Led into Temptation. Cara Summers
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After all, they’d traveled a long road together. How was she supposed to change from the person she’d been all her life into someone … she didn’t even know?
Little steps.
Her gaze fell on the huge tote bag she carried with her everywhere. If she wanted a new beginning, she could start by getting rid of her tote. She’d had it since she’d started college nine years ago, and it held everything that was absolutely essential to her life. Most people used a filing cabinet, but she carted that tote around like some sort of a security blanket. Or obsession.
Periodically—say, once a year—she’d sort through it, but almost always when she discarded something, she stuffed in something else she wanted to keep at her fingertips.
And it weighed a ton. Hefting it up, she turned it over and dumped the contents out on the bed. Then she simply stared. There was a day planner and three notebooks—she never went into meetings or court without one. Then there was her makeup bag, an extra pair of earrings, a change purse, a wallet and all of the little surprise gifts Michael had given her in the six months they’d known each other.
Somewhere in the roller coaster of emotions she’d experienced in the two weeks since she’d walked into Leo King’s office and been introduced to the two FBI agents, she’d tried to figure out if what she’d felt for Michael Davenport had been love.
Or had she simply been dazzled by the attention he’d paid her?
No one had ever treated her the way Michael had, as if she were special. She picked up the souvenir key chain he’d given her on their last night together. It boasted two charms, a silver key to Boston and a crystal heart. When he’d presented it to her, he’d asked for her keys and he’d transferred them to the new chain so that she would always carry the key to his heart.
The gesture and the words were so typically Michael. He was the perfect gentleman. He’d taken charge of their relationship from that first chance meeting in the Four Seasons and he’d made all the decisions.
That had been part of his attraction, she supposed. As the oldest, she’d often played a decision-making role when it came to her sisters. And Michael had lifted that burden off her shoulders. He’d even taken charge of the physical side of their relationship. He’d told her that considering her background, he wanted to take things slowly with her.
Very slowly, to her way of thinking. They’d shared long kisses, even some heavy petting in his private limo. But in the six months she’d known him, they’d never actually made love. She’d thought of objecting more than once, but she hadn’t. It was so much easier to be just swept along.
Would she have been more aggressive if she’d felt differently about him, she wondered now, or maybe if there’d been more heat between them?
She’d given her engagement ring to the authorities to help pay back some of the people Michael had swindled. But she’d held on to the trinkets. Originally, he’d asked her to keep them so that when they were old and gray, they could take them out and rekindle memories of their early days together.
At the time the idea had moved her and she’d promised to keep all of them. Forever. Was that why she’d taken them from her apartment and brought them to Belle Island? Or was she still nursing some adolescent hope that the stories about Michael would turn out to be false, that he would get in touch with her again as he’d promised?
Whirling, she strode away from the bed and then paced back to it. What in the world was wrong with her? The memories were all lies. Why couldn’t she accept that? She stared down at the little mementos. She should toss them. But for tonight she wasn’t going to put too much pressure on herself. Little steps.
After rescuing her makeup, cell phone and wallet, she scooped the rest of the items on the bed back into the tote. She wasn’t quite ready to throw it out, but if she kept it in the suite, she might be tempted to use it again.
To prevent that, she strode to Jillian’s closet. Having a sister who was a shopaholic—and a generous one—came in handy at times. Naomi chose a small handbag from the collection, one that would hold her hotel key card, wallet and cell phone. She knew that Jillian wouldn’t mind lending her the bag, especially since it was for a good cause. The new Naomi Brightman was no longer going to drag around a tote.
She suddenly thought of a place she could store it temporarily. Grabbing the tote and her keys, she left her room and strode down the hall to the carved oak door that led to Hattie’s old bedroom. After opening it, she climbed the circular iron staircase to the second level.
During the rehab, they’d built a partition to divide the room into two spaces; one side was furnished as a sitting area with sofas and chairs, and the other as an office with three desks. They all shared Reese’s computer.
Locating the lever on the inner wall, she pulled it and watched the door to Hattie’s secret room spring open. Without even turning on the light, she set the tote inside. Then she hesitated, catching sight of the fantasy box on the floor. For a moment she was tempted, just as she was each time she returned to Haworth House, to choose another parchment. If she picked a different fantasy, could she stop obsessing about the priest one?
No. She pulled the lever and watched the door close. She wasn’t going to think about it. Not today. Little steps, she reminded herself as she hurried back to her bedroom. Tonight she was going to let Haworth House work its magic on her. Moving out to her balcony, she rested her hands on the railing and gazed out to the sea. This was a ritual with her each time she came here. The sight of the water calmed her and helped her to refocus. The sun felt warm on her face, and after a few moments, she recalled a prayer from her childhood. “Please,” she breathed, “let me find a way to do what has to be done.”
She’d learned the prayer from Father Pierre Bouchard. He’d shared it with her during one of their conversations in the sacristy, and it had quickly become her private mantra. Usually, the focus of her prayers had to do with her sisters. Today, the prayer was for herself.
“Let me find a way to discover the new Naomi Brightman.”
There. She’d said it. And as she stood in the late-afternoon sunshine, she repeated it again and again.
The first awareness that she was being watched had her stomach plummeting. She dropped her gaze to the courtyard below her. A few of the tables had filled and a waitress was balancing drinks on a tray as she crossed the flagstones.
No one seemed to be looking in her direction. Had she been mistaken? The hairs on the back of her neck didn’t think so, and they’d been working overtime lately.
The slant of the afternoon sun left one of the porticoes in shadow. That was why she saw his legs first. Considering the time it took her gaze to travel up them, she reached two conclusions. They were long and he was tall. Very tall. The black T-shirt did nothing to hide the flat chest, well-muscled arms and broad shoulders.
Suddenly curious, she shifted her attention to his face. Though it was partially in shadow, she caught an impression of leanness, a sharp slash of cheekbones and a dark shadow along his jaw that gave him a rugged look. Recognition rippled through her.
It was the stranger who’d spoken to her on the boat. The one who’d made her think of Father Bouchard.
Without the hooded sweatshirt, she could see that his hair was jet-black and mussed by the wind. And his eyes. He wasn’t wearing the sunglasses, but at this distance, all she could tell was that they appeared dark and were definitely aimed at her. Awareness skittered along her nerve endings, and for a moment, she couldn’t seem to drag her gaze away from him.
What was wrong with her? He was a stranger. And he was looking at her as intently as she was looking at him. Devouring was the word that came to mind. She was sure she’d never even thought of devouring a man with her eyes before. But wasn’t that exactly what she was doing now? And there was a part of her that wanted to do more than think about it. Her pulse raced, and she felt a little breathless, as if she’d just run up the long flight of stairs from the beach.
It