Wolfe's Temptress

by Robyn Donald

  ‘Pull yourself together,’ she muttered.

  She was being an idiot. Feeling oppressed by an all-pervading sense of Wolfe’s presence was simply wallowing in unjustifiable melodrama.

  ‘Think logically,’ she told Lobo, who wagged his tail and gave her his endearing grin.

  She got up and walked across to her bedroom window, staring down at the small spark in the darkness. Snooping could be a prelude to stalking; Tony had spied on her.

  ‘Of course the tendency to stalk doesn’t run in families,’ she said briskly as a squall flung itself on the house, tossing the huge branches of the trees about so that the light from the yacht seemed to blink on and off.

  Wolfe was making himself objectionable because he wanted something from her, something specific and logical.

  But then, so had Tony—she stopped that thought before it had time to form, ruthlessly dragging her mind back to Wolfe and his dark, handsome face and that overpowering aura of potent male sexuality. Fine tremors pulled her skin tight as she remembered just how potent…

  Her first glance at him had hurled her into a place where the rules no longer applied. Common sense had flown out the window, replaced by an exaggerated blend of excitement and abandon.

  But she had to overcome that, return to her normal cautious self. She couldn’t tell Wolfe what had happened. It wasn’t just her secret.

  Shuddering, she let the curtain fall. ‘Anyway, it won’t help his mother,’ she said to the impersonal night, walking slowly back to her bed as she recalled Mrs Simpson—elegant, beautiful, distraught—who was now desperately ill.

  Telling her the truth would probably kill her.

  Rowan woke slowly and reluctantly, only to leap out of bed when she saw the clock. ‘Quick, Lobo, quick—it’ll have to be a short walk this morning,’ she called.

  In fact they had time only for a run down the cliff to the boathouse. Yes, Wolfe had left the cartridges on the joist where she’d stowed the gun. Biting her lip, she stuffed them into the pocket of her jeans, and without looking at the yacht threw sticks for Lobo to chase along the beach, apologising to him for cutting his playtime short.

  Even so, she reached the café ten minutes late, earning a sour look from the owner. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Sorry, I overslept.’

  ‘Well, you can work it off at lunchtime. We’ve already got a customer.’

  Pinning a smile to her lips, Rowan collected her pad and pen and went out into the cheerfully fuggy room.

  And met a pair of burnished green eyes. Wolfe’s eyes.

  Her stomach launched itself into freefall. ‘Good morning,’ she said, struggling to sound normal. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Poached eggs on toast, bacon, and grilled tomatoes,’ he said coolly. ‘And coffee.’

  ‘Espresso?’ she asked, deliberately distancing herself from the night she’d given in to the same rage of passion that was tearing at her now. Of course he drank black coffee, strong as sin and packing a huge punch.

  One dark brow twitched upwards. ‘Naturally,’ he said laconically. ‘Why adulterate the caffeine with additives?’

  Rowan’s smile surprised her. As well as angering her and shocking her and making her feel like a wanton, this man could amuse her. And that made her even more wary.

  When she carried the coffee out he asked lazily, ‘Do you enjoy working here?’

  She gave him a meaningless smile. ‘It’s great for people-watching,’ she said, not trying to hide the sting beneath the words.

  Had he realised that she worked here when he decided to come in for breakfast? Possibly. In three weeks he could find out almost everything he needed to know about her. A cold shiver snaked its way down her spine.

  Fortunately a couple of regulars came in then; she left him to take their orders, but as the café filled she was aware of Wolfe’s eyes on her, and the way the other customers glanced at him from the corners of their eyes.

  That mysterious thing called presence alerted them to the fact that he was someone important and interesting. Or perhaps it was his face and bearing; in spite of his blazing good looks, the strong bone structure of his face and the gleaming green eyes, the arrogant twist of his mouth, proclaimed him a man to be wary of.

  Of course his build might have something to do with it—she’d read that tall people had an automatic advantage over short people, and beneath his casual, well-cut clothes Wolfe’s big, seasoned body proclaimed strength and power.

  No, she thought, seeing him in her mind. He was simply the dominant male.

  ‘Rowan!’

  She started as the owner snapped at her. ‘Coming,’ she said, smiling determinedly as she went to the hatch. She couldn’t afford to lose this job until she’d had at least one more exhibition.

  ‘Stop drooling and do some work.’

  Rowan’s smile faltered, but she picked up the tray and took it out into the café. Wolfe had heard the insulting comment; she’d seen his lips tighten.

  Not much later he left, leaving her to wonder how on earth he’d got there.

  At two o’clock she rode home on her motorised scooter, took an ebullient Lobo for a run through the sodden bush, and then retired to the shed that was her workshop. Refusing staunchly to glance out the window, she sat down at the wheel, calling up every ounce of self-command to free her mind of images of the man who owned the yacht.

  Stubbornly she formed beakers, easy, ordinary things that still needed concentration. Potting was not for those who couldn’t control their hands and their minds.

  As dusk was closing in Lobo got to his feet and paced across to the window, staring with fierce attention through it. After a moment he whined and came back to stand beside her, staring up with restless, tawny eyes.

  ‘All right, boy,’ Rowan said, her voice even, ‘I know he’s still there.’

  The German Shepherd went to nudge her hand with his nose.

  ‘No,’ she said sharply, and, reminded that he wasn’t to touch her when she was at the wheel, he sat down and watched, intelligent face alert. She made him wait until she’d finished throwing the pot and cut the base with wire. Only then, as the wheel ran down, did she get reluctantly to her feet and walk over to the window, rubbing a hand across the back of her neck.

  She shared her dog’s uneasiness. A warning stronger than logic, more primitive and unconfined, rasped through her.

  ‘Cabin fever,’ she explained to Lobo, who had followed and was staring with her out into the rain. The faint outline of the yacht coalesced through the murk, pitching in the waves. Wryly she said, ‘I hope he doesn’t get seasick. And what’s he doing in a yacht like that, anyway? Billionaires buy thumping great super-yachts, with crews to do all the work and stabilisers to keep their stomachs happy, not sleek, graceful racing yachts.’

  The familiar little sound of Lobo’s snort made her laugh. She stooped to ruffle his thick, coarse mane. ‘It won’t last; it’ll blow itself out, you’ll see, and he’ll get sick of beating his head against a brick wall and sail away. Then we’ll race down to the beach, and you might just be able to catch a seagull.’

  But Wolfe had no intention of leaving. Like a predator he planned to hunt down his prey until he found exactly the right moment to strike.

  ‘Except that he can’t do anything,’ Rowan said aloud. ‘All I have to do is stay calm and not let him rattle me.’

  Barking, Lobo leapt to his feet, twisting to face the door. Chilled, Rowan swivelled to follow his gaze.

  A tall, formidable figure was walking out from beneath the pohutukawas onto her lawn. Even in jeans and a thick woollen jersey beneath a bright yellow slicker, Wolfe looked worldly and self-assured and very, very dangerous.

  Rowan stiffened her shoulders against the panic that hollowed her stomach and numbed her brain. ‘Round two, or perhaps three,’ she said, pitching her voice so that Lobo wouldn’t pick up the icy slither of fear down her spine. ‘Well, we knew he’d be back. Let’s go out and meet him, shall we?’
r />   Ashamed because for a fleeting second she’d wished she wasn’t wearing an elderly sweatshirt and stretch leggings, both splotched with clay, she closed the door of the shed behind her.

  They met under the car port behind the house; this time Lobo barked with recognition that held a note of warning.

  ‘Quiet,’ Rowan said automatically, adding when the dog fell silent, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I need to talk to you properly,’ Wolfe said, his flinty face uncompromising.

  ‘I think we’ve said everything that needs to be said.’

  ‘No. Ask me in.’

  It was close enough to a command, yet the request weakened her resistance. Tony had never asked…

  ‘What will you do if I say no?’ she challenged.

  He shrugged. ‘Keep trying.’

  ‘Until you wear me down?’

  His eyes narrowed. In a cold, gravelly voice he said brusquely, ‘Until I convince you that I’m not here to cause any trouble. All I want from you is that you let my mother know the truth.’

  Mind churning, Rowan looked away. So the night they’d spent together meant nothing to him compared to his mother’s illness. Although the brutal rejection clubbed her emotions into stupor, some part of her relaxed. He was hounding her, yes, but she sensed he was telling the truth.

  Tony’s seemingly lightweight persona had masked a chilling, determined selfishness. Wolfe was doing this for his mother.

  Yet she didn’t dare believe him entirely. She warned, ‘You’re wasting your time.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’

  She hesitated, then shrugged and opened the door into the dank laundry that served as the back entrance. ‘All right, come in,’ she said ungraciously.

  Picking up the dog’s towel, she bent to dry his wet paws, muttering crossly when he jigged around, trying to keep Wolfe in his sights. With Lobo clean, she washed her hands in the concrete tub. Wolfe had hung his coat on the hook by the door and was taking off his shoes; once she’d shucked hers, she led the way through the kitchen into the small front room.

  It smelt musty and damp; after suggesting he sit down in the only comfortable chair she possessed, she busied herself lighting the fire, standing when it had caught to find Lobo watching Wolfe warily.

  ‘He’s a magnificent beast,’ Wolfe remarked. ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Three years.’ Gingerly she sat down on the sofa, avoiding the broken springs. The burning wood crackled and spat, sending shadows dancing up the wall. Lobo lay deliberately down beside her and put his head on his paws.

  Warning signals ringing, she pleated a bronze and green fold of the Indonesian throw rug and said abruptly, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Why the hell are you working in that café?’

  ‘I have to eat, and so does Lobo,’ she shot back.

  He leaned back into the chair, watching her with half-closed eyes. The firelight played warmly over her face, and she looked away from that intent gaze.

  He asked, ‘Couldn’t you find anything more lucrative?’

  ‘Not here.’ She folded her lips tightly together, clamping them on the words that wanted to tumble out.

  ‘And why do you have to live here?’

  ‘I don’t consider that any of your business,’ she said scathingly.

  ‘Everything about you is my business at the moment,’ he said, with a smooth insolence that didn’t hide a truly intimidating determination.

  CHAPTER SIX

  WHEN Rowan flinched, Wolfe said sharply, ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I don’t like threats.’

  His mouth hardened. ‘I’m not threatening you.’ At her disbelieving glance he stated, ‘All my mother wants is to know the truth. She won’t take it any further—and neither will I, if that’s what’s worrying you. This is solely for her peace of mind.’ He paused, then added, ‘And perhaps to save her life. She seems to have reached a point where she doesn’t care whether she lives or dies.’

  Excellent tactics—first the threat, then the promise, followed by an appeal to her better self. ‘But she knows,’ Rowan told him, striving to sound reasonable. ‘She was at the inquest—she heard what happened…’

  ‘At the time she was too grief-stricken to take much in,’ he said grimly.

  But not too grief-stricken to accuse a shattered Rowan of her son’s death.

  Wolfe went on, ‘She managed to pick up the pieces of her life, but Tony’s death broke her heart. She needs to know—and so do I—why you and your father connived at a cock-and-bull story that had Tony waving a gun around so carelessly he accidentally shot himself. Tony knew about firearms; he was always careful with them.’

  The lamp by the chair threw his reflection onto the wall like an eighteenth century silhouette. Apart from the chiselled mouth and the slight bump in his nose there were no curves in that profile, Rowan noted as apprehension kicked beneath her ribs. It was all angles and straight lines—a compelling, forceful indication of his character.

  She said levelly, ‘I’m terribly sorry for your mother, and I know how this must hurt her, and you, but I don’t have anything new to tell either of you.’

  Wolfe’s mouth compressed. ‘So explain to me what happened. You met Tony at a party at Cooksville, where you lived—a party thrown by friends of yours?’

  ‘Yes.’ She had to stop herself from squirming under his cold, judicial survey.

  ‘He was very attracted?’

  Alarm prickled across her skin. ‘We both were,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘He seemed a nice man.’

  ‘Good-looking and rich.’ Not quite a sneer.

  At first hot then icy under Wolfe’s merciless survey, Rowan knew she couldn’t afford to give way to outrage and anger. She traced the pattern in the fabric on the arm of the sofa and said colourlessly, ‘Good-looking, yes. I didn’t know the state of his bank balance. I wasn’t interested.’

  ‘You’ve changed,’ he said with a wounding flick of contempt. When she glanced up in surprise he added, ‘You certainly knew who I was. Why else did your agent drag you away if it wasn’t to fill you in on the state of my bank balance?’

  Rowan flushed, folding her lips tightly.

  Reverting back to that cool, intimidating tone, he said, ‘You and Tony went out several times together—parties, barbecues, the usual summer events at a tourist place.’

  Rowan nodded. She’d been flattered when Tony had tried to sweep her off her feet; only native caution had kept her firmly upright.

  ‘At the end of the holidays he went back to Auckland, and you followed him for your first year of university—’

  ‘I didn’t follow him,’ she interrupted. ‘I was already enrolled at the School of Fine Arts.’ He knew all this. He was deliberately taking her through it like a detective intent on catching her out.

  Well, she was a policeman’s daughter.

  Wolfe’s brows lifted. ‘But you went out together.’

  ‘On and off for a couple of months,’ she told him. ‘It wasn’t an intense relationship. We didn’t—’ She stopped, colour licking along her cheekbones.

  ‘You weren’t lovers,’ Tony’s half-brother said conversationally, although green fire glittered beneath his thick lashes.

  Rowan swallowed, made hot by the fierce energy of his attention. ‘As you know,’ she retorted, not hiding the acid in her tone.

  ‘So you kept him dangling.’ When she refused to fill in the deliberate pause he drawled, ‘That was clever of you. He was used to women who succumbed immediately. Why did you hold him off?’

  ‘I have no intention of explaining my motivations to you,’ she returned evenly, sickened by his implication that she was a cold-hearted tease.

  ‘You have no intention of explaining anything to me.’ The unsparing words slashed through her composure.

  ‘Exactly.’ She met his gaze with proud defiance. Lobo’s head came up. The dog looked from one to the other, then settled to watch Wolfe.

  He ignored the anima
l. ‘At the end of the first semester you went back home to Cooksville and he followed, and asked you to marry him.’

  ‘Yes.’ Her tone was subdued, but she kept her head high.

  ‘You refused.’

  ‘Yes.’

  His mouth tightened. He exuded an indomitable strength, a kind of primal forcefulness that made her shiver. Cold eyes marked that involuntary response.

  Lobo growled and surged upward.

  ‘Down,’ she commanded, and watched the dog closely until he settled back, his hackles still proclaiming his wariness.

  ‘Why?’ Wolfe asked.

  ‘Because I didn’t love him,’ she said without a tremor.

  An unknown emotion splintered the enigmatic depths of his eyes into blazing shards of crystal. His eyelids veiled the transformation before Rowan could fully register the effect it had on her stomach, a sudden lift and drop into nothingness. She’d felt that way when she’d bungee-jumped, dazzled, terrified, and so excited she couldn’t do anything but feel—as though the centre no longer held and infinity stretched around her.

  Unsparingly Wolfe proceeded, ‘That weekend he followed you home to Cooksville, went out pistol shooting on the range with your father, came home with him, quarrelled with you, and brandished the pistol he’d carried in for your father—a pistol with a bullet still in it.’ In a voice heavily laced with sarcasm he finished, ‘Then somehow, without meaning to, he shot himself.’

  Praying he wouldn’t notice how much effort it took, she parried his gaze with an assertive chin and a composed face. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Just like that,’ he said, so silkily precise his comment overloaded her nerves with icy electricity. ‘Why was he so angry? He’d been seeing other women during that semester.’

  Clinically he noted her teeth clamp on her lip, the haste with which she folded her long hands in her lap to hide their sudden tremor, and the quick upwards glance from blank, enamelled eyes. ‘I know.’

  No doubt her father had taught her how to deal with interrogation. Say as little as possible and stick to your story. Why did this woman, of all the women he’d met in his life, have the power to shatter his self-control? He said roughly, ‘Tony’s reaction seems extreme—almost bizarre.’