Wolfe's Temptress Read online

  She eyed her glass, but decided she’d drunk enough false courage for the moment. Anyway, she was twenty-seven years old; she could handle this. And if she couldn’t, it was time she learned to.

  ‘Rowan,’ Bobo said from behind, ‘here’s someone who’d like to meet you!’

  A note in her voice warned Rowan that this someone was important and a possible buyer. Bracing herself, she turned.

  Beneath Bobo’s smile lurked a hint of anxiety. ‘Wolfe Talamantes,’ she announced. Being Bobo, she automatically fluttered her lashes at the tall man beside her, but his dark green eyes were fixed on Rowan.

  Lost in turbulent free-fall, Rowan stared up into a compelling, dangerous face, all hard angles and bold piratical features, while every pulse point in her body thundered with excitement and apprehension. Although the incredibly named Wolfe Talamantes was starkly handsome, his potent magnetism came from within, not from some fortuitous arrangement of genes.

  The bubble of panic expanded, but the combination of his name and the memory of Bobo’s earlier suggestion that Rowan wouldn’t know a wolf if she met one, brought a gurgle of laughter to her lips.

  His brows drew together over a nose that would have been straight if he hadn’t broken it some time in the past. Instead of coarsening his face, the slight crookedness only added to his dangerous attraction.

  ‘I know,’ Wolfe Talamantes agreed drily. A rasp not too far beneath the surface of his voice licked along her nerves like suede across her skin. ‘But it’s a family name.’

  Dry-mouthed, Rowan said carefully, ‘I’m sorry, that was rude of me. It’s just that my dog is called Lobo.’

  Slanted black brows lifted. ‘A poodle?’ he said with resignation.

  She laughed again. ‘No,’ she said, adding without thinking, ‘A truly magnificent German Shepherd.’

  In the distance she heard Bobo continue stubbornly, ‘Wolfe, this is Rowan. Rowan, Mr Talamantes is interested in Number 47.’ She waited, and when neither of them answered finished, ‘The green bowl.’

  It took all the courage Rowan possessed to force out her hand. ‘How do you do?’ she said conventionally, her skin tightening as her fingers were swallowed up by lean, cool ones.

  ‘Rowan,’ he said in a deep, lazy tone, the line of his mouth curling slightly without softening. Still holding her hand, he said, ‘You have great talent.’

  To her astonished ears it sounded as though he was making love to her—against his wish, forced to it by a need even greater than his formidable will. Rowan thought she felt lightning flicker around her.

  She swallowed and tugged at her hand. ‘Thank you,’ she said, worried by her brittle words.

  This man possessed ten times his share of an intangible male charisma that enveloped her in a dark, swirling charge of energy. Something arrogantly calculated in the way he held that big, powerfully muscled body, a curbed, unreachable assurance, made her both wary and curious, defensive and downright assertive.

  A little abruptly, Bobo said, ‘Oh, will you excuse me, please? I’ve just seen someone I really should talk to.’

  Wolfe directed a smile towards her. ‘We’ll be fine,’ he said, amusement colouring his sensual voice with its inbuilt note of authority. He looked back at Rowan. ‘Won’t we?’

  Set in lashes sensuously curled at the tips, his eyes were the colour of the darkest greenstone, overlaid by glittering gold specks like gold flakes at the bottom of a deep stream.

  Looking into them produced a swift jolt of sensation in Rowan’s gut, warning her to listen to her intuition’s none-too-subtle command to run from Wolfe Talamantes because he had the power to splinter her world.

  ‘Yes,’ she said helplessly. Her breath lodged in her throat as she dragged her attention away from the tough, hard-edged features, trying to remember that she was there to sell her wares. ‘Number 47?’ she asked in a desperate attempt to sound businesslike. ‘Oh, yes, that’s a nice piece.’ For the life of her she couldn’t think of anything more to say about Number 47, except that the glaze was the exact colour of his eyes.

  ‘An extremely nice piece,’ he said, his sexily abrasive voice strumming her nerves as his gaze slid over her face to rest for a pulsating moment on her mouth.

  Rowan’s heart jumped. He was about as subtle as a sledgehammer, but his directness summoned an instant, blatant response from every cell in her body.

  Black magic, she thought, turning her head away from those intense eyes and searching for number 47. He had good taste—it was one of her best. Swallowing, she said, ‘I had fun with the glaze.’

  ‘You did a brilliant job with it. Where did you learn to pot?’

  ‘Japan.’

  Black brows shot up. ‘How did that happen?’

  Rowan shrugged, trying to ease the tension in her shoulders and neck. ‘The potter I admired most in all the world lived in a little village near Nara, so I went to learn from him.’

  She felt as though she were in a spotlight, the concentrated focus of his attention burning into her. Her limbs were heavy and slow, her skin tight and unbearably sensitive with awareness, the silk of her shirt and skirt abrading it.

  Stop overreacting, she commanded feverishly.

  Wolfe said drily, ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Well, no,’ she admitted with a half smile. ‘He didn’t want anything to do with me—refused to even see me or the pots I took. I didn’t blame him. He was one of Japan’s living treasures, whereas I was a total stranger with no credentials—and a woman, a westerner, and only twenty-one.’

  ‘How did you persuade him to take you on?’ His tone was neutral, yet something in his voice sent apprehension edging along her spine.

  Stiffening it, she told him, ‘I camped on his doorstep—at the gate to his garden, actually. Eventually, when he saw I was really serious, he let me show him a pot. He smashed it, but said I could make another, so I did. Which he said wasn’t good enough to put in a kiln. After a month of me making pots and him refusing them, he took me on.’

  ‘So he admired your stubbornness.’ Wolfe nodded. ‘And he recognised your gift, or he’d have let you take root at his gate.’

  A hidden warmth took her by surprise. ‘He was sheer hell,’ she said, her mouth curving in affection. ‘He demanded the impossible and insisted on complete obedience.’

  ‘Did you find that difficult?’

  His tone set off scrub-fires of sensation through her body. Searching for something to compare it with, she decided the closest was the almost physical pleasure clay gave her when it began to fulfil her vision.

  Appalled by the temptation to ignore any meaning in his words for the sheer, sensuous pleasure of listening to his voice, she concentrated fiercely and said, ‘Very.’

  ‘But you managed to rein in your independence.’

  ‘It was either that or leave. He taught me the way he’d been taught. The day I refused to do what he wanted and went ahead on my own, he said I’d learned all he could teach me and it was time to go. We said goodbye with the utmost formality, but I wrote to him every week until he died, and every so often I’d get a letter back.’

  ‘And how many years were you with him?’

  ‘Five.’

  Wolfe Talamantes was standing too close—not that it would have been too close with any other man, but his towering presence invaded her boundaries. She took a sip of her wine and moved a little further away, turning slightly side on.

  ‘How long do you have to stay here?’ Wolfe asked lazily.

  The question startled her. ‘What?’

  He gave her long, sardonic, dangerously intimate look. ‘How long do you have to stay at this insipid occasion? And don’t tell me you’re finding it fascinating—I’ve been watching you and, although you’re hiding it well, you’re bored. Have you had dinner?’

  Bristling at the thought of being watched—and worried because he was perceptive enough to see through her social mask—she retorted, ‘No, but—’

  ‘Have dinner with me.
’

  Rowan stared at him, her pulses thudding heavily in her ears. Again every female instinct insisted she refuse and make it stick, yet she knew she was dealing with a pirate—and pirates didn’t take no for an answer.

  And a more primitive conviction warned her that what seemed like a simple case of sexual interest between one very attractive male and a woman he casually fancied had much darker undertones. In spite of the crackle and hiss of sexually charged air between them, she sensed a deeply buried antagonism.

  But perhaps it came from her…

  ‘Stop looking so surprised,’ he said, those disturbing eyes gleaming as he surveyed her stunned face. ‘You must have had invitations to dinner before. Even in Japan.’

  ‘Not from people I don’t know!’ she returned smartly.

  He grinned, a slightly raffish, nonchalant smile. ‘You’ve been introduced by a friend,’ he pointed out. ‘That would satisfy the most stringent chaperon—if such a person existed any more.’

  She blinked. ‘I’m having dinner with Bobo. You could come—’ And stopped, flushing, because she’d just about invited him.

  ‘We’ll ask her,’ he said, and looked across the room. Bobo was chatting animatedly to a man she appeared to know very well, but, as though Wolfe’s glance was a laser, she turned. After a quick glance she said something to her companion and began to make her way through the crowd towards them.

  When she arrived, Wolfe said smoothly, ‘I’ve just invited Rowan out to dinner, but she says she’s booked up with you.’

  Bobo smiled sunnily. ‘As it happens I’ve had another invitation too, so it’s fine by me. But before you go, Rowan, come across with me and we’ll see Georgie.’ She smiled at Wolfe Talamantes. ‘He’s the owner of the gallery, and he wants to talk to Rowan. Do you mind?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he said even more smoothly, but as the two women walked across to where Georgie was playing host to an admiring coterie who trusted him to tell them what to think about the various exhibits, Rowan felt the impact of that green gaze squarely between her shoulderblades.

  The gallery owner greeted Rowan effusively, announced that more than half her exhibits had sold already, and, after mutual congratulations, presented her to his admirers, who surged about congratulating her.

  Expertly extricating her just before her small talk dried up, Bobo urged her towards the private room at the back of the gallery. ‘You need info,’ she muttered cryptically. Once in the inner sanctum, a cupboard barely big enough to hold them both, she hissed, ‘Do you know who Wolfe Talamantes is?’

  ‘No,’ Rowan admitted, shocked to find herself worrying that he might be notorious. ‘His name sounds familiar—’

  ‘Of course, you don’t read newspapers.’ Bobo sighed, a frown pleating her brow until she realised it was there and relaxed the muscles.

  ‘I read the headlines in the café newspapers,’ Rowan said defensively.

  Her agent snorted and leaned closer. ‘Not well enough if you don’t know him. I’ll bet everyone else in New Zealand does—he’s the local boy made good par excellence.’

  Edgily Rowan said, ‘So tell me, who is he? A rock singer? A film star? An All Black?’

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘WOLFE TALAMANTES,’ Bobo said deliberately, ‘is half-Kiwi, half-Mexican, which explains the name. He’s a techno-tycoon and indescribably rich.’ She leaned forward for emphasis. ‘Hugely rich, as in billionaire.’

  ‘If he’s a techno-tycoon he’ll soon be bankrupt, according to the business press,’ Rowan shot back, amazed to find herself relieved at that thought. ‘See, I do read the newspapers.’

  Bobo laughed. ‘Not this man. He’s no fly-by-nighter—his business is rock-solid. He took over a little electronics firm here in Auckland and turned it into a worldwide affair that’s going to take over the universe in five years’ time.’

  It was in his face, Rowan thought. The arrogant features, straight nose and square chin, the dark, compelling eyes and wide, hard mouth—they all proclaimed the mixture of visionary thinker and ruthless businessman. Aloud she said, ‘I didn’t realise New Zealand had any really rich people.’

  ‘You’d be surprised.’ Bobo nodded knowingly. ‘Wolfe Talamantes is a world player, and as tough as they come—well, you only have to look at him to see that, don’t you?’ She gave a low, throaty laugh. ‘He’s not married, but of course there have been lovers.’

  ‘And you’re throwing me to this wolf?’ Rowan asked, her stomach churning with a mixture of alarm and excitement.

  Her friend grinned sympathetically. ‘I know he’s not the sort of guy to cut your teeth on, but heck, why not give him a whirl? Just remember—it’s not likely to be permanent!’

  ‘I dislike promiscuous men,’ Rowan said stiffly, ‘and I’m only going to have dinner with him, not embark on an affair!’ Tony had made no secret of the number of women he’d made love to; he’d seemed to think it would make her even more attracted to him.

  Bobo shrugged. ‘No sensible person’s promiscuous in this day and age. No, he’s reported to be a serial monogamist, but ‘‘serial’’ is the word to fix on.’ She laughed at Rowan’s dismayed face. ‘Hey, you don’t have to go to bed with him if you don’t want to, and a couple of dinners will get you some nice publicity, because he’s news. I’ve never heard of him collecting anything except money and beautiful women, but it will be a hugely good thing if he decides to collect pots by Rowan!’

  ‘I don’t want that sort of publicity,’ Rowan said, angry because she’d been so stupid as to feel a highly suspect, instant rapport with a spoiled tycoon who sounded as though he went through women like a cheese-cutter. And that was underpinned by a foolish jealousy at the thought of those women in Wolfe Talamantes’s arms.

  ‘Any publicity is good publicity,’ Bobo chanted, adding, ‘Don’t you dare turn him down now!’

  ‘I didn’t really agree to go out with him,’ Rowan said, fighting a rearguard action.

  ‘You agreed to dinner—oh, not in so many words, but you made me your excuse for not going, and now that’s not a runner. Look,’ she said more gently, ‘it’ll be all right. He might be sex on a stick, but there are no strange stories about him, and there would be if he had any nasty habits. He’s a healthy red-blooded male, but, in the words of our great-grandmothers, he’s a gentleman. He won’t leap on you in the restaurant or drag you off to his lavish apartment and have his wicked way with you. Enjoy a decent dinner with him; that’s all you have to do.’ She glanced at her watch and yelped. ‘Come on, we’d better get out of here.’

  The disgustingly rich and successful Wolfe Talamantes stood near the door, and although he didn’t appear to be watching for them—being under siege by a glorious redhead in a leather outfit apparently sprayed onto her seductive body—when he saw Rowan come through he said a few words to the redhead, gave her a swift, enigmatic smile that probably sent her blood pressure soaring, and left her pouting but resigned.

  The moment his dark eyes fixed on Rowan’s and his hard mouth curved into a smile that was a direct challenge, everything but anticipation burned away in a glorious flash of flame, boosting her blood pressure as well.

  He said to Bobo, ‘Enjoy your evening.’

  She coloured a little, but laughed up at him. ‘I will. Enjoy yours.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, but the dark glance that moved to Rowan’s face said I plan to as he took her arm in a light grip and turned her towards the street door.

  Every muscle tensed and fumes of heady awareness filled Rowan’s brain, stopping any coherent thought. She had to tell her legs how to move, her body how to walk through the crowd parting in front of them. Under the scrutiny of avid eyes she shivered, yet an aggressive, subversive hunger broke through her defences like upwelling lava—beautiful, dangerous and destructive.

  It wasn’t solely his chiselled features that attracted attention, nor that disciplined, beautiful mouth, or the loose, relaxed grace of his walk and the startling physical impact o
f broad shoulders and lean hips and long, heavily muscled legs.

  No, the people who tracked their progress across the floor were responding instinctively to the aura of concentrated authority that clung to Wolfe like an invisible cloak, compelling respect.

  And his eyes, she thought, watching a girl duck her head and blush when Wolfe looked at her. Enigmatic green with those tiny galaxies of gold imprisoned in their depths, Wolfe’s eyes were enough to lose yourself in—eyes that could heat to flames then suddenly chill to the intense colour at the heart of black jade.

  ‘I thought we’d go to Oliver’s,’ he said coolly as they neared the door.

  ‘Oliver’s?’ The word sounded clumsy. Embarrassed by the buzz of chatter behind them, Rowan sketched a smile at yet another woman who was watching them with alert, envious interest.

  ‘It’s a new restaurant.’ He stood back to let her through the door into the foyer.

  ‘We don’t hear much about new restaurants in the country,’ she commented, striving for lightness as they headed towards the street door.

  ‘Whereabouts in the country do you live?’ He opened the outer door, glanced out and went ahead, holding the door for her.

  Brushing past him, Rowan wondered why he’d felt it necessary to give that quick, automatic check of the almost empty street.

  Duh, stupid, she told herself; even in New Zealand life could be dangerous for men with as much money as Wolfe Talamantes.

  The thought of that—and the power his wealth gave him—sharpened her inbuilt caution into edgy wariness. Wolfe took her arm, ignoring her start of surprise, to guide her to the large car that waited at the kerb.

  ‘I live in Northland,’ she answered, deliberately vague.

  A man who looked like a retired boxer got out and smiled at them both as he opened the door into the rear of the car. Rowan went in first, sinking into a seat that was infinitely more comfortable than the one in Tony’s convertible.

  And just remember what too much money did to Tony, she told herself.