THE TEMPTATION OF SEAN MCNEILL

by Virginia Kantra

  Lindsey squirmed. "You told Chris."

  "Which naturally brought her out here hot-foot to see what the big attraction was," Sean said.

  But Rachel already knew what—or rather, who—the attraction was. Averting her gaze from his hard, broad shoulders, she said politely, "I hope she didn't interrupt your work."

  He waved his paintbrush at her. "Not too much."

  "Well…" She stood uncertainly. "Thank you. Lindsey, bedtime."

  Her daughter's lower lip protruded. "I don't have to go to bed yet."

  "It's almost nine-twenty."

  "I don't want to go to bed."

  "Show's over, kid," Sean said. "Scoot. Take the comic book with you."

  Lindsey tossed her head and scrambled off the couch. With a look at her mother—I'm going, but you didn't make me—she scooted.

  Sean set his brush across the can of red paint. He stood slowly, wiping his hands on his thighs. Rachel's mouth went dry. The gesture called attention to, oh, to everything: his height and his lazy grace and the way his damn jeans fit. God save her from a man with a high, tight butt in a pair of well-washed denims.

  She looked up to meet his wicked dark gaze, and her cheeks burned.

  "You wanted me?" he drawled.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  «^»

  He stood there with the shop lights throwing his body into bold relief, sliding over the muscles revealed by his sleeveless T-shirt.

  Rachel couldn't do anything about the color burning her cheeks, but she'd be damned before she'd gulp. She cleared her throat instead. "Nice line. Does it work often?"

  Humor flashed in his eyes. It was hard not to like a man who could laugh at himself.

  "You'd be surprised," he said.

  "Not really," she muttered.

  "What?"

  "I really came to get Lindsey. I hope the children aren't bothering you."

  "Not much." He took a step closer. "Not like you do." The safest way—the only way—to deal with that was to ignore it. She retreated, skirting the edges of the tarp-covered floor to his workbench. His tools hung in orderly rows, arranged by size. His organized work space contrasted with his dangerous looks, his half-bare chest and raffish earring. Who was he? The conscientious workman or the careless pirate? Her heart tripped faster. Which did she want him to be?

  "I was thinking about what you said. About Chris needing a chance to get away from the house?"

  "From the henhouse, I said."

  It was payback, she decided, for her "nice line" crack. She waved it off. "Anyway, I never meant he couldn't even see you to return a comic book. if you don't mind him stopping by…"

  "I told you I don't mind."

  She turned to face him. "No power tools, though."

  He took another step nearer. "No. Rachel…"

  Her back was up against the workbench. She grasped the edge with both hands, determined to keep control of the subject and herself. Chris. They were talking about her son.

  "Both children saw a therapist after Doug—after. Chris seemed to be coping."

  He dipped his head. A strand of his hair slipped close to her cheek. His breath tickled her ear. "Coping is good."

  Her eyelids felt weighted. She fought to keep them open, like a child struggling against sleep. Like a swimmer in danger of drowning. "Yes. But he's been very… It seems silly to complain, but he's been almost too quiet. Too obedient. That's why I was so surprised when he did that awful thing to your chair."

  "He's dealing with a move and a whole new set of rules and people. He's probably just…" His warm lips brushed her cheekbone. "…acting up for attention."

  She inhaled sharply, smelling paint and lumber and man. "That doesn't mean you should put yourself out."

  "I won't."

  "We can manage on our own."

  "Sure." His mouth glided down to the curve of her jaw, found the pulse point just below her ear. "But if there's anything I can do to help…"

  It wasn't just the suggestion of sex in his voice that loosened her knees and made her go all soft and liquid inside. It was the undernote of humor, the promise of shared fun. As if. as long as he held her, she could shed the worried caretaker with tired eyes who'd taken control of her mirror and become someone else. Someone a gorgeous man in a sleeveless T-shirt could tease and make love with. Someone warm and urgent and alive she might have been once upon a time.

  Someone stupid.

  This time she did gulp. "I think you've probably done enough."

  "Lady, I am just getting started."

  She knew better than to let him. Really, she did. But when he rested one hand alongside hers on the workbench, her arm prickled at the nearness of his. Her body shivered at his closeness. Little zings and tingles chased under her skin, calling attention to places she'd neglected for months. Years. He pulled back and met her gaze, with laughter and something else in his eyes, and she noticed that his lashes were unfairly long and thick for a man's and that he needed a shave. Common sense screamed at her to be good, to be careful, to get back inside the house where she belonged.

  Rachel stayed right where she was.

  He leaned into her and kissed the arch of her brow and the space between her eyebrows where her headache lurked and the tip of her nose. His breath was warm and coffee-scented. His lips were soft and practiced. Every place his mouth touched set up a little chorus of agreement that drowned out the cautionary voices in her head. Yes. You betcha. Please.

  She waited for him to get on with it. She wasn't making this difficult. He probably didn't have much time to spend seducing a thirty-four-year-old widow and mother of two. But he continued to caress her face with slow, warm, open kisses, slowly leaching the tension from her muscles and building the anticipation under her skin. Her heart tripped faster. She was either going to jump him or lose her nerve.

  She turned her head abruptly, engaging that tempting mouth. With a jolt, he complied with her silent demand, giving her his heat, filling her with the slick pressure of his tongue, bringing her up close against his long, warm body. He felt solid and strong against her. He felt aroused, and she closed her eyes at the wicked pleasure of it, the pleasure of arousing him.

  They kissed, progressively slower. Deeper. Wetter. He tasted so good she could actually tune out the busy whispers in her head, blanket them with the electric sensations of body-tobody contact. He was reassuringly hard. She felt her insides contracting and her breasts tightening in need. It was almost like an itch, insistent, impossible to ignore. She rubbed against him, and he groaned encouragement into her mouth.

  His hands moved over her, his wide-palmed, long-fingered hands. He closed one over her breast as if he knew what she needed. She almost whimpered in relief as his blunt, clever fingers stroked and shaped and tugged.

  With his hand between their bodies, their hips pressed closer together. She tried to widen her legs, but the workbench was hard against her back and he was tight against her front. She made a small, frustrated sound in her throat and wiggled in protest.

  His free hand fisted in her hair and pulled their fused mouths apart.

  His eyes were dark and hot. "What do you want to do?"

  "I…"

  "What do you want, Rachel?"

  As if he actually saw her. As if what she wanted mattered.

  And she knew, with enormous regret, that the Rachel reflected in his eyes absolutely could not go through with … with whatever she'd thought she was about to do.

  The change must have registered in her face, because his mouth tightened. His grip in her hair loosened.

  "Lose your nerve?" he asked, almost sympathetically.

  It was so close to what she'd actually been thinking that her denial died unspoken. "That, or my mind."

  "Want me to try to change it for you?"

  She was almost unbearably tempted to say yes, to let him take over, to let him take the responsibility for what happened between them. She shook her head. "I need to go in."

>   "Running away?"

  "Certainly not," she lied. "Lindsey will be waiting for me to tuck her in."

  "I could wait for you to tuck me in, too. if you want to come back."

  "It's not a question of what I want. I have obligations."

  "Responsible Rachel." Was he making fun of her? But his eyes were warm.

  "Yes," she said baldly.

  His knuckle brushed her cheek. "Okay. Good night."

  She swallowed disappointment. "You're taking this awfully well."

  He laughed shortly. "Beautiful, I'm hard enough right now to pound nails. But nothing's going to happen you're not ready for."

  His blunt admission was as arousing as his touch, his consideration more devastating than his kisses. Both made it even harder to walk away. But she did.

  She walked back alone, feeling his gaze like a hand on the small of her back. She didn't turn around. When she reached the porch she could hear the rumble of a police drama from her mother's TV and Lindsey shouting at the top of the stairs for Chris to get out of the bathroom.

  This was what she had. This was all she had. It was time she made the best of it.

  Taking a sharp breath, Rachel pulled on the screen door and went inside the house.

  * * *

  The town of Benson's Labor Day celebration wasn't a bad fair, Sean thought, strolling the makeshift midway. Not as neighborly as the parish carnival at St. Ann's, not as big as the old Marshfield Fair south of Boston, but it had all the required elements: a rickety row of game booths, a 4-H exhibit, and a lot full of rattletrap rides. In the field below the high school, a rash of craft tents had sprung up like mushrooms after a rain.

  A fire truck gleamed to a spit-polish shine and bicycles decorated with crepe paper were parked on the sidewalk in front of the school. The marching band had already performed on the main stage. A row of little girls in sparkling leotards twirled for their parents on the platform, and a sandwich board announced the Starlight Swing Band scheduled for seven o'clock.

  Yeah, a good fair. And since breaking up with Lori Tucker, it was the closest thing to excitement Sean was likely to find. Despite his outsider status in town, he was enjoying the racing kids and the waving flags, the smell of grilling sausages, the pastel puffs of cotton candy and the bright lights of the Ferris wheel doing their valiant best against the sunshine and dingy paint.

  Of course, normally he'd have somebody beside him to share it all with, to squeal on the roller coaster and give him a reason to try for one of the giant prizes hanging from the booths. Somebody female, and older than his niece Brianna. But Lori was history, and the only other candidate had made it plain she wasn't in his future.

  He stopped at one of the stands to buy beer in a plastic cup. He'd had a close escape there, he thought Rachel, with her warm eyes and her hot mouth and her stubborn independent streak, had blown his cool and his mind. Even the memory of her, eager and strong in his arms, made him ache. A woman like that could make him forget every rule he had about dating women with kids. Yeah, a real close escape, he told himself, and tried to ignore the nagging emptiness he felt.

  In the meantime, drinking a cold beer in the hot sun with dust and straw and popcorn underfoot was a thousand times better than sitting alone in a bar.

  And he didn't have to stay alone. With more experience than purpose, he eyed the holiday crowd. Pretty teens in skinny tank tops. Too young. A chattering group in lawn chairs, their flowered skirts bright in the shade. Too old. A good-humored, sharp-featured policewoman patrolling the fair gave him a nod and got a smile in return. There was a nice-looking blonde at the bake sale stall and a glossy brunette with great legs leaning over the counter at the milk can toss…

  Rachel.

  Before he could think better of it, he crossed the midway to her side.

  * * *

  Chris had won a plush green dog, and Lindsey was wild with wanting one.

  "Please, Mommy. Pleeeease? Just one more. Let me try just one more time."

  Mommy. Not Mom. Rachel smiled down into her daughter's pink-cheeked, pleading face. It was worth the money already gone on games and greasy food, worth the hours she would be up preparing lesson plans tomorrow night. Definitely worth another fifty cents for a chance to knock the milk cans down.

  "Well…" she drawled, pretending to consider.

  The booth attendant, an old hand at spotting an easy mark, plunked three balls down on the counter. "Here ya go."

  "Yes!" Lindsey crowed, and made a grab for them.

  Rachel dug in her shorts' pocket for her shrinking wad of tickets. "Take your time. Aim."

  Lindsey nodded, weighing the ball in her hand, judging the distance to her target. She threw. The top four cans tumbled.

  "Good girl!" Rachel said. Chris jumped up and down. Lindsey glowed. She threw again. Another can fell, leaving five: a straight row across the bottom and one on top.

  "I can't do it," Lindsey said.

  But she tried. Her ball sailed uselessly to the right of the top can and smacked into the canvas at the back of the booth. Her shoulders slumped.

  "Not bad," a male voice said appraisingly behind them. "A little lower and you would have taken them down."

  Rachel recognized that lazy, deep voice. Her heart thudded. She turned and saw Sean, thumbs stuck in his jeans' front pockets, dark hair brushing the back of his neck, earring winking like a promise. He grinned as if he were glad just to see her, and she grinned foolishly, helplessly, back.

  "Sean!" Chris said.

  He nodded. "Hey, sport."

  "Can you hit them?" Lindsey demanded. "I want a dog."

  Rachel pulled herself together. "Lindsey, it's not polite to ask—"

  "'S okay. It's a male prerogative, winning prizes for pretty girls at fairs."

  "Don't be sexist. I could get one for her."

  He tipped his head back, regarding her from under thick, dark lashes. "Could you now? Care to make a bet?"

  Ridiculously, her heart beat faster. Was this how Doug felt, she wondered, when the stakes were raised? "What kind of bet?"

  "A friendly one. I win the prize, you let me take you and the kids around."

  It sounded like fun, she thought wistfully. She raised her eyebrows, proud of her control. "I thought you limited yourself to women without responsibilities?"

  He'd said that to her, Sean remembered. He'd meant it, too. He shrugged. "So, change the bet. I win, you give me a dance when the band comes on tonight."

  "And if I win?"

  "You want to make this a competition? Fine. You win, I'll buy you all a bunch of tickets."

  She looked uncertain. "I don't gamble."

  "It's not gambling. It's a sure thing. Either way, the kid gets the dog."

  "Do it, Mom," Lindsey urged.

  "Yeah, do it," said Chris.

  Rachel caught her lower lip in her teeth, plainly torn. Excited. Sean's body tightened. He wouldn't have minded getting a good bite of that mouth himself.

  "You've got yourself a bet," she said, and slapped down two tickets.

  He grinned. "You take cash?" he asked the guy behind the counter.

  The attendant shifted his toothpick to the other side of his mouth, considering. "I'll hold your money. You turn it in for tickets when you're done."

  "Great. Thanks."

  There were two pyramids of wooden "milk cans" behind the plank counter, ten to a stack.

  Rachel picked up a ball and looked at Sean.

  He gestured. "Ladies first."

  She nodded once, all business-like. Affectionate laughter rose silently in his throat. She looked so cute, with her earnest face and her dark hair escaping from its ponytail. She took a step back. He just had time to admire her hips in her neat cuffed shorts before she let a missile fly. Seven cans scattered, and the laughter sank into astonishment.

  She turned to him, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. "Your turn."

  Piece of cake. He hefted the ball in his hand, measured the distance to the targ
et with his eyes, and threw. The ball hit slightly off center with enough power behind it to take down most of the piled cans. He counted. Seven.

  Rachel's lips moved as she counted, too. She picked up her next ball. He watched her long fingers curl around it, and the sleek strength of her arm as she coiled and launched the ball. He shook his head. She was arousing him without even trying. Without even looking at him.

  He heard the kids whoop and checked out her target. All three cans were down.

  He raised an eyebrow. "Nice throw."

  "Do I win?"

  "He— Heck, no. I still have two shots."

  It took both, and he was really trying. When the last can went flying, he turned to her in triumph. She was laughing.

  The booth attendant set two tiny plush toys on the counter. "That wins you each a small prize. Want to go again?"

  Sean bared his teeth in a grin. "Two out of three?"

  She tossed her head. "You' re on."

  "Go, Mom," said Lindsey.

  Her first shot toppled eight cans and left two teetering. "You," Sean told her solemnly. "are a dangerous woman."

  She beamed at him, cheeks flushed, the tip of her tongue escaping from between her lips, delighted as a child on Christmas morning. Something huge and soft expanded in his chest, forcing his breath out in a whoosh. Dangerous. Yes. In ways he was only beginning to discover.

  Their competition was attracting a small hometown crowd. From two rows back, a kid called, "Way to go, Mrs. Fuller!" and her face flushed an even prettier pink.

  Sean turned to look at the boy, a blond, muscled teen in a flannel shirt worn open over his white T-shirt. Cocky. Hot.

  "One of your students?" he guessed.

  "Nick Cooper. How did you know?"

  "I recognize the type. Hell, I used to be the type."

  He was delighted when she laughed again; less delighted when she nailed her remaining cans with one ball and he needed two.

  "Bad luck," Rachel said sympathetically.

  He was either going to kiss her or strangle her. "Thanks. Again."

  She looked almost guilty. "Oh, I don't think—"