Dangerous Temptation Read online

  She was lying half on her back, with one arm extended above her head. She was breathing deeply. Not snoring exactly, but her breath sighed softly between her teeth. Her lips were ever so slightly parted, and there was an appealing lack of tension in her face.

  And then he noticed something else, something he'd have noticed right away if he hadn't been so entranced by her vulnerability. But, without make-up of any kind, she was so deliciously natural, and he had had the most ridiculous urge to wake her with a kiss.

  Ridiculous, because he was no Prince Charming, and he doubted Caitlin would welcome his efforts if he did so. And now, as common sense reasserted itself, he took in what she was wearing, and his yielding sense of beneficence melted away.

  He wondered if she could have borrowed the garment from her mother, though from what he had seen of Mrs Webster thus far, he would not have believed she would have such an item in her wardrobe. Mrs Goddard, then, he thought, his resentment increasing at the thought of Caitlin asking the housekeeper to help her out. Surely no one else would own a flannelette nightgown with a high, round collar and long sleeves buttoned at the wrist.

  Fury gripped him. The idea that his wife should have chosen to wrap herself up in such ugly nightwear in the hope of spiking his interest would be laughable, if it didn't anger him so. Didn't she realise that a man liked nothing better than a challenge? That no amount of protection would put him off?

  He scowled. His fingers itched to tear the offending garment from her sleeping figure. He wondered if she was still wearing her underwear, as well. He knew he'd get a great deal of pleasure out of exploding the myth she'd created, and he'd like to see her face when she realised she'd made a mistake.

  Then he became aware of something else, something he'd also overlooked upon wakening. He was still wearing the trousers he'd been wearing the night before when he flopped down upon the bed. He must have fallen asleep while Caitlin was taking her shower. And all she'd done was bundle him under the quilt when she came out.

  He now understood his own feelings of discomfort. He'd been aware of the constriction ever since he opened his eyes. But he'd been so excited to find his wife sharing the bed with him, he hadn't thought about what he was wearing. As he hadn't worn any pyjamas at the apartment, he hadn't given his own nightwear a thought.

  It was unbelievable that in this day and age a woman of Caitlin's experience should behave so—childishly. Couldn't she at least have pulled off his trousers before rolling him into bed? Of course, she'd have been afraid that if she did that, he might wake up and get the wrong impression. She was scared to death he'd take advantage of her weakness.

  Being careful not to wake her, he turned onto his side and propped his chin on the palm of his hand. Was she really his wife? he wondered, feeling again that sense of alienation he'd hoped would have subsided by now. God, she looked more like Mama Walton at the moment. But her appearance of innocence didn't please him. He didn't want to feel sorry for her. He wanted to sustain his anger until she awoke.

  Yet his feelings towards her were as complex as the rest of this situation. If only he knew what had happened to cause the rift between them. Because, whatever she said, however she denied it, she was not comfortable with him. God, his lips twisted bitterly, this latest development was proof enough of that.

  A strand of her hair lay on the pillow beside him, and giving in to an urge as primitive as time, he carried the silken tendril to his lips. It smelt of warmth, and cleanness, and a faintly citrus essence, which he guessed she'd used to wash it. When he touched it, when he tasted it, it was every bit as appealing as he'd expected.

  Taking the strand into his mouth, he bit into its fine texture, enjoying doing something so intimate to her without her being aware of it. He wondered how she would feel at the thought that he had been making subtle love to her. It was a tantalising thought in the present circumstances.

  But when he spread the strand of her hair between his fingers again and saw how damp his tongue had made it, he realised that playing with her like this was causing havoc with his own sexuality. Beneath the confining tightness of his trousers, his erection strained the seams of his silk briefs, and with a feeling of resignation, he put his hand beneath the covers and released his taut arousal from its restraint.

  His relief was swift and soothing, although it in no way assuaged his needs, his body's craving. Nevertheless, he was satisfied that he could pervert her efforts so easily. He could imagine how shocked she'd feel if her hand brushed against his throbbing flesh.

  So much for the best laid plans, he mused sardonically. She should have made sure she was out of bed before he awoke. He couldn't believe she didn't know that something like this might happen. It wasn't the first time he'd had a morning erection, he was sure.

  Dismissing that kind of speculation because of its obvious dangers, he resumed his contemplation of her sleeping form. He wondered how she'd react if he unbuttoned her nightgown. It apparently fastened down the front, and he mused that if he opened the buttons, its appearance would be much improved.

  Ignoring any twinge of conscience—any warning that he knew exactly how she'd react—he put out his hand and touched the first pearl button. By carefully widening the buttonhole, it easily popped through. The garment wasn't new and the fabric was soft and yielding. Without a great deal of effort, it was no problem to repeat his success.

  He had to draw the quilt away to continue his investigation, and he saw to his regret that the buttons only opened as far as her waist. But, what the hell, it was perfect for his purposes. And it would prove how silly she had been to play this game.

  And, in many ways, the nightgown was more of a temptation than some of its scanty contemporaries, he thought ruefully. It wasn't always the most obvious item that attracted a man's attention. And Caitlin, in her modest chemise, was a temptation. He didn't need his memory to tell him that.

  As witness the sudden unsteadiness of his hands.

  She stirred suddenly, as if the cooler air invading the neckline of the nightgown was disturbing her rest. Perhaps she'd sensed his excitement; perhaps his shaking hands had accidently nudged her awake. Whatever, he was gripped by an overwhelming desire to continue even though he knew she was bound to find out.

  But she was deeply unconscious, and it took some time for her to rise through the layers of sleep and realise what was going on. As she stirred, she made appealing sounds that were half submissive, half in protest, as if she knew exactly what he wanted and was urging him to go on.

  His inflamed senses reacted instantly to this provocation. Besides, he was eager to capitalise on his success. He knew he didn't have much time before she opened her eyes and realised what was happening, and although he chided his ruthless need, he allowed his hand to move over the soft cloth and touch her breasts.

  The hardening in his groin became almost unbearable. The sight of her taut nipples, puckering in the cool air, made him long to take them into his mouth. Ignoring the fact that he was risking more than her indignation, he bent his head towards her, taking one hot little bud gently between his teeth.

  God, it was heaven!.

  Even though he knew she was an unwilling party to his ministrations, he couldn't deny the sweetness of her arousal against his tongue. He suckled hungrily, like a man who's been denied his life's sustenance for far too long, changing to her other breast with a fervour that fired his blood.

  Then, two things happened almost simultaneously. Despite his intention not to go any further, his hand moved almost of its own volition to caress her flat stomach. And Caitlin's eyes opened.

  He couldn't honestly have said who was the most shocked by her sudden awareness of what was happening. For all his resentment at the way she had treated him, he felt almost embarrassed to be caught out behaving in such a way. And he didn't try to stop her when she uttered a cry and rolled away from him. He was already regretting his actions and anticipating how depressing the remainder of the day was going to be…

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nbsp; 12

  It was late when he reached Prescott. But that suited him. He didn't want anyone questioning his arrival, noting the strange vehicle in the vicinity of Varley's Mill. With a bit of luck, the old man would still be up. Jacob didn't sleep well these days, and his son knew he often watched television until the early hours of the morning.

  The old house that abutted the now-unused lumber yard looked deserted, but he wasn't worried. His father had always been a mean old skinflint and he was unlikely to leave any lights burning that weren't needed. God knew, anyone else would have sold the lot for development years ago, but Jacob clung to the old place as if he was afraid his son might get his hands on the proceeds if he sold out.

  Still, the house's isolation at the edge of town, among a handful of run-down factories and warehouses, suited his purposes tonight. It would be easy enough to stow the rental car in one of the empty woodsheds, and the fewer people who knew he was here the better. He even left the suitcase in the car. He had no wish for his father to get his hands on it, and Prescott wasn't New York after all.

  Deciding it wouldn't be wise to go poking round for a place to store the car until he'd spoken to his father, he parked in the yard and walked across to the house. His key still fit the lock, but it didn't gain him admission. Evidently, the old man had become more security conscious in recent years.

  He had no choice but to press the bell and wait for his father to answer. But although he listened intently, he couldn't hear any movement inside the house. He looked up at the blank windows with raw frustration. Where was the old devil? He never left the premises.

  He had rung the bell three times before he heard a sound beyond the heavy panels. Was it a footstep? He didn't think his father kept a dog, but he couldn't be sure. Whoever it was, he was breathing heavily. The skin on the back of his neck prickled. It had to be his father. There was no one else.

  "Who is it? Who's there?"

  There was no mistaking his father's querulous tone, and he pressed his face to the door. "It's me," he hissed. "Come on, Pa. Open up. It's freezing my balls off out here."

  There was a pregnant silence, and belatedly he wondered what his father had been told about the crash. He might even think he had come here straight from the hospital. Oh, shit, this was going to be harder than he'd thought.

  "Pa," he said again, adopting a wheedling tone, "aren't you gonna let me in?"

  There was another pause, a shorter one this time, and then, to his relief, he heard the sound of a chain being lifted and bolts withdrawn from both the top and the bottom of the door. At last, it swung inwards onto the dark passageway beyond, and without waiting for an invitation, he stepped inside.

  The door closed, and in the dim light from a dusty bulb, he surveyed his father. "Hi there," he greeted him with forced cordiality. "Well, here I am. The prodigal has returned."

  Jacob Wolfe secured the bolts again and replaced the chain, while his son glanced distastefully about him. Damn, he thought, this place was filthy. If the old man thought so much about it, why didn't he keep it clean?

  He turned from his appraisal of his surroundings to find his father watching him with wary eyes. "Nathan?" he said. "It is Nathan, isn't it?"

  He was tempted to say, "Who did you expect?" but it wasn't the time for levity. "Who else?" he asked instead, sauntering down the hall towards his father's study. "God, it's bloody cold in here. Don't you ever heat this place?"

  His father said nothing, just followed him down the hall, and by the time he'd tossed a couple more logs on the smouldering embers in the hearth, the old man had resumed his seat. He'd also turned off the television, which he'd noticed had been tuned to some old black-and-white movie from the forties. Now he was regarding his son with narrowed, assessing eyes.

  The room hadn't changed much. The ceiling might look a little more grimy, but the leather volumes on the book-lined shelves seemed resistant to the passage of time. Not that the heavy tomes had ever been removed in his memory. Jacob had never been a reader. They'd belonged to his wife's father, when he was alive.

  "Where have you been?"

  Jacob's first words startled him. He had at least expected him to ask about the accident, but evidently his father had other things on his mind. "I've been in New York," he said, the lie coming naturally to him. "I guess the—er—authorities got in touch with you about the crash?"

  "I heard about it," replied Jacob eventually. "It was quite a shock to begin with. And then I found out you weren't on that plane."

  His son scowled. Shit, he thought frustratedly. He should have known. The old man had spoken to his brother since it happened. So where was Jake now? What had he been telling their father about the reason for his trip?

  "How did you find out?" he demanded, not stupid enough to try and deny it. "I guess Jake told you. Right?"

  "Your wife came to see me," replied his father, and he felt a twinge of panic. God, had Jake told the authorities who he really was?

  "Caitlin came here?" he said, trying to sound casual, and his father gave him a scornful look.

  "That's what I said," the old man replied, nodding. "She was concerned about me. She didn't want me to worry about you being hurt."

  "Me being hurt?" His brows descended. "But I thought you just said she told you I wasn't on the flight."

  "No." His father's smile was mocking. "She told me you were. She thinks Jake is you. Why wouldn't she? You'd never told her you had a twin."

  "What?"

  He was confused, bewildered. Of course he'd never told Caitlin he had a twin. It wasn't a story he'd want to brag about to anyone, and when Jake had first given him all the sordid details, he'd wanted to puke. His father had always let him think his mother had had some genuine reason not to keep both children, and learning that she'd been some cheap waitress his father had seduced on one of his trips south had really screwed him up.

  All the same, that didn't explain why Jake hadn't told Caitlin who he was; why his father hadn't told Caitlin who Jake was—

  He tried to make sense of what his father was saying. "You're telling me that Caitlin identified Jake as me?"

  "Why not?" His father shrugged. "The seat was booked in your name, he was carrying your passport. If I hadn't seen him in the flesh, so to speak, I'd probably have believed it myself."

  Nathan swallowed, and seeking refuge behind the old man's desk, he sank into his worn leather chair. "You went to New York?"

  "That's right."

  "And you saw Jake?"

  "In the hospital," agreed his father.

  "But why?" he ventured tightly as the grandfather clock ticked relentlessly at his back. "I mean, why would you let him get away with it? Is this some way to get back at me for neglecting you? Why didn't you tell Caitlin the truth?"

  "I would have." Jacob was infuriatingly offhand. "But I was pretty skewed myself at the time. I couldn't believe what I'd seen, and I guess I was shocked, too. In any event, I needed time to think."

  "But what did he say?" demanded his son. "Did you confront him with your suspicions? What did he do?"

  "He didn't do anything," replied Jacob evenly. "I think he thought I was senile. Like I said, I couldn't wait to get out of there."

  "I don't believe this!" The younger man was getting angry. "I can't believe you didn't call his bluff. I know we've had our differences in the past, but dammit, you raised me. If you don't like what you've created, it's not my fault."

  "No." At last, Jacob seemed to agree with him. "Okay. I'll accept that your faults are partly mine. But I want to know what's going on. Why was Jake on that plane pretending to be you? It wasn't his idea. I'm sure of that."

  His son's lips twisted. "Why not? I'm not pretending to be him."

  His father merely looked at him, and aware that he was in danger of losing all sympathy, he bent his head. Until he knew what was going on, he was stuck with the old man. It wouldn't do to antagonise him, not when he needed his help.

  "Okay," he said in a low voice, wo
ndering if he could repeat the story he had given Jake. He hunched his shoulders. "Jake was helping me, as you suspect. I'd asked him to go to London in my place."

  "Why?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "I think so." Jacob's mouth compressed in distaste. "I want to know what dirty business you've got him mixed up in. I assume it involves money. That is your god."

  Nathan ground his teeth together. Whatever he said, the old man could always make him feel small.

  "That is why you married that sweet, innocent girl, isn't it?" his father appended. "You should have invited me to the wedding. I'd have warned her what to expect."

  "Which is exactly why you weren't invited!" exclaimed his son angrily. "And Caitlin's no innocent. Don't be fooled by those doe-eyed looks."

  "Not now, perhaps." His father shook his head. "She's lived with you for three years, hasn't she? Oh, go on, boy. You're beginning to irritate me."

  His son looked as if he would have liked to respond in kind, but instead, he hauled open a drawer in his father's desk and pulled out a bottle of whisky. "You don't mind, do you, Pa?" he asked carelessly, unscrewing the cap. "It's not as if you ever touch the stuff yourself."

  Jacob's expression grew daunting. Big as he was, his son could still be intimidated by his father's moods, and with an exclamation of disgust, he returned the whisky to the drawer. Then he got restlessly to his feet to pace about the room, trying to compose his words into a believable story.

  "Jake—Jake offered to take something to England for me," he declared at last. "He knew I'd never get away with it myself."

  Jacob's eyes never flickered. "What—something—are we talking about? Cash?" His gaze narrowed. "Drugs?"

  "That's not your concern."

  "It is my concern." Jacob swore. "Christ Almighty, Nathan, if it's what I think it is, I should kill you for involving Jake in your reckless schemes."

  "What makes you think I had to twist his arm?" retorted his son resentfully. "Look—I may have mentioned the idea to Jake, but he didn't need much persuading to take part. God!" He almost began to believe his own reasoning. "He seems to like being me better than being himself."