Читать книгу Flirting With Temptation - Cara Summers - Страница 8

SAN FRANCISCO, HERE I COME…

As she pulled her car into her driveway, Corie Benjamin tried to ignore the little tune that had been playing in her head all day. The moment she turned off the ignition, her gaze strayed to the overnight delivery envelope on the passenger seat. Inside was a plane ticket to San Francisco. Even though she hadn’t yet agreed to use it, Jack Kincaid had still sent it to her. The man knew how to tempt a woman.

She picked up the envelope and traced her finger along his name on the return address. The first time she’d heard from him, he’d left a message on her answering machine, telling her his name and how to reach him at the San Francisco Chronicle. Of course, none of the details had registered until she’d replayed the message. The first time she’d listened to it, she’d been totally absorbed in his voice. Soft velvet with sandpapery edges was the only way she could describe it, and each time she heard it, a tingle of awareness went right through her. She’d called him back, and what he’d told her had set her head spinning. If she would fly to San Francisco, he would help her meet her father.

Her father. Jack Kincaid couldn’t have said anything that would tempt her more. All her life she’d wondered about the man her mother would never speak of. Was she like him? Was he the reason she felt so…restless, so unsatisfied with her life in Fairview, Ohio? She tightened her grip on the envelope, and, for the first time, she understood how Eve must have felt in the Garden of Eden—irresistibly drawn by the promise of knowledge.

But knowledge could be dangerous, she reminded herself as she hugged the envelope to her chest. She might not like the answers she would find.

And she had obligations at the library. Dropping everything and flying off to San Francisco would be irresponsible…and wild…and wonderful…

“Never act on impulse.” In her mind, Corie could hear her mother reciting her most frequently repeated commandment as clearly as if she were sitting right next to her in the car. The first time Isabella Benjamin had said those words, Corie had been six. After reading Peter Pan for the first time, she’d climbed onto the roof of the house and tried to fly. Six weeks in bed with a broken leg had given her ample opportunity to reflect on the virtue of being cautious. Not that she’d learned her lesson. Being cautious just didn’t seem to be part of her nature. She had to work at it constantly.

A glance at her watch had her slipping out of the car and racing up the flagstone path. In less than fifteen minutes, Jack Kincaid was going to call and ask if she was going to use the ticket. The moment of decision was upon her.

“Yoo-hoo! Corie!”

Busted, Corie thought as she hit the top step of the porch and turned. “Afternoon, Ms. Ponsonby.”

Since Corie’s mother had died two months ago, Muriel Ponsonby, Fairview, Ohio’s town crier, had made it her mission in life to watch over Corie.

“You’re home early.” Eyes narrowing, Muriel moved to the steps of her porch. “You feeling all right?”

Corie beamed a smile at Muriel. “I’m fine. It’s such a lovely day, I just decided to leave work early.”

Muriel frowned. “You’ll make bridge club tonight?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” Muriel had seen to it that Corie had been invited to take her mother’s place in the bridge club, the quilting circle and the Friday evening book-discussion group. Corie tightened her grip on the airline ticket. If she stayed in Fairview, her life was all safely mapped out for her. She would turn into her mother.

“Heard you got an overnight delivery letter at the library today. From San Francisco. Not bad news, I hope.”

Corie had often thought that the U.S. government should have the kind of spy network that Muriel seemed to have in place. For one wild moment she was tempted to wave the envelope and say, “Just a little note from a lover I met on the Internet. I’m going to fly out and meet him on Wednesday.”

But if she did that, Muriel and the entire quilting circle would probably rush to her house to do an intervention. Ever since her failed attempt to fly off the roof, she’d had a reputation for acting recklessly, and in Fairview a reputation stuck.

Stifling the impulse to mention an Internet lover or any other kind, Corie backed toward her door, but she couldn’t resist saying, “It’s just an article I ordered for Dean Atwell—something on poisonous mushrooms.”

“Poisonous mushrooms?” Muriel said, looking for all the world like a dog picking up a new scent. “Why would he want something like that?”

Muriel didn’t seem to expect an answer. She was too busy backing toward her own front door. In a few minutes, the phone lines would be buzzing since everyone in town knew that Dean Atwell’s divorce was not going well. Any twinge of conscience that Corie might have felt at her lie was eased when she pushed her key into the lock and escaped into her house. She’d come home early to gather her thoughts. A quick glance at her watch told her that she now had less than ten minutes to finalize her decision.

To go to San Francisco or not to go—that was the question. Placing the ticket on the small table next to the phone, Corie sank down into a straight-backed chair and fished her notebook out of her bag. From the time she’d been a little girl, doodling had always helped her to see things more clearly. Quickly, she sketched a huge Y. It was the same one she’d been drawing at the library all week. Following the right-hand prong of the Y would keep her trapped safely in her present cocoon as a college librarian in Fairview, Ohio, population eight thousand and dropping. She drew a little circle to represent a cocoon at the end of that path. Following the other path would offer her the chance to escape. To become a butterfly. Quickly, she sketched wings at the end of the left-hand prong. More important, she would get the opportunity to meet the man who could very well be her father and perhaps discover why her mother had kept his existence a secret all these years. Maybe she could figure out why she couldn’t be happy with the life her mother had chosen. And maybe, just maybe, she could figure out who she really was.

Just the thought of that had a mix of anticipation and fear forming a tight, hard knot in her stomach. Placing her notebook on the table, she reached out and ran a finger down the envelope that contained the ticket. The choice should have been a no-brainer, and it would have been if it weren’t for the promise she’d made over and over again to her mother.

Shifting her glance, Corie met the eyes of the woman in the small ivory-framed picture next to the phone. Her mother’s eyes were so serious, her mouth just hinting at a frown. Isabella Benjamin had worn the same expression on her deathbed and she’d made Corie promise one last time…

Drawing in a deep breath, Corie said, “I know I promised you that I would never leave Fairview.”

Deathbed promises should be binding, but it wasn’t fair. She would have promised her mother anything during those last days. The illness had come so suddenly, a bad cold that had spread to the lungs, and by the time the doctors had tried to treat it with antibiotics, it was too late. Corie touched her mother’s face in the picture. “I want to fly to San Francisco on Wednesday.”

Though silence filled the hallway, Corie could hear the echoes of old arguments in her mind. Ever since she could remember, she’d wanted to leave Fairview, to see the world. Her mother had always argued against it. You’re much too impulsive to be on your own. She did have a tendency to leap before she looked—and the leaps often ended in disaster. There was the time she’d climbed a tree to rescue a cat, and the fire department had had to come for both of them. Of course, she hadn’t leapt that time; clearly, she’d learned her lesson that she wasn’t Peter Pan. Corie sighed and doodled some more. The biggest disagreement she’d ever had with her mother had been when she’d wanted to go away to college. In the end they’d compromised. She’d gotten to go to Ohio State, but she’d had to live at home and ride the bus to classes. And she’d had to promise to take a job at the small liberal arts college in Fairview when she graduated.

As she studied her mother’s picture, Corie felt the familiar wave of frustration and love move through her. “I’m not like you.” Not yet.

“I know a promise is a promise. But you lied to me about my father.” There she’d said it out loud. “You told me my father was dead.” And there was a very good chance that he was alive and kicking—running a very successful winery and health spa in the Napa Valley. She glanced at the cluster of stick figures she’d also drawn at the left-hand end of the Y. If Benjamin Lewis was her father, she had other family, too—two half-bothers and an Uncle Buddy. She’d done as much research as she could on them. Then with her pencil, she retraced the other stick figure she’d drawn a short distance from the cluster. If she flew out to San Francisco, she would also get to meet Jack Kincaid.

In the past two weeks, she’d done research on him, too. Currently, he was writing feature articles for the San Francisco Chronicle. Before that, he’d spent eight years working his way up through various news services by covering hot spots throughout the world, and he’d written a Pulitzer prize-winning book based on his experiences. After pulling it out of her bag, she set it on the table next to her mother’s picture. She’d read every word of it, and it had held her spellbound. He’d traveled to all the places that she’d only dreamed about.

Drawing in a deep breath, Corie shifted her gaze back to her mother’s picture. “It’s not like I’m acting on impulse. I’ve given the idea some careful thought, and I think we should work out a compromise. I’ll spend one week in San Francisco, and then I’ll come back.” She tried to tell herself that she wouldn’t be breaking her promise, just bending it.

The silence that greeted her proposal nearly deafened her. Then the shrill ring of the phone made her jump.

Corie glanced at her watch. She still had five minutes. She needed five more minutes.

The phone rang again. The number on the caller ID box told her it was Jack Kincaid. She had to pick it up. What in the world was the matter with her? Was she as afraid of the world as her mother had been? She grabbed the receiver. “Hello.”

“Corie, did you get the ticket?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You’ll leave Columbus at 7:15 a.m. on Wednesday, the day after tomorrow, change planes in Chicago, and touch down in San Francisco shortly before noon.”

As Jack spoke, Corie tried to resist the effect that his deep, baritone voice always had on her, but the tingle of awareness began to slide through her.

“I’ve found you a place to stay. The owner of my building, Franco Rossi, was my roommate in college, and he has an apartment you can use. Two other women are using it on a time-share basis, but it’s all yours for the time being. And if you decide to stay on in San Francisco, he’s sure that you can work something out with them.”

Corie closed her eyes as the tingle reached her toes and she felt them curl.

“How does that sound?”

“Perfect.” And Jack Kincaid was almost perfect, too. Opening her eyes, she turned his book over and studied his picture on the jacket. Besides the voice that she was sure could charm snakes, he had dark, unruly hair, the darkest gray eyes she’d ever seen and a dimple in his chin that tempted her to touch it. Unable to resist, Corie ran her finger over it. He was making things so easy for her.

Another of her mother’s commandments had been “Never trust a charming man. He’ll lie to you and you’ll believe him.”

Corie suppressed a sigh. Jack Kincaid had already lied to her—or at least lied by omission. Not once during their conversations had he ever told her that the man who might very well be her father had at one time been connected to an organized crime family in New Jersey. Of course, Benjamin Lewis’s businesses were supposedly on the up-and-up now. Indeed, according to Jack, he’d become a pillar of the community. On Friday he was going to be honored for building the new children’s wing at San Francisco Memorial Hospital.

“Then I’ll pick you up at the airport Wednesday morning?” Jack asked.

Corie’s gaze slipped to her mother’s picture. “I didn’t agree to come yet.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. Corie closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. What was the matter with her? She wouldn’t blame him if he gave up on her entirely.

“Corie, you are a very tough sell.”

She opened her eyes in surprise. It wasn’t anger or impatience she heard in his voice. It was patient amusement.

“The problem is if you don’t come, you’ll never know if Benjamin Lewis is really your father. Can you live with that question nagging at you for the rest of your life?”

The man sure knew how to hit the nail right on the head. If she didn’t go, she’d always wonder about the man who might be her father, wonder what he was like, wonder if she was like him…

A knock at the door had her whirling around. She spotted Muriel Ponsonby through the glass, and, for one brief moment, she was tempted to duck under the table and hide. Too late. Muriel was already waving at her.

“Hold on a minute,” she said to Jack. “Someone’s at the door.” She no sooner pulled it open than Muriel beamed a huge smile at her and said, “Missy La Rue had to cancel for bridge tonight, and Harold Mitzenfeld has agreed to fill in. I’m going to make sure he’s your partner.”

For a moment, Corie was sorely tempted to fake a faint. It couldn’t be all that difficult. All she would have to do was close her eyes and slip bonelessly to the floor. Then Muriel would have to find someone else to be Harold’s bridge partner. Middle-aged and portly, Harold Mitzenfeld was a recently widowed geology professor at the college. The few times she’d run into him in the library, his conversation hadn’t strayed beyond rocks.

“You’re speechless,” Muriel said, rubbing her hand together. “I knew you would be. I just had to let you know. Eligible bachelors are so hard to come by in Fairview, but I know your mother would expect me to do my best for you. And she would have approved of Harold. Now, don’t you be late.” With a wave, Muriel turned and hurried off.

Corie stared after her, but she wasn’t seeing Muriel. All she could see was her life in Fairview unfolding before her—an endless sea of bridge clubs, quilting circles, book discussion groups…and Harold Metzenfeld!

Whirling, she closed the door and marched back to the hall table. Jack’s face smiled up at her from the book jacket—pure temptation. Then she met her mother’s steady gaze—pure guilt trip.

In desperation, she glanced up at the mirror that filled the wall above the table. The person staring back at her did not look like she belonged in San Francisco. Plain brownish blond hair was slipping out of the bun she wore it in. Even at twenty-five, she looked to be exactly what she was—a plain-looking, boring college librarian. In short, she was the kind of woman that her neighbors thought was a perfect match for Harold Metzenfeld.

She did not want to be that woman!

Panic and frustration bubbled up inside of her. She’d felt just this way the day that she’d stood on the roof and wanted so much to fly. She did not want to be Corie Benjamin, drab librarian. And if she went to San Francisco, for seven whole days, she could try her wings and be someone else.

Grabbing the phone, she drew in a deep breath and said, “All right. Yes.” The moment the words were out, she felt her knees give out and she sank onto the nearest chair.

“Yes, you’ll come?” Jack Kincaid asked slowly.

Corie drew in a deep breath. It had to be easier to say the second time. “Yes. I’ll catch the seven-fifteen flight on Wednesday.”

“That’s great. I’ll meet you at the airport in the baggage claim area. I’m going to bring a friend with me. You won’t be able to miss him. He has very odd taste in clothes.”

Clothes! Corie’s eyes widened. If she was going to be someone totally different, she was going to need some new ones. And her hair—it was going to need some work too. “I just have one request. You said you’d do anything to help me make this decision.”

“Yes?”

“Before I make contact with…Mr. Lewis, I’d like a makeover.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line. “A makeover?”

“Yes.” She very nearly smiled. It was the very first time she’d heard surprise in Jack Kincaid’s voice. “I’m sure you’ve seen them on TV—on Oprah? They take someone fairly…drab and ordinary and completely redo her hair, makeup and clothes. I’ll pay for it, of course. I just want to look my best if I’m going to meet my new family.”

“A makeover,” Jack repeated. “I’ll look into it. I’m sure it won’t be a problem. Anything else?”

Corie narrowed her eyes as she stared once more at her reflection in the mirror. Was it her imagination or did she look different already? There was certainly a touch more color in her cheeks. And her eyes were brighter.

“No.”

“Good. You won’t regret this, Corie. I think you’ll find the evidence I’ve gathered very compelling.”

Corie sat right where she was for a few minutes after Jack broke the connection. In the two weeks since he’d contacted her, informed her of his theory and set her life spinning, she’d searched the house for some clue that what Jack had told her might be true, and she’d uncovered some compelling evidence of her own. Rising, she now went to the closet and pulled the box down from the shelf. She’d found it under a loose floorboard in her mother’s bedroom.

Removing the lid, she picked up the brown envelope and drew out her birth certificate. On it, her father’s name was Lewis Benjamin. Not Benjamin Lewis, but it was very suggestive. Replacing it in the envelope, she stared down at the bundles of letters. They’d been written over a period of twenty-six years and they chronicled every important event in her life. There were photos of everything—from her first bath to her first date. There was even a picture of the birthmark on her right arm—the one that her mother had always said was a mark of her heritage. The envelopes were stampless and unsealed. The letters were all written by her mother and addressed to a man named Benjamin Lewis. But they’d never been mailed. The “Benny Letters” was what she’d dubbed them since they’d all begun with “Dear Benny.”

Was Benjamin Lewis the charming man who’d lied to her mother? Corie suspected that he was. And that was just the first of many questions. If Benny was her father, why had her mother run away? Corie had only had to read the letters to know that her mother had loved the man she was writing to, so why hadn’t Isabella mailed them? And why had she kept “Benny’s” existence a secret?

Reaching beneath one of the packets of letters, Corie drew out the only other item in the box, a menu from Edie’s Diner, a restaurant in the same town that the Lewis Winery was located in. By calling directory assistance, she’d learned that the diner no longer existed. But when she contacted the chamber of commerce, they’d informed her that Edie’s place was now called the Saratoga Grill. She hadn’t called, but she intended to go there in person. Perhaps someone could tell her more about her mother.

As she closed the box, Corie wished it were just as simple to put a lid on the feelings rushing through her. Tomorrow she would take the first step on a journey that could lead her to her lifelong dream of having a real family. Tomorrow was the beginning of a whole new life—even though it might only last a week.

So why did she feel so…guilty? Placing the box back in the closet, she walked down the hall to the kitchen, passing by the living room she and her mother had used only on holidays and the dining room table that had never been set for company. How many years had she waited, hoping to break free of this house?

If her mother hadn’t died so suddenly two months ago, she might never have been able to leave. She might never have found out that she had a father and a family outside of Fairview. Instead, she might have ended up married to Harold Metzenfeld. Corie shuddered at the thought. Then she glanced at her reflection in the hallway mirror and shuddered again. Maybe she wasn’t that woman who was staring back at her. Didn’t she deserve the chance to find out?

And she wanted to find out the answers to her questions. She was enough of a realist to know that she might not like the answers. But she owed it to herself to find out why her mother had spent so much of her life as a recluse—and why she wanted Corie to do the same thing.

She’d made the right decision.

If only she could get rid of the nagging voice in the back of her mind that was chanting her mother’s third commandment: Be careful what you wish for.

JACK ROUNDED THE CORNER, drew in a deep breath, and steeled himself for the final sprint that would take him to the end of Pier 39. At 6:00 a.m. the Fisherman’s Wharf area of San Francisco was one of his favorite spots. Later the stores and walkways would be thronged with people. Boats would be blowing their whistles, announcing departures to Sausalito or Alcatraz, and there would be ample evidence that only Disney World and Disneyland surpassed Fisherman’s Wharf as a tourist attraction.

But right now, there was silence except for the occasional sharp call of a seagull. Sprinting up a flight of wooden steps, Jack welcomed the burn in his shins and lungs. This morning he’d doubled the length of his run, hoping to ease his tension, but so far it hadn’t worked.

He should be feeling relieved and elated that he’d persuaded Corie Benjamin to come to San Francisco today. Instead, he’d spent two sleepless nights, and even now he had that anxious feeling deep in his gut, the one he always had when he was pursuing a lead and something was about to go wrong.

The moment the end of the pier came into view, Jack began to slow his pace. Sun glared off the water, and cars streamed steadily across the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance. “San Francisco at its best,” his Aunt Mel would have said.

Just thinking about his aunt had his lips curving. He’d been five when his parents had died in a car crash. His father’s sister, Melanie Kincaid, had been in the navy at the time, and it had taken her six months to free herself up to take him in. The months in foster homes had given him the worst memories of his life. His years with his Aunt Mel had given him the best.

“We’re the last of the Kincaids, kid,” she’d said. “We’ve got to stick together.” And stick they had—until he’d gone away to college.

“Why in hell would you want to go a whole continent away? What’s New York got that you can’t find right here in San Francisco?”

Everything, Jack thought. Or at least that’s what he’d thought at the time. His smile faded as he reached the end of the pier and planted his hands against the railing. He hadn’t come here today to rekindle old feelings of guilt. He’d come here because he needed his aunt’s advice, and he always felt close to her here.

He glanced at the rows of shops and restaurants. She’d brought him here to celebrate every good report card he’d ever gotten. Since her disappearance twelve years ago, he’d come here whenever his work schedule permitted. Dropping his gaze, Jack watched the dark water swell and push against the pilings. “I was right to talk her into coming out here, Aunt Mel.”

Corie Benjamin was his ticket to finding out what had really happened to his aunt when she’d disappeared twelve years ago. He’d been sure then, and he was sure now, that Benny Lewis had been behind his aunt’s disappearance. Melanie Kincaid had been working as the Lewis family’s personal chef, and she’d discovered something about the family that disturbed her. She wouldn’t tell him what, only that she was going to check it out. Later he’d learned that she’d disappeared within hours of calling him that day.

If only he’d been closer, he might have…

Impatiently, Jack pushed the thought away. Wallowing in guilt wouldn’t change the fact that he’d been a whole continent away, and by the time he’d made it back to San Francisco, the trail was cold, and no one would listen to his theory of foul play. Even then, Benny Lewis had established a reputation of being a leader in the wine-growing community and a philanthropist. The police had even located a witness who’d seen a woman matching his aunt’s description jump off this very pier.

What Jack knew for sure was that his aunt would never have taken her own life. The fact that the Lewis family had insisted on holding a memorial service for their late chef had infuriated him. Hotheaded and grief-stricken, he’d driven to the Lewis estate that day and accused Benny of having his aunt killed. From that moment, he’d been a persona non grata at the Lewis Winery, and a recent article he’d written, part of a series called “Crime Families in the Twenty-first Century,” had rekindled the old animosity.

The cry of a gull overhead brought him back to the present. Shading his eyes, he watched the bird circle and then light on a second-story railing. For years, he’d nurtured a hope that his aunt might be alive. To this day, he was sure that he’d caught a glimpse of her at his college graduation ceremony. His roommate Franco had told him that it was just some kind of wish projection, but Jack hadn’t been entirely convinced. Then there’d been the anonymous fan letters that he’d received during the eight years he’d spent abroad, covering stories and writing the articles that would become his first book. At times, he could have sworn he heard his aunt’s voice and phrasing in them. But none of them had been signed, and the postmarks had all been from different places.

Turning, Jack glanced down at the dark water as it pushed against the pilings. It had been twelve years, and it all came back to the same question. If his aunt was alive, why hadn’t she ever contacted him in person? One thing he was sure of—Benny Lewis held the key to answering his questions.

With Corie at his side and the threat of scandal if the story of an illegitimate daughter wasn’t handled “properly” in the press, Benny Lewis would have to finally grant him an interview. Then he could complete his work on crime families and send it off. His publisher was already pressuring him to think about a series of articles on the Middle East, so the clock was ticking.

Jack pushed himself away from the railing and began to pace. Why in hell wasn’t he celebrating the fact that he’d convinced Corie Benjamin to fly out here?

“You got a problem, you face it head-on.” That’s what his aunt’s advice would have been. Well, his problem was Corie Benjamin. He’d never before been so curious about a woman. The more he got to know her, the more puzzling she became.

There was her voice for one thing. At times, there was a shyness in it that went hand in hand with the image he’d formed of her in his mind—mousy hair tied into a bun, a baggy sweater worn with a shapeless dress and sensible shoes.

Frowning, Jack gazed out across the water. But at other times there was a hint of steel beneath the soft tone. He’d heard it loud and clear when she’d demanded that makeover.

“What in hell do I know about arranging for a woman to get a makeover?” He couldn’t imagine any other woman in his acquaintance admitting that they even wanted one.

“She’s different, Aunt Mel.”

And that was part of the problem. Corie Benjamin was different. And he hadn’t been completely honest with her. If he had, she probably would have stayed in Fairview. So maybe that was why he felt so…protective of her.

“But I was right to persuade her to come out here.” He had to believe that. Lifting his hands from the railing, he rubbed them over his face. What was the matter with him? Corie Benjamin was going to be perfectly safe. Benny Lewis certainly wasn’t going to jeopardize his reputation as one of San Francisco’s leading philanthropists just because his long-lost daughter showed up, not when the mayor was going to honor him for the new wing that was being dedicated at the San Francisco Memorial Hospital this coming Friday.

“There isn’t a safer time for her to make her appearance in his life.” Even though he’d been over and over it in his mind, it helped him to say it out loud. “And everything should run like clockwork.”

Jack lifted a hand and rubbed at the back of his neck to ease a prickling sensation. He felt as if someone was watching him. As his heart began to race, he whirled and scanned the pier.

Empty—except for a man tapping a white cane along the wooden planks on the lower level. A blind man taking a morning stroll with his dog. So much for the strange feeling he’d had that he was being watched. Jack frowned again. He was going to have to get a grip on his nerves. A good reporter always kept a cool head.

He pushed himself away from the pier and started a slow jog back to his car.