Wolfe's Temptress Read online

  Only to have her mind reply wistfully, But Tony was weak and this man isn’t.

  And therefore all the more dangerous. She glanced at Wolfe’s square chin and hard profile against the lights outside, looking away while fear kicked in her stomach.

  Once he’d clicked his seatbelt home he said, ‘Northland covers a lot of ground.’

  ‘It’s my home,’ she said, forcing herself to speak calmly.

  ‘A woman of mystery,’ he said, his tone revealing a smile.

  Rowan decided he was probably so confident of his ability to charm that he was sure he’d have her address and phone number by the end of the entrée. She determined not to give it to him no matter how stupidly her wayward body responded to his raw sexuality.

  Oliver’s turned out to be in a large apartment tower, newly built and oozing the sort of opulence that made her blink.

  ‘The restaurant’s more discreet,’ Wolfe murmured cynically as Rowan gazed around the massive foyer, a temple to luxury with sofas and flowers and plants against a marble and bronze background. ‘It’s still going to hurt eyes trained in Japanese restraint, but the food is excellent.’

  The waiter had apparently been waiting for them; he smiled as they came in through the door and ushered them to a table separated from the rest of the room by a screen of spiky succulents. Rowan noted a dance floor, small and dimly lit, and a jazz combo playing a sophisticated, eminently danceable tune.

  Wolfe ordered French champagne—a famous name she’d read about and never thought she’d taste—and then discussed the menu with her.

  Rowan tried to concentrate on choosing, but her eyes kept straying to the dark hands that held his menu, and her ears listened with shuddering pleasure to the sound of his voice.

  ‘So what’s it to be?’ he asked.

  She froze at the impact of compelling green eyes. He knew. He knew just what she was feeling, because he was feeling it too. Intuition warned her that he resented it just as much as she did—and was as helpless to control it.

  Her appetite disappearing before a more keen and demanding hunger, she chose the first item her gaze fell upon. ‘The mushrooms,’ she said, gratified by her steady voice. ‘I love mushrooms. And then I’ll have fish—the roast salmon. Thank you,’ she finished belatedly.

  Wolfe ordered soup and steak. A conventional carnivore, she decided, trying to weaken his overwhelming effect by slotting him into a category.

  It didn’t work.

  Neither did consciously relaxing her muscles; as soon as she’d intimidated one set into loosening, the previous ones tightened all over again. Wolfe’s primal masculinity challenged everything that was female in her, and she was helpless against it.

  Borne reverently by the wine waiter, the champagne arrived, the small ritual of easing off the cork and pouring the golden liquid into two flutes only adding to the fierce intensity flaring between them.

  When the waiter had gone Wolfe picked up his glass and said, ‘Here’s to the future.’

  Unease shimmered across Rowan’s mind, but she lifted her glass. ‘I’ll always drink to that. The future.’

  Rowan sipped the wine cautiously, then sighed. It tasted like liquid happiness, sparkling with dreams and laughter and sunshine. ‘Lovely,’ she purred, then added conscientiously, ‘I’m sorry I laughed at your name—the connection struck me as funny.’

  ‘At least your own personal wolf is not a lapdog,’ he observed drily. ‘Where did you get your name?’

  ‘It’s a plant name, like Violet and Lily and Rose.’

  He nodded, swirling the liquid in his glass with slow, sensuous movements. ‘Violets and lilies and roses are flowers, lovely but short-lived. A rowan is something quite different—a tree that’s always graceful, with stunning foliage and berries and flowers. Beautiful at all seasons.’

  His glance slipped from her face to her breasts, branding them with heat so that they became heavy and alarmingly sensitive against Bobo’s bustier. Rowan tried to think of that swift survey as a leer, but it was calmly impersonal. His detachment comforted her and disappointed her in equal parts, adding to her confusion.

  Sturdily she said, ‘My mother fell in love with the berries on her honeymoon, and I was a honeymoon baby.’

  Wolfe’s smile was as potent as sorcery. ‘In parts of Britain they used to be planted as a protection against witches.’

  ‘There must be lots of witches in this part of New Zealand, then; it’s too hot for the trees to grow.’

  ‘So what do you do about witches in Northland?’

  Rowan thought she detected something in his words as unsettling as the colour of his eyes.

  A moment of cold terror raked her with its claws, vanishing as soon as common sense convinced her that Wolfe Talamantes was not the sort of man to become obsessive. The natural authority that blazed from him was what Tony had envied, and tried to force with his controlling behaviour.

  ‘Witches? Oh, we learn to live with them,’ she said, silently applauding the ironic tone she’d achieved. ‘Where did your name come from?’

  He wasn’t surprised at the abrupt change of subject. ‘It started off in Germany, but by the time it was handed on to me it had been in my father’s family for quite a few generations.’ He finished gravely, ‘My mother hoped that adding an e on the end might civilise it a little.’

  Rowan laughed. ‘It’s certainly a name that takes some living up to.’

  A quick glance at him changed her mind. Although the wolf was a symbol of wildness, of untamed ferocity in a violent countryside, Wolfe Talamantes suited his name in spite of his perfectly tailored clothes and civilised grooming. No one, she knew, achieved success in the cut-throat world of international business without using some particularly uncivilised traits. Like ruthlessness. Her—admittedly limited—experience of rich men was that they used their money as a weapon. Again that shiver of unease spooked her. She ignored it, because what could he do?

  Nothing.

  After this dinner she’d say thank you and go back to Bobo’s little apartment, and tomorrow she’d return home to Kura Bay and never see him again.

  She drank a little more champagne, a small toast to freedom.

  ‘Don’t you like the wine?’ Wolfe asked. ‘I’ll order something else—’

  ‘No, it’s lovely,’ she interrupted. ‘Wonderful. Like drinking joy.’ She smiled at him, because it wasn’t his fault that he reminded her in some ways of Tony.

  He smiled back, but she saw a gleam in the greenstone depths of his eyes, and wondered what he was thinking.

  ‘Here comes the food,’ she said, hiding her relief as waiters approached the table. ‘It smells sublime!’

  It tasted sublime too, and as they ate they talked in a civilised manner, discussing books and the theatre and her experiences in Japan. Wolfe had travelled a lot, and enjoyed it; when she asked questions he told her about a recent visit to Khatmandu, and that led to a description of a trip to Mexico at the age of sixteen to see his great-grandfather. He spoke with affection and respect about the country and the effect of another culture on him.

  Beneath the dry, almost sardonic sense of humour and the ability to tell a good story Rowan noted a hard, formidable intellect. Not a man to cross—but then she wasn’t planning on crossing him. Just keeping out of his way.

  ‘One of these days,’ she said, looking with regret at her empty plate, ‘I’m going to see the world.’

  ‘You’ve had the rare experience of living in another culture. Not many of us get to do that.’

  She nodded. ‘It was a privilege.’

  ‘How long did it take for you to learn to speak Japanese?’

  ‘My mentor didn’t speak English at all, so I had to learn in a hurry. I was reasonably fluent in six months. Do you speak Spanish?’

  ‘My father spoke English outside the house, but inside we spoke Spanish, so I grew up bilingual.’

  ‘But your mother came from New Zealand?’

  ‘Yes; she learned S
panish to please my father.’ His eyes iced over as if at an unhappy memory, then focused on her. ‘When do you go back to Northland?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she said firmly.

  Nodding, he sat back again as the waiter appeared to clear the plates.

  Stupidly—tragically—disappointed at Wolfe’s calm response, Rowan said brightly, ‘I can see why this place is so popular. The food’s spectacular, isn’t it?’

  His eyes mocked her. ‘Magnificent.’

  The band began to play again, smooth, seductive music that called to her feet.

  ‘Would you like to dance?’ Wolfe asked, watching her with half-closed eyes.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Rowan said swiftly. Apart from the handshake he hadn’t touched her, and that was the way she wanted it.

  Well, perhaps not wanted, but that was the way it had to be. This strange siren tide running through her body—a sensuous pull that scrambled her brain and melted her bones—was transforming her into a woman so aware of her body and its capacity for pleasure that she almost vibrated with longing.

  Dancing was too dangerous to contemplate.

  Calling on every ounce of will-power she possessed, Rowan managed to summon a glossy shield of composure. Occasionally, when the green eyes with their glimmering golden flecks met hers, she lost it, but not for long. Most of the time Wolfe was a perfect host—entertaining, urbane, occasionally caustic, always polite.

  And if he noticed those ferociously swirling undercurrents, he ignored them, as she tried to.

  Afterwards, in spite of its excellence, she could never remember what the food had been like. She did recall the delicious champagne, and that she’d left the second glass untouched because she needed every brain cell she possessed to carry on this masquerade.

  Eventually the meal was finished and she got to her feet. Wolfe came around and took her elbow, his grip burning through the silk of her shirt. Or perhaps it was her skin that was burning.

  Between banks of huge lavishly leafed plants they walked past a row of elevators towards the massive foyer, separated from the restaurant by yet more plants and a colonnade. Trying to ignore Wolfe’s touch, Rowan made a great play of looking about her.

  Across the foyer a woman seated with a group of other people stood up—a tall slim woman of late middle-age, white-haired, with a tired face and an aristocratic profile. Hit by a hammer-blow, Rowan froze, ducking behind a pillar.

  Dimly she heard Wolfe’s voice, but when the woman began to turn sheer instinct took over. Rowan swivelled and raced back the way they’d come, heart thumping in sick, stupid panic as she tried to get out of there before Tony’s mother saw her.

  Wolfe’s hand on her arm brought her to a sudden halt. Black brows meeting above his nose, he demanded, ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I don’t want to be here,’ she muttered, white with distress and an odd, furtive terror. ‘The restroom…’

  No, because Tony’s mother could follow her there. She dithered, feeling like a criminal caught in a spotlight.

  ‘The lift,’ Wolfe decided calmly, steering her towards the elevators.

  Rowan made for the closest, but Wolfe urged her past the lifts and into a small lobby. He took a card from his pocket, thrust it in some sort of lock and another elevator door slid open. From behind them came a burst of chatter in which Rowan was sure she could hear Mrs Simpson’s voice.

  Desperately she surged into the lift, head turned towards the muted bronze mirror-glass back, waiting for Mrs Simpson to appear and denounce her like the wicked fairy at Sleeping Beauty’s christening. Wolfe followed her inside, standing to shield her from the door, and pressed a button.

  Instantly and silently the door closed. Slumping, Rowan said weakly, ‘Thank you,’ as the lift shot smoothly upwards. Shock raced through her in chilling rivulets.

  She heard him say something beneath his breath and hard arms enclosed her. It was like being thrust into a furnace, a fiery conflagration she craved with a greed that robbed her of her wits. Rowan dropped her head so that he couldn’t read her expression, and if she’d been able to think she’d have wept at her surrender.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Wolfe said soothingly, his hands splaying across her back.

  ‘I know.’ She tried to force herself away from that reviving heat, but her legs refused to support her.

  ‘Just relax,’ he said soothingly.

  She sagged against him, eyes closed like a coward, lost in a passion so intense she wanted to howl her hunger to the moon. Yet with it came a powerful sense of security that frightened her even more. In Wolfe’s arms she felt wildly unsafe—and utterly protected.

  He asked, ‘What was all that about?’ His cool, textured voice insisted on an answer—the voice of the man in charge talking to an underling.

  ‘Just—someone I don’t want to meet.’ She lifted her weighted eyelids, forcing herself to meet his gaze squarely. ‘I’m sorry. It would have been…embarrassing…for everyone. Thanks for saving me from a scene.’

  This time she made it out of his arms.

  He shrugged, his shoulders in their faultless tailoring wide and somehow ominous against the bronzed mirror glass. ‘Like all men,’ he said ironically, ‘I hate scenes.’

  ‘Like most women too,’ she said fervently, and shivered.

  ‘What happened?’ Again that cool, impersonal tone, the searching gaze.

  Rowan searched for an answer, finally saying weakly, ‘It was a misunderstanding.’

  ‘A misunderstanding?’ This time his voice expressed polite—and sardonic—disbelief.

  She nodded, keeping her eyes lowered. ‘Yes.’

  Their reflections appeared in the mirrored walls in a dozen different aspects, but all revealed a very tall, very dominant man and a slender woman who barely came up to his shoulder. Feeling miserably vulnerable and fragile, Rowan stared down at the carpeted floor, but before she had time to ask where they were going the lift eased to a halt and the doors slid open to reveal a hall.

  ‘Where’s this?’ she asked warily, looking around.

  ‘The entrance to my apartment.’ He read her expression correctly. Smiling, he went on lightly, ‘The least you can do is have some coffee and tell me about this—‘‘misunderstanding’’. Then I’ll take you home.’

  ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘I’ll get a taxi.’ But she hesitated.

  Another slighter shrug, and an amused drawl. ‘Your only alternative is to ride the lifts until he or she goes, and, if he or she lives here, there’s always the possibility that he or she will choose the lift you’re hiding in.’

  ‘She,’ Rowan said numbly, letting him tow her inexorably across to another door. ‘It’s a she.’ She added, ‘And I’m not afraid of her.’

  He did something to the lock and opened the door. ‘Come in,’ he said evenly, yet a bite in his words lifted her head.

  ‘I don’t think this is a terribly good idea…’ she said, dithering again.

  Wolfe looked down at her, his mouth a hard, taut line, and for a moment she shivered again. ‘I won’t jump on you, Rowan.’

  ‘I know,’ she said quickly, and foolishly, allowing herself to be persuaded across the threshold.

  He smiled before turning to close the door. Almost knocked off her heels by the sheer charisma of that smile, Rowan stared around at a tiled hall, recognising a picture sold at auction a year or so ago for a price large enough to keep her for the next five years.

  And worth, she thought after one comprehensive, respectful glance, every cent of that astronomical sum.

  As was the Persian rug, an exquisitely sophisticated thing of miraculous colours. So Bobo had been wrong; Wolfe Talamantes was a connoisseur. For some reason this eased Rowan’s nerves, but she was still shaking inside when, after another hard glance, Wolfe said, ‘Come on, you need that coffee.’

  Rowan had never been in a penthouse apartment before. Although she’d expected the same sort of opulence as the foyer downstairs, one glance revealed that Wolfe didn’t g
o in for lavish display. The room he took her into was large, and superbly furnished; it was also comfortable, and not at all ostentatious. Rowan noticed books, more pictures that indicated a collector’s eye, and flowers, casually arranged.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘I’ll make the coffee.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The rush of adrenalin from seeing Tony’s mother still surged through Rowan, seeking outlet in action. Waiting until he’d left the room, she wandered across to the long wall of windows and pushed a curtain aside, holding it up as she stared through the glass.

  A wide terrace ran outside; her eyes skimmed past furniture to the lights of Auckland, spread around the harbour and reaching out to the blackness of the Hauraki Gulf. Spring rain had washed the air, so that each light twinkled sharp and bright as the Milky Way above her cottage.

  More than anything else she longed to be safely back in that cottage with her dog and her own things around her.

  ‘Do you want to go outside?’ Wolfe asked from behind her. ‘It will be chilly.’

  With a curious reluctance she let the curtain fall and turned to face him. ‘No, thank you. I was just looking.’ She tried a smile, feeling it crack and die. ‘You have a glorious view.’

  ‘Come and get this down you.’ He put a tray on a low table and straightened as she approached. ‘You still look pale,’ he said, eyeing her keenly. ‘This misunderstanding must have been traumatic.’

  She shrugged and sat down. ‘It happened a long time ago.’

  His thick black lashes drooped, hiding his thoughts. ‘Really? Judging by your reaction, whatever’s going on is very much in the present.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  WOLFE’S words echoed like a warning in Rowan’s super-sensitive ears, although his hard, angular face remained impassive.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said dismissively. She’d been so stupid to come here; she had to get out of this place and back to Bobo’s.

  A muted buzz made her jump. ‘What—oh!’ as Wolfe reached across and snagged a mobile telephone from the table.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said abruptly, after glancing at its tiny screen. ‘I have to answer this. Are you all right?’