The Perfect Temptation

by Leslie LaFoy

  The frame was thick, ornately carved, and gilded with heavy,

  Spanish silver. The subject, as much as the drape of black

  velvet permitted her to see, was a man who appeared to be

  half looking over his shoulder. No doubt at a lover. The artist

  had beautifully captured the seductive-

  Alex gulped a startled breath. She knew the curve of that

  smile, that delightfully wicked sparkle in the eyes.

  "Ladies," the auctioneer intoned, "we caution you and

  suggest you avert your gazes for a brief moment."

  A few feminine heads turned away as the drape was lowered

  by two attendants. A few feminine ones and Aiden's.

  She heard him groan, felt him slump down in his chair.

  "Aiden?" she asked under her breath, staring at the picture

  and knowing with every fiber of her being that those

  were Aiden's shoulders, his torso, his waist, and--dear God

  in heaven-his buttocks and thighs. Her heart was pounding

  and the temperature of the room seemed to have spiked several

  hundred degrees. "Who's D. Terrell?"

  "My mother," he supplied, sounding as though he were

  strangling on every syllable. "D is for Darcy."

  She leaned closer to keep their conversation private.

  ''And who is the subject?" she pressed as the drawing was

  discreetly covered again. "His build is much like yours. So is

  his smile. The face is different, though. Harder."

  He seemed to choke back a whimper before he replied, "I

  favor my mother."

  "As I favored mine. People always knew we were

  mother and daughter," she admitted, thoroughly amused by

  his mortification. Who would have thought Aiden could be

  embarrassed by "anything sexual? "So is the man in the picture

  your father?"

  "He'd die before he publicly admitted it."

  And his son would, too. Alex turned her attention back to

  the front and the opening round of bidding. The impulse was

  wicked. And it was absolutely irresistible. She nudged Aiden

  with her elbow and whispered, "Bid."

  "No!"

  She had to swallow down her laughter. "Wouldn't you like

  to have it?"

  "God, no! Why would I want to look at my father naked?"

  Oh, she would pay in her next life for so enjoying this

  moment. A bid was accepted, another solicited. She raised

  her paddle and joined the fray. Beside her, Aiden gasped and

  practically came up off his chair.

  ''Alex!''

  "I'm buying it for my customer," she explained, artfully

  playing the soul of cool acquisition.

  In response, he closed his eyes and moaned, "Oh, God."

  She bid, said, "Aiden, you're blushing," and bid again.

  A memory flitted across her mind, no less clear for the

  brevity of its presence. The man who had stood in her hall and

  calmly killed two men was the same one now sitting beside

  her clutching a bidding paddle for dear life and blushing more

  deeply than any maiden bride. There were so many facets to

  John Aiden Terrell. And every single one of them fascinated

  her. He awed her, entertained her, and Lord knew he challenged

  her. Being with him made her smile at first light and

  happily scramble out of bed, made her regret the inevitable

  setting of the sun and their parting greetings each night.

  Realization came over her in a slow swell. She held her

  breath and focused her attention on holding her place in the

  swirling current of bidding, hoping the distraction would

  drive it back and away from acknowledgment and acceptance.

  The truth wouldn't be denied.

  The gavel banged. "The D. Terrell goes to bidder three thirty-

  eight."

  Alex looked down in amazement at the paddle in her

  hand. Three-thirty-eight. What were the odds, she wondered,

  of buying a painting in the same moment you realized

  you had fallen in love with the artist's son?

  Another realization rolled over her in the wake of the

  first. What price she paid in the next life for torturing him

  this morning would be minor in the grand scheme of things.

  Loving Aiden, though ... That was going to cost her dearly

  in this one. She blinked at her paddle, trying to .catch her

  breath, trying to control her smile, and desperately, rationally

  trying to make herself believe that if she didn't protect

  her heart she was going to spend the rest of her life regretting

  the day she'd met him.

  Chapter 13

  Aiden dragged a deep breath of cold, crisp air into his lungs

  and held it, letting it cool his blood. There was much to be

  thankful for, he told himself as he led Alex toward the line of

  waiting carriages. The picture had been one of his mother's

  more circumspect pieces. There were a few that wouldn't

  have been undraped in public. And he wasn't having to haul

  it out the door of Christie's himself. That was good. Even

  better, he wasn't going to have to ride around town with his

  father trying to seduce Alex from the opposite seat Blessed

  be the deliverymen of Christie's.

  He was scanning the line of carriages and groups of drivers

  chatting along the walkway, looking for Barrett's, when

  Alex sighed happily and said, "I think that went exceedingly

  well, don't you?"

  "If your idea-" He blinked and looked back. The man at

  the rear of the carriage was gone.

  "Aiden? What is it?"

  "I'm sorry." He summoned a chagrined smile and a lie as

  he searched for another glimpse of the man. "I was looking

  for Barrett's carriage and driver and thought for a moment

  that I saw them. Would you like to get something to eat now

  or after we do a bit of silver hunting?"

  "I'm not really all that hungry."

  He had to be there somewhere. He couldn't disappear

  into thin air. "Then we'll be dutiful for a while."

  ''There he is," Alex exclaimed, sending his heart into his

  throat. “The carriages past St. Bart's Tavern."

  The driver. Aiden swallowed down his heart and made one

  last sweep of the line. Nothing. Not so much as a shadow.

  ''Where shall I tell him to take us?"

  "Whitechapel Road."

  A good choice, he decided as he and Alex made their way

  down the walk. Whitechapel was poor, but it was decidedly

  Anglo. An Indian man would be far more likely to stand out

  in a crowd there. He'd slipped twice now. There was bound

  to be a third. And when that happened, the bastard was going

  to find himself staring down a gun barrel and answering

  some hard questions.

  "Since I don't know anything about silver," he began,

  handing Alex into their vehicle, his plan made, "I think you

  should take charge of the search."

  "Sensible," she replied as she settled onto her seat.

  "I'll pretend to be your beleaguered, utterly bored husband

  and spend my time gazing longingly out the shop windows."

  Laughing, she took up his game. ''And at what will you be

  gazing, my poor, dear husband?"

  Hopefully a startled Indian face. But until then ... Damn,

  if she didn't have the most lusciously inviti
ng smile. Lips

  made for kissing and an openness that always made his blood

  sing. God, what he wouldn't give to say to hell with the Westerham

  silver, have the driver take them to Haven House and

  spend the rest of the day making love to her. Which, now that

  he thought about it, might, with the right touch, be within the

  realm of possible.

  ''The hope," he said, grinning roguishly, "of being wildly,

  passionately rewarded for my incredible patience."

  Her smile was instant and brilliant, her laugh full and

  throaty. Delight shimmered in her eyes as she wagged a finger

  at him and declared, ''That, Aiden, is exactly the same

  wicked look as your father's."

  "It worked for him on my mother. How do you feel about

  it?"

  "You are such a temptation."

  "And you're not? I'll surrender if you will."

  "We have silver to find. We promised Barrett."

  But if he pressed, she'd abandon it. He knew it. "All right,

  my dutiful darling," he teased. "We'll look for a couple of

  hours so that your conscience isn't bothered. After that, the

  rest of the day is ours to spend as we want."

  "What do you have in mind?"

  "We'll think of something," he answered, knowing the

  value in letting her imagination run on its own. With a grin

  and a wink, he added, "We're both resourceful people."

  She laughed and in it he swore he heard the angels sing.

  He'd done just fine with his pretending for the first forty-five

  minutes or so. He'd followed her into one shop after another

  and in each one done the same: he'd milled around a bit and

  then stationed himself by the front window, crossed his arms

  over his chest, and rocked back and forth between his heels

  and his toes while gazing out on the street and the people.

  And for a while he had seemed genuinely interested in life

  on Whitechapel Road.

  It was at the forty-five-minute mark-and after the sixteenth

  shop by her count-that he'd sighed, struggled to

  smile, and suggested that they were wasting their effort, not

  to mention their very precious time.

  At the hour, his hands were stuffed in his trouser pockets

  and he'd abandoned the effort to smile altogether. At an hour

  and fifteen, he not only gave up the milling around part of his

  performance, he quit the rocking, too. He simply walked in

  behind her, stalked to the window, and stood there glowering

  out, apparently giving serious consideration to turning

  Whitechapel Road into smoldering rubble.

  Alex, for her part, was giving serious consideration to

  killing him. Not that he'd noticed her increasing frustration,

  she privately groused, moving along the walkway with him in

  reluctant tow. She passed a tiny doorway and slowed just

  enough to give a passing glance to the clutter on the other side

  of the rippled, thickly hazed front window. Two steps beyond,

  an object registered in her brain. Whirling around, she headed

  for the door.

  "No, Alex. Please," Aiden practically moaned, spreading

  his arms to block her access to the door. "It's nothing more

  than a junk shop."

  ''There's a silver teaspoon in the window," she countered.

  "Where there's one piece, there could be more."

  "A pathetic junk shop."

  "With a silver spoon in the window."

  He sighed and dropped his arms. "This is the very last

  one, Alex. I mean it," he announced as she stepped around

  him and pulled open the door for herself. ''This is a complete

  waste of our day."

  Alex silently disagreed. She'd learned something of incredible

  importance in the last hour or so. Aiden was a wonderful

  man. He was handsome and brave and kind and

  strong. He had a wonderful sense of humor and a delightfully

  devilish charm. But he also had the lowest tolerance for

  tedium of any human being she'd ever met and she was

  never, ever, ever going to take him shopping with her again

  no matter how long she lived.

  "Can I help ya?"

  Alex looked around. trying to find the woman who belonged

  to the voice. The store wasn't much larger than a single

  room in her own shop but it was ten times as full. There

  were piles and mounds and heaps everywhere. And all of it

  without any discernible arrangement or order or readily

  apparent value. Aiden had been kind in calling it a junk shop.

  "Is anyone there?"

  Alex pulled her skirts through a narrow passage in the warren,

  moving toward the rear of the shop and the voice. There,

  behind a counter made by placing a warped plank across two

  rickety produce crates, sat an old woman dressed in a worn

  dress and tattered knit shawl. Hunchbacked, her eyes hazed

  white, she held a teacup in one gnarled hand as she tilted her

  head to hear.

  "Good morning, madam," Alex began, and the woman's

  attention came instantly to her. "My sister is marrying and I

  want to present her with a set of silverware. I saw the spoon

  in the window and thought perhaps you might have more.

  Would you by any chance have a set for sale?"

  "Got three sets, honey," she said, pointing off in the general

  direction of Alex's left. "Complete ones they is, too.

  Fine pieces."

  It took a few moments to find them, but they were there;

  three sets of silverware, each badly tarnished, haphazardly

  bundled, and tied with a frayed piece of twine. One set was

  on the floor, having obviously tumbled away from the two

  remaining on the precarious tower above. Alex retrieved all

  three and laid them on the counter. A large Shell pattern engraved

  with an A and a C, a small Shell pattern engraved

  with a K and ... Alex stared in stunned disbelief. And the

  Westerhams' Fiddle.

  "How much are you asking for this set?" she asked casually,

  holding the set out so that the woman could touch it and

  identify it.

  She didn't move. "It's what you're lookin' for?"

  "It might do," Alex began cautiously, afraid that it was

  going to cost the moon and stars to ransom. "Her married

  name will be Timmons. If the price is right, it would be

  worth having a silversmith remove the current monogram.

  The W would hardly be appropriate."

  From the window, from the other side of the maze, she

  heard Aiden softly swear.

  The shopkeeper instantly cocked her head. "Is someone

  else here?"

  "My husband," Alex supplied as Aiden slipped sideways

  into the narrow corridor and shuffled toward them. She leaned

  closer to the woman and added in a whisper, "He's the worst

  shopper in the world."

  The old woman chuckled. "Never been a man any good at

  it. How does five pounds sound to ya?"

  New, it had cost close to twenty pounds. Melted down into

  bullion it would have been worth between twelve and fifteen.

  Anyone with any knowledge of silver would have asked ten

  for it. "For the entire set?" Alex asked, dumbfounded.

  "Is it too much? My granddaughter brought 'em to me.
>
  Said they was gifts that she didn't know what to do with.

  From admirers. I don't get silver often 'nough to know what

  folks is payin' for it these days."

  Obviously. And that ignorance was costing the woman a

  profit she just as obviously needed. Desperately. To offer her a

  fair market price would require doubling her request. Which

  would be a decidedly strange thing to do. People didn't shop

  in secondhand stores unless they were in search of bargains.

  And the woman might take the increase as an offer of pity and

  charity. Alex didn't want to insult her. But she didn't want to

  rob her, either.

  Aiden came out of the tunnel, squared up, and stepped toward

  the makeshift counter, saying, "Five pounds is quite

  acceptable, madam."

  Even as Alex met his gaze in frustration and consternation,

  the old woman nodded and said, "Sold."

  He cocked a brow and mouthed, "What?"

  "Look at this place," she answered in kind, gesturing

  broadly. "Look at her!"

  Frowning, his brows knitted, he shook his head and

  reached into the inside breast pocket of his coat, saying, ''May

  I ask your name, madam?"

  Alex sagged in defeat. The woman stared unseeingly at