Love Letters Volume 4: Travel to Temptation Read online

  She took another look in the mirror. She didn’t just look good in the lingerie, she looked damned good. Why not have that second bottle by herself? Feeling a tad wobbly, she stepped out of the kitten heels that she’d been wearing, and set off toward the kitchen barefoot.

  This time she turned on the lights. The kitchen was as gorgeous as the bedroom. The tile floor was cool under her feet as she padded across it, and she had just opened the fridge and wrapped her fingers around the neck of the champagne when she heard something at the front door. There was a faint rattle, followed by the jingle of metal and the click of the lock turning.

  Oh my God, someone’s breaking in.

  Tara froze. Her muddled brain was working a tad too slow to correlate the sound of the lock turning with the fact that the intruder had a key. Thinking as quickly as the Moët would let her, she stood up straight, cold champagne bottle in hand, and booked it to the living room, where she ducked down behind the couch.

  The door opened and Tara’s stomach did panicked somersaults. The sound of footsteps echoed down the entryway hall and then she heard a voice—male, deep, with a lilt of an accent.

  “Wow. Some place.”

  Not Spanish, clearly.

  When there was no reply, Tara was fairly confident he was alone. Still, she wasn’t exactly a match for a man if she had to fight. She was a respectable five-six in heels, but without shoes, she was easy to look down at. Easy to get leverage on.

  Please, just go away. Go, away, go away.

  She gripped the bottle tighter. At least she could use it as a weapon if she needed to. The footsteps got closer and the champagne on top of her empty stomach did more to make her queasy than to help her find a reserve of courage.

  She was going to end up splashed across the front page of the Republic back home. Local ad executive found dead in Majorca. She closed her eyes and prayed that the guy was just here for a quick smash-and-grab and wouldn’t come around to the back of the couch.

  Thirty-four-year-old Scottsdale resident Tara Curtis was found dead in a sumptuous villa in Fornalutx last night. Police are baffled as to why Ms. Curtis, perpetually single or being scammed by married guys, was clad in trashy lingerie when she had traveled to the villa alone. Ms. Curtis’s blood alcohol content was found to be point-oh-stupid-teenage-girl, well above the sober limit.

  What a fan-freaking-tastic way to end her trip.

  *

  “Wow. Some place.”

  Zane Harrison looked around the sitting room. Randy had said the villa was a bolt-hole, a weekend getaway for him and Kit. He hadn’t said it was quite so luxurious. It was a shame—because Randy had just been named a consultant at the Royal Free Hospital and Kit was now some sort of director at her firm, they rarely got the weekend free to fly down here.

  Zane’s medical research position generated no emergencies, he worked very few weekends at the lab, and his job never stopped him from traveling. It was his love life that did that. Specifically Hurricane Michelle, drama queen for the ages.

  Zane had stuck with the relationship as long as he could, but finally even he was forced to admit that nothing could satisfy her. He allowed their most recent squall to brew into a big enough storm that he could justify walking away. A key to the villa and a two-week stay in the Balearics had been Randy’s suggestion for escaping all that bad weather.

  Zane plunked his case on the tile floor and headed for the kitchen, where the light was on. He shook his head. He should tell Randy to speak to the woman who cleaned for them. And the fridge door was open? Outrageous.

  He pulled out a bottle of white wine, shut the door and looked for a wineglass. He spotted the champagne flutes on the table. One used, clearly, and one still on the tray.

  This was starting to feel like “Goldilocks and the Three Bears.” Would he find his bed slept in as well? Please, no. The last thing he wanted was to face a female.

  “Hello?” he called. “Is someone here?”

  He turned toward the sitting room, ready to search the house, when a woman stepped out from behind the sofa. She was brandishing another champagne bottle like a bowling pin. Long dark hair tumbled around her shoulders—not Goldilocks, then—and she wore next-to-nothing from shoulders to hips, and sod-all anywhere else.

  “Who the hell are you?” he asked.

  “Me?” Her voice rose to the ceiling. “Who the hell are you, scumbag? You’re the one who broke in.” Her voice was slurring around the edges. The used champagne glass in the kitchen had to be hers.

  What the hell—?

  Zane took a step closer, ready to grab the bottle. He spoke in a monotone. “I used a key, and I have the permission of the owners. If anyone is the burglar, it’s you. You’ve clearly stolen Kit and Randy’s champagne.”

  “You can’t have a key. I have a key.” But she lowered the bottle and her voice.

  Zane stepped forward to take the Moët away from her. “There can be more than one key, you know.”

  She reached up to run her fingers over her forehead and into that midnight spill of hair, pushing it up and out of her eyes. This rather enhanced the skimpiness of her attire, and the prominence of her breasts.

  Jesus. The last thing he needed was to deal with a drunk, screeching, sexy woman who probably wanted to fight, then shag, then fight some more. He’d just gotten out of that situation, minus most of the sex.

  “Oh, God,” the woman moaned. “I don’t feel well. Where’s the bathroom?”

  “I have no idea. I just got here, remember?” Zane frowned. “You’ve been here for a while, yes? Haven’t you found the loo yet?”

  The woman didn’t respond. She was clutching her stomach now, doubled over in pain. Zane had an image of opening every door and finding only storage instead of a toilet. He considered taking her to the kitchen sink, but that seemed a tad unhygienic. Instead, he scooped her into his arms—he’d always wanted to do that—and headed for the stairs.

  The bathroom turned out to be over the kitchen, which made sense in terms of plumbing. He set the woman down on the decorative terracotta tiles.

  “Drink as much water as you can,” he told her as he searched for a glass in the cupboards. He found one meant to hold toothbrushes, but it was clean and empty. “Here you go.”

  “How dare you pick me up an’ put me down like you own me?” Her voice reverberated off the polished marble walls. “You…you…man. You think just because I’m there, available, you c’n pull me in—” she hiccupped, “—use me, then toss me aside like I’m nothing. Well, I’m not nothing. An’ for y’r information, I look damned good in this—” She waved a hand vaguely at her torso. “So it’s your loss.”

  Zane shook his head. Why? Why him? Why did Randy have to offer him the use of a villa in a village so remote it required a kamikaze taxi ride on a byzantine route from the airport. And even that had only taken him so far before the driver sent him off with a vague set of directions and a wave toward the top of a long set of golden stone steps. After all that, he opened the door to find a nearly nude assailant wielding a heavy bottle, yelling epithets at him. Randy had to know this would be a piss-poor set-up, if that was what it was.

  Maybe Kit had thought of it. Bloody Yanks.

  “Calm down, sweetheart. I’m not here to defile your precious body, as good as it looks. I’m a doctor. Drink the water like a good girl. Then, if you can stand to eat something, I’ll be in the kitchen. If you can’t, might I suggest you take yourself to bed?”

  She stared at him. “Don’t call me sweetheart.”

  “You haven’t told me your name. I’m Zane Harrison. I went to med school with Randy.”

  She stuck out her hand. It made her sway slightly. “Tara. Kit an’ I used to work together. Curtis.”

  “Tara Curtis?” Zane took her hand, which was cool and soft. “I’d say I’m pleased to meet you, Tara, but I suspect you find me as unwelcome in this villa as I find you. When you’re sober, we’ll figure out who’s leaving and who’s staying.”
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br />   Her eyes got huge. They were some sultry dark color, almost black in the discreet lighting of the bathroom. They were also heavily lashed and would look amazing half-closed in pleasure, a fact Zane wished he hadn’t noticed.

  “Leaving? I’m not leaving. I flew from America. You can leave if you want. I’m sure it doesn’t—” she pressed her fist to her mouth to cover another hiccup, “—doesn’t matter to me what you do.”

  Zane knew he’d regret this, but the words pressed against his teeth, pushing to be said. “Fine. Then I’ll go find a bedroom, shall I?” He nodded at the glass in her hand. “Drink the water.”

  As he left the room and closed the door, he listened for the faucet. He was halfway to the stairs before he heard the faint squeak of the tap followed by the rush of water into the sink.

  Up another half flight was the master bedroom at the front of the house. Zane poked his head in, unsurprised to find a jumble of lingerie, magazines, and a dead Moët bottle on the bed. Clearly, Ms. Tara Curtis had already claimed this room. Fair enough. She’d gotten there first.

  Up another half flight were two smaller rooms, one with a telly and an oversized sofa, the other a home office with a tiny bathroom. More stairs at the end of the hall led to the guest room, which had to be over the master. He opened the shutters and window and admired the view over the village rooftops. Yes, this would do well for him.

  Randy had said there was an upper terrace. Zane climbed a steep staircase—more of a ladder, really—and opened a hatch in the roof. When he stepped out, he was nearly blinded by the view of the mountains and valley, topped by the deep blue of a twilight sky.

  The sun was sinking low, which reminded him that it had been hours since he’d eaten. Time to see what food the Fornalutx equivalent of a Mrs. Mop had stocked the pantry with. Maybe Ms. Curtis would feel up to eating an omelet?

  *

  Tara did not feel up to eating anything. She had a very strong notion that she might not ever want to smell or taste food again. Her face was hot and the room was spinning more than just a little.

  He was right. She should drink something. She turned on the tap.

  The water tasted good. Damn him.

  Then it hit her stomach.

  Shoving up the lid of the toilet, Tara sat there, nausea rolling through her. She wondered if it was better to fight the urge to throw up or just get it over with.

  Great first impression, Tara.

  What did she care what Zane Harrison thought of her? She was done with men for the foreseeable future. He’d already made the only impression he was going to make on her, namely as a good Samaritan. Despite her railing at him when he’d made his appearance in the living room, she had to admit that he was not unwelcome. Broad shoulders, tousled hair that had an attractive wave to it, and eyes that were sultry in a slightly sleepy way. If she didn’t know better, she might think that Kit and Randy were trying some harebrained set-up between them.

  If their idea of a meet-cute was Tara almost clobbering Zane with a champagne bottle, followed by the rather spectacular bout of nausea that was occurring, well, they’d won their romantic comedy gold in spades tonight. With a groan, Tara leaned over and prepared to regret every sip of the bubbly, hoping that Zane was out of earshot.

  After several minutes, her stomach stopped rolling and the room was a little less whirly. Chancing it, she stood on legs that were still unsteady. A few steps more to the sink, where she filled the glass with more water and drank it in quick sips.

  You know, for a guy who walked in on your pity party…er, vacation, he seems pretty nice.

  Tara filled the glass again, remembering Zane’s advice. She turned off the tap and listened. When she heard nothing, she opened the bathroom door a crack and looked out. No sign of him.

  She made her way to the stairs and, blessedly without incident, got to the master bedroom. She unearthed her oversized chenille robe from the jumble of her luggage. Pulling the soft robe around herself, she unceremoniously pushed all her other belongings off onto the floor before climbing into the ornate king-sized bed. The pillow was cool against her cheek, and she closed her eyes.

  Just a few minutes. Then she would sober up, march downstairs and set things straight with Zane and his distracting cheekbones and tall, sexy…

  Tara woke two hours later. She staggered out of bed and chanced a look out the window—the golden hills were now dusky and night was approaching. She felt better, but she definitely needed to take a shower and face Zane decently dressed. He was a friend of Randy’s and she’d made an ass of herself.

  After a long, hot shower, a large dose of ibuprofen and an extended session with her toothbrush, she slipped on a pair of faded jeans and an oversized button-up. She rolled the sleeves of the soft white cotton and put her damp hair up in some semblance of a bun. She needed food.

  Kit had sent her a scribbled list of good local restaurants, but Tara was a hopeless navigator. She tucked the sheet of stationery into her back pocket, shoved aside her embarrassment and followed the smell of cooking into the kitchen.

  There was an alarming array of pans and bowls piled in the sink. The smell of slightly charred egg hovered, and Tara’s stomach did a little flip to remind her of her all-too-recent overindulgence.

  “Zane?” There was no reply. She made her way to the living room, where she discovered Zane asleep in one of the oversized chairs, a book slack on his chest. She stopped short, wondering if she should wake him or let him sleep.

  From the looks of the kitchen and the lack of any used dinnerware, it appeared that he’d had as much success cooking as she’d had drinking. There was a chance that he’d been to the villa before, and could help find them a decent restaurant to grab some dinner at. Stepping closer, she reached a hand out, fingertips hovering near his shoulder.

  “Zane?” she kept her voice soft, not wanting to startle him. He didn’t stir.

  He’s like Sleeping Beauty. You have to kiss him.

  Tara frowned at her own wayward thought. So what if he was good looking? She sat gingerly on the arm of the chair and leaned closer. Sure, he was attractive. But that didn’t mean she should be attracted to him.

  Dark lashes, thicker than should be allowed on any man, rested on those high cheekbones. What color were his eyes, again? A strong Roman nose. A mouth with a pronounced curve to the upper lip, the lower half slightly full.

  There were laugh lines at the edges of that mouth and radiating from the corners of his eyes. Laughter was something Tara could use. Maybe she shouldn’t make Zane leave. Maybe they would be good company for one another.

  Her eyes went to his book. Salinger. She dropped her hand down to the spine, lifted the paperback off of his chest, and skimmed where he had been reading. She got through with the second page before he spoke.

  “‘I’m sick of just liking people. I wish to God I could meet somebody I could respect.’”

  Zane’s voice startled Tara, and she dropped the copy of Franny and Zooey. She fumbled for it, but it slipped out of her fingers and landed on the other side of the chair. Zane’s arm came up and caught her as she tipped off balance. The slide into the chair—onto his lap—wasn’t as unwelcome as Tara would have liked.

  His voice, along with the warm wash of his breath against her neck and that accent, made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

  “Mmm. Decent way to wake up. A touch creepy, since you were spying on me while I was napping…” He didn’t take his arm from around her waist, and she rankled at his presumptuousness, even if she had fallen into his lap…literally. She ignored the taut swell of the biceps that grazed her ribcage. Okay, try to ignore.

  “I was not spying on you. I don’t spy, even though you look like you have a thing or two to hide. Most men do.” She squirmed away and pushed to her feet, turning back to look at him with resentment. Crap—his eyes were a warm, deep brown, and even more breathtaking when he first woke up.

  You do not want to be attracted to this man, remember?
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  Zane narrowed his eyes. “You’re a big Salinger fan, then? Forgot to bring your own? Must not have had room in your carry-on next to all your gossip magazines.”

  “Funny. I was coming to wake you to see if you wanted dinner, since you seem to have failed miserably in whatever you were trying to make.”

  “So you’re offering to make me dinner before you leave? Thanks, sweetheart.”

  Tara started to revise her opinion on his attractiveness. “I’m not leaving, and no one said I was offering you anything.” She’d given quite enough to men who didn’t deserve it, thank you very much.

  “Could have fooled me. You were dressed for generosity when I arrived. I don’t see a ring on your finger, and it looks like you’re here alone, so…”

  The crack stunned her into silence, but only momentarily. “I assume your crassness is why you’re here alone. I can’t see that any woman would find you charming.”

  “I just got away from one who was as endearing as you are. If you aren’t leaving, then you must not mind sharing the villa with me. I’m only here for a fortnight, shouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  Tara’s stomach growled again and she was suddenly tired of arguing with him. Their verbal sparring would have to wait until after she’d had some food and could call Kit to get the details of this irritating mix-up. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she took a deep breath. “Look, obviously neither of us is going anywhere tonight. Kit gave me a list of restaurants nearby. If you could find it in your heart to help me locate one, you can be rid of me for a few hours.”

  He seemed to be considering. Leaning over, he scooped up his book, dog-eared a page and set it on a side table. Tara dug the list out of her back pocket and held it out. When he stood to take it from her, he came a little too close.

  “Hungry, then?”

  There was more implication there than she could ignore. He’d gotten more than an eyeful when he’d first arrived, and Tara felt a blush creep up her neck. Stop getting flustered. Men bad. Woman not need any man.