Tempting as Sin

by Rosalind James

  A long, slow sigh. “All right. Thanks a lot. That’s going to help.”

  She had to laugh. “You asked.”

  “I did. And when I get up in the morning, I’m going to ask around, find a place good enough to take you, and text you where it is. Seven work for you?”

  Lily thought about dinner with Paige and Jace, and then she didn’t. It was one night out of her life, and she needed that next adventure. She’d walked away today. She didn’t think she’d be doing it again. “Seven works,” she said.

  “Then I’ll see you at seven,” he said. “Be good till then.”

  Tuesday at noon, and, yes, it was raining. Again. Still. She was going to be glad to go back to the Montana snow.

  No, she wasn’t. She was telling herself that because she didn’t want to admit how much she wanted to see Clay, and how much she was trying not to think about leaving tomorrow, like a woman who’d never learned a single lesson.

  She shifted both grocery bags into her left hand and scrabbled in her purse for her keys while she hustled across the floating pier through the driving rain, stopped to get through the locked gate, and kept going toward the slip that held the houseboat. She was soaked, and she still needed to make this chicken molé, because she’d promised. Before she got ready to leave and meet Clay again.

  When the heel of her boot caught between the planks a few steps from the door, she wasn’t one bit prepared for it. Her momentum carried her forward, and she stumbled hard. A loaf of bread in a paper bag and a cardboard carton of eggs slid out of the bag and hit the deck even as she flailed, and then she was following her groceries straight on down.

  Except not. A hand like iron around her upper arm, a hard arm wrapped around her waist, and she was upright. And already opening her mouth to scream.

  “Most women,” a voice said from behind her, “wear flats around boats.”

  She was smiling even as she turned, and then she wasn’t. A paralyzed second, and she was whirling again, except she couldn’t. Her boot was still stuck.

  It wasn’t Jace, despite the Australian accent. It was a stranger, the hood of his anorak pulled low, hiding half his face, but a scruff of black beard clearly visible on a hard jaw. As big as Jace, and as strong, from the feel of those hands.

  But that wasn’t why she was trying to run. She’d seen his eyes.

  Silver-blue, shining out of the darkness under the hood like they were lit up. Those eyes weren’t normal, and the cold down her spine wasn’t the rain. She couldn’t breathe, and she had to breathe. She had to run.

  She was still trying to tug her boot loose when the Iceman let go of her like she’d burned him, said, absolute blankness in his voice, “You’re joking. No. Bloody hell.” And she hauled in a breath and realized, No. Wrong. Quit being so jumpy. It’s fine.

  Another long moment, during which he stood absolutely still, and then he crouched down, worked her heel out of the gap in the pier, picked up her soggy bread and carton of eggs, which had somehow not burst open on impact, and said, “Come on. Let’s go. Inside.”

  She stared at him some more, but she finally had her voice and at least most of her wits back. “Let’s go? I don’t think so, buddy.”

  Absolute stillness. “No? Reckon Jace won’t be too pleased about that, seeing as how I’m his loving brother. You clearly have him fooled. Let’s say I’m not on board anymore.”

  It was raining. It was pouring. And still, he lifted a hand to his hood.

  A hand with a white, V-shaped scar on the first knuckle of the forefinger.

  He drew the hood back, and it was…it was Clay. Except that the eyes were the wrong color. And so hard.

  “Wh-what?” she managed to ask. “That was—It can’t be you. I thought…”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I thought so, too, Lindsay. I was wrong. Do you imagine Jace is going to be all right with what you do on your nights out? Loyalty may be just a word to you, but it isn’t to him. And I’ve got a question for you, as a matter of interest. Do you hate men because you’re a cop? Or are you a cop because you hate men?”

  Now she was mad. She didn’t normally get mad. Correction—she almost never got mad. One thing could do it, though. Somebody talking smack about her twin, the bravest and most selfless person Lily had ever known. “You think I’m Paige?” Her voice was never hard. Except it was. She was seeing him through a red mist, too. “How much do you actually talk to your brother?”

  “Try again,” he said. “I’ve seen your photo. Remember that little matter of the San Francisco Police Department, and all those newspaper stories? Blonde or brunette, it’s still the same lying little face. ‘Oh, Clay,’” he mimicked, the accent savage, “‘I can’t stay. I have to run away, because I’m so scared.’ And I bought it, even though I ought to know better. And Jace? He’d be a bloody walk in the park, I’m sure. For the record, I never thought the blonde was natural. I’m glad I didn’t have to find out the hard way. What a disappointment that would have been.”

  When she dropped the grocery bag, she was only half-aware of it. But when her hand swung around to his cheek, she watched it all the way.

  Slap. Her hand landed hard, his head rocked back, and she dropped her hand, breathing as if she’d been running, and hissed out, “How…dare…you.” Which was ridiculous, but it didn’t feel that way. It felt right.

  He didn’t say anything. He just stood there. It should have been a frightening sight. It would have been, except for that red mist. She was ready to hit him again.

  She hadn’t seen any of his movies—not her kind of thing, and she didn’t go much for modern movies anyway—but she knew who he was. Hard-muscled body, silver-blue eyes, devastating white grin, panty-melting stare, and all. And that other, fiercer self, once he’d transformed. The one she was starting to see now. She was out here with The Beast, halfway to changing. Or in other words—with Rafe Blackstone, action hero and megastar. A life form she appreciated, if possible, even less than men who disrespected her sister. Men who lied to her. About who they were, and where they were from. About their eye color. About how they felt about you, and about how you were special.

  What kind of man was that deceptive? An actor, that’s who. That was his job. It was his life.

  This wasn’t her first rodeo, though. She needed information, and he wasn’t the only one who could do some acting. He’d had something against Paige already, she was pretty sure. She needed to know what it was.

  He was still standing there, his blue eyes burning cold, and she took a breath, hauled herself back under control with a major effort, and said, “Let’s start over. I apologize for getting physical. It would have been nice of you to introduce yourself properly, maybe, but we won’t dwell on that. So unpleasant, focusing on the negative.” She found her keys, handed him the grocery bags, and said, “Carry these in, will you? Make your werewolf self useful.”

  His face hardened, and he stood there another minute, still as stone. Then he said, “You want to do this the hard way?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Why not? Life’s an adventure. Plus, you’ll want to see your brother.” And smiled.

  Let the werewolf chew on that.

  He couldn’t believe it. She should have run. She should have cried. Hollywood was missing out on a natural. But that was how she wanted to play it? He’d play it that way. He’d just forget the moment when something about that walk had jarred the familiarity loose, and then when he’d seen her face, had got past the hair and taken in the features. Which he should have done before. Bloody hell, he was trained. Somebody else could say that he hadn’t recognized her from her photos and out of context. An actor should have known better.

  He was focusing on that, because it was better than remembering the plunge of his stomach. It had to be his stomach. It wasn’t going to be his heart. You didn’t lose your heart in a few hours to a stranger. You sure as hell didn’t lose it to a cheating little actress who was with your brother.

  His cheek still stung where she’
d hit him, as if she’d had a right to be that angry.

  Pay her off fast, half his mind said. Get her out of here. The other half was thinking, How do I tell Jace? What do I tell Jace? Or maybe those weren’t halves, because there was a part of his mind that wasn’t thinking anything at all. That was shutting down.

  Right now, though, he needed to stay under control so he could make his next move. She was cool? She had no idea who she was up against. She’d stepped under the sheltering eaves of the ultramodern, white, wood and glass structure and was putting another key in another door, like some kind of bizarre twist on how he’d imagined they’d end up last night, so he followed her. And, yes, she flung the door wide and gestured him inside with mock civility.

  “Nice place,” he said. Control. Cool.

  “When I use my seductive wiles on a man,” she said, “I only go for the best. I’ve found it so much more lucrative.” No shame at all. Nothing but contempt for his gullibility, and his brother’s.

  He’d stepped into a magnificent, high-ceilinged, wood-beamed, completely modern space that was still, somehow, full of warmth and filled with light even on this darkest of afternoons. On a clear day, you’d have million-dollar views of the Bay and the Marin hills. Or, more likely, multimillion-dollar ones. Paige knew a good thing when she found it, clearly.

  And still, all she looked was pissed off, like she had a right to be. This was Jace’s true love, the woman he was willing to die for? At the moment, she was sitting on a cherrywood bench beside the door, untying the bow at the top of her high-heeled, over-the-knee, fawn-colored boot, the most frivolous garment you could imagine, and working it down her leg, every movement as jerky as it hadn’t been last night. She examined the gouge marring the heel as if it were her main concern, set the boot down and started working on the other one, and asked him, “Do your skills extend to lighting a fire in a wood stove, or is that a stunt double? You might be more comfortable, seeing as you’re soaked. See, I’m the hostess, so I care about things like that.”

  “Pushing it a bit, aren’t you?” He’d set the bags down and was dripping all over the slate-flagged entryway, and he didn’t care.

  “Always,” she said. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard that about me, what with your extensive research.”

  “I can light a stove. But I’ll go back to the car for my things first. House key, please.” He held out a palm. Self-control was a virtue, even when a slap to the face felt so much less painful than the way she’d slipped that knife straight between your ribs. Even when it was your brother she was hurting, and he’d already spent half a lifetime carrying too much weight.

  She slapped a key ring into his hand and said, “We’re getting your company for a while, are we? Be my guest. I’ll be getting changed, but please—do make yourself at home.”

  He squelched his way back along the pier and up to the parking lot in a cold, slanting February rain that hadn’t let up one bit, pulled his laptop bag and suitcase out of the boot, and thought, Well, that’s why you’re here, mate. Forget the part about you, and focus. Get rid of her, and then think about how to tell Jace.

  That wasn’t even going to be the worst. The worst was what would happen afterwards. Jace had a handle on the PTSD now, even since the divorce. At least that was how he sounded. Rafe hadn’t actually seen him since…well, since last April, now that he thought about it. But he’d called, hadn’t he? And that time he had visited the cabin, Jace had been good. Grounded. Whole, instead of like he’d left a piece of him behind in the blood-soaked Middle Eastern dust. The dog had helped. The place, too, and the peace of it, but the dog had been a lifeline.

  Wait. The dog. Where was Tobias? Why hadn’t he barked and come to meet Rafe at the door?

  Never tell him that Paige had made him get rid of the dog. Or that Jace would have done it.

  Less thinking, more action. You’re scared for him? he asked himself. Then get in there and start fixing it. As for Jace—you can be a shoulder afterwards, at least. Go do it.

  When he came back with his bags, Paige was nowhere to be seen. The grocery bags were still sitting in the entryway, too, as if she’d decided she didn’t need to bother anymore. She was smart enough for that, anyway. Rafe took off his soaking-wet shoes, picked the bags up, and headed through the houseboat’s roomy living space in search of a kitchen.

  Despite the rage, he was getting the feeling that he might have approached this wrong. He was lucky, now he came to realize it, that she hadn’t pulled a gun on him. He had grabbed her. To keep her from falling, but still.

  It wasn’t even just that he had her defensive and hostile, though, and that it was going to drive her price that much higher and draw this out that much longer. It was that he’d seen fear in her eyes, and pain, too. You’d have thought a cop would be tougher. But then, maybe that was proof that she wasn’t that good a cop. She’d been under investigation only a few months ago, right?

  He didn’t want to think that he’d just stomped on a wounded bird. This was why you didn’t get involved with vulnerable women. They didn’t just wreck their own lives. They wrecked everybody else’s, too.

  He unloaded groceries into a dark-stainless fridge in a tidy galley-style kitchen in which absolutely everything was the best, and took in a boat builder’s dream of a great room, with tidy cupboards, drawers, wooden beams, and furniture along modern lines, all pale leather and teak, soaring ceilings, and huge windows that were nothing like “portholes. The rain drummed on the roof and ran down the windows.

  It should have been cozy, but once again, he was soaked and cold. He needed to get out of his wet clothes, but a withdrawal of antagonism might throw Paige off-balance and soften her up to hear his proposal.

  He was on one knee in front of the wood stove, feeding larger bits of kindling into a tiny fire, when she came out again. Looking like she’d tried to be severe, in wide-legged cream-colored trousers that didn’t let you see her curves, a top in a deep peachy color, and low heels. And all that hair pulled back into a tight knot, nothing like the loose, soft one of the night before, so her face was all eyes, cheekbones, and lush mouth.

  The top was the same color as the lingerie he’d seen in her bag. Which she’d bought to wear when she was with his brother, and with his brother’s money, no doubt. He chucked a bigger piece of split wood into the stove, shoved it hard with the poker, shoved that image of the wounded bird down again, and summoned up somebody else. Somebody colder and harder, who could deal with her the way she deserved.

  Jace had said she was low maintenance. How could he be that mistaken? Jace knew heaps about combat, but he still wasn’t clued in on celebrity, or even, apparently, women.

  She said, “I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

  He closed the door to the stove, stood up, and put away the poker, but kept himself backed well off. What he absolutely didn’t need to do was look at her too closely. He wasn’t imagining her naked anymore, or in her lingerie, no matter what kind of fevered thoughts he’d had in the wee hours of the morning, with the scent of her perfume still on his shirt.

  Maybe if he told himself that enough, it would work.

  He said, “Let’s get one thing straight. You don’t get my brother. If you play this right, though, you can still get something. You can take it with you when you go. But you need to go now.”

  Her eyes widened, color stained her cheeks, and she was nearly on her toes, about to tell him where he could shove that, when he heard the barking. Not a fusillade. More like an announcement. Two slow, deep statements from the throat of a powerful dog.

  Like a Ridgeback.

  What the hell? Tobias was outside?

  The door opened fast, and Jace came in. Dressed in running gear, his bright-yellow jacket streaming with rain, with Tobias following him. Well, almost following him, because there was somebody else there, too. A medium-height woman who was laughing, exactly as wet as Jace, and dressed in her own running clothes.

  She was pulling off a b
lack knit cap, revealing her hair. Her blonde hair. Which was pulled back into a ponytail. Severe, so her face was all eyes, cheekbones, and lush mouth.

  Wait.

  Jace was already coming forward, a grin on his face, saying, “Bro.” Sounding rapt to see him. And Tobias’s tail was wagging.

  Jace grabbed him, and Rafe looked at both women from over his brother’s shoulder, because they were standing together now.

  “I’ve been seeing this twin,” he suddenly remembered Jace saying on the phone, all the way back in the summer. “She and her sister have what anybody would call an eerie connection.”

  Oh, shit.

  Lily could have laughed at the expression on—on Rafe’s face. If she hadn’t been so mad, that is.

  Jace was still pounding Rafe on the back. Fine. He could like him. She wasn’t going to tell him what she thought of his brother. No point causing trouble.

  At least she’d managed to slap Rafe before she’d had that inconvenient thought.

  Paige had pulled a towel from the closet and was starting to rub Tobias down. Lily grabbed it from her and said, “I’ll do that. Get your wet things off.” She needed a second anyway.

  Paige handed the towel over, started pulling off her jacket, and asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.” Tobias smelled a little doggy, but when she put a hand out for his front paw, he lifted it, set it into her palm, wagged his tail slowly, and fixed his soulful amber gaze on her while the perplexed wrinkles in his forehead asked, Are you OK? Can I help?

  She was going to cry because a dog liked her. Great. She said, “Good boy,” wiped off the rest of his feet, and then rubbed him down some more, just because he loved it. She clearly needed to get a dog, since her track record with men had once again reset itself all the way down at “Fail.”