Tempting as Sin (Sinful, Montana Book 2)

by Rosalind James

  She had that, though. She surely did. And every bit of it was a win.

  Maybe she’d have that glass of champagne after all.

  Rafe threaded his way between the tiny, too-crowded tables that looked out on Venice Beach, patio and sand both crowded to suffocation point at eleven-fifteen on Thursday morning. Early June was beach time in Southern California, weekday or no, and the muscle-bound boys and bikini-clad girls were out in force.

  In the airy bungalow in Byron Bay, it would be just after five in the morning right now, with what passed for winter raising a breeze and stripping the shops and streets of their summer visitors. The sun would still be an hour from rising, giving you time to do your workout and go for a swim afterwards in the salt-water lap pool in the back garden. Palm fronds rattling and blue gum leaves rustling against the gray of the pre-dawn sky, the underwater lighting showing your shadow as you powered along, weightless as a dolphin, shedding more of your cares with each joyful flip turn.

  After that? You’d run the track to the beach in the cool morning air just to watch the sky turn pink and the birds begin to stir and call in their dawn chorus. Raucous cockatoos and crimson rosellas, the bright, excitable flocks of lorikeets, the mellow-voiced warblers, and a catbird with its startling mew answered by another across the track. The distinctive laugh of a kookaburra, and then, beside the stream that flowed to the sea, the stately form of a heron stepping its way through the shallows. That breath-holding moment when it rose on its stiltlike legs and took off, its huge white wings beating, beating, and finally feathery-still as it soared across the pink-tinged sky, so beautiful and graceful that it hurt your heart.

  Heaps of company, and none at all.

  That was for holiday time, though. He wasn’t on holiday, and he’d had almost a week in Aussie just a couple months ago, getting in some pretty sweet snorkeling and trying not to be cynical about watching his only brother get himself engaged again, not to mention Lily hating him. He was a lucky man with a life most people would kill for, and if he was buggered after the wrap of Urban Decay 3: Underworld Rising—well, work was supposed to make you tired. That was why they called it “work and not “hobby.” His job was to make it look easy.

  He dropped into a chair on the thought, and Alan Miller snapped his head up from where he’d been studying his phone and said, “This seat’s taken.”

  “That’s a bit cold,” Rafe complained, shedding the long, dust-colored canvas coat that was too warm for the day.

  “Oh,” his agent said. “I wish you wouldn’t do that. You could say hello, at least, and give me a fighting chance. You look homeless. What the hell is that coat? And how short is your hair?”

  Rafe lifted the ball cap for a brief moment, then settled it back into place. He didn’t take off the sunglasses, though.

  “Ouch,” Alan said. “What did you do, go someplace with a barber pole and ask for a Number Five?”

  “Close enough. Working a treat so far. It’s also brown instead of black, did you notice?”

  The waitress materialized. Young, blonde, fit, wearing a miniskirt, and clearly longing to pursue a different career. She asked, “Are you ready to order now?” in a tone that suggested the answer had better be “yes.” New in town, or she’d have known Alan’s face. Somehow, they always did, like they’d studied flashcards.

  “Coffee, please,” Rafe said, automatically adjusting the accent.

  She paused with her pencil still hovering over the order pad. “What kind?”

  “Just coffee.”

  “Uh…We don’t have plain. Americano?”

  “Fine.”

  “Do you want steamed milk?”

  Rafe didn’t point out that if he’d wanted steamed milk, he’d have ordered a different drink. He just said, “No, thanks. And a matcha chicken avocado bowl, please. No dressing.”

  “They’re not doing the lunch menu yet,” she said. “Not until eleven-thirty. It’s only eleven-fifteen.”

  Rafe could see Alan’s mouth starting to open. Before it could, he said, “Fine. Three eggs scrambled with vegetables.”

  “Like…Denver omelet? Greek omelet?”

  “Just the vegetables, thanks.”

  She sighed. If she’d had gum, she’d have snapped it. At least twenty-one, or she couldn’t serve alcohol, and disillusioned already, her dream of being a star dimming with every day stuck here, at the fringe of glamour and still nowhere close. “Denver omelet,” she said. “Ham, cheddar cheese, peppers, onion. Greek omelet. Feta cheese, spinach, mushrooms, kalamata olives.”

  “Denver omelet,” he said. “Hold the ham. Hold the cheese. Add the spinach and mushrooms.”

  “I don’t think we can do that.”

  He smiled at her. “Could you ask?”

  Her pencil, which had finally been put to use, stilled. “Uh…” She looked between the two of them, then back at Rafe. “Uh, sure. I’ll try. Toast and potatoes?”

  “You can hold those, too, thanks.”

  Alan ordered a fried-egg bowl, an order the waitress took with an air of complete abstraction, maybe because she was still half-looking at Rafe.

  When she finally moved off, Rafe said, “Ten bucks says you end up with the wrong thing. Also, I thought you had high cholesterol.”

  “I’m not taking that bet,” Alan said. “She must be right off the plane, or she’d know that nobody in LA eats toast and potatoes. And eggs are good for you again. Did you have to smile at her?”

  “Sorry. I wanted mushrooms. Make it quick. She’ll be back. What’s up, pard?”

  “Stop it. Nobody says ‘pard.’ The southern accent’s just about too much as it is. All right. Listen. Kylie’s doing publicity for her new movie. She’s going to be talking about you.”

  “Old news.” Rafe focused on watching Alan take a sip of his cappuccino. On being right here, not dragged back into past mistakes.

  “Not what I’m hearing,” Alan said. She’s working on rehabbing her image with the studios. Not unreliable because of her little pill problem, unreliable because of the abuse she’s suffered. She’s got a video of you. I’ve heard it’s pretty bad.”

  “I didn’t…What?”

  The waitress chose this moment to come back with his coffee. “Americano,” she announced. “I brought extra hot water, and steamed milk in case you change your mind. I’m Jennifer. If you need anything else.”

  “Got it. Thanks, Jennifer,” he said. The second she moved reluctantly off, he asked, “What video?”

  “That was what I was going to ask you.” Alan never looked nervous, and he wasn’t doing it now. Alan had seen it all, and spun it, too.

  “The only time I even yelled at her to speak of,” Rafe said, “was when I found out she was using again. Or still using. The night I broke it off and moved out. Which you know about.”

  “Right, then,” Alan said. “That night. What exactly did you say? More importantly—what did you do? I can’t help unless I know the truth, and I can’t get the video out of anybody. They’re holding it close.”

  “If you mean, did I hit her, shove her, whatever—of course I didn’t. I don’t even like to hit a woman in a film. I’m sure as hell not doing it in my life. I raised my voice and used some language, she started crying, and I called her mum. And she…” He stopped.

  “What? Tell me. Every piece of it.”

  “She came at me,” Rafe said. “Tried to claw the phone away. Hitting me. Screaming.”

  Alan sighed. “And then what.” Resignation in his tone.

  “And then I held her off me. Walked her over to the couch and sat her down. Held her arms. Told her to stop, while she screamed and thrashed around and told me to let go of her. I told her she was going to hurt herself. When it didn’t work, I left and called her mum. Which was when Kylie did…whatever she did. Overdose, or whatever it actually was.” Something that still sent the guilt-tendrils through him. He should have stayed until her mum had come, however sick he’d become of the roller-coaster that was Kylie
, of trying to fix what wasn’t fixable, at least from the outside. Not by him.

  He didn’t say that. Alan didn’t care.

  His agent exhaled. “That’ll be it. How would she have video of that?”

  “God knows, mate. She recorded things sometimes. Talked to the camera. Stream of consciousness thing. She said it helped her be more real with the acting.”

  “She could use the help,” Alan said, and Rafe privately agreed. Kylie’s on-screen breakdowns had never been as convincing as the off-screen ones. “But wait. What about sex tapes?”

  The cold settled low in Rafe’s belly. “I don’t make sex tapes.”

  “But did she? I don’t have a good feeling. I’m hearing whispers.”

  “If she did,” Rafe said, “and she releases it, that’s revenge porn. And I don’t care that it’s meant to go the other way. I might be a bloke—a guy—” The southern accent was slipping. He restored it. “But it’d be revenge all the same.”

  “What’s it going to show? How bad?”

  “Who knows?” He was still aiming for “cool,” but it wasn’t getting any easier. “We had a lot of sex in eighteen months. I’m bloody careful that I’ve got consent, and I don’t hurt anybody. Beyond that? What the lady wants.”

  Alan’s tone was infuriatingly patient. “How long have I been your agent?”

  “Six years.”

  “That’s right. And I’ve been doing this for twenty-six. You can’t shock me, and I seriously doubt you can even surprise me. Rafe. Listen to me. If you were snorting coke off her body or smacking her around, that’s a problem. If she brought a friend, or, worse, if you did…it depends. On how old the girl was, if there was one, on the power imbalance, and on exactly what happened. I can probably work with it, but I need to know. Exactly.”

  Rafe realized that the waitress was there when she set down his meal, then Alan’s, glanced at him, then away again, and asked, “Can I bring you another coffee?” with an expression he didn’t have any trouble reading. Her, he could shock.

  “No, thank you,” Alan said. “Excuse us.” When she’d left, with a look back over her shoulder, he told Rafe, “I need to know what it is.”

  “No third parties,” Rafe said. “No drugs. And no BDSM, since we’re being exact. I’m not saying I’ve never done it, but not with her. She was too bloody fragile for anything like that, mate. Even if she’d wanted it, I wouldn’t have done it. That was the attraction, more fool me. And if she puts out a sex tape, I’m pressing charges.”

  He’d lost the accent. He’d also lost the cool.

  “Might not be a good look,” Alan said. “Might be better to ignore it. I’ll get the PR firm onto it. Also, I got the quinoa bowl. Did I ask for the quinoa bowl? I did not. I hate quinoa.”

  “I don’t care.” Rafe stood up. “You can eat mine.”

  “Sit down,” Alan said.

  “No.” Rafe had stopped being apprehensive. Now, all he had going on was cold fury. “I’m leaving town anyway, learning to be a cowboy. Handle this.”

  “The press will catch up with you,” Alan said. “They know about the Australian place, and they’ll find it. It’s a juicy story.”

  “I’m not going there. Not many cowboys on an Aussie surf beach. If they do catch up, I’ll handle that. But I don’t think so. I’m going to hide in plain sight.”

  The conversation with Jace was shorter. Simpler, too.

  “Bugger,” Jace said. “What can I do?” One hundred percent pure Jace.

  “I was about to go to Colorado,” Rafe said. “The ranch idea, like I told you. Martin has it all sorted, starting in a couple weeks, but too many people know about it. There’s an equestrian center outside of Sinful, though. I checked. When I was there last year, the whole town—the whole state—looked pretty sleepy.”

  “You’re not wrong,” Jace said. “And my place could work. I’ve got it wired, alarms and all, because of what happened last year. But, you know…Do your training on a cattle station in South Australia instead, and she’ll be apples. It’ll be winter, too. Bonus. You won’t die of heatstroke, and no journo’s going to venture into the Outback to find you. They think it’s full of crocs or boxing kangaroos. Or kangaroos boxing crocs, possibly. Also that they’ll be bitten by a snake. It’s like they’ve never heard of boots, and they think South Australia’s the Northern Territory. Americans are bloody useless as geographers.”

  “I’m working on being American, though,” Rafe said. “I’m a cowboy. Actually, a sheriff.”

  “Bogan,” Jace suggested. “Redneck enough for anybody. You’ll find no shortage of those in the Outback.”

  “Nah, mate,” Rafe said. “I’m not looking for missing teeth and bad tattoos. We’re going for chivalrous. Steely-eyed, deadly, and a man of few words. Code of the West.”

  “Doesn’t exist.”

  “I’m pretending. That’s the point. And if you don’t want me, say so.”

  A long silence, then Jace said, “Go when you like. Stay as long as you like. You know that. But Lily will be your neighbor.”

  “It’s the country,” Rafe said. “You can’t see anything from your house except mountains. She may as well not even be there. Anyway, I won’t go for a couple weeks.”

  Of course Australia was a better idea. Even a one-eyed bat could have seen that, and Rafe could see it, too. But he wasn’t doing it. He’d had enough of arid landscapes shooting the film, maybe.

  “Paige noticed,” Jace said slowly, “that there was no love lost between the two of you. The first time, when you were here, and when we were in Oz, too, for the engagement. Mum even said something. Don’t muck it up for Lily, mate. She’s had a hard time, whatever you’ve read. Paige was hoping for a turnaround when Lily met that bloke here, but that went pear-shaped as well. There’s somebody real under all those layers, but it’s a long way down.”

  “No worries,” Rafe said. “She’s safe from me. I’m over women with layers and damage. Besides, I’m being reclusive. That’s the point. Looking into the distance, not across the room.”

  “I told myself that,” Jace said. “Once. Problem was, there were these goats. And this blonde.”

  “I’m not looking for a blonde,” Rafe said.

  “Yeah, mate,” Jace said. “Told myself that, too.”

  Lily was on her knees setting out tomato seedlings when the goats started making more noise than usual. Generally, that meant somebody was coming to visit.

  Great. She didn’t want anybody to come to visit. Monday was her day off from the shop, her day off from talking, and her day off from makeup. It was seventy-five in the shade, and she wasn’t in the shade, but she still planned to be outside for exactly as much of the day as she possibly could. It was June. It was summer. It was Monday.

  She pulled the straw hat lower over her forehead, patted earth carefully around the tender seedlings, added some mulch, pulled the trowel from her pocket, and scooted backwards to start working on the peppers. Maybe if she pretended she hadn’t seen them…

  The dog invaded her field of vision first. It trotted right on by, then looked around, taking it all in with such a cocky air of assurance, it made her smile. Because this dog had absolutely no reason to be assured. It was a huge, hulking mess. Fuzzy brown body, some black showing on its blocky head and oversized paws, and one ear sticking up and one hanging down. Even from here, she could see the burrs in the furry tail, and its pink tongue was lolling all the way out of its mouth.

  No collar that she could see, but this was a very hairy dog. She couldn’t even tell if it was male or female.

  She swiveled towards it, abandoning seedlings and mulch. “Well, hey, there,” she said, keeping it soft. The dog was thirsty for sure, it looked like the most stray animal there ever was, and nothing about it spelled “vicious.” “You look like you need a nice drink. Hmm? Drink?”

  “Chuck!” she heard from behind her, the voice shrill with alarm. “Come back here!”

  Lily turned around. A skinny bo
y of about eight had ridden halfway up her driveway. As she watched, he jumped off his old blue bike, letting it fall to the ground. His jeans were too short above his bare ankles, his bike was too big, and his tennis shoes were faded black. He glanced at her, then away again, took a step backwards instead of forwards, and called again. “Chuck!”

  The dog, who was in the middle of peeing on one of Lily’s apple trees—he was male, as it turned out—uttered a “woof” and looked at the boy, his tail waving. The boy edged closer, and Lily said, “Looks like the two of you could use a drink of water.”

  “Nah,” the boy said. “He’s not supposed to go into somebody’s yard. This guy kicked him, before. Chuck. Come on.”

  The dog started moving back towards him, then detoured to Lily. When he got there, he sat at her feet, cocked his head to one side, and panted.

  Thirsty, dusty, and unkempt as could be. A quizzical expression, a comical face, and the softest eyes.

  Lily looked from the dog to the boy, who was hovering like he was prepared to run. She said, “I need to water my seedlings. If I go turn the hose on, would you hold it for the dog, and then put a little water on these plants for me? Get the dirt around them wet, but not right on the plants, OK?” She had soaker hoses, but that didn’t matter. She didn’t look at boy or dog again, just took off toward the side of the cottage and turned the stopcock. When she risked a peek back, the boy was holding the hose for the shaggy animal, who was lapping the water up like it was more than necessary. She went inside fast and grabbed two glasses, and after a moment of hesitation, the chicken sandwich plate she’d fixed earlier so she’d remember to eat something, and brought them out.