Twice the Temptation. Cara Summers
to take her—to move into her and feel her heat wrap around him, trapping him even more forcefully.
The sensations, the image lingered even after she’d lowered her eyes. He couldn’t move. He didn’t dare until he was sure that when he did, he’d have the power to walk away.
3
Thursday evening—the day before Singles Weekend
“HERE YOU GO.” A young bartender whose name tag identified him as Grant set a beer down in front of Mac.
“Thanks.” Mac guessed Grant to be in his early twenties and he had a tendency to talk in bullets. “Are you always this busy?”
Grant grinned. “August. Height of the season. The restaurant closes at 10:00 p.m. Guests only have two choices.” Grant held his hands out, palms upward imitating a scale. “Here or their rooms.”
“From the looks of it, there are very few in their rooms.”
“Just the way we like it,” Grant said.
Mac glanced around the nearly fully occupied room. The U-shaped bar with its richly detailed mahogany panels and brass trim filled the center of the room. In a corner, a grand piano sat on a small raised stage surrounded by a dance floor. Windows lined one wall and, during the day, the ocean could be seen in the distance.
Grant pulled down two wineglasses from an overhead rack and used a practiced eye to fill them evenly. “Some of the guests are early arrivals for our Singles Weekend. Are you staying for it?”
“Yes.” And he’d dithered over that decision as much as he had over selecting which venue to use for Reese Brightman’s show.
It wasn’t just because he might have some responsibility for the threatening notes she’d been receiving. Or the fact that he had a vested professional interest in keeping her safe. Or even that he had yet to approach her about using Haworth House for background shots in her TV series.
All of those reasons were valid ones for staying on at Haworth House. But Mac knew that his decision had also been influenced by what he’d read on that damn parchment paper. And by the feelings Reese Brightman could trigger in him.
Otherwise, why would he be sitting here, waiting, on the off chance that she’d come into the bar? He’d purposely chosen a seat at one end of the counter, between the drink pick-up station and a richly foliaged plant that offered a clear view of the archway to the lobby. If she did make an appearance, he’d see her.
He was glancing in that direction when Charles Dutoit entered the room and scanned the tables, obviously looking for someone. The woman he’d been having lunch with earlier? Mac glanced around, but he didn’t see her.
Or was Dutoit looking for Reese? The thought had Mac frowning. The man certainly seemed to have some history with her. Was the L.A. chef here for the Singles Weekend? Mac’s frown deepened.
After a moment, Dutoit whirled and exited into the lobby.
“It’s the first Singles Weekend we’ve ever held,” Grant said as he efficiently loaded a tray with drinks. “Very exciting. Lots of events to encourage mixing, like hiking and a volleyball tournament on the beach.”
Grant leaned closer to Mac. “And tomorrow night we have a very special event scheduled here. Guests are going to be able to draw fantasies from our resident ghost’s fantasy box.”
“So I’ve heard. What can you tell me about this box?”
“Long story. Very romantic. Think Romeo and Juliet, West Side Story.”
“Star-crossed lovers,” Mac said.
“You got it.” Then he winked at Mac. “According to the local gossip, Hattie Haworth and Samuel Jenkins might have been star crossed, but they made the most of their time together. They created this box of fantasies. They’re all written on parchment paper. Not that I’ve seen any. But they’re supposed to be quite … stimulating.”
Mac had to agree with that. What he’d seen on the parchment Reese had dropped in the lobby had kept his erection hard all day. Try as he might, he couldn’t seem to shake the fantasy of becoming Reese Brightman’s boy toy.
Why else hadn’t he approached her already and introduced himself? Because once she knew who he was and why he’d come to the island, everything between them would become complicated. For both of them. She’d know he was Mac Davies, the waffling producer of her TV show who wanted to tinker with the concept one last time.
And any chance for the fantasy might well be lost.
Disgusted with himself, Mac picked up his glass and took a long swallow of beer. She was making him nuts. She’d interfered with his ability to think clearly from the first instant he’d seen her on that TV screen, and now she’d clearly sent him over the edge.
All day he’d lingered in the background trying to decide what to do. And he was still dithering over it. The last thing he should be considering was pursuing some kind of crazy fantasy with Reese Brightman. She didn’t just attract him on a physical level. She had the ability to push his emotional buttons, also. Case in point—the bitter, coppery taste he got in his mouth whenever he thought of someone else becoming her boy toy.
He was lifting his glass for another swallow when he felt her. The sharp tug in his gut and the way each of his senses sharpened had him glancing up. As she moved toward his end of the bar, she was flanked by two men. He recognized Avery Cooper. The other man, tall and sandy-haired, wore a badge and a gun strapped to his belt.
So they weren’t taking the black rose lightly. But it wasn’t relief he felt as Reese and the two men slid into a booth almost directly to his right. The foliage of the plant partly obstructed his view, but he saw it as she sat down—just the edge of that piece of parchment sticking out of the pocket of her jeans.
First the words echoed inside of his head: You will explore all the sensual delights of having your own boy toy. Then the image filled his mind. They were in bed together. Candles flickered in the background, flowers scented the air, but his attention was on her face, watching her eyes darken, hearing her breath hitch, seeing how her expression changed as he touched her, slowly, thoroughly.
What might it be like to be Reese Brightman’s boy toy? To focus all his being on simply giving her pleasure? And making her his own.
“Can I get you another beer?”
Grant’s words seemed to come from a distance, and when they finally penetrated the sensual fog that engulfed him, Mac found that his hands were locked on the edge of the bar.
He wanted Reese Brightman with a possessiveness that he’d never felt for any other woman. And the intensity of his desire had been building to a flashpoint ever since he’d first met her.
“Sure,” he said to the bartender. But it wasn’t a cold beer that he needed. It was a cold shower.
“OPEN A BOTTLE OF OUR NEW Pinot Gris for Ms. Brightman,” Avery told the hovering waitress. “Sheriff Kirby and I will have the house draft.”
As soon the young woman hurried off, Reese said, “You didn’t have to come all the way up here, Nate. Your deputy, Tim, took my statement earlier.” She shifted her gaze to Avery. “You shouldn’t have called him.”
Avery reached over to pat her hand. “I honored your wishes and I didn’t call your sisters … yet. Someone is going to a lot of trouble to threaten you. The sooner we put a stop to it, the better.”
Avery was right, she thought. Ever since the flower and the note had arrived, he’d tried to distract her with the last minute details of the Singles Weekend. He’d proposed that she end the festivities on Sunday afternoon with a cooking demonstration. And she’d slipped right back into her old M.O., using her work to escape from her problems.
She watched Nate pull out a notebook and flip it open. The flowers and the