Dangerous Temptation (22 page)

His relief was swift and soothing, although it in no way assuaged his needs, his body's craving. Nevertheless, he was satisfied that he could pervert her efforts so easily. He could imagine how shocked she'd feel if her hand brushed against his throbbing flesh.

So much for the best laid plans, he mused sardonically. She should have made sure she was out of bed before he awoke. He couldn't believe she didn't know that something like this might happen. It wasn't the first time he'd had a morning erection, he was sure.

Dismissing that kind of speculation because of its obvious dangers, he resumed his contemplation of her sleeping form. He wondered how she'd react if he unbuttoned her nightgown. It apparently fastened down the front, and he mused that if he opened the buttons, its appearance would be much improved.

Ignoring any twinge of conscience—any warning that he knew exactly how she'd react—he put out his hand and touched the first pearl button. By carefully widening the buttonhole, it easily popped through. The garment wasn't new and the fabric was soft and yielding. Without a great deal of effort, it was no problem to repeat his success.

He had to draw the quilt away to continue his investigation, and he saw to his regret that the buttons only opened as far as her waist. But, what the hell, it was perfect for his purposes. And it would prove how silly she had been to play this game.

And, in many ways, the nightgown was more of a temptation than some of its scanty contemporaries, he thought ruefully. It wasn't always the most obvious item that attracted a man's attention. And Caitlin, in her modest chemise, was a temptation. He didn't need his memory to tell him that.

As witness the sudden unsteadiness of his hands.

She stirred suddenly, as if the cooler air invading the neckline of the nightgown was disturbing her rest. Perhaps she'd sensed his excitement; perhaps his shaking hands had accidently nudged her awake. Whatever, he was gripped by an overwhelming desire to continue even though he knew she was bound to find out.

But she was deeply unconscious, and it took some time for her to rise through the layers of sleep and realise what was going on. As she stirred, she made appealing sounds that were half submissive, half in protest, as if she knew exactly what he wanted and was urging him to go on.

His inflamed senses reacted instantly to this provocation. Besides, he was eager to capitalise on his success. He knew he didn't have much time before she opened her eyes and realised what was happening, and although he chided his ruthless need, he allowed his hand to move over the soft cloth and touch her breasts.

The hardening in his groin became almost unbearable. The sight of her taut nipples, puckering in the cool air, made him long to take them into his mouth. Ignoring the fact that he was risking more than her indignation, he bent his head towards her, taking one hot little bud gently between his teeth.

God, it was heaven!.

Even though he knew she was an unwilling party to his ministrations, he couldn't deny the sweetness of her arousal against his tongue. He suckled hungrily, like a man who's been denied his life's sustenance for far too long, changing to her other breast with a fervour that fired his blood.

Then, two things happened almost simultaneously. Despite his intention not to go any further, his hand moved almost of its own volition to caress her flat stomach. And Caitlin's eyes opened.

He couldn't honestly have said who was the most shocked by her sudden awareness of what was happening. For all his resentment at the way she had treated him, he felt almost embarrassed to be caught out behaving in such a way. And he didn't try to stop her when she uttered a cry and rolled away from him. He was already regretting his actions and anticipating how depressing the remainder of the day was going to be…

It was late when he reached Prescott. But that suited him. He didn't want anyone questioning his arrival, noting the strange vehicle in the vicinity of Varley's Mill. With a bit of luck, the old man would still be up. Jacob didn't sleep well these days, and his son knew he often watched television until the early hours of the morning.

The old house that abutted the now-unused lumber yard looked deserted, but he wasn't worried. His father had always been a mean old skinflint and he was unlikely to leave any lights burning that weren't needed. God knew, anyone else would have sold the lot for development years ago, but Jacob clung to the old place as if he was afraid his son might get his hands on the proceeds if he sold out.

Still, the house's isolation at the edge of town, among a handful of run-down factories and warehouses, suited his purposes tonight. It would be easy enough to stow the rental car in one of the empty woodsheds, and the fewer people who knew he was here the better. He even left the suitcase in the car. He had no wish for his father to get his hands on it, and Prescott wasn't New York after all.

Deciding it wouldn't be wise to go poking round for a place to store the car until he'd spoken to his father, he parked in the yard and walked across to the house. His key still fit the lock, but it didn't gain him admission. Evidently, the old man had become more security conscious in recent years.

He had no choice but to press the bell and wait for his father to answer. But although he listened intently, he couldn't hear any movement inside the house. He looked up at the blank windows with raw frustration. Where was the old devil? He never left the premises.

He had rung the bell three times before he heard a sound beyond the heavy panels. Was it a footstep? He didn't think his father kept a dog, but he couldn't be sure. Whoever it was, he was breathing heavily. The skin on the back of his neck prickled. It had to be his father. There was no one else.

"Who is it? Who's there?"

There was no mistaking his father's querulous tone, and he pressed his face to the door. "It's me," he hissed. "Come on, Pa. Open up. It's freezing my balls off out here."

There was a pregnant silence, and belatedly he wondered what his father had been told about the crash. He might even think he had come here straight from the hospital. Oh, shit, this was going to be harder than he'd thought.

"Pa," he said again, adopting a wheedling tone, "aren't you gonna let me in?"

There was another pause, a shorter one this time, and then, to his relief, he heard the sound of a chain being lifted and bolts withdrawn from both the top and the bottom of the door. At last, it swung inwards onto the dark passageway beyond, and without waiting for an invitation, he stepped inside.

The door closed, and in the dim light from a dusty bulb, he surveyed his father. "Hi there," he greeted him with forced cordiality. "Well, here I am. The prodigal has returned."

Jacob Wolfe secured the bolts again and replaced the chain, while his son glanced distastefully about him. Damn, he thought, this place was filthy. If the old man thought so much about it, why didn't he keep it clean?

He turned from his appraisal of his surroundings to find his father watching him with wary eyes. "Nathan?" he said. "It is Nathan, isn't it?"

He was tempted to say, "Who did you expect?" but it wasn't the time for levity. "Who else?" he asked instead, sauntering down the hall towards his father's study. "God, it's bloody cold in here. Don't you ever heat this place?"

His father said nothing, just followed him down the hall, and by the time he'd tossed a couple more logs on the smouldering embers in the hearth, the old man had resumed his seat. He'd also turned off the television, which he'd noticed had been tuned to some old black-and-white movie from the forties. Now he was regarding his son with narrowed, assessing eyes.

The room hadn't changed much. The ceiling might look a little more grimy, but the leather volumes on the book-lined shelves seemed resistant to the passage of time. Not that the heavy tomes had ever been removed in his memory. Jacob had never been a reader. They'd belonged to his wife's father, when he was alive.

"Where have you been?"

Jacob's first words startled him. He had at least expected him to ask about the accident, but evidently his father had other things on his mind. "I've been in New York," he said, the lie coming naturally to him. "I guess the—er—authorities got in touch with you about the crash?"

"I heard about it," replied Jacob eventually. "It was quite a shock to begin with. And then I found out you weren't on that plane."

His son scowled. Shit, he thought frustratedly. He should have known. The old man had spoken to his brother since it happened. So where was Jake now? What had he been telling their father about the reason for his trip?

"How did you find out?" he demanded, not stupid enough to try and deny it. "I guess Jake told you. Right?"

"Your wife came to see me," replied his father, and he felt a twinge of panic. God, had Jake told the authorities who he really was?

"Caitlin came here?" he said, trying to sound casual, and his father gave him a scornful look.

"That's what I said," the old man replied, nodding. "She was concerned about me. She didn't want me to worry about you being hurt."

"Me being hurt?" His brows descended. "But I thought you just said she told you I wasn't on the flight."

"No." His father's smile was mocking. "She told me you were. She thinks Jake is you. Why wouldn't she? You'd never told her you had a twin."

"What?"

He was confused, bewildered. Of course he'd never told Caitlin he had a twin. It wasn't a story he'd want to brag about to anyone, and when Jake had first given him all the sordid details, he'd wanted to puke. His father had always let him think his mother had had some genuine reason not to keep both children, and learning that she'd been some cheap waitress his father had seduced on one of his trips south had really screwed him up.

All the same, that didn't explain why Jake hadn't told Caitlin who he was; why his father hadn't told Caitlin who Jake was—

He tried to make sense of what his father was saying. "You're telling me that Caitlin identified Jake as me?"

"Why not?" His father shrugged. "The seat was booked in your name, he was carrying your passport. If I hadn't seen him in the flesh, so to speak, I'd probably have believed it myself."

Nathan swallowed, and seeking refuge behind the old man's desk, he sank into his worn leather chair. "You went to New York?"

"That's right."

"And you saw Jake?"

"In the hospital," agreed his father.

"But why?" he ventured tightly as the grandfather clock ticked relentlessly at his back. "I mean, why would you let him get away with it? Is this some way to get back at me for neglecting you? Why didn't you tell Caitlin the truth?"

"I would have." Jacob was infuriatingly offhand. "But I was pretty skewed myself at the time. I couldn't believe what I'd seen, and I guess I was shocked, too. In any event, I needed time to think."

"But what did he say?" demanded his son. "Did you confront him with your suspicions? What did he do?"

"He didn't do anything," replied Jacob evenly. "I think he thought I was senile. Like I said, I couldn't wait to get out of there."

"I don't believe this!" The younger man was getting angry. "I can't believe you didn't call his bluff. I know we've had our differences in the past, but dammit, you raised me. If you don't like what you've created, it's not my fault."