Sinful Temptation

by Christopher, Ann

  By about ten-thirty that morning, after riding the train into Penn Station and the subway down to the Village (he hated taxis, limos, driving in the city and traffic delays, not necessarily in that order), Tony found himself in front of the converted warehouse where Talia rented studio space.

  He loitered outside the heavy metal security door, some of his excitement tampered by stark terror. Having spent a lot of time in fear while he was in Afghanistan, he recognized it when he saw it, and this was it. His pulse raced; his hands trembled; beneath his armpits he felt the slow trickle of clammy sweat.

  Hell, he could almost laugh about it. Maybe the war hadn’t caused his raging PTSD after all. Maybe its source was the loss of the woman he’d never even had.

  But not like it mattered why he was batshit crazy.

  Whatever. He might be crazy, but he wasn’t a coward, and this was the moment of truth when he could prove it. So he raised his finger and pressed the buzzer, giving it a nice long ring.

  No answer, but the place was a cavern and it probably took a good two minutes for someone to walk down the hall and reach the door.

  He waited, turning to face the street’s bustle, with its usual assortment of hurrying New Yorkers talking on their cell phones, disposable coffee cups snuggled close to their chests.

  Overhead, the sky was a chilly slate-gray that belonged in November rather than May, but he didn’t feel the cold. He was way too hopped-up on adrenaline to be affected by anything as insignificant as the weather, and his jacket was—

  Without warning, the door swung open. Tony found himself confronted by a woman about his age—mid-thirties—with a flat-lined mouth and lowered brows that told him he’d already pissed her off and anything further he did—like, say, speaking—would only worsen the situation. Brown-skinned with sleek black hair and sharp brown eyes that surely missed nothing, she would have been pretty but for the overdose of bad attitude and harsh black-on-black clothes.

  “Can I help you?” she demanded.

  “I, ah,” he began, hoping she didn’t decide to haul off and hit him, “I’d like to see Talia Adams.”

  The woman was not impressed. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No.”

  “And you are…?”

  “Tony Davies.”

  “What’s the nature of your business?”

  He was starting to get annoyed. He knew of several high-security government buildings that were easier to access than this place.

  “I’m a friend. Is she here?”

  Miss Personality narrowed her eyes. “Don’t take that tone with me. I’ll ask if she’ll see you.”

  “Thanks ever so much.”

  Another glare, and then she pivoted and headed off down the hall, leaving him to lunge for the heavy door and squeak inside before it could swing shut in his face.

  Not the auspicious beginning he’d hoped for, clearly, but Talia was here, in the same building, and that was all that mattered. He hurried after the black-clad woman and followed her up a flight of stairs, dodging a well-dressed couple who were directing a man with a boxy marble sculpture on a dolly, and a gaggle of elementary school kids being herded by their frazzled-looking teacher. They passed the doors—some open and some closed—of other studios, and then they were outside the final door on the left.

  The door.

  Talia Adams said the sign. Painter.

  The woman strode inside the studio with no understanding of how important this moment was to Tony, or how he’d lived for it, calling as she went, “Tally? Where you at, girl? Tally? Talia!”

  Tony waited on the threshold, incapable of breathing.

  Nothing happened.

  The woman turned back and shrugged, ignorant of his turmoil, which was a very good thing. “Guess she went to the bathroom. You can wait if you want.”

  “Great.”

  “Great.” The woman reached for a cardboard box and shot him a last warning frown. “Don’t get in the way.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  He looked around, reveling in Talia’s presence and getting his bearings, but things didn’t feel quite right. There was one jarring difference between the studio of his memory and this one: the open cardboard boxes everywhere announced that Talia was in the middle of a move.

  This possibility, he discovered, didn’t sit well with him. What if she was headed to Paris for a year of study or something similar?

  On the other hand, what if she was now married to Paul?

  That possibility damn near gave him chills, so he decided to pretend that Paul had never existed, at least until he was presented with undeniable evidence to the contrary.

  The studio was still stark and bright, though, with high ceilings, exposed pipes and beams, and a wall of paneled windows that looked out on the street below and let in every available glimmer of sunlight. There were drop cloths and drafting tables, the sharp smell of turpentine, and canvases of various sizes and shapes leaning against the walls.

  The work was as brilliant as he remembered; he’d spent enough time studying art history in school and paintings at the auction house over the years to recognize a talented artist when he encountered one, and Talia was the real deal.

  She had two portraits on easels. Were these her most recent works, then? The first was of a smiling woman with brown-and-white spaniels sitting on her lap. The colors were sharp and vibrant, and Talia had captured the woman’s personality in the amused quirk of her mouth. The dogs, meanwhile, had their ears cocked and looked restless, as though they’d been promised a chicken treat if they only sat still long enough to be captured on canvas.

  The other portrait was of a mother and her toddler son, their heads bent low over a collection of wooden alphabet blocks as they built a tower.

  He stopped and stared, awed and lost in the details of the nursery, the strands of gold in the woman’s tumbling red hair, her freckles and the rosy glow of the toddler’s fat cheeks.

  “She’s good, isn’t she?” Miss Personality, who was now standing at a workstation on the other side of the studio, putting items into one of the cardboard boxes, favored him with the beginnings of a smile.

  “She’s amazing.”

  He meandered, studying another collection of paintings, some leaning and some hanging on the walls. These were explosions of glowing color representing all kinds of things, as though Talia had painted an item, deconstructed it and put it back together using shapes, slashes and swirls that were infinitely more interesting than the original.

  A field of flowers. A forest. A barn. Seashells.

  And then, on another wall, a different collection that was as dark and forbidding as the others were warm and vivid. These paintings didn’t seem to represent anything other than all the ways that colors could come together and form…night. Despair. The complete absence of light.

  He stared while dread crawled up his spine with prickly feet.

  The change was extraordinary, as though he’d been inside a rainbow, blinked and discovered that he’d been sucked into the malevolent heart of a black hole. It seemed impossible that the same person could have produced all these different moods. Why would she paint such heartbreak? What had happened to her? He hated the idea of Talia occupying such a dismal place, even temporarily, and even if only in her imagination.

  “What happened here?” he asked the woman, pointing to a dark painting that probably had a title like Tornado in Hell or Hope Screams Bloody Murder. “I don’t get why these are so different—”

  Without warning, the door banged open again and a woman swept into the room, bringing the energy of ten people with her.

  Tony froze.

  His heart also clanged to a stop.

  “I think we should work on the acrylics next, Glo,” the woman announced in the whiskey-smooth voice that’d been haunting his thoughts for as long as he could remember. “I won’t be needing them for a while— Oh, who’s this?”

  Jesus. His brain emptied out, leaving him paraly
zed and dumb.

  Talia—there she finally was.

  She went utterly still, as undone by the moment as he was.

  Their gazes locked and held, and her gray eyes slowly went wide with astonishment. A flush crept over her light brown cheeks, making her look feverish, and her lush berry mouth dropped open in a gape.

  Moving like a sleepwalker, she edged closer to study him better, and her fragrance teased his nose. She wore a feminine cocktail of something fruity, and he was surprised to find that forgotten detail about her now so electrifying.

  And her bracelets…

  Those silver bangles he’d teased her about, a thousand or so of them on her left arm, clinked gently as she walked. He felt such a rush of swelling joy it was as though his entire life had been nothing more than a prelude to this moment.

  He stared, gathering up all of her quirks and features so he’d never forget anything about her ever again.

  She was shorter and thinner than he’d remembered, her cheeks sharper, and she had that same collection of silver earrings marching up her lobes. Her long, summery dress was flowered and left her toned arms bare, and a quick downward glance revealed flat sandals, toe rings and white nail polish at the tips of her pretty feet.

  Her hair, which had been black with springy haywire curls, was straight and pixie-short now, and—holy shit—blue. Not blue-black, either, but the electric-blue of a stove’s gas flame. He wasn’t a fan of rainbow colors when it came to hair, but the effect on her was oddly appropriate.

  Bottom line?

  She was more beautiful than the images he’d hoarded in his memory bank.

  “Tony?” she breathed.

  “Yeah,” he said gruffly, reaching for her.

  “Oh, my God.”

  They came together hard and fast, and then, for the first time ever, she was in his arms, and he couldn’t hold her tight enough.

  Chapter 2

  Tony lifted her until only her toes grazed the floor, marveling at the perfect fit, the warmth and solidity of her, and the silky slide of the dress over her supple body. Her skin was a delicious combination of satin and velvet, and he buried his face in the sweet hollow between her neck and shoulder and inhaled, desperate to experience her with all of his senses.

  “Tony.” Her voice cracked and overflowed with emotion. “Tony.”

  “Wow.” Miss Personality’s dry voice intruded. “I’m guessing you two really do know each other.”

  Way to break the spell, he thought.

  Self-conscious and awkward now, Tony lowered Talia to her feet but kept an arm on her back because he needed the contact. Apparently, she didn’t. Stepping out of his grasp, she smoothed her hair and made a real project of avoiding his gaze.

  “So,” he said.

  “So,” Talia echoed. “You’ve met my sister, right?”

  Sister? “Not exactly.”

  Talia flashed a dimple, but her smile never quite took hold. “Gloria Adams, this is Captain Antonios Davies.”

  “Tony,” he said quickly, extending his hand.

  Gloria’s appraising gaze, which was considerably more interested in him than it had been a minute ago, swept over him as they shook hands.

  “Captain? Are you a marine, or—”

  He shuddered. “God forbid. I’m army. Well, was. I’ve been discharged.”

  The interrogation continued. “Honorable, or—”

  “Gloria,” Talia snapped.

  “It’s okay,” he told her. “Honorable. Would you like to see my discharge papers?”

  “Do you have them?” Gloria asked sweetly.

  “Yeah, okay.” Talia hooked her elbow onto Gloria’s, marched her to the door and shoved her into the hall. “It’s time for you to go do that thing you needed to do.”

  Gloria pulled a bewildered expression, but the amused glimmer in her eye didn’t fool anyone. “What thing?”

  “That. Thing.”

  Tony caught a glimpse of Gloria opening her mouth to argue, but then Talia closed the door in her sister’s face with a decisive snap.

  Thank God, he thought, his pulse kicking into overdrive.

  Alone at last.

  “Sorry about that.” Talia took her time coming back, and he had the feeling she was stalling. She had her fingers laced together in a white-knuckled grip that betrayed her nerves, and this, strangely, made him feel better, as he also felt as though he was drowning in awkwardness. “Nosy big sister and all.”

  “It’s okay.”

  They stared at each other, their breathing still uneven. Her face remained flushed, and his felt so hot he could fry bacon on his forehead.

  Words overflowed from his heart, but he couldn’t get any of them to his mouth. He’d thought that after all this time of wanting this—to be in the same room with her again—he’d have prepared a sentence or two, but nothing seemed to fit this moment.

  “It’s great to see you,” he finally said.

  “You, too.”

  More staring ensued.

  She had a perfect round mole at the corner of her mouth, and her eyes tipped up at the corners. The dimple in her left cheek was more pronounced than the one in her right. Her eyes were more silvery than gray; why hadn’t he remembered that?

  This cataloguing of her features showed signs of outlasting the Ice Age, but then she finally blinked and remembered her duties as a hostess.

  “We should sit.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed, trying to get his head in the game. “Sit. Good idea.”

  He followed her to a sofa in front of one of the windows, where she perched on the edge. Since he wanted to face her, he sat on the trunk that apparently doubled as a coffee table, rested his elbows on his knees and took a deep breath.

  “I should have called first,” he told her.

  “It’s okay.”

  “I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

  Her eyes crinkled at the corners, further scrambling his thoughts. “Wonderful surprises are okay.”

  “I’m, ah…I’m not dead.”

  “That explains the whole walking and talking thing.”

  He grinned, wondering when he’d last been this ridiculously inarticulate in a female’s presence. Sixth grade? “What I mean is—”

  “I read about your ‘death’ in the paper. And then a few weeks ago I read in the paper about your being a POW. It’s a miracle that you escaped and made it back safely.”

  “Oh,” he said, faltering.

  Nothing chopped a man’s ego down to size quicker than knowing that the woman he wanted was so disinterested in the news of his resurrection that she hadn’t bothered to call or write. But of course she’d already made her position clear with that return-to-sender letter, hadn’t she?

  Still, it hurt. Like a spiked wrecking ball to his gut.

  He was a big boy, though, and he’d get over it. He hadn’t come all this way, physically and emotionally, to just go away quietly and give up on the idea of exploring a romantic relationship with her.

  “So, yeah, I’ve been home for about a month.”

  “Your brother and sister must be so thrilled.”

  Did that mean that she wasn’t thrilled? “They are.”

  A shadow crossed her face, telling him what was coming next. “Are you okay? I mean—physically?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Are you?” he asked.

  He wasn’t normally the needy type, but then he wasn’t normally interested in a woman who knew if he was dead or alive only by reading the papers. Despite all his stern internal lectures about not getting his hopes up, he’d done exactly that, nursing all kinds of glorious reunion scenarios that ended with them tumbling into the nearest bed for a long and urgent interlude of getting-to-know-you.

  That probably wasn’t going to happen.

  Big surprise, right?

  Worse, her growing polite coolness and his old familiar feeling of dread—he was always dreading something—had him in a stranglehold.
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  “Are you glad, I mean?” he continued.

  “Yes.”

  Her unabashed vehemence made him lose his head a little, and he reached for her. “Talia.”

  He heard the husky vulnerability in his voice, but nothing mattered except the feel of her beautiful face between his palms—Christ, her skin was soft—and the need to feel her mouth moving against his. Her melting little sigh made his heart ache. He ducked his head, drowning in lust and need, and tipped her chin up to—

  “I can’t.” At the very last second, she stiffened and turned away.

  He was beyond hearing, so he didn’t let her go.

  Talia…Talia…Talia…

  Grabbing his wrists, she pulled free of his hands. “I can’t.”

  Tony reined himself in, hard, even though he’d waited so long and moved heaven and earth to arrive at this moment, and even though the flashing turbulence in her eyes didn’t match her sharp tone.

  It took him a good long time to wrestle his frustration into submission, and longer to get past the delicious sensation of touching her skin.

  “You can’t?” he echoed dully.

  “No.”

  “Because of Paul?”

  Her brows contracted with bewilderment. “Paul?”

  He reached for her left hand and pulled it out where he could examine it. She wore a silver butterfly ring, but no wedding band, so that was good. Great, actually.

  Still, the idea of having lost her forever while the Taliban had kept him hostage and helpless turned his heart to stone.

  “Did you marry him?” he demanded.

  “What? No.”

  That was a small step in the right direction. “But you’re still together?”

  “No.”

  “There’s someone else?”

  “No, Tony—”

  He stared at her; she kept her head bowed.

  Deep inside, he felt that snake’s nest of dread twist and writhe.

  “Help me out, then. I don’t understand.”

  “There’s nothing to understand.” She hesitated, shrugging. “You’re making assumptions. That’s the problem.”