THE TEMPTATION OF SEAN MCNEILL

by Virginia Kantra

  "Thank you," she said.

  Well, hell. Sean was used to leaping before he looked, going with the flow, living for the moment. It worked well enough. It worked before Rachel. Rachel, straight as ash and strong as oak and constant as the night. Now that she was trusting in him, counting on him, his gut twisted with doubt.

  What had he gotten himself into here? What had he gotten her into?

  * * *

  Special Agent Lee Gowan arrived on Rachel's doorstep Thursday evening, right before supper.

  "If anyone's watching the house, I'm just an old friend dropping by," he'd instructed her during their brief phone conversation on Wednesday. "You can say we need some privacy to catch up, and I'll install the tap then."

  So Rachel was almost prepared when she opened the door and a lean blond man who could have stepped off of a recruiting poster promptly kissed her on the cheek and announced, "Rachel! You look great. How are the kids?"

  "F-fine," she stammered. Oh, this would never do. She dredged up a smile. "How are you?"

  "Great." He waited a moment before prompting her. "Can I come in?"

  She flushed and stepped back to admit him. "Of course."

  Myra, attracted by the doorbell or the sound of a male voice, drifted from the kitchen. "Well, goodness." Her hands went automatically to her graying blond hair. "Rachel, honey, you didn't tell me we were expecting company."

  The agent stepped forward into the hall. "Lee Gowan, ma'am. I'm an old friend of Rachel's."

  Myra's eyes widened speculatively. "Really?"

  Before her mother could get into where-are-you-from and I-don't-believe-I-know-your-people, Rachel blurted, "Do you mind if we visit in the kitchen, Mama? We have a lot of catching up to do."

  Myra's face creased. "But it's so hot in there."

  "I don't mind a little heat," Agent Gowan said with a smile that didn't quite reach his blue eyes.

  "I'll pour Lee some tea," Rachel said. "And I can finish up the salad while we talk."

  "Well, all right." Myra pouted briefly at being deprived of the company of a personable man, but Rachel figured she wasn't able to resist pairing off her daughter. "I guess I'll just go sit on the porch and listen to the bug zapper."

  Gowan looked disbelieving as Rachel led the way back to the kitchen. "Was she serious?"

  "Of course not. That's Mama being tactful."

  Sean came in the back door without knocking. And for a moment, before Rachel remembered that he could get hurt hanging around her, her heart gave an undisciplined bound and she was really, really glad to see him. For a moment.

  She scowled at him. "What are you doing here?"

  He grinned back. "I saw the nondescript blue car and your mother out front and figured the feds must be here. Agent Gowan?"

  "Lee."

  "Sean MacNeill."

  They shook, testing grips, sizing each other up.

  "You all going to arm wrestle now?" Rachel asked.

  Sean laughed.

  Agent Gowan pursed his lips. Maybe he figured she was as loony as her mother. "I take it Mrs. Jordan doesn't know why I'm here."

  "No. I don't want her involved," Rachel said. She looked pointedly at Sean. "I don't want anyone else involved."

  The agent nodded and set a brown paper sack on the kitchen table, as if he'd brought his lunch and was ready to eat now. "I'll get you set up here and then you can leave it to us. This is your mother's house, though, right? Her phone?"

  "Yes." Sudden doubt assailed her. "Does it make a difference?"

  The agent took something out of the bag. Something small, like a battery. "Not really. I got a bench warrant, just in case."

  "In case of what?" Rachel asked sharply.

  Agent Gowan unscrewed the earpiece on the phone. He didn't answer, but Rachel had her reply. In case she changed her mind.

  The next time Bilotti called, everything would be recorded. Things were spiraling out of her control. With or without her cooperation, the investigation would move forward.

  Sean winked at her. "Secret agent stuff."

  It was stupid, but she felt comforted.

  "All set," Gowan said, hanging up the phone. "Next time he calls, we'll have ourselves a nice little evidence tape."

  "And then what?" Rachel asked.

  Gowan shrugged. "Depends what he says. You can see me out now."

  * * *

  "What an attractive man," Myra said as the agent strode back to the uninteresting car pulled into the drive.

  "I suppose so," Rachel said. She was still fretting over the wisdom of calling the police. The FBI. She shivered.

  You are so afraid of losing, you can't win.

  Sean was right. It was time, past time, to wrest back control of her life. But she'd never planned on gambling with her children's safety. She'd never wanted to worry about Sean's.

  "Is he married?" Myra continued.

  "I don't think so." She hadn't noticed. Hadn't thought to ask.

  "You should have invited him to stay for dinner."

  "Oh, Mama. That ham won't feed more than five. And Sean's eating with us tonight."

  "Yes, but your Mr. Gowan is older. What did you say he does for a living?"

  "I didn't. Mama, you've got to stop trying to fix me up with anything in pants that comes down the walk. I told you, I'm not interested in a relationship right now."

  No, she just wanted to crawl onto the green velvet couch with Sean MacNeill one night and beg him to make her laugh. Beg him to make love to her, to cover her with his broad, hard body and touch her with his big, scarred bands, until she was breathless and mindless and heedless of everything but him.

  And that scared her worse than any old tap on her phone.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  «^»

  The call came at nine that night, when normal people were relaxing, when mothers supervised the last minutes of homework before tucking their children into bed and lovers settled on the couch to unwind and argue amiably over possession of the remote control.

  Rachel sat at the kitchen table with a stack of fourth-period personal narratives to grade, two lunch boxes to clean and pack and at least three baskets of laundry to fold and sort. She was wading through Nick Cooper's account of spring break at Myrtle Beach—sixteen years old and the boy was still writing variations on "How I Spent My Summer Vacation"—when the phone rang.

  She froze. Stupid, she scolded. Answer it. Answer, before Mama gets it or the kids come down the stairs.

  The phone rang again, and she jerked as if the sound was an electric current and she was wired to it. She took a deep breath and made herself move.

  Someone, somewhere, was listening to her, recording her. But she felt very cold and alone. "Hello?"

  "Mrs. Fuller."

  That heavy, formal voice made her grip the receiver tighter. "Yes. Who is this?"

  Carmine Bilotti sighed. "You know who this is, Mrs. Fuller. I've got to say, your attitude lately has been a real disappointment to me. I never thought we'd have this kind of problem with a lady like you."

  "There's no problem," Rachel said breathlessly. "That's not what my nephew Frankie tells me. You've got some kind of bodyguard hanging around?"

  "A friend."

  "A boyfriend?" The voice was reproachful. "Hard to believe poor Doug's been gone only a year."

  Rachel closed her eyes. She didn't want to talk about Sean. She didn't want to draw attention to him in any way. "Look, I'm sure you didn't call to talk about my social life."

  "Now, that's the truth. Although, you know, it's sort of a reminder. Time passing and all. What I think is, it's time to make final arrangements to take care of our problem."

  Final arrangements? Visions of funerals danced in her head. Cold snaked down her spine. "That sounds very … final," she said.

  "Funny. What I'm saying is, you can pay off your loan now, in full, and then you and the kids and the boyfriend can make a fresh start."

  Bullies always ask for more
, Sean had warned her, and he was right. This was much worse than an extra thousand a month. "I don't have the money. You know I don't."

  "You have the house."

  "I had a house."

  "The place you're staying in now."

  "This is my mother's house."

  "And you're her daughter. A loving mother should be willing to help her daughter out."

  Not if it meant losing her house, her husband's only legacy. Not at the cost of her own security.

  "I won't ask my mother for money," Rachel said fiercely.

  "Sure, sure. You don't have to. I bet the place is insured. Against, say … fire?"

  For terrible seconds, Rachel let the implication of his words wash over her. Insurance. Doug had killed himself for the life insurance money. Would the Bilottis commit arson to collect again?

  "Are you…" The words froze in her throat. Be specific, Agent Gowan had instructed her. She swallowed. "Are you threatening me?"

  "Mrs. Fuller." His voice was chiding. "I'm just letting you know how things could be. You want to consider your options."

  Her palms were sweating. She was sweating all over, which was odd because she was cold. So cold. "I have no options."

  "Sunday," he said. "That gives you enough time to get to the bank but not enough to do anything foolish. Give me your number, and I'll be in touch."

  She struggled to make sense of his request. Her brain felt sluggish. "My number? I'm here."

  "You got a cell phone? Believe me, you don't want to miss this call."

  She did have a mobile phone, in case the children ever needed to reach her. Automatically, she gave him the number.

  "Right, then. The full amount, in cash, on Sunday. I'll call."

  "But—"

  "Consider your options, Mrs. Fuller. You have a lot to lose." He hung up.

  Rachel sagged against the wall, still clutching the receiver. She wanted to whimper. She wanted to cry and be comforted in strong, warm arms. She wanted Sean.

  Not his problem, she reminded herself sharply.

  The phone was tapped. Extortion by wire was a federal crime. Sean had said so. All she had to do was hold on and wait for Agent Gowan to get in touch with her, and her children and her mother would be safe and her life could go back to normal.

  Consider your options, Mrs. Fuller.

  She began to shake.

  From the living room TV, a blast of music cued the cut to commercial. Myra Jordan chirped, "Rachel? Who was that on the phone?"

  "Nobody, Mama."

  She had to get out of here. She would not go running across the backyard to Sean. She pushed away from the wall, her gaze skidding from the stacks of paper and piles of laundry to her running shoes bundled into the corner by the door.

  Escape.

  She grabbed them. On the edge of her seat, she tied her shoes, her fingers trembling. The TV chattered from the other room.

  Grateful for whatever program had claimed her mother's attention, Rachel called, "I'm going out for a while. To clear my head."

  "All right, dear," Myra answered.

  Rachel ran.

  She did about a mile before her blood finally warmed, before her muscles loosened and her heartbeat regulated. Control. She congratulated herself. This was what she needed. She'd taken up running again after Doug died to make herself fit, to keep herself strong, to regain control over a tiny portion of her life. It was quicker and a whole lot cheaper than paying some therapist to tell her she was under stress. For heaven's sake, she knew that.

  She ran. She was stretching into a comfortable rhythm when she noticed the headlights behind her.

  She was suddenly, uncomfortably, aware of her isolation.

  Don't overreact. It was just some factory worker coming off his shift or a teenager driving home from a friend's or … who else would be on a back country road at almost ten o'clock at night?

  Rachel moved even farther onto the verge and slowed her pace. The car behind her slowed, too. Was there something familiar about the rumble of that motor?

  She stumbled. Her pulse roared in her ears. There were no lights on this road, only the dim glow of a moon she could no longer see in the glare of the headlights. She would not stop. She would not turn around. She would not panic unless the car behind her stopped and someone got out.

  Gravel crunched. The car behind her stopped. She heard a door slam.

  Oh, God. She sprinted ahead, afraid to run for the trees on either side. Teacher's Body Found In Woods, her mental headline shrieked.

  Feet pounded behind her. A deep voice shouted. She frowned in recognition. Maybe—?

  But before she could think or react, a hand, hard and bruising, slipped down her arm and grabbed her elbow. She tried to twist away, but it was too strong and she was spent. Catching her with his other arm, her attacker pulled her back into his hot, solid body. With a desperate cry, she whirled, driving her elbow as hard as she could at his midsection.

  "Ow! Damn."

  Sean.

  She stopped struggling, peering at his face in the long shadows cast by the headlights.

  "You nearly broke my ribs," he complained.

  "You scared me," she accused.

  "Well, you scared me. Your mother said you'd gone out. What if I'd been a bad guy?"

  Her heart still pounded. She raised her eyebrows. "I guess I would have nearly broken your ribs."

  He expressed his opinion of that in two short words.

  Rachel almost smiled.

  "Sweet Mother in Heaven, don't you realize Friendly Frank is out there somewhere?"

  He was yelling at her the way she'd yelled at Chris when he was three years old and ran into the street. "Naturally, I realize—"

  "It was a stupid thing to do. You've got to take care of yourself."

  She was trying. "I do."

  "You're not doing a very good job."

  "And I suppose you could do better?"

  "I could hardly do worse. Myra told me you got a call. Was it Bilotti?"

  She put up her chin. "What if it was?"

  "Why the hell didn't you come to me?"

  "I…" What could she possibly say? "I thought about it."

  "Well, that's great." He released her to run a hand through his long hair. "That is just great."

  "I don't understand why you're so angry with me. It's not your problem."

  "Maybe I'd like it to be."

  "No, you wouldn't," she said wearily. "Nobody would. Even I don't want my problems."

  He squinted at her in the glare of the headlights. "Rachel…"

  "Doug didn't want them, either." She sucked in a painful breath. "Which explains, I guess, why he killed himself."

  Sean swore and jerked her to him abruptly, wrapping her in his hard, strong arms. His heart thudded against her palms. His breath stirred her hair. "What the hell are you doing to me, Rachel? What am I going to do with you?"

  His tenderness broke her when his anger could not. She felt tears burning the back of her throat and gulped aggressively.

  "I'm not crying," she mumbled into his shirt.

  "You can. You should."

  "No. I look ugly when I cry."

  "Says who?"

  "I do. Little girls, pretty girls, cry pretty little tears. My face gets ugly and red."

  "You mean, you look like a human being instead of a doll."

  She shuddered against him. He threaded his fingers through the hair near her scalp. Combing it back, he kissed her temple and the space between her brows and the bridge of her nose. His breath was warm. His lips were firm. He kissed her cheekbone and her wet lashes.

  "Real tears," he said. "You're one of the realest people I've ever known. And you can cry in my arms anytime."

  She knew better than to believe him. It hurt too much. "Anytime until you leave."

  "What do you want, Rachel?" he asked quietly. "Promises?"

  When had promises ever done her any good? Her father's promises, her mother's, Doug's?

 
I'll be there for you, Rachel.

  It will be different this time, Rachel.

  It's nothing to worry about, Rachel.

  "I don't know," she said. "I haven't had much luck with promises. What are you offering?"

  "I don't know." After a long minute his arms tightened and then he let her go. "Let's figure it out in the truck. I don't want you sideswiped by some Bubba who shouldn't be out after dark."

  She nodded, too tired to resist his seductive concern any longer. Too aware she was becoming dangerously dependent on his support.

  They walked back to the truck, its motor still running. He opened her door. His courtesy no longer surprised her. It wasn't an anachronism or an act, but a measure of his genuine kindness. That didn't mean she should take advantage of it. Of him.

  He swung in beside her and switched gears. She tilted her forehead against the cool glass, watching her breath condense, a silver circle of fog on the window. The night rushed by behind it, blank and dark. Sean drove with his window down and his elbow propped on the door, and after a while the wind in the cab faded the marks of her breath.

  Rachel sat up. "This isn't the way home."

  "I know."

  "Where are you going?"

  His teeth gleamed in a pirate's smile. "Joyriding."

  "I need to get back. I still have papers to—"

  "You need this more. I need this."

  Silenced, she sat as he drove past houses put up in what used to be pastures. A lone dog barked a warning from a farmhouse. The trees waved dark arms against a deep sky. Sean slowed at a deserted intersection, and the truck bounced off the road.

  "Where are we?" she asked.

  "Logging road."

  "Aren't those closed to the public?"

  He shrugged. "I know a way past the gate." The truck lurched down a grassy alley along a string of electric poles. The moon filtered dimly through the trees. Rachel balanced herself with one hand on the dash-board. She really ought to protest that what they were doing was foolish. Illegal. She was a good daughter, a widowed mother of two, a high school English teacher charged with setting her students an appropriate example … and what had being a Nice Girl ever gotten her but a mother who abdicated her responsibilities and a husband who gambled and a small-time racketeer who had no qualms threatening her home and her children?