Tempting as Sin

by Rosalind James

  Rafe grinned, probably sheepishly, and ran a hand over his jaw. “I shaved, though.”

  “Yes, and you look real good,” Hailey said. “You just don’t look different. If you want to hide, stay out of the stores—especially this one, because your brother’s marrying Paige, and everybody knows it. He thought he could hide, too. It’s Sinful. There’s no hiding. Not if people are seeing you, anyway. So don’t let them see you. You can get this nice young man to bring you your groceries, surely. Isn’t that his job?”

  Martin sighed. “I’m the friend.”

  “No, hon,” Hailey said, “you’re not. There’s one person taking up extra space here, shining all that charisma around. You’re a fine person, I’m sure, but that isn’t you.”

  Martin said, “Hey. I was an actor.”

  “Well, I’m sorry,” Hailey said. “I wanted to be an actress myself. I had the lead in the school play one time. I even went to the state drama championships. I could sing and dance and everything. Of course, I was a little thinner then. Turns out that singing and dancing are a whole lot of fun on a night out, or when you’re dancing a grandbaby around the kitchen, but who wants that sad life? Nothing but pressure, and a five-year marriage is some kind of silver anniversary. Sorry if that’s too frank,” she told Rafe, “but it sure doesn’t look fun to me. I’m excited to meet you, you bet I am, but I wouldn’t want that life. All those paparazzi following you on their motorcycles everywhere you go, having to live in LA, and everybody cheating on everybody else? Too many people with too much looks and too much money, I guess, and not enough talent for sticking with somebody through the hard times.”

  Rafe was aware of Lily standing stiff and still beside him. “You could be right,” he said.

  “Anyway,” Hailey said, “we both love our job, don’t we, Martin? And nobody’s following us around with cameras waiting to catch us in our sweatpants and put it in a tabloid. So it could be that we’re better off where we are. I know I am.”

  “Well, mainly because of the book I’m planning to write,” Martin said. “It’s all material. You just wait. Meanwhile, here in Assistant-ville—will somebody please show me where this dog is? I suddenly find myself keenly interested in checking out the vet’s office.”

  Rafe said, “Easy, boy. Wait for it,” then gathered seventy-four pounds of dog in his arms and lifted him down from the SUV. Chuck yelped all the same.

  Thunder grumbled in the distance, light flickered in the sky across the valley to the north, and the air was a physical thing, a wet blanket weighing you down. Lily came out onto the porch and said, “Oh, poor baby. What did we do to you?” with barely a glance for Rafe.

  “Now you’re sorry,” Rafe said as Chuck made his stiff-legged way up the steps. His tail was still wagging, but when he got to Lily, the plastic cone he was wearing bounced against her thigh. He tried again, bounced off again, and whined.

  Lily had already crouched down and reached inside the cone to scratch him behind the ears. She was in a flowered yellow sundress tonight. Tiny straps, a neckline dipping between her breasts and a top fitted all the way down to her waist, with a full skirt below that was unbuttoned halfway up her thighs. Her hair was still in its knot, and she was barefoot. She looked like a country girl, like if you got close enough to kiss her, you’d see those freckles on her nose. At the moment, she was crooning to the dog. “Oh, poor baby. Did they make you wear the Cone of Shame? Did they torture you? Did they? Are you so sad?” Then she looked up at Rafe and said, “Come in and tell me how everything went, if you have time.”

  Rafe thought about it. For about a second. Then he said, “I have time,” and followed her inside.

  “You know,” she said, “If you wanted to carry Chuck’s bed out to the porch for me, we could sit out there and have a beer while you report.” She ran a hand lightly over the nape of her neck. “Or a glass of wine, if I had any. White wine sounds good, doesn’t it? It’s still so warm. Much nicer out there, with the breeze coming up. I hope that rain comes soon.”

  This was stupid. He knew it. He’d known it all day long, but somehow, he was doing it anyway. All she wanted was a fling? He wasn’t solid enough for a romance? He’d show her who could romance. He picked up Chuck’s bed and said, “Wine sounds good to me, too. As it happens, Martin picked up a couple bottles while I was up here splitting firewood in a manly fashion and hiding my dangerously potent charisma from Sinful. Have you had dinner?”

  “Uh…no,” she said. “I was working in the garden until a little bit ago.”

  “It’s nearly eight.”

  She smiled. “I know. I finished closing at six-thirty, but I wanted to get in there ahead of the mud. Besides, sometimes I need to garden more than I need to eat. Really? You have white wine? Is it cold?”

  “Chilled it just for you. I also happen to have a picnic. Hang on.” He set Chuck’s bed on the porch, where the dog sank gratefully into it with a moan that made Rafe wince. After that, he leaped off the porch without bothering with the stairs and headed for the SUV again, then pulled out the enormous wicker picnic basket and the insulated wine cooler.

  “You’re kidding,” Lily said when he came back up. “Really?” She was laughing. “Was that Martin, too? How did he do that?”

  “Don’t ask, don’t tell,” Rafe said. “Where do you want it?”

  “Oh, if it’s a picnic,” she said, “we should eat it in the swing.”

  The porch swing, with its purple cushion and purple-and-yellow flowered throw pillows, was as pretty as the rest of her house. As the rest of her. He said, “Sit down, then, and I’ll make you happy.”

  “That’s some invitation,” she said, but she sat.

  “Isn’t it?” He unfastened two glasses from their spot in the picnic basket, set them on the table beside his end of the swing, and set about opening the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

  She asked, “What if I’d wanted red?” She was sitting on one hip with her legs tucked under her, looking like a lady, and like a fantasy, too, with those tiny straps and, he’d swear, not much at all underneath her pretty dress. She turned his head all the way around.

  “Then,” he said, pouring a glass for each of them and handing hers over, “I’d be all good. I have red, too. Just in case.” He smiled at her. “But not rosé. No white Zinfandel, spendy or not.”

  She laughed again, looking so delighted, his heart turned over. She shouldn’t be this easily pleased. That wasn’t right in any possible world. She asked, “You heard that?”

  “I did. I’d like you to notice my amazing restraint, waiting for you to say no so I could step in. I won’t tell you how much I wanted you to say it.” He started pulling things out of the basket and inspecting them. This had been a mad idea. Luckily, it was working. “Sliced artisan bread,” he informed her. “If a woman makes her own yoghurt—from her own goat’s milk—and her own muesli, she needs good bread. Fresh local butter, some sort of dodgy-looking wholemeal crackers that are probably flasher than I realize, and tart plum relish. Cheese. Ah—” He inspected it and made a face. “Chai gouda. I don’t know about that one. Sounds a bit odd. I reckon that’s what the relish is for. Smoked salmon from North Idaho, because when I ate with the lady before, she had trout, and she liked it. Cilantro lime chicken salad with avocado salsa. Black-eyed peas salad. That’s a bit weird, too, maybe. Southwest roasted potato salad. Berry watermelon salad. And individual tubs of crème caramel and chocolate mousse. Also, in the magic picnic basket—” He pulled out two china plates, then knives and forks, and set them on his table. “No dishes for you to wash.”

  She was laughing. “Rafe.”

  “I know. But I didn’t know what you liked. I’m just glad I don’t have to eat it all myself.”

  “Martin did not buy any of that at Walmart,” she said, taking a sip of her wine and widening her eyes. “Or this, either. This had to come from Kalispell. We don’t get the good stuff here.”

  “Best not to question his methods. He’s been complaining
that he doesn’t have enough to do. Martin likes to excel.”

  “I could say,” she told him as he sat beside her—not too close, but not exactly hugging the other side of the swing, either—“that this was about Martin. But I think it was all you. Why? You said no. I remember.”

  “Maybe because I’ve had time to wonder what the hell I was thinking. Or maybe just that I like your porno store.” He smiled at her huff of outrage, then went on. “I like the way you tease me, too. I liked seeing Bailey in her new clothes today, and hearing that you helped her sew them for herself. I like the way you took charge of this ugly, goofy dog, just because he came your way. I like the way you kiss me, and I like the way you look at me, the way you’re doing right now.” He took his own glass of straw-colored Sauvignon Blanc, glowing in the late evening light, and touched it to hers. “And I like you. Cheers.”

  “Rafe…” It was a sigh. “How am I supposed to hate you?”

  “You’re not,” he said. “You’re supposed to love me.”

  He didn’t realize what he’d said until after he’d said it. If it had been a film, she’d have melted. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a film. He did his best to make a joke of it, because she looked nothing but gobsmacked. “That’s what happens when nobody’s writing your lines, I reckon,” he said. “You end up telling the truth.”

  The sun was slanting low over the valley, lighting up the billowing thunderheads like a religious painting. The air was cooling, the breeze freshening, the rumbles of thunder coming closer. Lily should have been cold, except that she couldn’t possibly be cold. Rafe had lost the checked shirt somewhere along the way and was back in black. T-shirt, to be exact. Back to the shifting muscles, too, and those absolutely rock-hard arms. His eyes were the genuine ice blue again tonight, and so intense, she shivered. He looked all the way real, and he felt that way, too.

  He put a hand out. Slowly. The backs of his fingers brushed over the inside of her shoulder, then nudged a little bit. Her strap fell down, and she caught her breath.

  She was still holding her wine. She couldn’t move. He could, though. His hand moved down. Still slowly. He was watching it now, concentrating on what he was doing. Running the backs of those fingers all the way from her shoulder to the notch at the base of her throat, then up her neck and down again. She shifted. He looked into her eyes. And unbuttoned the top button.

  He’d kiss her. Surely.

  He didn’t. His hand drifted down, one button after another. And he didn’t unfasten them.

  She said, “Rafe…” It was a sigh.

  He’d been looking at her, or at his hand, which had made it all the way to her thigh and was nudging her skirt up, one slow inch at a time. Now, he looked into her eyes again. “You want a romance?” he asked. “Because that’s what I want.”

  “This is a…” She couldn’t talk. “It’s not—it’s a…” Her hand was shaking. She couldn’t get her breath. His hand had moved further up her thigh, all the way to her hip, and he was holding her there, one finger tracing the line of her thong. Around and back again, and she wanted him to go further.

  “What is it, Lily?” he asked her. He took her wine from her, set it on the table, then leaned closer and kissed her neck. Softly again, and she arched her back. That felt…wow.

  “Just kiss me,” she said. “Just…touch me. Please.”

  She could feel his smile against her neck. And when he sat up again, she moaned. “I’m going to kiss you,” he promised. “But right now…” He was watching again, sending his hand down to trail along the edge of her neckline. Back again, and his fingers had slipped under the fabric.

  The top of her dress slid straight down.

  He didn’t grab. He touched. His fingers circling her nipple, and then his hand holding her there for him as he bent his head and tasted her.

  Oh. Yes. One of his hands was behind her neck, and he was lowering her down, resting her against the arm of the swing. The other hand was working at her thigh. Unbuttoning, she realized dimly through the concentric circles of pleasure that were his lips at her breast. One button, then another. His hand was at her upper thigh, and then at her waist. Not going anywhere else. Not yet.

  “We should go, uh, inside,” she managed to say. “Rafe.”

  He didn’t answer. He’d sat up, and now, he was using two hands. One button. Two. Three. Four. More. And her dress fell open.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Oh, hell, yeah.” Both hands were at her breasts, teasing out sensation, making her back arch again, making her suck in a breath. “That’s pretty.”

  “Uh,” she said. “Inside.” If he waited any longer, she wasn’t going to be able to move. She was liquid.

  “Mm.” He was supporting her to sit, and she started to stand, but he pushed her gently back down with a hand on her chest. “You know,” he said, “I don’t think so. I think…” His hand stroked slowly down her body, all the way to her thigh, then back up it again. On the inside this time.

  “That’s pretty,” he said again. Another long, slow trip down her thigh and back up.

  She should touch him. She knew it. Unfortunately, it was all she could do to breathe. Everything in her was focused on that one spot. The spot he wasn’t touching.

  A hand tracing the edges of her thong, and again. Running slowly over the top edge, then slipping inside. Stroking just inside the silky fabric, until she had to shift. Until she had to move. Except that she couldn’t, because his other hand was at her waist, holding her still. And then, finally, he was dropping to his knees, right onto the porch.

  Oh. My. God. He was going to do this. Right here. She made a noise. She was very much afraid that it was a whimper. He hooked a finger under each side of her thong and said, his voice gone husky, “Raise up for me, baby. Come on. Let me see you.”

  She did it. She was looking out over the valley. Over the road. Out in the open, with the sky turning pink. And right here on this porch, Rafe stroked a lazy finger over her, then did it again. He swirled it, and she moaned.

  Strong hands pulling her to the edge of the seat and holding her there, easing her thighs apart. And then, at last, his tongue. His mouth. His skill.

  She was panting, and then she was moaning. Her head flung back, her hands going down to clutch his hair, trying to hold on, and settling for wrapping around his head. The swing moving just enough, bringing her into him and letting her go again.

  Suction. Heat. Back and forth with the swing. A finger edging its stealthy way inside her, and then another. Those beautiful, talented, agile hands pressing. Stroking. Moving faster, then slower, as his mouth worked her over. As it burned her down.

  It was so good, and it wasn’t enough. She was climbing higher, falling back, then higher still. And falling back again. Panting out her arousal, and her frustration.

  He lifted his head at last. “Lily. What?”

  “I can’t…I can’t,” she gasped. “Too…public.”

  “Oh.” He blinked, nearly slow motion, black lashes over blue eyes that shone in the twilight. “Huh.” Then he stood up and held out a hand again. Like a gentleman. “Wait,” he said. “Forget that.” He brushed the remaining strap off her shoulder so her dress was all the way gone, then bent down, picked her up in his arms, pulled her against his chest, and said, “Come on, Chuck. We’re going inside. Lily needs a bed.”

  Lily didn’t want to think about what was right and what was wrong. She was here, and that was all.

  Rafe striding through the dim house, the open windows bringing in a welcome breeze, the wind chimes on the back porch offering up a frantic melody. Rafe carrying her up the stairs, her arm wrapped around his neck.

  For once, he wasn’t cool, and he wasn’t talking.

  When he deposited her on the bed, she scrambled to her knees, and he stood there, his chest rising and falling with effort and emotion, she definitely didn’t want to think about anything else. And she did anyway. She said, “Chuck. Also—food. We can’t leave it outside. Grizzlies. And I don’t
know if Chuck’s scared of thunderstorms. Oh—my windows are open down there.”

  Rafe said, “I’ve got him. And his bed. And the food. And the windows. Stay there.” One last hard look in the dim light, and he was gone.

  She should have thought about tomorrow, but she was tired of thinking about tomorrow. Tired of thinking about risk and return, about emotional investment and the certainty of heartbreak. She was a body, too, and her body needed his.

  Candles, she thought, and scrambled off the bed to find them. She was coming out of the bathroom holding a pale-green pillar and box of matches when she heard Rafe’s light footfall on the stairs.

  He came through the door like wind and rain, like the god of thunder, and she stopped in the act of setting the candle on the bedside table.

  “I thought I said to stay there,” he said, and she caught her breath.

  “And I thought,” she said, ignoring the fact that she was wearing absolutely nothing and all he’d taken off were his shoes, “that we needed a candle.”

  He smiled. Slowly, and all the way to his eyes. “This never happens to the werewolf.”

  “Maybe,” she said, “the werewolf needs to get out into the real world, where the real women live.”

  “Could be.” He looked her over. Slowly. “Could also be that I’d love to see you in candlelight. Underneath me.”

  That was unfair. She tried to strike a match, and failed. He took the box from her, and the light of a match flared bright in the dim room. A touch to the wick, and the light changed to a mellow glow, dancing against the shadows, climbing the wall. Hot air cooled by the whirling fan, the fitful breeze.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, then stepped up behind her.