Wolfe's Temptress

by Robyn Donald

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, her flat, opaque gaze defying him to probe further.

  But Rowan Corbett was a woman who provoked extreme, bizarre reactions—a temptress with eyes of fire, a face that would haunt him until he died, and skin like satin made flesh—a woman who left an imprint on a man’s soul.

  Was this how Tony had felt?

  Wolfe’s frustrated fury sought release in action—violent, savage, mindless. He leashed it, but each word emerged with lethal impact. ‘And you don’t give a damn, do you?’

  After a considered moment she said bleakly, ‘Of course I care. I thought—think—he must have reached some sort of snapping point, but I don’t know what it was.’

  She was lying. Yesterday, when he’d told her he didn’t believe her story, she hadn’t blinked, had shown no sign of surprise or indignation. Today she’d had the same reaction: no umbrage at being called a liar, just a dogged, minimal defence of her actions.

  Wolfe knew he was considered a hard man with an uncanny ability to get results. Most of his success was due to good planning and the capacity to make the best use of every twist and turn of circumstance; some of it was his ability to calm volatile situations and raging antagonists.

  No volatility here, and no aggression, but he didn’t fool himself that Rowan was as calm as she seemed to be. He could sense anger smouldering beneath her disciplined detachment. Anger—and fear.

  So he had to ignore the impact of her sultry, beckoning eyes and sensuous mouth, ignore the erotic memories and play this through to the end.

  He said, ‘I don’t believe he asked you to marry him.’

  Avoiding his eyes, she shrugged. Her long fingers reached for the dog’s head, caressed the ears, sank into the heavy ruff.

  Banishing a fleeting, arousing image of those hands in his hair, across his chest, curving around his hips to bring him closer, Wolfe said with cold, concentrated scorn, ‘In fact, I don’t believe a word you’re saying.’ He got to his feet in a rapid, easy movement and reached for her shoulders, fingers tightening to draw her off the sofa.

  Her eyes widened. Ignoring Lobo’s low growl, he searched for something he knew he wouldn’t find in the tawny golden depths. She knew how to keep her secrets. The tip of her tongue touched her lips, and in spite of everything Wolfe enjoyed a fierce, primitive satisfaction because she didn’t say the words that would set the bristling dog onto him.

  Rowan flinched and tried to pull away, but his hands tightened around her upper arms, strangely gentle although she could feel the curbed power drumming through him. It summoned a wildness in her that she hated and feared.

  His eyes clashed with hers in a brutal challenge. ‘You see, I know that after the inquest you went back to university and handed in a paper that got you another A. Remarkably cold-blooded, I thought.’

  Shutting down her responses, her thoughts, she stared at him with a blank expression.

  After a taut, white-hot moment he dropped his hands as though she contaminated his skin, and stepped back.

  Lobo burst into loud barking.

  ‘Quiet!’ Wolfe commanded, waiting until the dog subsided into silence before saying laconically, ‘Which makes me even more interested in what really happened that afternoon. As well, I want to know why you ran off to Japan so soon after the inquest. Almost as though you had something to hide.’

  ‘I can tell you why.’ Her rusty voice rasped her throat. ‘Because my father had just died, and thanks to your mother’s outburst I couldn’t go anywhere without the media poking a camera in my face. There was nothing in New Zealand for me.’

  ‘So you packed your genius in your backpack and ran away.’

  In spite of his scathing tone her heart leapt at his offhand acknowledgment of her talent. Cold with dismay, she realised again how dangerous it was to be so vulnerable to a man she actively disliked and had good reason to fear—a man whose every glance, every intonation, set untamed sensations jangling through her.

  Rain lashed the side window, driven in from the sea by a howling gust. Rowan said abruptly, ‘If you want to get back to your yacht you’d better go now. It’s already dark and I think a storm’s building.’

  He followed her glance and said something succinct and unheard under his breath before walking over to the door. Once there he turned and said with icy, assured menace, ‘I’ll go now, but it’s not over, Rowan. I’ll find out exactly what happened if I have to take you apart to do it.’

  Shaken, her stomach knotting, she asked, ‘What made you decide to start this up now? Why wait so long after Tony’s death?’

  His raised brows denied her the right to ask this question, but he said coolly, ‘We found you.’

  The words hung in the air, raising the hairs on the back of Rowan’s neck as another blast of wind shook the house. Dry-mouthed, she said, ‘I see.’

  ‘I hope you do. If the only way for my mother to regain her health and her will to live is for her to understand exactly what happened, I’ll do whatever I need to do to force you to tell her.’

  Rowan’s heart clenched. Understanding his grief, however, didn’t mean she was going to give in. He thought she had no compassion; so be it. She met Wolfe’s measuring gaze with brittle defiance. ‘Why don’t you get married and give her some grandchildren to live for?’

  The moment she said the words she knew she’d crossed some invisible line. His expression hardened into a tough, unyielding mask. ‘She needs to know the truth,’ he said in a voice that almost blistered her skin. ‘And it’s personal now.’

  ‘Eventually you’ll have to go back to being a billionaire,’ she said, concealing a very real pang of fear beneath a scornful tone.

  ‘That won’t let you off the hook. I have a reputation for getting what I want. And I want this very much.’

  His hooded gaze seared her skin, burned into her brain so that she couldn’t think, summoned instant heat from that treacherous part of her that wanted him. She blurted inanely, ‘Will you be able to get back to your boat in this?’

  Although Wolfe looked tough enough to deal with anything the universe threw at him, even he had to be vulnerable to the forces of nature.

  ‘I won’t drown, Rowan, much as that might please you.’

  ‘I don’t want you drowning off my beach!’ she snapped.

  ‘Why? Afraid of killing another man?’

  She went white. ‘Is that what you think? That I killed your brother?’

  He paused, dark eyes gleaming and pitiless as they scanned her face. ‘I don’t know,’ he said slowly. ‘Not yet.’

  Rowan’s skin tightened. ‘Why is it so impossible to believe that he—?’ Her voice died under his flinty gaze. She swallowed and went on, ‘That it was an accident?’

  ‘Because—unlike you—he’d been taught to be careful with guns. Tony would never have carried one without unloading it, or waved one around so wildly that he shot himself accidentally. And he wouldn’t have slipped—he was like a cat on his feet.’

  Using all her energy to hide her apprehension, Rowan said, ‘It was an accident. I told him that it was over and he—he just lost it. He grabbed the gun, and then—’

  She stopped, her voice cracking in her throat, sweat dampening her temples.

  Wolfe looked like a bronze statue except for the cold, flat, greenstone eyes. When she refused to go any further he supplied caustically, ‘And then he tripped and shot himself in the heart. Think up another story, Rowan; that one might have worked in Cooksville, where your father was respected and his superior was complaisant, but I don’t believe a word of it.’

  She swallowed again and said thinly, ‘It happened.’

  ‘It’s a lie,’ Wolfe said softly against the keening of the wind around the windows. ‘One I’m going to break. And if I have to break you to get to the truth, I’ll do that too.’

  He meant it. Rowan repressed a shiver of pure fear, before summoning the stamina to say, ‘You’re wasting your time and energy.’ She heard the branches of the pohut
ukawas groan and creak as another gust of wind struck. Biting her lip, she said, ‘You can’t go out in this.’

  ‘Are you offering me a bed for the night?’ he asked with insolent familiarity.

  ‘No! But there are motels in—’

  ‘I have no transport, and there’s no way that scooter of yours would take a passenger. And, no, I’m not going to borrow it.’

  She demanded, ‘How did you get into the café this morning?’

  ‘I walked up the boundary between your land and your neighbour’s,’ he said curtly, ‘and he offered me a ride in. And one back when I’d finished.’

  Yes, that was Jim—the salt of the earth!

  Wolfe added, ‘I can manage this; my dinghy is built for rough weather.’

  Rowan cast around for some way to ensure his safety that didn’t involve him staying with her. None presented itself, and she said lamely, ‘I’ll come down with you.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said with aloof contempt. ‘You don’t have to see me off.’

  ‘Not in the mood for snooping tonight?’ Another thing better not to have been said.

  He shrugged. ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘Lobo needs a walk,’ she said, angling a stubborn chin.

  ‘Forget it. It’s too rough out there.’

  She gave him a cool look. ‘We’re not made of icing sugar. Come on, boy.’ Lobo’s tail started wagging enthusiastically.

  Wolfe said between his teeth, ‘You’re not going out in this.’

  ‘You can’t stop me,’ Rowan pointed out, a spark of malice in her tone. ‘If necessary we’ll follow you down.’

  He said violently, ‘All right then, do what you damned well please.’

  Triumphant as though she’d broken even in a tough fight, she put the fireguard in place and followed him out, closing the door behind her. While the two humans dragged on oilskins and boots Lobo pranced around, ears pricked and tail active at the prospect of a walk.

  A lot of good he was as protection, Rowan thought acidly; he seemed to have yielded supremacy to Wolfe with some primal canine acceptance of an alpha male. Perhaps it was the name!

  Miraculously, once they’d got into their wet weather gear the rain and wind snapped off, leaving behind an eerie silence broken only by the restless waves attacking the rocks at the base of the cliff. They weren’t big enough to be dangerous yet, but it wouldn’t be long before they were.

  ‘A window of opportunity,’ Wolfe said sardonically, switching on his torch.

  The beam cut through the darkness, hard-edged, conical, so bright that it wasn’t worth Rowan using hers. At the top of the cliff path Wolfe took the lead, and Rowan wondered at this man, who suspected her and despised her, yet automatically went ahead to protect her from falling.

  ‘Where’s your dinghy?’ she asked.

  ‘In the boathouse.’

  He’d tied it to one of the pegs beside the steps that led down into the black water slurping against the piles and planking.

  With Lobo at her heels Rowan switched on her torch and directed it onto the dinghy. Perhaps she should suggest he stay…

  Are you mad? she asked herself, hardening her heart. Watching him bring the yacht into the harbour had been an education in brilliant sailing. He could certainly cope with this sea. She said crisply, ‘I’ll cast you off when you’ve started the engine.’

  ‘Careful—gumboots are a hazard in the water.’ Wolfe lowered himself into the sturdy craft with relaxed, powerful male grace.

  More of that unthinking protectiveness. In spite of the antagonism sizzling through her, unwanted excitement twisted in the pit of Rowan’s stomach as he bent to start the outboard. The beam of her torch wavered, catching Lobo stretched out on the decking, head on one side as he watched Wolfe.

  ‘I don’t plan to fall in,’ she retorted.

  ‘Make sure you don’t,’ Wolfe said, glancing up.

  ‘Be careful,’ she said impulsively, frowning. ‘It might be dangerous out there. Are you sure you can handle it?’

  Dark eyes gleamed suddenly, and the beam of light shifted again, pointing up the stark angles of his face. Stunned by the wildfire burst of sensation ricocheting through her, Rowan wished she could paint him like that, a study in gold and shades of darkness—a mythical, archetypal marauder out of every woman’s dreams, both threatening and powerfully, compellingly attractive. Her bones melted in a primitive, feverish response.

  ‘I can handle it,’ he said evenly.

  He lifted a hand; she stepped forward to cast him off. The outboard burst into raucous life, and the dinghy began to move towards the entrance.

  Swiftly, angrily, Rowan turned away, a careless foot landing squarely on Lobo’s tail; he yelped and tried to leap to his feet. Instinctively jerking sideways to avoid falling on him, Rowan pitched forward and into the water.

  She had a mini-second to gulp in air and thrust her arms outwards before the water closed around her, dragging her down to the bottom as her gumboots filled. She wasted a few seconds trying to kick them off, giving up when they clung and refused to move. She’d drown before she got them free.

  Fiercely resisting panic, she manoeuvred beneath the surface, heading for what she hoped to be the steps, hoping that Wolfe had heard Lobo yelp, that he’d seen her go down…

  Self-preservation summoned her in an imperative voice; she fixed her mind on survival, opening her eyes to catch a smeary glimmer of light—Wolfe? Or the torch she’d dropped?

  Whatever, she aimed desperately for it, using up precious energy to force her weighted feet along, doggedly pushing through the clinging, sapping water towards the light.

  She knew after a few steps that she wasn’t going to make it, but she kept going. I’m going to die, she thought dimly. I’m glad I made love with Wolfe…

  Heart throbbing violently in her ears, and her lungs painfully compressed, she was almost ready to surrender to the temptation to gulp in water when a hand fastened onto her hair and hauled her up to the surface.

  Gasping, choking, air whistling into her starved lungs, she heard Lobo’s frantic barking, and the next moment felt his claws scrabbling at her shoulders.

  ‘Stay!’ Wolfe shouted, fending the dog off with one hand as his other swept across her back, anchoring under her armpit. He began to swim for the steps, followed by an anxious Lobo.

  Rowan struggled to help, but already shock had her shivering and her arms and legs felt like lead. If it hadn’t been for Wolfe’s strength she’d have sunk again.

  ‘Keep still,’ he ordered in a harsh voice.

  Thankfully she surrendered, letting him do all the work. Once they reached the steps, his shoulders and arms bunched as he boosted her up and onto the deck.

  Gasping and retching, she collapsed onto the wooden planks, shuddering with cold and anger at herself for being so stupidly careless. Almost immediately she began to struggle up, but Wolfe’s swearing and several splashes, followed by the slight give of the planks beneath her cheek, satisfied her that both he and the dog had made it out.

  Lobo’s warm tongue across her cheek brought her eyelids up. The torchlight wavered, dazzling her, but she could see the dog’s narrow, intelligent face and hear him whine his concern. Behind him loomed a dark figure, water streaming from him.

  ‘I’m all right,’ she choked, and to her utter horror burst into tears.

  ‘Don’t try to get up yet,’ Wolfe commanded above the dog’s agitated barking. He knelt at her feet, yanking off her boots to empty them before easing them back on and standing up. ‘Come on,’ he said grimly, pitching his voice above another heavy shower and the moans and creaks of the old boathouse. ‘Stop snivelling and start walking. Immersion hypothermia is best dealt with by vigorous activity.’

  Ruthless hands lifted her to her feet and forced her along the planks. Rowan set her jaw and compelled her feet to move. If she was wet and cold, he was too, and so was Lobo.

  ‘I c-can’t have hypo—hypo…’ Shivers racked her. She gritted her te
eth to say weakly, ‘I wasn’t in the water long enough.’

  ‘Long enough to damned near drown,’ he said grimly, adding, ‘And if we don’t get back to the house straight away it won’t be mild hypothermia either. Come on, get those feet moving up the steps.’

  Even with the support of his arm and his strength, it took all of her energy to make it up the cliff, but at the back door she said through chattering teeth, ‘I’ll run a bath and while you have it I’ll rub Lobo down.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ he said roughly, pushing her through the door and beginning unfastening her oilskin. ‘Your lips are going blue and you can’t stop shivering, and your breathing is too shallow for my liking. Lobo’s far better able to deal with this than either of us. I’ll rub him down while you get under the shower.’

  ‘I don’t have a shower,’ she said, clenching her jaw against the shivering that racked her.

  ‘You have a bath, I hope?’

  Surprised into a chuckle, she said, ‘F-first on the left.’

  He tugged the oilskin from her and half hauled her into the bathroom, where he turned on the taps over the old-fashioned, claw-footed bath, straightening up as she tried to drag her jersey over her head.

  She made it, but it left her dangerously exhausted. Still shivering, she plucked uselessly at the buttons on her shirt. Brushing her hands away, Wolfe unfastened it for her, his face impassive. At his touch, a complex mixture of embarrassment and shame and hunger prowled through her, underlaid by an astonishing, overpowering sense of security.

  ‘Leave your underclothes on,’ he said, unzipping her trousers and beginning to ease them down her legs.

  Rowan closed her eyes. Only the bitter knowledge that she wouldn’t be able to undress herself kept her silent—that, and the constant shivering.

  When she was standing in front of him in her bra and briefs he straightened up and turned away to test the bath water. ‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘Can you get in?’

  Golden eyes duelled with green. Rowan’s will flagged and she said dully, ‘I don’t know.’ Her voice sounded strangled and she wasn’t sure she could move.