomi studied the card. Discoveries, owned and operated by Molly Pepperman, promised the latest in fashions.

Obviously, her sisters and Avery were on the same page in pushing her toward a fresh start. And she agreed with them in part. She wanted to discover who the new Naomi Brightman was going to be herself.

But so far she didn’t have a clue. And how could she be positive that she wanted to leave the old Naomi Brightman behind? After all, they’d traveled a long road together. How was she supposed to change from the person she’d been all her life into someone … she didn’t even know?

Little steps.

Her gaze fell on the huge tote bag she carried with her everywhere. If she wanted a new beginning, she could start by getting rid of her tote. She’d had it since she’d started college nine years ago, and it held everything that was absolutely essential to her life. Most people used a filing cabinet, but she carted that tote around like some sort of a security blanket. Or obsession.

Periodically—say, once a year—she’d sort through it, but almost always when she discarded something, she stuffed in something else she wanted to keep at her fingertips.

And it weighed a ton. Hefting it up, she turned it over and dumped the contents out on the bed. Then she simply stared. There was a day planner and three notebooks—she never went into meetings or court without one. Then there was her makeup bag, an extra pair of earrings, a change purse, a wallet and all of the little surprise gifts Michael had given her in the six months they’d known each other.

Somewhere in the roller coaster of emotions she’d experienced in the two weeks since she’d walked into Leo King’s office and been introduced to the two FBI agents, she’d tried to figure out if what she’d felt for Michael Davenport had been love.

Or had she simply been dazzled by the attention he’d paid her?

No one had ever treated her the way Michael had, as if she were special. She picked up the souvenir key chain he’d given her on their last night together. It boasted two charms, a silver key to Boston and a crystal heart. When he’d presented it to her, he’d asked for her keys and he’d transferred them to the new chain so that she would always carry the key to his heart.

The gesture and the words were so typically Michael. He was the perfect gentleman. He’d taken charge of their relationship from that first chance meeting in the Four Seasons and he’d made all the decisions.

That had been part of his attraction, she supposed. As the oldest, she’d often played a decision-making role when it came to her sisters. And Michael had lifted that burden off her shoulders. He’d even taken charge of the physical side of their relationship. He’d told her that considering her background, he wanted to take things slowly with her.

Very slowly, to her way of thinking. They’d shared long kisses, even some heavy petting in his private limo. But in the six months she’d known him, they’d never actually made love. She’d thought of objecting more than once, but she hadn’t. It was so much easier to be just swept along.

Would she have been more aggressive if she’d felt differently about him, she wondered now, or maybe if there’d been more heat between them?

She’d given her engagement ring to the authorities to help pay back some of the people Michael had swindled. But she’d held on to the trinkets. Originally, he’d asked her to keep them so that when they were old and gray, they could take them out and rekindle memories of their early days together.

At the time the idea had moved her and she’d promised to keep all of them. Forever. Was that why she’d taken them from her apartment and brought them to Belle Island? Or was she still nursing some adolescent hope that the stories about Michael would turn out to be false, that he would get in touch with her again as he’d promised?

Whirling, she strode away from the bed and then paced back to it. What in the world was wrong with her? The memories were all lies. Why couldn’t she accept that? She stared down at the little mementos. She should toss them. But for tonight she wasn’t going to put too much pressure on herself. Little steps.

After rescuing her makeup, cell phone and wallet, she scooped the rest of the items on the bed back into the tote. She wasn’t quite ready to throw it out, but if she kept it in the suite, she might be tempted to use it again.

To prevent that, she strode to Jillian’s closet. Having a sister who was a shopaholic—and a generous one—came in handy at times. Naomi chose a small handbag from the collection, one that would hold her hotel key card, wallet and cell phone. She knew that Jillian wouldn’t mind lending her the bag, especially since it was for a good cause. The new Naomi Brightman was no longer going to drag around a tote.

She suddenly thought of a place she could store it temporarily. Grabbing the tote and her keys, she left her room and strode down the hall to the carved oak door that led to Hattie’s old bedroom. After opening it, she climbed the circular iron staircase to the second level.

During the rehab, they’d built a partition to divide the room into two spaces; one side was furnished as a sitting area with sofas and chairs, and the other as an office with three desks. They all shared Reese’s computer.

Locating the lever on the inner wall, she pulled it and watched the door to Hattie’s secret room spring open. Without even turning on the light, she set the tote inside. Then she hesitated, catching sight of the fantasy box on the floor. For a moment she was tempted, just as she was each time she returned to Haworth House, to choose another parchment. If she picked a different fantasy, could she stop obsessing about the priest one?

No. She pulled the lever and watched the door close. She wasn’t going to think about it. Not today. Little steps, she reminded herself as she hurried back to her bedroom. Tonight she was going to let Haworth House work its magic on her. Moving out to her balcony, she rested her hands on the railing and gazed out to the sea. This was a ritual with her each time she came here. The sight of the water calmed her and helped her to refocus. The sun felt warm on her face, and after a few moments, she recalled a prayer from her childhood. “Please,” she breathed, “let me find a way to do what has to be done.”

She’d learned the prayer from Father Pierre Bouchard. He’d shared it with her during one of their conversations in the sacristy, and it had quickly become her private mantra. Usually, the focus of her prayers had to do with her sisters. Today, the prayer was for herself.

“Let me find a way to discover the new Naomi Brightman.”

There. She’d said it. And as she stood in the late-afternoon sunshine, she repeated it again and again.

The first awareness that she was being watched had her stomach plummeting. She dropped her gaze to the courtyard below her. A few of the tables had filled and a waitress was balancing drinks on a tray as she crossed the flagstones.

No one seemed to be looking in her direction. Had she been mistaken? The hairs on the back of her neck didn’t think so, and they’d been working overtime lately.

The slant of the afternoon sun left one of the porticoes in shadow. That was why she saw his legs first. Considering the time it took her gaze to travel up them, she reached two conclusions. They were long and he was tall. Very tall. The black T-shirt did nothing to hide the flat chest, well-muscled arms and broad shoulders.

Suddenly curious, she shifted her attention to his face. Though it was partially in shadow, she caught an impression of leanness, a sharp slash of cheekbones and a dark shadow along his jaw that gave him a rugged look. Recognition rippled through her.

It was the stranger who’d spoken to her on the boat. The one who’d made her think of Father Bouchard.

Without the hooded sweatshirt, she could see that his hair was jet-black and mussed by the wind. And his eyes. He wasn’t wearing the sunglasses, but at this distance, all she could tell was that they appeared dark and were definitely aimed at her. Awareness skittered along her nerve endings, and for a moment, she couldn’t seem to drag her gaze away from him.

What was wrong with her? He was a stranger. And he was looking at her as intently as she was looking at him. Devouring was the word that came to mind. She was sure she’d never even thought of devouring a man with her eyes before. But wasn’t that exactly what she was doing now? And there was a part of her that wanted to do more than think about it. Her pulse raced, and she felt a little breathless, as if she’d just run up the long flight of stairs from the beach.

It was then that he stepped fully into the courtyard, and she saw what she hadn’t seen before.

A Roman collar.

For a moment, her heart stopped. Her knees went weak, and heat flooded her body. The man she’d just been devouring with her eyes was a priest. He didn’t just look like the priest she’d fantasized about when she was fourteen. He was a priest. And the realization had shot the attraction she’d been experiencing into overdrive.

No. This was not going to happen to her again. Willing her legs to work, she turned away from the railing and made it to one of the small love seats before she collapsed.

Leaning back against the cushions, she stared straight ahead, forcing herself to concentrate on the details—the pale green paint she’d selected under Jillian’s direction, the oriental rug with its pastel colors, the gleam of the honey-colored wood beneath. Gradually, the image of the man—the priest—she’d just seen in the courtyard dimmed, and a flame of anger burst to life inside of her.

This was all due to that piece of parchment paper she’d drawn out of Hattie’s box. Her fantasy crush on Father Bouchard had happened so long ago, and she’d outgrown it. She’d been a young, impressionable fourteen when she’d read The Thornbirds. That was when the idea of making love with a priest had first taken hold of her.

All the girls at the school had had a crush on Father Bouchard. The confessional had never been busier. One would have thought from the long lines that Our Lady of Solace boarding school had become a den of iniquity. She’d even figured out how to spend extra time with the young priest by volunteering to clean the sacristy each day after he’d said Mass. That was when he always lingered and found the time to listen to her. And talk to her. Later she would record in her diary each word he said, no matter how casual, and each smile he gave to her.

In her mind, in that place where fantasy/puppy love flourished, she’d fallen in love with Father Pierre Bouchard. She’d even taken to writing her name as Naomi Bouchard over and over again in her diary and notebooks. All simple, innocent things.

In the beginning, the fantasies she’d spun in her mind about Father Bouchard had also been innocent—taking long walks, their hands and arms brushing occasionally. But the heat that had rushed through her at every imaginary contact hadn’t been so innocent.

And eventually, her fantasies had become more explicit, at least as explicit as she’d been able to spin them at fourteen. And even though she knew it had to be a sin to continue to indulge in them, she’d never confessed them to anyone. Until today when she’d told Avery.

When Father Bouchard was transferred to a small parish near Monte Carlo, she’d cried herself to sleep for weeks. But the fantasies had gradually faded. She’d put them out of her mind years ago. Up until the day she’d drawn that parchment paper out of Hattie Haworth’s hatbox.

THE MOMENT NAOMI disappeared into her room, Dane cursed himself silently. Ms. Brightman was definitely going to be a problem for him.

Bottom line—he wanted her. And she was his best link to the man he was determined to find. Anyone who thought you could mix business with pleasure didn’t make a successful businessman.

With an inward sigh, he faced what he’d known from the first moment he’d set eyes on her. This was not going to be a simple job. At the top of the list of possible complications was the fact that he was impersonating a priest. His game plan was to convince Naomi to confide in him. That would call for some up-close-and-personal time with the woman.

And even if he was tempted, as he already was, to make a pass at her, to do so could blow his cover and cost him what chance he had of nabbing Michael Davenport.

She’s off-limits, MacFarland. He’d just have to get more deeply into the role of being a priest. Think holy and celibate thoughts. His ability to assume different personas had always been his primary survival skill. And to be forewarned was to be forearmed.

The laughter pierced his concentration first. But it was only when a young couple entered the courtyard from the steps to the beach that Dane realized he hadn’t moved since Naomi Brightman had disappeared from the balcony. And he hadn’t taken his gaze from the open door to her room.

Was he waiting, hoping for her to come back out?

Way to go, MacFarland. Disgusted, he strode to the entrance of the main lobby. He had a job to do. And step one was to arrange a personal meeting with Naomi Brightman. He spotted Avery Cooper behind the registration desk and started toward him. Avery might look more like a bouncer in an upscale club, but according to the research Ian had done, the man had graduated top of his class from Harvard Business School. And from what Dane had gathered from their reunion at the pier, he was a friend to Naomi. That made Avery Cooper a good man to have on his side.

And the perfect man to arrange his first meeting with Naomi. Tomorrow, Dane decided. That would give her time to settle in, and it would buy him a little time to get deeper into his role.

As a priest, Dane reminded himself. A very celibate priest.