More Than Tempt You

by Shayla Black

  “Fear?”

  The curl of her lips is nothing short of self-deprecating. “Apparently all the Reeds are born with an innate aversion to emotion. Well, Maxon, Griff, Harlow, and I probably have growing up with our father to thank for that. But Evan struggled not to reject feelings, too. We’ve discussed this phenomenon and shared some about our upbringings.” She shakes her head. “But I’ve been intentionally trying not to think about where I’m at in life or where I’m going, long term. Right now, I’m focused on putting one foot in front of the other until life makes sense again. And so far—”

  “Hang on. It sounds like your life fell apart. Are you sure you don’t want to talk about that?” I try not to fire the question at her, but I’m dying to know if she’ll admit the real reason she’s in Hawaii.

  She shakes her head. “It’s a long story full of family drama, and I won’t bore you. But today made me realize that feelings aren’t wrong. There are more reasons to let someone close to you besides figuring out how you can use them.”

  “Yes,” I confirm, instantly wondering what she means. How did she use people?

  Again, she gives me an ironic smile. “That probably sounds obvious to you—and to most people. But it’s a new way of thinking for me. If Maxon hadn’t listened to his heart, Keeley wouldn’t be his wife. Kailani wouldn’t have been born today. Griff would still be a miserable bastard who hated Maxon and didn’t know his son, Jamie, existed. He wouldn’t have Britta or another baby on the way. Harlow would have kept her relationship with Noah to a fling. Evan would have stayed in Seattle, grieving the loss of a wife who didn’t love him, rather than letting himself fall for Nia. But every one of my siblings made the choice to open themselves up to new possibilities, and their lives are all better for it. I can’t help but wonder if I’ve been blind and I’m missing out.”

  Her speech is both a jolt and a gut punch. Did she really tell me all this because she’s just now realizing that using people is wrong? Or is she trying to tell me she’s receptive to more than friendship because she’s fishing to find out how I feel about her?

  My heart starts pounding. Hooking up with Bethany would be the most expedient way of getting closer to her. It would allow me intimate access into her psyche and her life. But I’m so conflicted about going there… Sex—even if I haven’t stopped thinking about having it with her for days—would muddle my thoughts even more. And I hate the idea of screwing her literally merely so I can screw her figuratively.

  On the other hand, if she’s willing to open up about anything at all, I need to play along.

  “Does the possibility of falling for someone scare you, Beth?”

  “Scare? No. It terrifies me. What if they’re not everything I think they are? Or need them to be?”

  I try to shrug off my remorse. If she’s innocent and if she wants me, I’ll be the most thoughtful, attentive lover she’s ever had. If she’s guilty…then she should get what she deserves.

  “What if they are?” I murmur.

  “I don’t know.” She shrugs. “And what if I’m not enough for them? I’ve never stopped to think about what it would require to make a significant other happy.”

  “Are you thinking about it now?”

  “Yes.”

  I shouldn’t ask but… “Are you thinking about it with me?”

  “We’ve only known each other for a few days.”

  Though she hedged, her face tells me that’s exactly what she’s thinking.

  “That isn’t what I asked. Have you thought about it with me, Beth?”

  She hesitates, gnawing on her lip. “Yes.”

  I lean closer. God, this is so dangerous. My heart pounds and throbs. I’m aching to touch her. She has no idea how badly I want to give in…

  “Even though you said you don’t date co-workers and aren’t looking for romance?”

  An even longer hesitation. “Yes.”

  “What exactly are you thinking about, Beth?”

  “Stop asking me questions and kiss me.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Her whisper pelts my brain, heats my blood, stops my heart—stiffens my cock. “Are you sure, Beth? I think we should talk about this.”

  But talking is the last damn thing my body wants to do.

  “Look, if you don’t want to…” She ducks her head in mortification and turns away.

  I pull her back to face me. “Oh, I do. But…” I scramble for an excuse to explain my reluctance. “You and I both need a friend right now. Let’s make sure neither of us is mistaking loneliness for attachment.”

  “It’s a kiss, not marriage.”

  “You’re right. But once we cross the line…” There’s no going back. Frankly, that’s one of the few things stopping me from backing her against the wall, laying my mouth over hers, and stripping off her goddamn clothes.

  “Really, just forget I said anything.”

  “Now that it’s out there, I can’t. So we need to work through this, especially since you’re not the only one who’s been thinking about it.”

  “Oh.” She looks taken aback. “Well…the inn’s guests will start wandering in here shortly for the evening wine and appetizers Keeley usually sets out. Britta’s mom is taking care of it today, but if we want to talk privately, we should head to the ohana.”

  “Let’s go.”

  As I press my hand to the small of her back—mostly because I can’t keep my hands off her—Beth and I make our way out the back door, following the stone path to the cottage on stilts that’s adjacent to the main house. Under the structure is a fenced-in lanai with a quaint table and chairs. Bethany makes her way up the stairs and opens the bright turquoise door.

  Once we’re inside, my gaze sweeps over the cozy space. A plush sofa invites a duo to snuggle. Windows all around provide both mountain and ocean views to enjoy. Exposed ceiling beams and tropical colors relax and soothe. A little kitchenette supplies sustenance when needed. But it’s the big bed dominating the place that tells me this room was made for romance.

  It’s impossible not to picture Bethany lying across the white sheets, half-dressed, breathing hard, and waiting for me to peel off all the rest. I do my best to push the vision aside and focus, but it’s not happening. All I want is her.

  “This is really nice,” I manage to say.

  “They’ve done a great job with the place. Have a seat. Want a beer? Keeley keeps a few up here.”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  As she opens me a cold one and pours herself a glass of white, I scan her room again. It’s meticulous. Other than the suitcase on the luggage rack and another standing in the open closet, I would swear the room is vacant. I’m not surprised Bethany keeps the place neat and orderly. It fits her. My personal space is always a little more…relaxed.

  Finally, she hands me the chilled bottle, then sinks beside me nervously, clutching her glass. “I’m sorry I pushed you to kiss me. I shouldn’t have.”

  “I’m glad you did. It was bound to come up sooner or later anyway.” I sip my brew and set it on the tray across the nearby ottoman. “Because like I said, I’ve been thinking about kissing you, too, Beth. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I know your life is complicated now. So is mine.”

  “That’s another reason I should never have said anything. I don’t want to drag you into my problems.”

  “You’re not dragging me. I’m willing to help you work through whatever’s bothering you. We’re friends, right? That’s what friends do.”

  When we first met, lines like that were a necessary evil, and I had no problem saying whatever would get me into Bethany’s good graces. Now? Unless she asked me to help her carry out the Reed Financial scheme, I think I’d do just about anything to ease her load.

  Because I don’t simply want her; I like her, too.

  Fuck.

  That inconvenient truth aside, I can’t let my questions about her role in Dad’s death go unanswered.

  What the hell am I going to do? If I refuse Betha
ny tonight, I doubt she’ll give me a second chance to touch her. If I give in, there’s no way I’ll be able to stop at just a kiss. Either way, she’s going to tie me up in knots.

  Fucking no-win situation.

  “Thanks for the offer. But some things I need to work out myself. They’re big and complicated.”

  I frown. “And I’m too young to understand?”

  “No. I’m too scared to share, all right?”

  Because of what she’ll admit? Or what I’ll think of her?

  “Okay.” I squeeze her hand. I can’t push her any more now. “But I’m here for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Suddenly, we’re sitting in shadow illuminated by only the faintest hint of dusk eking through the windows. Her green eyes look so wide and uncertain. Her pale skin gleams. Her rosy lips and the way she nibbles that bottom one eat at my restraint.

  “If we’re really going to talk about this, I should turn on some lights and grab us a snack from the main house.”

  I suspect she’s stalling, but that’s okay. It gives me more time to think. “That would be great.”

  With a quiet nod, she rises and flips on a cozy table lamp before letting herself out of the cottage. She descends the stairs and disappears inside the inn.

  The moment she’s gone, I realize that I’m alone in her personal space and this may be my only opportunity to search it for clues. I have five minutes—tops—to figure out whether I need to put on the brakes with Bethany…or whether I can give in to the endless fucking need burning me to take her to bed.

  I hate this. I wish I had a choice…but I can’t pass up this opportunity.

  Shoving down my niggle of reluctance, I fling open her suitcases, checking the side pockets and zippered compartments first to avoid ruffling her carefully folded clothes. They’re empty. Other than a collection of shorts and T-shirts, I find nothing of note in the rest of her luggage. A few dresses and a couple of light sweaters hang from the overhead rack.

  Next, I yank open the dresser on the far side of the bed. Panties in muted colors—some lacy and downright sweat-inducing—line the bottom. Delicate matching bras are nested and stacked beside them. The rest of the drawers net a collection of bikinis, socks, scarves, and tanks. No papers. No thumb drives. No files of any kind. Of course, it doesn’t help that I don’t know what I’m looking for other than something that tells me whether Bethany Banks is guilty.

  She doesn’t have a computer that I can see. Maybe she left it in San Diego. Maybe the feds confiscated it. I don’t know. But damn it, the clock is ticking, so I keep moving.

  Quickly, I sweep the bathroom. She keeps the counter clear of personal items. In the cabinet, I find nothing out of the ordinary—makeup, deodorant, shampoo, shower gel, and the like. There’s no incriminating evidence, unless you count tampons and birth control pills.

  Darting back to the main room, I visually sweep the cottage again and spot her purse on the kitchenette counter. The display on my phone tells me she’s been gone four minutes.

  Stop or keep searching? I don’t want to be caught, but if I quit now, will I get another chance to inspect her personal space again?

  Biting back a curse, I reach for the magnetic closure on her quilted pale pink purse. The golden logo across the front proclaims the bag is Chanel. Inside, there’s one main compartment containing mints, a mini hairbrush, a few tubes of lipstick, and a compact—but nothing incriminating, nothing that gives me a reason to mentally convict her.

  I also find a small ring with two keys. One I saw her use to let us into this unit. The other… I don’t know what it opens, but I know what it doesn’t: any sort of safe deposit or strong box. My best guess is that it unlocks her apartment in San Diego.

  Next, I troll through her matching Chanel wallet, feeling guiltier by the moment for invading her privacy because it’s seeming more and more like she’s done nothing…except make me second-guess everything I thought I knew.

  Her driver’s license, ATM card, and credit cards galore take up all the slots. She doesn’t have a lot of cash on hand—mostly small, wrinkled bills people have left as tips, but her posh purse tells me she must have money somewhere. Same with all the plastic. But I keep coming back to the fundamental question: why the fuck is she working as a cocktail waitress when she’s way too educated for the job? Either she’s hiding here while maintaining a low profile to ensure people cool down and look the other way before she hits up her stolen stash and starts living her bougie life, or she’s innocent, the feds and her father have stripped her of everything, and she’s just trying to survive.

  Which fucking possibility is the right one?

  Tucked inside a compartment I nearly missed is a card from an FBI agent, Trevor Forsythe. I’ve never heard of this guy, but I whip out my phone, take a picture of his digits, then slide it back into place. I’ll pursue that later. But there’s nothing else of note here, and I have the same damn questions I did before I invaded her personal belongings without her consent.

  Finally, I reach for her phone. It’s password protected, no surprise. Bethany isn’t stupid, and I’m at another dead end.

  When I hear soft footsteps making their way up the stairs, I shove everything in her bag once more. I’m not going to make it back to the sofa in time, so I’ll have to lie to her. Again. This is really bugging the shit out of me.

  Behind me, the door opens. Wincing, I peek in the nearest cabinet. “Hey, I was just seeing if there was a glass I could pour the beer into. Found one.”

  When I turn, she’s looking at me suspiciously. I don’t blame her. What self-respecting beer drinker wants their cold beer poured into a room temperature mug?

  “Let me put it in the freezer for you, at least for a few minutes.” She takes it from my hand.

  There she is again, thinking of others. “Thanks.”

  As I settle back onto the sofa, she handles the mug, then sets a plate of cheese and crackers, along with some fresh pineapple, grapes, and mangos, in front of us. “Help yourself.”

  I’m not hungry, but I’ve already been an impolite bastard. I can choke down a few bites to make her effort worthwhile. “Thanks. You should eat, too. You’ve worked hard the last couple of hours.”

  She gives me a wan smile as she plucks a grape between her fingers. I reach for a cracker and watch her, shoving down guilt and grappling for conversation, when she sucks the fruit between her lips, closing her eyes as she bites.

  Watching her is a sexual experience that makes me instantly hard. And when she lets out an unconscious moan, the urge to kiss her, strip her down, and fuck her hits me even harder. Feeling like a heel, I drag in a shuddering breath.

  Jesus, what am I going to do?

  She swallows and lifts her wine. “You know, you’re the first man who’s ever wanted to discuss whether we should kiss before we actually did. I’m not sure if I should be flattered you’re taking this so seriously or feel rejected because you put me off.”

  I need to decide how to proceed, but my head is at war with my gut. Both keep tangling with my libido until I’m one giant clusterfuck. But everything boils down to two increasingly obvious facts: One, the desire I feel for this woman isn’t going away. The more I get to know her, the more I want her. Two, though my quick search of her ohana is hardly comprehensive, I haven’t seen a single shred of evidence that Bethany is guilty…and everything about her behavior so far says she’s not.

  It’s possible the feds didn’t arrest her is because she really is innocent. It’s possible she’s been through a lot, and I’ve just been an asshole on a witch hunt. It’s possible the quiet, caring woman I’ve been trying to resist these last few days is the real Bethany Banks.

  It’s also possible that’s what I want to believe because I’m falling for her.

  Fuck, I could talk myself in circles all day. I have to make a decision now, so I’m going with my gut. The Beth I’ve come to know isn’t the kind to steal from anyone. So I’m going to stifle my suspicions
and believe she’s innocent…unless I prove her guilty. Until then, I’m going to treat her not like a suspect but like a woman.

  Like my lover.

  “When you put it like that, I sound like an idiot,” I quip. “If you still want me to kiss you, I’m beyond happy to do it.”

  Five seconds slide by as she sends me a considering stare.

  Whether she means to or not, she’s making me wait. Anticipation screams through my blood. The thought of finally touching her is so fucking turning me on.

  “If you’re sure you want to…”

  “Yeah, Beth. I really do.”

  I can say that with all honesty.

  With a nervous nod, she tilts her head up to me. Her eyes slide shut as she waits.

  My heart thumps as I cup my fingers around her nape and stare. God, she’s going to be a sensory treat; I can already tell. Her skin here is ridiculously soft. Her braid caresses the back of my hand in a silky graze. I’ll explore every inch of her eventually. Right now, I’m fixated on her delicate jaw in my palm as I caress her pouty lower lip with my thumb.

  As I lean in to kiss her, she surprises me by staying me with a palm on my chest. “But Clint? One thing… I’ve never been vulnerable to a lover. Ever. I’m trusting you. Please don’t make me regret it.”

  Her plea gouges my conscience. “Beth…”

  Shit. Maybe I should come clean here and now, explain everything, and give her the opportunity to tell me the truth in turn.

  As I’m weighing the pros and cons, she wraps her arms around my neck, pulls herself against my body, and slants her lips across mine.

  Then I forget everything.

  Her kiss is an instant jolt of lust. My heart stops, then starts to thud dangerously. I drag in a breath to control the hot surge of lust, but it’s useless. Desire pours through my veins like lava, scalding every inch with need.

  I yank her closer, fastening my mouth over hers, and tumble her back against the arm of the sofa. As my body covers hers, I revel in her indrawn gasp. Impossibly, my desire notches up again. Impatiently, I part her lips with my own and sink into her.