Dangerous Temptation Read online

  "Well, I—"

  His uncertainty was evident, and before he could even begin to explain what had happened and ask her her name, she drew a breath. "Oh, I get it," she said. "There's someone there with you. Is it your wife?" She paused, but not long enough for him to make a denial, before continuing, "I didn't mean to make things difficult for you. But I was getting desperate. Ring me. Ring me tomorrow. You know where I'll be."

  16

  He hadn't expected to find Caitlin in the bedroom when he finally found his way upstairs.

  Since the embarrassing incident of the phone call, she hadn't even spoken to him, and he was well aware she hadn't believed him when he'd told the others he didn't know who the caller was. Of course, no one had actually asked him. It had been left to him to explain. And he'd done so to the best of his ability, hoping the Websters might know the woman's identity.

  But no one had professed to have any knowledge of her at all. Although, judging from his wife's expression, he suspected she was not deceived. It was obvious she thought the woman was his mistress. Who else would have the nerve to ask for him after his wife had answered the phone?

  Which could explain Caitlin's attitude towards him. If— however unlikely it seemed at the moment—he did have a mistress, then their marriage was probably on the rocks. Yet her parents had invited him here, so they apparently knew nothing about it. And Caitlin was still living with him, whatever he had done.

  Nevertheless, the call had ruined the remains of a fairly unsatisfactory evening, and he couldn't help feeling slightly resentful at the thought. His feelings towards the woman, whoever she was, were decidedly unfriendly, however, and he wondered if all amnesiacs suffered such a lack of self-respect.

  Caitlin was standing by the window.

  She had said she was going up to bed earlier, straight after Nancy Kendall had left, and he had not anticipated that he would find her here. On the contrary, after what had happened, he'd been quite prepared to find that her belongings had been removed. Even before that call this evening, she hadn't trusted him.

  He had shared a rather strained glass of brandy with her father and Marshall after both the women had gone to bed. They'd apparently suspended hostilities—at least until the morning—but he'd been glad when he could plead tiredness and escape.

  It had been an exhausting day—in more ways than one— and finding his wife waiting for him wasn't exactly to his taste. In other circumstances, of course, that would not have been his reaction, but he doubted her intentions were charitable.

  However, if she was expecting an explanation, she was going to be disappointed. He simply didn't have one to give. Somehow the woman had known this number. For some reason, she'd expected him to ring her. But whatever Caitlin believed, she meant nothing to him.

  Caitlin turned when she heard the door open, and he saw she was still dressed in the slim-fitting tunic she'd worn for supper. It was short—its hem ended a good two inches above her shapely knees—with a modestly scooped neckline and long sleeves. The ivory silk jersey hugged her upper body before flaring into a wealth of pleats from the hip. It was simple, yet effective; unpretentious, yet stylishly elegant, and was not designed to keep his blood pressure at rest. But her expression wasn't sexy; it was downright disapproving, and he wished she'd saved her resentment for the morning.

  Still, there was no reason why their conversation should be overheard by the rest of the household, and closing the door, he leant back against the panels. He felt incredibly weary, and his head was swimming slightly, due no doubt to all the alcohol he'd consumed.

  "Are you all right?"

  Her first words disconcerted him. He'd been expecting an accusation from her, or worse. To discover she was apparently concerned about him didn't fit the image. He didn't want her pity, whatever she might think.

  "I'm tired," he replied at last, relieved to hear he sounded less muddled than he felt. He flexed his spine experimentally, wondering if it would continue to support him. Then, evenly, "I thought you'd gone to bed."

  "Not yet."

  Her response was unnecessary in the circumstances, but he guessed it gave her time to think. He wished he knew why she'd chosen to wait up for him. To inform him she was sleeping someplace else?

  "You don't look very steady," she observed, and he wondered if she was enjoying his confusion. "You shouldn't have drunk so much wine at supper. I'm not sure you should be drinking alcohol at all."

  He expelled his breath on a sigh. "Is this what you've waited up to tell me?" he asked. "Your concern is duly noted, if not appreciated at this time." His lips twisted. "You know, I was expecting a verbal lashing. Or perhaps a continuation of the icy silence you treated me to downstairs."

  Her lips tightened. "What did you expect?"

  "I make it a point not to expect anything," he countered, regarding her with a weary contempt. "And what-ever you say, I know this isn't a friendly visit. So why don't you tell me what you really want?"

  Caitlin drew in her breath. "I don't know what you mean."

  "Yes, you do." He loosened the top button of his grey silk shirt and pulled his tie away from his collar with a heavy hand. "I know it's not going to help to repeat the fact that I don't know who the hell she is. You were in a black mood before she phoned."

  "I was not in a black mood," she contradicted him angrily. "You can't possibly know what kind of mood I was in when you slept until it was time to go down for supper. And this evening, you've done your best to humiliate me. Tell me, what did you think you were doing, holding hands with the pushy woman from the village?"

  "We were not holding hands." He was annoyed now. "For Christ's sake, what was I supposed to do? The woman was coming on to me, dammit. You should get your facts straight before you start throwing accusations like that around."

  "Coming on to you?" Caitlin was flushed. "I'm not surprised. After you'd spent practically the whole meal flirting with her. At least—" she paused "—until your— mistress—interrupted you."

  "My mistress?" He frowned. "How do you know who she was? Did she tell you?"

  "No." Caitlin had the grace to colour. "But who else would ring you here. My God, I don't know how she had the nerve to do it. You gave her the number, I suppose."

  He shrugged. He could do without this, but it was obvious Caitlin was spoiling for a fight. "I must have, I suppose," he said wearily. "Do you have any proof to substantiate your claim?"

  Caitlin gasped. "Why should I offer you proof? My God, you used to have the decency—or should I say the good sense?—to keep your conquests out of my father's house. If you expect me to tell you about the way you've humiliated me, forget it." She snorted. "I think you've lost your mind as well as your memory!"

  He came up off the door with an aggressive lurch. "Take that back."

  "No. Why should I?" Caitlin was unrepentant. "Why should I let you make a fool of me again? I have some rights, you know."

  "And so do I," he snarled, coming to a halt in front of her. "I'll say it again. I don't know who the woman who called me is. You maintain that she's my mistress. But what I want to know is—how do you know?"

  Caitlin's features froze. "I'd rather not discuss it."

  "I'll bet you wouldn't. There are too many unanswered questions that you're desperate to avoid. If she is—was—my mistress, and the jury's still out on that one, then tell me why I needed another woman if I was happy with my wife?"

  Caitlin turned her head away. "I don't know."

  "Don't you?" He didn't believe her, but the effort of continuing the argument was sapping what little strength he had. "It couldn't be because my dear wife was looking somewhere else as well."

  "No."

  Her denial was almost believable, but it did nothing to reassure him. "Well," he said heavily, "I'm going to find out why, sweetheart. That's one thing about which you don't need to have any doubts."

  Caitlin's lips twitched. "Don't call me sweetheart."

  "Why not?"

  "Because
I don't like it."

  "Like you don't like me?" he suggested. "Or like you don't like sex? Like you didn't like me touching you in the woods, when we both know that was a lie, as well?"

  Caitlin caught her breath. "I've told you, I don't want to talk about—personal—things tonight." She fixed her gaze at some point beyond his shoulder, as if she was afraid to meet his gaze. "I'm sure you should sit down. You're swaying on your feet."

  "Don't pretend you care." His voice was harsh and frustrated. "If it was left to you, I wouldn't be here at all."

  "That's not true."

  "So help me," he said heavily, leaning to rest his forearms on her shoulders. "If you really don't despise me, why don't you act like a wife for a change?"

  His weight caused her shoulders to dip slightly, but it was his words that had caught her attention. "I am acting like a wife," she protested. "If I wasn't, I'd have thrown you out. Now why don't you sit down on the bed before we both end up on the floor?"

  His lips twisted. "Y'know, that doesn't sound half bad," he told her huskily, and he saw the wary look that entered her eyes at his words. "But I agree with you, the bed does sound more inviting. Are you going to tuck me in?"

  Caitlin would have pulled away then, but finding a strength he'd hardly known he possessed, he fastened his hands on the slim bones that had held his weight. Then, ignoring her resistance, he bent his head to hers, and his mouth found the sweet temptation of her lips.

  Desire, hot and strong, revived his flailing senses. Like a man who'd lost all hope of redemption, he found a fiery sustenance in the kiss. Her mouth was soft and gentle, and hopelessly unprepared, but her response promised all the nourishment he craved.

  Her bones felt so fragile beneath his hands, but when he gathered her close, her body possessed an unexpected strength. Her hands, caught between them, were balled like fists against his chest, and for all her mouth was vulnerable, she seemed determined to escape a closer embrace.

  But the taste of her was heaven, and the feel of her slim body brushing his stirred him like no other woman could have done. He wanted her, he acknowledged; he wanted her so badly it almost hurt. He couldn't think of anything he wanted more.

  She had kept her lips tightly clenched at first, but the necessity of breathing was her undoing. When her lips parted to gulp some air, his tongue brushed past her teeth, and his head swam with the honeyed taste of her hot mouth.

  With a groan, his hands slid over her shoulders and down to the delicate hollow of her spine. The fabric of her dress was no softer than her skin beneath his caressing fingers, and her narrow hips shook slightly as he cupped her rounded bottom.

  He was shaking, too, so badly that he was sure she must he able to feel it, but he was half-afraid he'd lose the initiative if he gave in. And the softness of her stomach, and the slender legs beneath her skirt, were a delight he'd waited for too long to share.

  "Kiss me," he ordered thickly. "Kiss me, and then tell me we don't feel anything for one another any more." He caught her chin in one hand and tipped her face up to his. "Look at me, and deny you want this, too."

  Caitlin tilted her head as if trying to remove her chin from his grasp, but the effort was too much for her, and her nervous gaze swept anxiously over his face. Her eyes were dark and troubled, but there was a certain softness in them, too, and her fingers stretched and flexed against his chest.

  He could feel his own arousal pushing hard against her stomach, and he cursed himself for his obvious lack of control. It was not the way to play it; he didn't want her to think it was just sex. His feelings were much more complex than that.

  But then, as if giving in to some need inside herself, he felt her hands sliding up his shirt. She looped a finger in the buttonhole he had unfastened earlier, and then reaching up, she brushed his mouth with her tongue.

  It was sweet, and it was sensuous, and it almost brought him to his knees. When her small teeth bit his tongue, and her mouth shaped itself to his startled lips, he could only draw her closer, and he found to his delight that she no longer pulled away.

  "Christ!"

  His response now was swift and satisfying. As his mouth covered her face with hot, hungry kisses, his arousal found its home in the cradle of her hips. Feeling himself against her inspired an almost painful pleasure, and his need became an all-consuming flame.

  For the moment, the weakness that had plagued him since the accident was forgotten. The weakness he was feeling at the moment could only be cured by burying his aching flesh inside her. With trembling fingers, he drew up her skirt and felt the brush of pure silk against his fingers. She was wearing stockings, not tights, and the sensation was unbelievable, as he curled his eager hand about her thigh.

  But for all the urgency he was experiencing, he realised that if he didn't take the weight off his legs soon, he knew his knees would give out on him. There was only so much a man could stand, he thought dizzily, and kissing Caitlin was draining every ounce of strength he had.

  All the same, he had no intention of letting her go. Somehow, some way, he was going to make it, and covering her mouth with his, he backed her towards the bed.

  His head swam at the change of status. When he collapsed on top of Caitlin on the bed, the room spun sickeningly about him, and for a moment he thought he was going to black out. But he didn't. Within seconds, the room righted itself again, but now he had what felt like a blacksmith's hammer beating away inside his head.

  He couldn't help it. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and the groan he uttered was an unwilling admission of his feeble state. Like a beached whale, all he could do was roll off her, raising a hand to his head as he waited for the hammering to subside.

  "Nathan?"

  He'd half expected her to leave him; to scramble off the bed while she had the chance and make good her escape. After all, the situation hadn't been of her making, and after what had happened that afternoon, he had every reason to suppose she was already regretting what she'd done.

  But she didn't do any of those things. Instead, she scrambled onto her knees and leant anxiously over him. He felt her hands, soft and deliciously cool, smoothing his damp forehead, and there was a genuine look of concern in her eyes.

  "Nathan," she said again, "Nathan, what's wrong? Are you feeling ill? Do you need a doctor? Was it something I did?" She caught her lower lip between her teeth. "Can I get you a drink?"

  He tried a rueful grin and failed abysmally. Although the hammering in his head was beginning to ease, he still had a roiling sensation in his gut. It appeared all he'd achieved was a grimace, and she applied herself to pulling his tie free of his collar and loosening a couple more buttons on his shirt.

  The cool air against his hot skin was revitalising, and he attempted to breathe deeply and slowly, as he seemed to remember hearing one should do in cases like this. But the awareness of her there beside him was a constant distraction, and for all he had made a complete fool of himself, he was glad she was there.

  "I guess—I guess I'm not the stud I used to be," he declared at last, and then gave an inward groan at the recklessness of his words. The last thing he should be doing was reminding her of the way this had started. He closed his eyes against the censure he was sure he would see in hers.

  But, whatever she had thought of his loose comment, Caitlin seemed indifferent to it. As he lay there, fighting his own demons, she continued to loosen his clothes. She unbuckled his belt, undid the waistband of his trousers, and tugged his shirt free of any constriction. She didn't touch his zip, but she didn't have to, he thought drily. If she continued to brush against his over-sensitised skin, his rapidly hardening erection would undo it for her.

  Realising he had to say something, he opened his eyes and met her startled gaze. "What are you planning to do?" he inquired huskily. "I thought you had an aversion to my nudity."

  "No—I…"

  She moved her head in a nervous, awkward gesture. She was staring down at him now, as if she'd never seen him before. Ev
en as he made his protest, the tips of her fingers drifted over his pectoral muscles, snagging the fine covering of dark hair that arrowed down to his navel and beyond.

  "You're so brown," she said at last, as if that was any excuse for what she was doing to him. Already his flesh was responsive to every move she made. Only the fear of rekindling the pain in his head prevented him from doing some-thing about it. "I don't remember you being this brown before."

  His stomach contracted. Now was not the time for her to start worrying about his identity. "Does it matter?" he asked, praying she wouldn't pull away.

  "I don't suppose so," she answered, lifting her eyes to his almost defensively. "As a matter of fact, I like it. I just don't remember—noticing before."

  God, did she know what she was doing to him? As he gazed into those shimmering depths, he hardly knew. But, as if realising she was being provocative, she did something about it. Pulling her hands away, she imprisoned them between her thighs.

  His bruised senses stirred, and consigning his swimming brain to the hell it had put him through, he reached for her. And perhaps because he wasn't standing this time, his body didn't let him down. Even though he linked his hands behind her head before reversing their positions and imprisoning her beneath him, he only felt a trace of the imbalance that had troubled him before.

  Desire, pure and simple, displaced all other emotions. And for all Caitlin had been startled by his sudden reaction, he saw a similar feeling mirrored in her eyes. Her arms, so doubtful in the beginning, now linked around his neck, and her fingers twined into the tumbled darkness of his hair.

  And, oh, Lord! she felt so good beneath him. He could feel every sweet curve and angle against his skin. Her breasts, confined by the ivory silk of her bodice pushed against his chest, and he couldn't wait to feel her, flesh to flesh.

  All the fantasies he'd had about her while he was lying in the hospital bed were no wilder than the reality. She was every bit as responsive as he'd dreamed she'd be. Her waist, her hips, her legs—every inch of her enchanted him. He wanted to tear the dress aside and see all of her for himself.