Tempting as Sin (Sinful, Montana Book 2)

by Rosalind James

  She wasn’t any superhero, and Antonio had always had more weapons than she had. Her only defense was her little bit of armor, the kind hardened by pain. It was time to put it on.

  It was as if, during the rest of that endless day and evening, the woman Rafe had met last night had climbed into a bombproof compartment, pulled the lid shut, and latched it down. On the surface, she asked questions, laughed, kept the conversation going, made chicken molé with all the trimmings that would have done credit to a Mexican restaurant, and smiled.

  Always, she smiled. He wasn’t the only one who noticed, either. When she was curled up in a side chair after dinner, sipping herbal tea while Jace and Rafe got after the scotch and the three others talked in a desultory fashion about watching a movie, Paige said, “You know what I’ve realized, Jace?”

  She and Jace were on the floor, Jace sitting against the wall, Paige lying sideways with her head on a cushion in his lap and a blanket over her.

  “No,” he said. “What?”

  “Another way Lily and I are less identical now,” she said. “I have Resting Bitch Face, and she has Resting Smiling Face. Rafe, you’re an actor. What do you think? You couldn’t mistake us, right?”

  Lily looked at him. And—yes. Smiled, like she was enjoying this. But it didn’t reach her eyes. Her eyes still looked like that doe’s. Dark. Wary. Wounded.

  Rafe stepped carefully. “I couldn’t now that I know both of you, especially if you were together. If you were alone, I still think I’d come out all right, but maybe you shouldn’t test me yet. What do you think about this film, then, Jace?”

  “We should watch one of yours,” was Paige’s next unhelpful contribution. “One Lily hasn’t seen.”

  “I’m guessing,” Rafe said, “that she hasn’t seen any.”

  “You’re guessing right,” Lily said, and that was all.

  “They’re not all violent,” Paige said. “We could find one where he’s showing his softer side. What’s that one where you were pretending to be a teacher, Rafe?”

  “I still kill two people in that one,” he said. “Nah. We’ll let Lily choose something else. She didn’t get her date tonight, which is a pity for both of them, because I’m guessing that bloke’s looking back at whatever he did wrong and kicking himself. I’m happy going with her choice here.”

  Lily smiled again, as cool and distant as the moon, and said, “Thank you. I know exactly what I want to watch.”

  Which was how they ended up with Indiscreet. And why Rafe spent a rainy evening watching Cary Grant lying his handsome head off to Ingrid Bergman and digging an ever-deeper hole for his wayward heart, while Jace stroked Paige’s hair, she fell asleep, and Lily curled up across from him in her chair, as beautiful and blonde and serene as Ingrid had ever been, and didn’t forgive him.

  By morning, Lily was fine. She was fine. It had been a surprise, that was all. If she hadn’t slept well, that was a sign that she needed to go home, where she could drop the mask. She hadn’t worn it for more than three years. She’d forgotten how heavy it was.

  She was here now, though, so she got up early, helped Jace cook breakfast with the seven eggs that had survived the boot-heel-in-the-dock fiasco, gave Paige a hug and kiss goodbye before she took off for work, recognized the ache in her heart for what it was—that she was no longer the most important person in her sister’s life, and that that was a good thing—and then sat down to have a second cup of coffee instead of running away.

  It was a boat. You couldn’t exactly go far. Anyway, she was tired of running.

  Jace picked up his own mug and told his brother, “I need to give Lily a lift to the airport in an hour, mate, but we could go to the gym afterwards. You could show me the latest werewolf-muscle moves. My workout’s getting pretty stale.”

  “I should be getting back to LA myself,” Rafe said, “and letting you get back to the book. I just dropped by on impulse, you could say, to touch base and meet Paige.”

  Jace eyed him for a long moment. “Yeah, mate,” he finally said. “I’m not going to pursue that. You know her now.”

  Rafe left that alone. He was subtle, that was for sure. As controlled as Jace, but with the varnished finish instead of the rustic one. “You know,” he said, “you could come visit me. Both of you. Or just use one of my places. You say you’re all good now, so I reckon that means you don’t need to hide out in the bush anymore. Besides, travel broadens the mind, even if it’s only kipping at your brother’s house.”

  Lily stood up and said, “I’ll go check my packing.”

  “Nah,” Jace said. “This isn’t going to be an awkward moment. I’m about to remind Rafe that, first, all four of us are going to Oz next month, which was my idea, and second, my mind’s already been broadened by travel.”

  Rafe snorted. “Yeah, right. Army bases don’t count, and neither does fast-roping out of a helicopter to kill people. I’m not going to win, though,” he told Lily, his voice nothing but casual, like all of this was no more than a blip in his charmed life, “so I’ll drop it and tell Jace that I’m going to bugger off, because he’s getting that book-thoughts look again, and I’ll see all of you in a few weeks anyway. Also that if I take you to the airport, he can get back to it that much faster.”

  She accepted. What else could she do? But when the cables of the Golden Gate Bridge were flashing by once again and she was looking out at a choppy sea that still stretched all the way to Japan and not thinking about the thrill she’d felt when she’d run from him like Cinderella and wondered if he’d come after her, she said, “Let’s get something straight. I’m going to Australia because Jace invited me to help Paige, and Paige wants me there, because she’s nervous, even if she’ll never show it. If you come along, I’ll be polite to you because of the same thing. Jace is the best thing that’s ever happened to her, and she’s the most important person in the world to me.”

  “And that’s it,” he said. “Even though I explained.”

  “That’s it. Because I explained, too. I wanted Clay Austin, but you aren’t Clay Austin. Too bad, because he did it for me. I’m sure the movie will do great. He’s an appealing character. All that down-home charm.”

  A long, long pause, and when she glanced over at him, because she couldn’t help it, his knuckles showed white on the steering wheel. “I’m not going to beg,” he finally said. “I’m going to say, though, that your standards are pretty bloody high.”

  She gasped. She shouldn’t have, but she did anyway. If she didn’t open the door and fling herself from the car, it was because he was driving sixty miles an hour, and she didn’t want to die. “You’re right,” she said. “I do find that ‘lying liar’ isn’t on my Perfect Man checklist. I’m obviously way too picky. Thank you for pointing that out.”

  He laughed, a short bark of a thing. She whipped her head around and glared at him, and he said, “Sorry. But every time I think I’m dealing with a wounded doe, you surprise me.”

  “And,” she said, sweetly once more, “every time I’ve thought that you were a twelve-point buck instead of a coyote, you’ve surprised me.”

  “Reckon I earned that.”

  “Reckon you did.” She shut her mouth before she could say anything else. No need to get carried away with this “bitchy” thing.

  Silence for a few minutes, while she looked out the window at San Francisco, sparkling bright and clean today after the rain, and then he said, “You may want to take a look at this week’s People magazine at the airport. The piece on the cover should make you happy. My agent sent it to me a couple days ago. The headline says, ‘Superhero to Zero.’ Clever, I thought.”

  “Oh? What did you do?”

  He glanced at her. “You don’t know.”

  “I told you,” she said, “I don’t follow Hollywood events.”

  “Ah. I left Kylie Jordan high and dry. We were engaged, you see, until a bit ago. I cheated on her, sources say, and she’s in hospital now. Breakdown, or possibly suicide attempt. Who knows?
Not People, but they’re happy to guess.”

  “I guess ‘Sexiest Man Alive’ is out for this year, then.” She couldn’t make it quite as nasty as she wanted to, because despite everything, she couldn’t believe that Rafe would be that hurtful.

  Another surprised bark of laughter from him. “I guess so. Of course, I didn’t make it last year, either. Always a bridesmaid. Bugger. Maybe I’m actually not the sexiest man alive.”

  “Unfortunately,” she said, “you’re probably close. But then, they gave Antonio that three years ago. You have to consider the source.”

  When he dropped her at the curb outside Alaska Airlines, getting out to pull her suitcase from the back for her, she was glad she was leaving, and even gladder to get through security. Away from werewolves with killer Australian accents, disarmingly sweet smiles, a way of listening to what you had to say that made you feel like you counted, and something in their eyes, whether they were golden brown or genuine iceberg blue, that suggested there was so much more under the surface.

  Away from actors. Away from men who drove their fiancées to suicide attempts.

  He hadn’t seemed like…

  Whoa. Stop. Do not go back there. No more excuses. No more shoving down the pain and disillusion, telling yourself that what you have is enough and you shouldn’t wish for more. You don’t have to think that. You’re strong enough to make it alone.

  The mantra as usual.

  When she got to her gate, she was being paged. It had better not be because she was getting bumped. She needed to get back to the store. Businesswoman. Real life.

  When she made it up to the counter, though, the agent said, “I need to give you a new boarding pass.”

  “I have it,” Lily said, holding it up. “Window seat, exit row. And, yes, I’m willing to assist in the event of an emergency.”

  The agent was still typing. “You’re upgraded to first class. Is the bulkhead good? Another window?”

  “Uh…sure. But why? I don’t have that many miles.”

  “I don’t know.” The agent smiled. “I guess it’s your lucky day. You’re welcome to wait in the Admirals Club lounge if you like. They’ll give you a boarding call.”

  He had not.

  Wait. It would be Jace. That made sense. It was exactly the kind of sweet thing Jace would do. Which meant she could wait in the Admirals Club without feeling bought and paid for. It was about Paige, not her, and Paige was always her own woman.

  Once she was sitting on the very top level of the airport, in a comfy chair with a cup of tea, she texted Jace.

  Hey did you and Paige upgrade me?

  A long, long fifteen minutes, during which she pulled out the collection of magazines she’d bought for the trip and started studying summer looks. Homework.

  The color of the year, she already knew, was deep violet. So much better than last year’s grass green, a color that flattered almost nobody. This one, she could play with. It would be beautiful all the way from the palest lavender through the jewel tone of amethyst, and on to the richest, most decadent darkness of an almost-black iris. More flattering and more feminine than pure black, and just as devastating.

  She had lavender growing along the winding stone walkway to her front door. Plenty of it there to decorate the shop. Fresh later on in the spring, and eventually dried, which was still pretty. Also—infuser. Lavender essential oil. She’d keep it light, so you barely noticed, so all you felt was a little more relaxed. Could she drape chiffon fabric around the windows? Softness, but still subtle? It would hardly cost anything if she hemmed it herself. You could do a lot with a staple gun, too.

  She’d been thinking about sconces as well. Expensive, but she needed to take the shop to the next level, now that the ski resort was upgrading and taking Sinful with it. And maybe there was a cheaper way…

  She was on her laptop, researching looks and ignoring the pang of anxiety that balance-sheet thoughts always produced in her brain, when her phone dinged.

  Sorry. I should’ve thought of that.

  Oh. Jace. Upgrade.

  Never mind, she answered. Must have been miles. Was just wondering.

  Next time, he sent back.

  No, really, she typed, fighting back the urge to laugh. Now she had both brothers thinking she was a princess. Not necessary. Absolutely not. Go back to work.

  Which left her, of course, with the alternative. She found Rafe’s—Clay’s—last message. She had to, in order to text him.

  I was doing whatever I could, he’d written. Couldn’t you tell?

  Oh, boy. She did not need to read that again. She typed, backspaced, typed some more, backspaced some more, and uttered a strangled noise that had the guy across from her, whose hair was once again slicked back and who she’d have bet money actually had reached the Diamond Sales level, looking at her pretty keenly.

  He was about to talk to her, she could tell. She shifted position, angled herself away from him, typed again, and didn’t let herself backspace.

  That was a nice gesture but not necessary. I can be civil.

  No wait this time. He must have had the phone in his hand. I thought back and couldn’t remember if I’d even apologized. Consider this my effort.

  She should leave it right there. Did she? Not even close. For which part? she typed right back.

  Take your pick, he answered. I’m no Cary Grant, but even he stuffed up.

  In the movies.

  Well, you’ve got me there.

  She realized she was smiling, and stopped. Don’t worry. I told you, I can be civil. We can both be civil.

  And that’s it?

  Another moment of hesitation, schooling her face so Diamond Sales across from her couldn’t read it. And then she typed,

  That’s it.

  She didn’t have a glass of champagne on the plane. First Class came with its own set of restrictions, especially if you didn’t pay for it yourself. Or if you paid for it in the wrong way.

  On the other hand—maybe she couldn’t buy that much anymore, but nobody could buy her, either. Something to celebrate even from Economy.

  She looked out the window as the jet took off over the water and wheeled slowly around toward the north again. Over all those miles of ocean, stretching all the way to Hawaii…and, eventually, all the way to Australia. A long, long way from a teenager sitting on her bed in a two-bedroom, sand-colored house in absolutely inland Modesto, California, holding a globe that her mom had bought at a thrift store, so it didn’t have all the new countries on it. Spinning that blue ball, letting her finger trace along its smoothness, and when her finger stopped, repeating the name to herself, trying to imagine herself there, drawing on every book she’d ever read and every movie she’d ever seen.

  Whitewashed buildings and doors painted all different colors in Greece. Green jungles in Thailand, with pythons hanging from the trees like ropes as you floated by on the river. On safari in South Africa, coming out of sleep in your round hut at the thrilling roar of a lion outside the fence.

  Wishing herself onto a plane like a movie star, seeing herself crossing the ocean in style and emerging someplace new, when she was rich and famous and gone from here.

  Shanghai, China. Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. New Orleans, Louisiana.

  Her mother’s voice, then. Unheard for nearly four years now, and still so missed. Mamá sitting down on the bed beside her, asking what was wrong, and waiting patiently until she got out of Lily that she’d been called a “Coconut” on the school bus. White on the inside, and her blonde hair a mark of shame. The name-calling was all she shared. Her mother had enough to worry about.

  Martina Garcia, it had been that day, furious because her boyfriend had talked to Lily too long. He’d done more than that. He’d leaned over her, his arm trapping her against the lockers, and she’d thought he was going to kiss her and had turned her head to try to avoid it, her heart galloping and everything in her shrinking away, afraid to call out and afraid not to.

  That had been ba
d enough, but Paige hadn’t been with her on the bus home, and Lily hadn’t known how to make Martina stop, or how to get out from the ring of girls. Her face still burned from the shame, and her scalp still burned where Martina had ripped the patch of hair out from the roots. She’d run home from the bus stop with the girls after her, their taunting voices ringing in her ears and her breath coming hard from fear, hearing their laughter as she’d slammed the door shut with trembling fingers. She’d started dinner with the tears dripping onto the flank steak, wished for her sister, despised herself for her weakness, then crept into the room she shared with Paige, spun the globe, and wished herself away.

  “Remember, mija.” The soft voice, the gentle hand smoothing over her hair, the fatigue on Mamá’s still-beautiful face after another day on her feet under the fluorescent Walmart lights. “Having somebody hurt you doesn’t make you weak, any more than hurting somebody makes you strong. Walking away can be the strongest thing. Nothing is forever. You’re going to go to college, and Martina Garcia is going to go to the poultry plant and work with her mother. That’s why she’s so hateful. You can feel sorry for her, and you can hold your head high and wait for your day.”

  “I’m not…” Lily wiped the heels of her hands over her cheeks and said it. “Why can’t I ever be tough like Paige? Why do I have to be so scared? I don’t want to walk away. I want to fight. Why can’t I ever fight?”

  The tears came again, and she felt all the burning shame of them.

  “One day,” her mother promised, “you’ll fight. A waterfall starts with a single drop of rain, and look what happens after that. Today is a drop of rain. Maybe tomorrow will be your waterfall.”

  It had taken a lot more tomorrows than that, but finally, all those raindrops had joined forces and washed her all the way down the mountain, down into her pool where she could be still.

  There were all kinds of survival, and all kinds of winning, too. Including the kind where nobody else had to lose, where it was only about living your own life, however quiet it was, and about holding your ground in the world, however small a space it was. Even if you weren’t in Rio or Paris or Shanghai, and you’d flipped all those teenaged dreams upside down and seen their ugly side. Even if you were living in Sinful, Montana, and what you had was a lease on a shop, some goats, a thousand-square-foot-including-the-basement cottage with a mortgage, and the knowledge that every decision was your own.