Cara Summers Read online

  He shifted his eyes to the balcony outside her bedroom. But when he’d first seen her in the flesh, his reaction had gone far beyond empathy. A raw sexual awareness had shot through him like a lance. It was a purely visceral response that he couldn’t seem to control. And the experience had repeated itself in one way or another each time he’d seen her since.

  At first he’d tried to prevent it, then he’d tried to analyze it. Finally he’d settled for trying to get used to it.

  And that wasn’t going very smoothly. He’d very nearly reached out to touch her when he’d talked to her on the ferry. The urge to lay a hand on her arm or on the side of her face had been so strong. As a priest, he’d have to keep that impulse in check.

  “You still there, Dane?”

  “Yeah.” Annoyed with himself, he dragged his eyes away from Naomi’s balcony.

  “For a moment there, I thought I’d lost you. I take it you haven’t seen our other friend, either?”

  “You’ll be the first to know. He wasn’t on the ferry.” But Dane hadn’t expected him to be. The man was smart. He’d have known that Naomi would come to Haworth House just as Dane had known. In the year since she and her sisters had purchased the hotel, this was the only place Naomi Brightman had escaped to. It was a matter of time before Davenport showed. The island held a myriad of places for a secret rendezvous.

  There was a brief pause, then Ian said, “Things are slow here at the office. I’m bored.”

  Dane could picture his brother. He’d be sitting at his desk, feet propped up, wearing cutoff shorts and a T-shirt and shooting wadded-up balls of paper at the wastebasket strategically placed five feet away. When Dane had located Ian a year ago, he’d been seated behind a desk at the CIA wearing a suit, tie and a very serious expression on his face. It was the same face that Dane remembered from his childhood. But in the short time they’d worked together, the formerly uptight Ian had loosened up quite a bit.

  “You know field work has its boring days. Don’t forget I’m just off two weeks of shadowing.” There hadn’t been much excitement in keeping Naomi Brightman under surveillance. In spite of the fact that her life had been thrown into major turmoil, she’d stuck as much as she could to a daily routine. She’d bought her latte at the same coffee shop each day. She’d arrived at her office and left at the same time. Except on Tuesdays. That was the day she worked late. Even her wardrobe had a routine to it. Though the colors might vary, she always wore a suit, and in addition to a briefcase, she carried the same enormous tote bag everywhere. She’d even had it with her when he’d talked to her on the ferry.

  “Ian.” At the memory, Dane straightened in his chair. “There is something that you can look into for me.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I spoke briefly with Naomi on the ferry just as we were about to disembark. We didn’t exchange names or anything. Just a few casual words between strangers. But she thought she knew me. It shook her up. She asked if I’d been a priest at that boarding school she went to in France. Do you think you can dig up something on that?”

  “Is the Pope Catholic? I’ll be in touch. And if things start to heat up on the island, let me know. I’ll gladly provide backup.”

  “Will do.” After repocketing his cell phone, Dane stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. There was no one better at digging up information than Ian. With his brother’s help, Dane had no doubt that they would locate their younger sibs very soon. The little ones had been four and two on the day their mother had died and their life as a family had ended.

  Dane put his sunglasses on and gazed out at the sea. Sharon MacFarland had been twenty-eight when her life had been snuffed out, a year younger than he was now. He remembered her as a good mother. She’d loved them. The problem was she’d had a dream that one day she’d find her Prince Charming. And Lord knows, she’d looked for him. Persistence had been Sharon MacFarland’s middle name. He and his three other siblings all had different fathers, and none of them had turned out to be the prince his mother was looking for.

  A tingle of awareness moved through him. And Dane knew before he raised his eyes to the balcony that Naomi would be there. The moment that he looked at her, the awareness sharpened and he felt an irresistible pull.

  Before he was even conscious of the decision, he rose from his chair and moved closer to the edge of the open courtyard to get a clearer view.

  She stood at a waist-high railing, looking out at the sea. Though he couldn’t see them, he knew what her legs looked like, and he recalled the strength and athleticism in the way she moved. If he closed his eyes, he could recall every detail of the features that had been captured in her photo on King and Fairchild Web site. Gray-green eyes, pale skin with just a sprinkling of freckles, a straight, narrow nose, strong cheekbones and a chin that hinted at stubbornness.

  But there was something different about her today. She had the same serious look on her face that she’d worn for the past two weeks. But he sensed less tension. Her shoulders were more relaxed and her hands rested on the balcony rather than gripping it.

  That was when it struck him. Her hair—that was different, too. It fell loose to her shoulders, and the late-afternoon sun haloed it around her head. That had to be why he’d never noted the fiery red highlights before. His eyes narrowed then, focusing on her face. Her lips were moving. Not even a hint of a sound drifted to him. Was she whispering? Praying?

  For a moment a vivid image flashed into his mind. She was in his arms, her cheek pressed against his, her breath hot in his ear. She was whispering to him. His blood heated, his pulse raced. He couldn’t make out her words above the pounding of his heart. Then her eyes shifted suddenly to him, and her gaze moved slowly up his body. He hadn’t thought it possible for his body to grow any harder, but it did.

  When her eyes finally locked on his, there was a moment—an instant, he would convince himself later—when he couldn’t think of anything, anyone but her. And he barely blocked the urge to walk into the courtyard and climb up the stone wall to her balcony.

  The thought was so ridiculous that it cleared his mind immediately. Who did he think he was? A comic book hero? Or Shakespeare’s hormone-driven Romeo?

  Still, he wasn’t the one who broke the spell by walking away. It was Naomi Brightman who turned from the railing and disappeared into her room.

  2

  THE MOMENT NAOMI entered the suite she and her sisters shared, she felt a bit more of her tension ease. Lunch and champagne with Avery had been fun, but this was really where she wanted to be.

  Slipping out of her shoes and dropping her tote bag on the bed, she moved to the love seats facing each other in front of a bay window. A gift basket sat on the small coffee table. Opening it, she found a box of candy, a business card from the village of Belle Bay and two notes.

  The first one was from Reese.

  Naomi,

  Sorry we can’t be there. Jillian and I have asked Avery to take very good care of you. The one thing we’re sure of is that you’re going to get past this. All of our lives, we’ve seen you set goals for yourself and meet them. We can’t wait to see what you’ll do next. The chocolate is to inspire you to indulge yourself.

  And don’t forget what you always told me when I was small and didn’t think I would ever reach my goal. “Little steps. Just take little steps.”

  Love,

  Reese

  Naomi blinked, the back of her eyes burning. She knew without opening the small box that it would contain the special chocolate truffles Reese had created as a trademark confection for Haworth House. Chocolates were Naomi’s weakness, so she rationed her consumption. In a stressful job, it paid off to eat healthy. Her youngest sister had always considered chocolate good therapy. Then she reread the note. We can’t wait to see what you’ll do next.

  But what if the thing she wanted most was to go back to her old job and her old life—before Michael Davenport? Little steps were good advice if she just knew where she was head
ed….

  With a sigh, she picked up the next note.

  Naomi,

  Avery is always telling me “When a door closes, another door opens.” I hope that by coming to Haworth House you’ll figure out how to open that door. The place has opened up a whole new career for me.

  The business card is from a new boutique in the village called Discoveries. I was thinking that you might want a different wardrobe for when you decide to open that door. And, hey, shopping is the best way I know to destress and get your mind ready to explore new paths.

  Love,

  Jillian

  Blinking again, Naomi studied the card. Discoveries, owned and operated by Molly Pepperman, promised the latest in fashions.

  Obviously, her sisters and Avery were on the same page in pushing her toward a fresh start. And she agreed with them in part. She wanted to discover who the new Naomi Brightman was going to be herself.

  But so far she didn’t have a clue. And how could she be positive that she wanted to leave the old Naomi Brightman behind? 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 was then that he stepped fully into the courtyard, and she saw what she hadn’t seen before.

  A Roman collar.

  For a moment, her heart stopped. Her knees went weak, and heat flooded her body. The man she’d just been devouring with her eyes was a priest. He didn’t just look like the priest she’d fantasized about when she was fourteen. He was a priest. And the realization had shot the attraction she’d been experiencing into overdrive.

  No. This was not going to happen to her again. Willing her legs to work, she turned away from the railing and made it to one of the small love seats before she collapsed.

  Leaning back against the cushions, she stared straight ahead, forcing herself to concentrate on the details—the pale green paint she’d selected under Jillian’s direction, the oriental rug with its pastel colors, the gleam of the honey-colored wood beneath. Gradually, the image of the man—the priest—she’d just seen in the courtyard dimmed, and a flame of anger burst to life inside of her.