Wolfe's Temptress Read online

  ‘It’s all right. It’s just a splinter.’ She had to force the words through a tight throat.

  Which closed completely when sensation exploded through her, accelerating her heartbeat until time spun out, suspending her in a void. Staring helplessly at their joined hands, she tried to control the fire summoned by his touch.

  Lobo growled again as she jerked her hand free.

  What’s happening? What have I done? she thought, panicking. Thinly, she added, ‘It must have come from the decking.’

  ‘Have you put anything on it?’

  ‘Yes. Some antiseptic ointment.’

  Frowning, he relinquished her hand and sat back on the sofa. Lobo relaxed, but kept an eye on him as he picked up the mug and drank from it, setting it down to say, ‘Keep an eye on it. Splinters can infect,’

  ‘I’ll make sure it doesn’t,’ she said crisply, and added, Your mother brought you up to be very protective of women.’

  ‘She brought me up to be considerate of anyone weaker than I am.’ His voice was coolly reflective and his eyes gleamed as he added, ‘I don’t include you in that category.’

  It was both a declaration of war and a back-handed compliment. ‘I’m gratified,’ she said in her driest voice, and added, hoping that her reluctance wasn’t too obvious, ‘You can’t go back to the yacht. And I haven’t got a drier, so it’ll take all night for your clothes to dry in front of the fire.’

  Turning his head, he looked through the window. Rain drummed across the roof, hiding a moment of tension, of awareness so acute that Rowan thought she could feel his presence with every cell in her body.

  After a moment he asked evenly, ‘Are you suggesting I stay here?’

  ‘You’ll have to,’ she replied in her most composed voice, ignoring the outcry from her instinct of self-preservation. Hastily she added, ‘I have a spare room.’

  Wolfe’s lashes drooped. ‘In that case,’ he said with masterly irony, ‘I’ll accept, thank you.’

  Jerkily Rowan stood up and moved towards the door. ‘I’ll get Lobo his dinner and then start on ours.’

  ‘Show me the spare bedroom,’ Wolfe said, ‘and I’ll make the bed. And then we’ll both cook dinner.’ His tone made it clear that that wasn’t an option; she was going to have him working in her small, shabby kitchen, like it or not.

  She did not like it. He took up more space than his size entitled him to. ‘It will be simpler if I do it myself.’

  ‘Not tonight. You’re exhausted.’

  Although Rowan had stopped shivering, her limbs still weighed heavy, but the tiredness gripping her went beyond the physical. Surrendering to his stronger will—just this time! she promised herself—she said, ‘I’m not, but thank you for offering,’ and walked rapidly through the door. She needed time for her foolish heart to ease back to a reasonably steady beat.

  After she’d pointed out the spare bedroom and told Wolfe where the sheets were, she said, ‘Come on, Lobo. Dinner.’

  The dog pranced off beside her, but even as she tipped into his dish a large chunk of the meat loaf loaded with rice and vegetables that she cooked specially for him, his attention remained fixed through the door and along the hall.

  Rowan knew how Lobo felt. If she closed her eyes she could see Wolfe Talamantes imprinted on her lids—his handsome, autocratic face and lean, honed strength, the arrogant, disciplined authority, the lithe animal grace based on co-ordination and total confidence.

  For the past weeks she’d tried desperately to forget him—to forget everything about the night they met—without success. Every second of that meeting was imprinted on her brain, a necessary and essential part of her. She felt connected to him, as though their wild lovemaking had forged a link that transcended the physical.

  It scared her witless.

  Perhaps, she rationalised, rinsing out the container in the sink, it was her old, abandoned love sculpture calling her. The memory of Wolfe’s tanned, magnificent body still had the power to tighten her gut in instinctive homage. A passion, not connected to the sexual delight he’d given her, itched to immortalise it. Perhaps if she did, she’d be free of this acute vulnerability.

  A clay model first…

  No, he’d never pose. And how could she do justice to his eyes, keenly intelligent, overwhelming his hard features—eyes that saw too much, knew too many secrets about her, and wanted to know more…?

  Shaken by exquisite need, she wondered why she’d asked him to stay instead of ringing Jim, who’d have taken him into the village.

  Except that it was hardly fair to Jim. And it was only one night. With Lobo she’d be perfectly safe. Even without Lobo she’d be safe! The years she’d spent learning to defend herself meant she could deal with any situation that threatened physical harm.

  Anyway, she was almost certain there was nothing unstable about Wolfe. Hard and ruthless, yes, but he wasn’t like his brother—the threat he represented was to her peace of mind, not her life.

  Or was that another example of wishful thinking?

  Rain drummed with staccato insistence on the roof as she left Lobo to his food and checked the washing machine, its subdued banging and thumping informing her that it had almost reached the end of its cycle.

  Instead of seeing to dinner, she lingered in the chilly laundry. Light from the windows revealed pohutukawa trees tossed in the wind, their heavy, sinuous branches clawing at the air, leathery leaves flicking to reveal the silver underside. Bunches of buds whipped like chained snowflakes across the blackness beyond.

  In December, when the land and the sea were at their warmest, Wolfe would be long gone and those buds would open to reveal scarlet and crimson flowers like small brushes—so many that when they fell they’d stain the water beneath the cliffs the colour of blood…

  Rowan swallowed. Lobo paced through the door and pressed against her, his warm shaggy body tense yet comforting. After a day when her life seemed to have been turned on its head, she needed comfort.

  She was torn with sympathy for Laura Simpson, who’d given up on life because of a hunger for the truth—a truth that would shatter for ever her illusions about her dead son.

  Trust her, Rowan thought bleakly as she opened a cupboard door and took out a folding clothes horse, to lose her head over a man who had the power to make her life as much a hell as his half-brother had.

  She carried the clothes horse down the hall and into the sitting room. Wolfe stood in the window, frowning down at the harbour. He swivelled as she came in, and came across, saying abruptly, ‘I could have done that.’

  ‘It’s not heavy,’ she said, relinquishing the metal frame to him and watching as he set it up—a tricky job that had him swearing beneath his breath as it collapsed.

  When Rowan laughed he glanced up with gleaming eyes. She stopped, her mouth drying. Two deft movements from Wolfe had the clothes horse under control.

  Straightening up, he said bluntly, ‘You don’t have to fetch and carry for me, Rowan. I’ll get my clothes from the machine and hang them up.’

  ‘All right, although they’re not quite finished yet.’

  As rain spattered across the windows, he glanced back.

  Divining what was worrying him, Rowan said, ‘Your yacht will be all right. It’s good holding out there, and she’s actually more sheltered than we are.’

  ‘I know.’

  Hoping to lighten the atmosphere, she asked, ‘What made you call her after the enchantress who turned Ulysses’s men into pigs? Surely that was asking for trouble?’

  Amusement glinted behind his lashes. ‘Don’t forget that Circe fell in love with Ulysses.’

  ‘A dangerous woman, nevertheless,’ she said brightly.

  He gave her a cool, mocking glance. ‘The world is full of them, but I can handle that.’

  She’d bet there was very little Wolfe couldn’t handle, especially when it came to women. A jagged thrust of some forbidden emotion took her by surprise.

  ‘What did I say?’ he asked, th
ose piercing eyes intent.

  Shrugging, she said, ‘You strike me as being the competent sort.’

  It seemed important that he not recognise her evasion for what it was, but although she made her eyes wide and innocent she couldn’t tell whether she’d succeeded.

  ‘Having second thoughts about offering me a sanctuary for the night?’ he asked, watching her with dispassionate aloofness.

  ‘No!’ She answered too swiftly, too emphatically, and had to follow it with a more neutral, ‘Not at all. I’m just not used to guests. Even in summer the harbour entrance is so tricky that few people find their way in, and once they’ve seen Lobo they usually find their way out again.’

  ‘And you don’t relish any intrusion on your privacy,’ he finished, and sent her a calculated smile of such potent, compelling charm that it heated her bones and smoothed over her tension like honey melting across pancakes, eclipsing her fierce self-preservation with an equally old, subtly stronger instinct.

  But in spite of her body’s treacherous desire to surrender, her cynical mind applauded. He’d tried intimidation, and that hadn’t worked. Now it seemed he was going to try seducing the information he wanted from her.

  It hurt because she was beginning to want much more from him than sex, but she could cope. It would take more than flattery and charm to persuade her secrets from her.

  ‘It makes me sound churlish—and reclusive—but, yes, you’re right,’ she said. ‘And I do have to keep working. I’m a potter with orders to fulfil.’

  ‘Why settle in this out-of-the-way spot?’ His voice was casual, as was the glance accompanying it, but Rowan knew by now that with Wolfe there were no unimportant questions.

  Equally casually she replied, ‘My grandparents lived here. Because of my father’s job we moved around a lot, so this was always home.’

  ‘If you sold it,’ he said idly, ‘you could probably buy a much more modern place closer to town, with enough left over so you wouldn’t have to work. Land like this, so private and with such beautiful views, is worth a small fortune.’

  ‘I like it here, and so far I’ve managed.’ Shrugging, she changed the subject without finesse. ‘I’ll go and start dinner.’

  He gave her a keen glance, and got to his feet.

  While she sliced a previously roasted pepper into strips and added them and some herbs to the leaves torn from her small planting of lettuces, he washed the new potatoes, then shelled broad beans. Rowan prepared the spears of asparagus before making up a dressing with balsamic vinegar and extra virgin olive oil. He was deft and quick, a man who needed to be shown something only once.

  And he seemed to take up all the room in the kitchen, so that whenever she moved she found him right where she wanted to be. Every so often they accidentally brushed against each other, sparking off a forbidden response in every cell in her body.

  ‘These are the last of the broad beans,’ she said when the atmosphere began to prickle with tension. ‘They hate the hot weather.’

  ‘Changeover time,’ he said laconically. ‘The end of one season and the beginning of another.’

  Her skin tightened in a primal warning.

  ‘Tell me where the utensils are and I’ll set the table,’ Wolfe said, startling her.

  He wouldn’t understand how reluctant she was to let him into her cupboards and drawers; he’d probably never looked in his own. No doubt he had a housekeeper, and he’d certainly possess the very best of linen and cutlery.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ she said quickly.

  When he frowned, she suspected that he understood her feelings, and flushed.

  He said, ‘Put it on the bench and I’ll take it through. Where do you eat?’

  She opened a drawer and took out the only decent tablecloth she possessed. ‘On the small table in the sitting room. It’s more comfortable than the dining room, which is freezing if I don’t light the fire.’

  As soon as he’d disappeared with the cloth she rapidly got out knives and forks, salt, pepper and plates, glad that when she’d arrived home the day before she’d rescued five trembling early rosebuds from the rain. They were now open; while Wolfe set the table she put them into a cut crystal vase that had belonged to her grandmother, and took them in.

  Cream, with hearts of gold, they rested in the centre of the table like fragile, gauzy Victorian maids of honour, their lazy, provoking scent rising effortlessly above the more earthy, savoury smells of the food.

  A few minutes after they’d begun dinner Wolfe commented, ‘You have a multitude of talents—potter, cook, and gardener. Is there anything you can’t do?’

  ‘That’s about all I can do. Don’t ask me to sew or knit or run a computer.’ Surprised and pleased by the compliment, Rowan forgot herself enough to smile without fencing it behind caution. The salad was tasty and crisp, and he was demolishing the tiny white new potatoes in their shroud of butter and chives with a speed that fell just short of greed.

  ‘Working a computer doesn’t require talent, just the ability to follow instructions and think logically.’ He chewed another mouthful and commented, ‘Kura Bay has an excellent butcher.’

  She forked up a broad bean. ‘Courtesy of my neighbour.’

  ‘The gregarious and helpful Jim?’

  Rowan smiled. ‘I grow vegetables for him; he gives me meat and fish in exchange.’

  ‘You don’t have problems with ’possums?’

  Rowan met his eyes coolly and dispassionately. ‘I probably would if I didn’t trap and shoot them.’

  She hated doing it; she felt like a murderess. But it was worth it. No great trees held gaunt, dead limbs above the forest canopy on her land, and in summer the shore was ringed with fiery blossom, unlike the coasts to the north and south of her.

  Fiercely she said, ‘I wish our ancestors had left their wretched mammals at home!’

  ‘They didn’t know about ecology,’ he said. ‘Both Polynesians and Europeans were wanderers who moved into islands and continents without realising the harm they or their livestock could do. And, to be fair, it would have been impossible for the Europeans to keep out rats.’

  ‘They didn’t have to introduce anything else,’ she said sternly.

  ‘They suffered from a very human lack of imagination and understanding,’ he said, and smiled when she snorted, his eyes reflecting greenly in the soft light above the table as his gaze lingered on her face. ‘Aren’t you lonely living here, miles from anyone but a man who apparently spends most of his time out fishing?’

  Perhaps, but she found it safe too. She’d rather he kept on trying to bully her—at least that was honest—instead of turning that potent, experienced charm onto her.

  ‘Lonely? Not a bit,’ she said blandly.

  ‘Is this your work?’ he asked, nodding at the bowl she’d filled with fruit.

  It was one of her favourites. The burnished glaze was easy to manipulate, but it looked spectacular. And the shape was almost perfect.

  ‘Yes.’

  His long-fingered hands touched it with a gentleness that sent a shiver down her spine. He’d touched her like that—gently, and then he hadn’t been gentle at all…

  Concentrating on her food, she locked and barred those treacherous memories.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said, as though he hated to admit it.

  Rowan strove to squash a flickering, suspect joy. It wasn’t the first time her work had been praised, yet his words meant so much more.

  ‘I’m good at what I do,’ she said prosaically.

  ‘You’re better than good—you’re an artist,’ he said with cool assurance.

  ‘Thank you.’ She picked up her half-empty water glass and sipped to ease her arid throat.

  This house was her haven and her fortress. She wasn’t accustomed to having it invaded through the postern gate, and that, she told herself, was why she was feeling hot and languorous and edgy.

  Rowan knew herself to be at a disadvantage. In her experience rich, sophisticated men were
greedy and demanding, like children who chased butterflies, uncaring that their grabbing for beauty crushed wings and killed the object of their desire. Since Tony she’d avoided any entanglements, helped by five years of living like a nun in Japan.

  However, she suspected that no amount of experience would have helped her deal with Wolfe; he didn’t behave like any other man she’d met.

  The night they’d spent together might mean nothing more to him than good sex, but for her it had been a transcendental experience, marking her in ways she was only just beginning to understand.

  ‘You must be very fond of your own company,’ he said, probing none too subtly.

  ‘And Lobo’s.’

  Lobo lifted his head. He didn’t growl, but his reserve was palpable.

  ‘Named by a romantic,’ Wolfe said, something akin to mockery underlying the words.

  ‘I didn’t call him that—his breeders did,’ she told him defensively.

  ‘He’s a superb animal. Did you train him?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said serenely. ‘Although he’s pretty strong-minded he wanted to learn, so it was exhilarating even when he was stroppy. It took patience, but he was always eager; we got there.’

  Wolfe’s disturbing greenstone gaze scanned Lobo’s dark face, then flicked up to Rowan’s. ‘A bit like you learning martial arts,’ he said.

  So he knew about that too. She said haughtily, ‘You’ve been doing a lot of research.’

  ‘I like to know as much about my adversaries as possible.’ The steel in his voice sent chills along her spine.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘WISE of you,’ Rowan returned crisply. ‘Would you like some fruit and cheese? We can eat that with coffee in front of the fire. I’ll see if I can find some crackers.’

  ‘Stay there,’ Wolfe told her. ‘I’ll find the crackers and cheese and make the coffee.’ He got up, unconcerned that he was still only wearing her father’s dressing gown.

  But then he’d be well aware that, no matter what clothes he wore, his size and confidence and tough authority—that sense of power held firmly in check—produced a relentlessly male impact.