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Led into Temptation
Cara Summers




About the Author
RITA® Award Nominee CARA SUMMERS has written more than thirty books. She has won several awards, including an Award of Excellence, three Golden Quills, and two Golden Leaf Awards. She has also been honored with a Lifetime Achievement Award from RT Book Reviews. She loves coming up with stories—from Gothic romance and mystery adventures to romantic comedies. When Cara isn’t creating new stories, she teaches at Syracuse University.


Led into Temptation
Cara Summers

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my very newest daughter-in-law,
Nicole Van Markwyk Hanlon, and to my son
Brendan. I hope you bring each other a lifetime
of joy! Welcome to the family, Nicole.
I love you both!!

Dear Reader,
Have you ever had a secret fantasy that you’ve never shared with anyone? Not even your sister or your best friend? I’d forgotten mine until my editor suggested I write a TWICE FORBIDDEN book and she mentioned very casually that no one had ever written one about the ultimate forbidden fantasy—a priest.
Wow! Not only did her suggestion trigger memories of The Thorn Birds and an even earlier movie, The Left Hand of God, but I remembered that long-ago summer when I was thirteen and I too had a secret crush.
When she is dumped by her swindling fiancé and becomes a person of interest to the FBI, Naomi Brightman flees to Haworth House, the hotel she runs with her sisters. But trouble follows hot on her heels in the person of Father Dane MacFarland. While he instantly rekindles memories of the teenage crush she had on a school chaplain, the raw sexual heat she feels from the moment she sees him is very real. And increasingly irresistible.
I hope you enjoy Naomi’s story and my upcoming stories about her sisters, Jillian and Reese, in Taken Beyond Temptation and Twice the Temptation.
Happy reading,
Cara Summers
Table of Contents
Cover (#ub8690c92-afd9-5eed-9c5f-d7d9dad1917f)
About the Author (#uafda7271-4ee1-526a-b33a-53e53e355fd0)
Title Page (#u4a0abc5b-2066-5fe5-ac29-8ac96dcaace8)
Dedication (#u5ed30aba-512b-5f0c-9916-3c66c88a9148)
Prologue (#u88b6c076-4681-5f2c-b717-803757f31f93)
Chapter One (#ua3b8a769-7006-520a-9d20-7f5a8f1ca75e)
Chapter Two (#u0e135f65-e4d0-5501-8211-e59f7490d977)
Chapter Three (#ufbfdf354-9584-53d2-ac28-1ee14d27d1da)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue
“To NEW BEGINNINGS.” Naomi Brightman raised her glass of champagne and met her sisters’ eyes over the rim. It was too late for second thoughts. As the oldest sister, the practical one, it had always been her job to have them. Third thoughts, too. But thanks to her, the papers were signed. She’d even drawn them up. With enthusiasm.
From the moment she’d stepped through the front door of Haworth House, it had exerted an odd pull on her. For the life of her she couldn’t figure it out. With its perch on a lofty cliff overlooking the sea and the turreted gray tower that seemed to pierce the sky, it had conjured up images of fantasy and romance, and she’d decided a long time ago that fantasy and reality never mixed.
Even now, standing in the gloomy tower room that the real estate agent had neglected to include on their initial tour, Naomi was still convinced that this was where she and her sisters were meant to be.
“To our first business venture,” Reese said, lifting her champagne. “It’s been a long road getting here.”
Naomi had been seventeen, Jillian sixteen and Reese fifteen when they’d first hatched their plan. They’d known full well that their days together were numbered in the Catholic boarding school in the south of France where they’d been raised. Abandoned there by their father when Reese was an infant, they’d grown up inseparable. The nuns had often referred to them as the Three Musketeers. But as they’d entered their teens, it had become increasingly clear that their future career paths were going to separate them.
Jillian beamed a smile at her sisters. “To our new home.”
As they all sipped their drinks, Naomi thought back to that night so long ago when they’d first toasted their dream of sharing a business venture with champagne—a bottle Jillian had snitched from the nuns’ private wine cellar.
Now that dream was a budding reality. They were going to turn Haworth House, once the summer home of legendary silent film star Hattie Haworth, into a small, exclusive hotel that offered excellent food and fine decor.
Naomi’s contribution had been to provide legal advice and a solid business plan. Reese, who had a growing international reputation as a chef, would handle the culinary details—design the menus and hire the kitchen staff. And Jillian, now a budding antique dealer, was going to oversee the interior design.
“Isn’t it just perfect?” Jillian’s voice bubbled with enthusiasm. She’d been the one who’d found Haworth House on Belle Island off the coast of Maine. It had just the kind of rich history that would appeal to her. According to Jillian, Hattie Haworth’s life had been a mess when she’d retired here to the haven she’d built for herself. When the star had failed to make the transition to the talkies, her studio had dumped her, and her husband had left her for a younger woman with a more promising future.
Reese let her gaze sweep the tower room that had once been Hattie’s private boudoir. “Perfect might be pushing it a little.”
Naomi had to agree. The sunshine battling its way through the grime-coated tower windows illuminated dancing dust motes and not much else—which was probably a blessing considering the state of the faded wallpaper and the crumbling bricks in the fireplace.
Totally unruffled, Jillian said, “This tower will rehab beautifully, and you have to admit, the rest of the place is great.”
“True,” Reese agreed with a smile. “The kitchen has definite possibilities. And you can’t beat the view.” She gestured to one of the windows, where the Atlantic stretched as far as the eye could see. “But this room looks like no one has touched it in years.”
“No one has,” Jillian said. “I did some research in the local paper, and in the beginning—right after Hattie died—there were rumors that she haunted the place. So the new owners boarded up the tower. After that the stories seemed to fade. But none of the subsequent owners ever ventured up here.”
“And you just decided to tear down the boards and barge in on a ghost?” Reese gave Naomi a rolling eye glance that said typical.
Jillian lifted her chin. “I think Hattie’s happy to have us here.”
“You think?” Naomi asked.
Jillian nodded. “The first time I came up here, I sensed her presence. Look.” Setting down her glass, she grabbed her sisters’ hands and drew them toward an old beveled glass mirror. “What do you see?”
“I see the Brightman sisters,” Naomi said. They were so different. Jillian, with her curly blond hair, was the shortest, her style of dress early gypsy. Reese, the tallest and most striking, wore her dark hair pixie short and had on her usual uniform of jeans and T-shirt. Compared to her sisters, Naomi thought of herself as ordinary. Her hair was trapped between blond and red, her eyes a mix of green and gray. The conservative business suits and practical shoes suited her job in the Boston law firm where she worked.
“Wait for it,” Jillian urged.
Seconds ticked by. They stood side by side staring into the mirror as the air chilled around them.
Jillian squeezed their hands. “Can you feel the drop in temperature? ”
“You could hang meat in here.” Reese’s voice was hushed.
Naomi suppressed a shudder. Later, she decided that if she’d been there alone, she would have chalked it up to an overactive imagination. But when the mirror suddenly flashed as if it had caught a beam of sunlight and then shimmered, she heard all three of them catch their breath simultaneously.
For an instant, there’d been a fourth image in the dusty glass.
“Did you see her?” Jillian whispered.
“Tall, beautiful, in a filmy white dress,” Reese said.
“Red-gold hair,” Naomi murmured. It nearly matched the shade of her own. And it had fallen in a tumble of curls nearly to her waist.
“And her feet didn’t touch the ground,” Jillian said. “Did you notice that? I did some research. Ghosts float. Their feet never touch the ground.”
“Well, I’ll be,” Reese said.
“She’s here.” Jillian’s tone was triumphant. “And if she didn’t want us here, we wouldn’t be.”
For a moment there was silence in the room.
Naomi swallowed hard and wondered what had happened to her practical, sober side. She’d seen that image in the mirror. She should be telling her sisters that this wasn’t going to work. They couldn’t possibly live in a tower that was already occupied. But what she said was, “So we’re going to build our new home in a space that’s probably haunted.” And as she let her gaze sweep the room again, she realized she’d made a statement, not a question.
“There’s something else,” Jillian said. “Something I haven’t told you yet.”
“What?” Naomi and Reese asked the question in unison as their eyes shot to their sister.
“There’s a secret room.” Jillian hurried over to the one wall that didn’t have windows and pulled a lever. A panel slid open.
“Of course, it has a secret room,” Naomi murmured.
“And it’s just like Jillian to spring it on us,” Reese said.
Even in the dim light pushing through the windows, Naomi could see that the room was small, no larger than a closet. She and Reese waited in the doorway as Jillian stepped in.
“There’s more. Wait till you see.” Jillian picked up a linen-covered hatbox, turned and held it for her sisters’ inspection.
As she and Reese moved closer, Naomi noticed the piece of parchment fastened to the top of the box. It read:
Fantasy Box. Choose carefully. The one you draw out will come true.
Reese shot Jillian a suspicious glance. “This isn’t a joke.”
Jillian shook her head. “I swear it’s not. I found the room the first time I came up here. I was looking into the mirror and I saw the door open behind me. But I waited for the two of you before opening the box. Naomi, you’re oldest. You go first.”
Naomi firmly ignored the chill working its way up her spine as she lifted the cover off. Inside were folded pieces of the same parchment as the note. Curiosity warred with a firm tug of apprehension. There had been a definite warning in that message.
She met her sisters’ eyes, then carried the box to a table and set it down. “Let’s all take one on a count of three. One.”
“Two,” Jillian said.
“Three,” Reese finished.
They reached into the box and together pulled out a parchment each.
For a moment there was no sound in the tower room other than the muffled crash of waves on the rocks below.
Reese whistled softly. “I don’t know about the two of you, but the fantasy I drew out seems pretty sexual in nature.”
“Me, too,” Jillian said.
“I guess we know what Hattie Haworth did to amuse herself after she retired from her film career,” Reese commented.
Only Naomi remained silent. She didn’t think she could talk. She certainly couldn’t seem to take her eyes off the words written on the parchment. What she was reading was the secret sexual fantasy that had fueled her imagination when she’d been a teenager in that French Catholic boarding school.
But who would have known about it? She’d never even shared it with her sisters. It was forbidden. Unthinkable. Yet there’d been a time in her life when she’d thought of little else. Still, there was far too much guilt associated with it.
And pleasure? A little thrill moved through Naomi as she thought of the message on the box.
The one you draw out will come true.

1
One year later …
I HAVE TO GET TO Haworth House. I have to get to Haworth House.
The words had formed an ongoing chant in Naomi’s mind on the short ferry ride from the mainland and they’d become more insistent once the gray turreted tower had come into view. From the moment she’d seen it, she hadn’t been able to tear her eyes away. In spite of the chill wind that had driven other passengers into the main cabin, she’d remained outside. Even now that the boat had docked and passengers were queuing up to disembark, she lingered at the railing.
Two weeks ago the life she’d built for herself in Boston had begun to unravel. First, she’d lost her fiancé and become a person of interest to the FBI. Then, two days ago, she’d been fired from her job at the law firm of King and Fairchild. The FBI thought she had something to do with the one-hundred-million-dollar-plus Ponzi scheme her ex-fiancé had been running during the six months they’d been engaged.
When she’d learned of their suspicions, she’d felt just like Humpty Dumpty after his fall—completely shattered. Every time she replayed the pivotal scenes of the past two weeks in her mind, she felt as if she were watching clips from a reality TV series. Everything seemed to have happened to someone else.
Only, they’d happened to Naomi Brightman.
But if she could just get to Haworth House, she’d figure out a way to put the pieces of her life back together. After all, Hattie Haworth had.
In the distance, a gull circled the tower, then soared into the brilliant blue sky. Little had she known a year ago when she and her sisters had toasted each other with champagne in Hattie’s boudoir that her life was going to run such a close parallel to the original owner’s. And Hattie had come here.
Naomi knew she was running away, something she’d never done before in her life. How could she? She’d been the oldest. It had been her job to provide a role model for her sisters. Some role model. In the space of half a month, her life had gone from girl success story to girl failure.
She simply had to get out of Boston. She needed a break from that damned prickling sensation at the back of her neck that told her she was being watched—24/7. By the FBI, the Boston police and perhaps by her ex, Michael Davenport, too. Everyone seemed convinced that her ex-fiancé was going to contact her.
The sudden sting of tears blurred her view of the tower. Blinking rapidly, she turned from the railing and bit down on her lower lip to keep it from trembling. No tears. She never cried. If it was the last thing she did, she was going to figure out how she could have been so wrong about Michael Davenport.
For a moment, she let her mind drift back to the night he’d ended things between them. He’d invited her to meet at the Four Seasons. That’s where they’d first run in to each other six months ago. She’d been entertaining clients with her boss, Leo King, senior partner and her mentor at King and Fairchild.
Michael had claimed it was love at first sight for him. Had it been the same for her? She’d certainly thought so. Their romance had been a whirlwind one, and Michael was really good at the romantic side of things. There’d been flowers and little gifts, funny little trinkets that he’d given her to commemorate everything they’d done together. The Michael gifts, she’d called them. She’d kept them lined up on a shelf in her apartment.
He’d even given her one at their final meeting, a souvenir of Boston he’d picked up in the hotel gift shop. How many times had she gone over that last meeting, not only in her own mind, but also for the police and the FBI? Hundreds of times. Michael had been kind, telling her that he had to go away for a while on business. He’d lifted her hand, kissed her fingers and said he’d be in touch. All she’d read was sincerity in his eyes. And she’d believed him, just as she’d believed everything else he’d told her.
Naomi Brightman, girl super-chump.
And she wasn’t sure she’d let go of him yet. In her hurry to leave her apartment without being tailed, she hadn’t dared to pack a suitcase. But she’d put all of the Michael gifts in the big tote she always carried.
That made her a super-super chump.
“Is there something wrong, miss?”
Jerking around, Naomi found she had to glance up, way up, to see the face of the man who’d joined her at the railing. An instant tingle of familiarity moved through her. Why? He was tall, broad-shouldered and he wore aviator-style sunglasses that reflected back her own image. So it wasn’t the eyes that made her think she might have met him before.
She quickly catalogued the dark hair escaping from beneath the hood of the sweatshirt, the strong line of his cheekbone and chin. But it was only as her gaze dropped to his mouth that the memory finally clicked.
Father Pierre Bouchard.
He reminded her of the young French priest who’d been her confidant at the boarding school where she’d been raised. No, more than her confidant, she admitted as a guilty thrill moved through her. When she’d been fourteen, she’d had a major crush on the young and handsome Father Bouchard. He’d dominated her fantasy life for over a year. And this man bore an uncanny resemblance to him.
“Do I know you?” she asked.
The lips curved a little. And Naomi felt the tingle of recognition grow even stronger. She also felt a blush rise to her cheeks.
“No. We’ve never met. You’re sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine.” She tilted her head to one side, not quite ready or willing to let it go. “You weren’t ever a priest at Our Lady of Solace boarding school near Lyons?”
“Never.”
It was relief she was feeling, not disappointment. He wasn’t Father Bouchard. How could he be? The voice was wrong. No accent. And what were the chances of Father Bouchard ending up at Belle Island? And why in the world would she want him to? She hadn’t thought of the young priest in ages. But he’d slipped into her mind frequently during the past year—ever since she and her sisters had opened up Hattie Haworth’s fantasy box.
Naomi could still picture the words on the parchment paper she’d pulled out:Your secret fantasy has always been to make love with a priest. Now you will experience all those forbidden pleasures.
Firmly, Naomi ignored the guilty thrill that moved through her again and pushed that memory aside. She had bigger problems to solve. Straightening her shoulders, she said, “Sorry. You reminded me of someone.”
“No problem.”
But the feeling of familiarity lingered even as she turned and followed the last of the passengers off the ferry. Once on the pier, she couldn’t prevent herself from glancing back. For a moment, their gazes locked and held. It wasn’t merely familiarity she felt this time. There was also a tug deep inside of her. For an instant, she wanted to go back and talk to the stranger again.
“Hey, sugar! Over here.”
Naomi snapped her head in the direction of the sound and spotted Avery Cooper, Jillian’s college roommate and the man they’d hired to run Haworth House. With his megawatt smile, he was a sight for sore eyes. She’d had a pretty smileless two weeks.
Tall and broad-shouldered with skin the color of milk chocolate, Avery was his usual impeccably dressed self in a pale gray shirt and black slacks. Gold glinted in the chain around his neck and the hoop on his left ear.
Blinking back a fresh sting of tears, Naomi broke into a run. The moment she reached him, he grabbed her off her feet and swung her around in a huge hug. “This one’s from me.”
Naomi blinked faster as he set her on her feet and then pulled her close again.
“This one’s from your sisters.” When he drew back the second time, he studied her more closely. “Love the Jackie O sunglasses and the scarf.”
“I used them to sneak out the back door of my apartment.” She raised her tote. “I didn’t even pack a suitcase. Good thing Jillian insists that we keep some clothes at the hotel. I was so afraid someone would notice and follow me. Not that I don’t have a perfect right to leave town. The FBI never told me that I had to stay in Boston. Besides, I just came here to Belle Island. I didn’t try to leave the country or anything.” She frowned. “I shouldn’t feel so guilty about this.”
“It’s your good-girl syndrome taking over.” Avery glanced over her shoulder. “Did anyone follow you?”
“I don’t think so. For the first time in two weeks, I don’t have that prickly feeling at the back of my neck.”
“Good.” Throwing an arm around her, Avery led her off the dock and along the boardwalk lining the beach area. “Reese and Jillian are bummed that they can’t be here.”
Truth told, Naomi was a bit relieved about that. After the hubbub of the past two weeks, she was looking forward to some alone time. Jillian was in Europe on a buying trip, and Reese was on a book tour for a cookbook she’d just authored.
“My job is to provide all the TLC they can’t shower on you in person. And we’re going to start with a late lunch.”
“I’m not—”
“Hungry. I know. I know.” His tone of voice all sympathy, Avery nevertheless propelled her into a small café on the pier that offered patio seating. “Humor me. Once we get to the hotel, I figure you’ll lay low in the tower, and I’ll be working.”
He pulled a chair out for her at a table that offered a view of the water. At the far end of the island, on a jut of land, she could just see the tower of Haworth House. The tightness inside of her eased.
Avery sat down across from her. “I figure you lost your appetite just about two weeks ago when the BFJ gave you your walking papers.”
“BFJ?”
“Big Fat Jerk. When I was getting over Lowell Bidderman, I didn’t eat much of anything for nearly a month.” He flexed his right arm. “Lost some good muscle tone.”
Naomi narrowed her eyes. As far as she knew, Avery had been in a relationship with his current partner, Matt Trudell, since his college days. “Lowell Bidderman?”
“Junior high. I must have been fourteen. Lowell was my first love, and the reason I discovered I was gay at an early age. But I was afraid to say anything, even to Lowell. In junior high I felt I had to at least pass as a heterosexual. Do you remember your first crush?”
She did, and for a second, Naomi felt heat rise in her face again.
“You’re blushing,” Avery said. “That good, huh?”
She waved a hand. “It was a crush. All fantasy and no substance.”
“The best kind.” Avery grinned. “Tell me.”
She’d never told anyone.
“Confession is good for the soul,” Avery urged.
“It’s silly. Not even Reese and Jillian know. But when I was fourteen, I had this super crush on a young priest who’d been assigned to our boarding school.”
“Really?” Avery’s eyes lit up. “Shades of The Thorn-birds. The young innocent girl, the handsome caring priest, forbidden love … all set against the rugged landscape of Australia. Adored the novel. And Richard Chamberlain in the movie—be still my heart.”
Naomi nodded, relaxing a bit when she saw that he wasn’t shocked. “Exactly. I’d bought the book and smuggled it into the dorm. I read it by flashlight under the covers. I loved it.”
“Forbidden treats are always so much more delicious. Tell me more about this priest.”
Naomi spread her hands. “Father Bouchard was assigned to the school. He was young, probably in his early twenties. He was so kind, and he was such a good listener. I could talk to him about anything. I fell hopelessly in love. I used to write about him in my diary every day, and then I would dream about him every night.”
And a year ago after she’d opened up that parchment in Hattie Haworth’s boudoir and the message had been indelibly printed on her mind, she’d unearthed those diaries and reread every one.
“Details. Give me the details. Did you ever actually do it with the priest—in your dreams?”
Heat burned her cheeks again. She’d fantasized about doing a lot of things—not just in her dreams, but in her diaries, too. “What do you think? I’d read The Thornbirds.”
“Atta girl. Did you ever tell him what you were feeling?”
Her eyes widened in shock. “No. Of course not. It was all fantasy. Pure fantasy.”
“Just like me and Lowell. Except for the priest part.”
She nodded. Except for the priest part. But the priest part had definitely been on the piece of parchment she’d pulled out of Hattie’s hatbox. Now you will experience all of those forbidden pleasures…. And that was what had motivated her to reread the diaries she’d written at fourteen. Then she noticed the expression on Avery’s face. “What?”
“Just thinking. You know, there’s a priest, a Father Dane MacFarland, who’s due to check in to Haworth House today.”
“Avery, you can’t be—”
He raised both hands, palms outward. “I’m not suggesting anything. Just providing information. Besides, he may be eighty and using a walker.”
He accepted a menu from the waitress and flashed her a smile. “We’ll have your best bottle of champagne and four lobster rolls.”
“Champagne?” Naomi echoed.
He turned his smile on her. “Sisters’ orders. My mission is to get you from mourning into celebratory mode ASAP. Before anyone finds you here.”
“My sisters are being pushy.”
Avery’s brows shot up. “Turnabout’s fair play. You’ve been taking care of them and pushing them for a long time.”
Her lips curved.
Avery patted her hand. “That’s better. They’re annoyed that they can’t talk to you in person. But since we’re pretty sure your phone is being tapped, they want you to have as much privacy here as you can get.”
“We were careful not to mention Haworth House when we talked. We have this code we’ve used since we were kids.”
“Right.” Avery raised both hands and wiggled his fingers. “They’re being very cloak-and-daggerish with me, too, using pay phones and only contacting me on my private line at the hotel.”
Naomi sighed. “It’s not going to take a Sherlock Holmes to trace me here.”
Avery shrugged. “Hey, if using codes and pay phones makes your sisters feel like they’re helping, I say it’s a good thing. And who knows? Might buy you twenty-four to forty-eight hours of privacy.”
The waitress arrived and began the uncorking ritual. Once she’d filled the glasses, Avery raised his. “To the new Naomi Brightman.”
Naomi blinked. “I’ll be perfectly happy to get the old one back.”
“I assumed that old Naomi’s bridges are pretty much burned.”
“And then some. But there’s got to be something I can do to fix that. I haven’t let myself think about it.” She lifted her glass thoughtfully and her gaze shifted beyond his shoulder to Haworth House. Something inside of her stirred. “I have a feeling that I’ll figure something out while I’m here.”
“Good plan. All I’m saying is that you should keep your options open. You don’t necessarily have to return to your life BMD.”
“Before Michael Davenport.”
He grinned at her. “You’re catching on, sugar. When one door slams shut, another one always opens. Hattie Haworth reinvented herself here. You might as well give it a shot, too. So I’ll drink to the new Naomi Brightman.”
“Cheers,” Naomi said, and they both drank champagne.
“ANYTHING ELSE I can get for you, Father MacFarland?”
Dane glanced up from his book, removed his sunglasses and smiled at the pretty redhead who’d been cheerfully refilling his glass of iced tea for the past hour. “No thanks, Tess.”
Except for an introduction to Naomi Brightman. That would be nice. She’d been in her room in the tower for over an hour now. He knew that because he’d kept her in his sights ever since she’d left the ferry. Dane had no doubt that the FBI and the police would soon figure out she’d come to her home on Belle Island. But for now MacFarland Investigations, the firm he ran with his brother Ian, appeared to be the only ones on the scene.
Except for Michael Davenport. Gut instinct told Dane that the swindler was probably already here and would make contact with Naomi soon. And so far, she hadn’t been lured out onto the balcony by the breathtaking view.
He handed Tess the bill he’d already signed to his room. “I thought I’d stay here and read for a bit more.”
“No prob. During the summer months, the courtyard is one of our most popular spots and it’s open to Haworth House guests twenty-four-seven.”
Dane considered that providential. The hotel itself was a three-story structure built around an inner courtyard lined with porticoes. One side opened into the lobby, and through an archway on the other, guests could access a stairway that descended to the beach. Dane’s location at a table beneath one of the porticoes offered him a perfect view of the balcony that opened off Naomi Brightman’s room. So far she hadn’t made an appearance, but that might be providential, too. He was going to have to tread carefully with her. She’d already managed to throw him off a bit. It hadn’t been a part of his plan to talk to her on the ferry.
But there’d been something about the way she’d looked, standing alone at the railing, and he’d felt the tug of sympathy in every fiber of his being.
He lifted his gaze to her balcony. He’d been in her bedroom two days ago on a reconnaissance mission. Once he’d cracked the primitive code she and her sisters used to communicate and learned that she was definitely coming to Haworth House, he’d assigned a man to watch her apartment in Boston, and he’d taken a quick trip to Belle Island to get the lay of the land.
Tess tucked the leather folder containing his bill into her pocket. “We’ve never had a priest stay here before.”
He and Ian had prepared for that question when Dane had chosen to masquerade as a man of the cloth. “My bishop is interested in finding locations for spiritual retreats.”
“Oh, Haworth House has a lot of spaces to retreat to. You should talk to our manager, Mr. Cooper.”
He smiled at her. “I’ll do that, Tess.” More importantly, he intended to talk to Naomi Brightman about it. It would be his initial reason for meeting with her.
“I’m going off the clock until tomorrow morning. Will I see you then?” Tess asked.
“You bet.” He’d be here until he got his hands on the elusive Michael Davenport. According to his FBI informant, Naomi Brightman had been quite candid with both the police and the FBI. Davenport had told her that he would be in touch. And every instinct that
Dane had told him the swindling con man would keep his word.
Part of Davenport’s method of operation was to use women as either partners or patsies in his schemes. During the last con he’d worked in Kansas City he’d stashed his ill-gotten gains with a woman partner until the heat was off. In the end, he’d gotten away with the money. His partner had ended up dead.
Davenport had stashed something with Naomi this time. Dane was sure of it. Because of her squeaky clean record, he figured her for a patsy, not a partner. But that didn’t mean she was in any less danger. What he knew for sure was that Davenport hadn’t left the Boston area. In the past fourteen days, he’d been spotted three times. There was only one reason for Michael Davenport to take the risk of hanging around. He didn’t have access yet to the one hundred million plus he’d embezzled.
Dane had a three-year-old score to settle with Davenport. This time, nothing would stop him from getting his man.
“See you tomorrow, then, Father.” With a salute, Tess whirled and hurried back into the hotel. The bubbly and talkative waitress had provided some background information, but thanks to Ian’s meticulous research, there was little that Dane didn’t already know about Naomi Brightman and Haworth House.
When his cell phone rang, Dane checked the caller ID and then grinned. Speak of the devil. “What’s up?”
“Just checking in,” Ian said. “How’s the priest thing going?”
“So far, so good.”
As an investigator, Dane often assumed different personas. During his early years when he’d been in foster homes or on the street, he’d discovered and honed a chameleon-like talent for becoming whatever was needed to get him out of a jam. The decision in this instance for him to pose as a priest had been influenced by Ian’s insight into Naomi Brightman’s very Catholic background.
Technically, Ian was his half brother. He’d been nine and Ian seven when their mother had died and they’d been split up by social services. They had two other half siblings—a girl and a boy. Somewhere.
“I’ve got the waitress completely fooled,” Dane said.
Ian gave an appreciative laugh.
Thanks to the family that had adopted him, Ian had become an expert on all things Catholic. And he maintained that Catholic women had an instant trust in priests. They confided in them. Ian swore his adoptive mother had been “best buds” with a whole string of parish priests. Dane’s only experience with women and their relationships with priests was the second season of The Sopranos, when Tony’s wife had been really chummy with one.
“I have yet to put this little masquerade to the test. I haven’t seen her since I arrived, and I still have to wangle an introduction.”
“It’s going to work like a charm. You’ll see.”
Dane was banking on it. He’d gone along with Ian because he needed a cover that would allow him to win Naomi Brightman’s trust in a short amount of time. The sooner he figured out just how she fit into Davenport’s scheme, the better. And he needed to be close by when Davenport contacted her.
Plus, posing as a priest might also help him with his other problem. He’d felt a connection to Naomi Brightman even before he’d seen her in person. That wasn’t like him at all. Long ago, he’d learned to keep an emotional distance between himself and any case he was working.
He’d decided that the reason for his reaction to her was because they’d both experienced the responsibility of being the oldest sibling. Of course, their stories were vastly different. She’d never been separated from her sisters, and he’d lost everyone.
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 headed….
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.
This was all due to that piece of parchment paper she’d drawn out of Hattie’s box. Her fantasy crush on Father Bouchard had happened so long ago, and she’d outgrown it. She’d been a young, impressionable fourteen when she’d read The Thornbirds. That was when the idea of making love with a priest had first taken hold of her.
All the girls at the school had had a crush on Father Bouchard. The confessional had never been busier. One would have thought from the long lines that Our Lady of Solace boarding school had become a den of iniquity. She’d even figured out how to spend extra time with the young priest by volunteering to clean the sacristy each day after he’d said Mass. That was when he always lingered and found the time to listen to her. And talk to her. Later she would record in her diary each word he said, no matter how casual, and each smile he gave to her.
In her mind, in that place where fantasy/puppy love flourished, she’d fallen in love with Father Pierre Bouchard. She’d even taken to writing her name as Naomi Bouchard over and over again in her diary and notebooks. All simple, innocent things.
In the beginning, the fantasies she’d spun in her mind about Father Bouchard had also been innocent—taking long walks, their hands and arms brushing occasionally. But the heat that had rushed through her at every imaginary contact hadn’t been so innocent.
And eventually, her fantasies had become more explicit, at least as explicit as she’d been able to spin them at fourteen. And even though she knew it had to be a sin to continue to indulge in them, she’d never confessed them to anyone. Until today when she’d told Avery.
When Father Bouchard was transferred to a small parish near Monte Carlo, she’d cried herself to sleep for weeks. But the fantasies had gradually faded. She’d put them out of her mind years ago. Up until the day she’d drawn that parchment paper out of Hattie Haworth’s hatbox.
THE MOMENT NAOMI disappeared into her room, Dane cursed himself silently. Ms. Brightman was definitely going to be a problem for him.
Bottom line—he wanted her. And she was his best link to the man he was determined to find. Anyone who thought you could mix business with pleasure didn’t make a successful businessman.
With an inward sigh, he faced what he’d known from the first moment he’d set eyes on her. This was not going to be a simple job. At the top of the list of possible complications was the fact that he was impersonating a priest. His game plan was to convince Naomi to confide in him. That would call for some up-close-and-personal time with the woman.
And even if he was tempted, as he already was, to make a pass at her, to do so could blow his cover and cost him what chance he had of nabbing Michael Davenport.
She’s off-limits, MacFarland. He’d just have to get more deeply into the role of being a priest. Think holy and celibate thoughts. His ability to assume different personas had always been his primary survival skill. And to be forewarned was to be forearmed.
The laughter pierced his concentration first. But it was only when a young couple entered the courtyard from the steps to the beach that Dane realized he hadn’t moved since Naomi Brightman had disappeared from the balcony. And he hadn’t taken his gaze from the open door to her room.
Was he waiting, hoping for her to come back out?
Way to go, MacFarland. Disgusted, he strode to the entrance of the main lobby. He had a job to do. And step one was to arrange a personal meeting with Naomi Brightman. He spotted Avery Cooper behind the registration desk and started toward him. Avery might look more like a bouncer in an upscale club, but according to the research Ian had done, the man had graduated top of his class from Harvard Business School. And from what Dane had gathered from their reunion at the pier, he was a friend to Naomi. That made Avery Cooper a good man to have on his side.
And the perfect man to arrange his first meeting with Naomi. Tomorrow, Dane decided. That would give her time to settle in, and it would buy him a little time to get deeper into his role.
As a priest, Dane reminded himself. A very celibate priest.

3
“YOU’RE SURE you don’t mind?” Avery had arrived with her room service order and they’d shared a meal and some wine. Now he lounged on one of the love seats, his long legs extended beyond the edge of the coffee table that separated them. “It’s not too late to change your mind.”
“I’m sure I want to meet with Father MacFarland in the morning.” And she was. However, Naomi noted that Avery didn’t look completely convinced. That was entirely due to her initial reaction to his news that Father Dane MacFarland had requested a personal meeting with her in the morning.
She’d dropped the wineglass she’d been holding, then she’d cut one of her fingers in her hurried attempt to pick up the shattered shards.
And that had made her angry enough that she’d immediately agreed to meet with the priest. In fact, she’d insisted on it. She was not going to allow herself to get caught up again in a ridiculous adolescent fantasy. After all, she was an adult woman. An attorney. She’d been engaged to a man she’d thought she loved.
And then she’d been dumped and fired. Was it any wonder her nerves were on edge? A lesser woman might have had some kind of breakdown. Or at least asked her personal physician for some really good drugs.
Instead, she’d come to Haworth House to put her life back together. And she wasn’t going to hide out in her room simply because of … a priest.
“Father MacFarland seems to be a charming man,” Avery said. “If Tess hadn’t spilled the beans that one of the owners was in residence this week, I might have been able to handle it myself. But he specifically requested you. And his idea of booking a block of rooms together with conference space to hold spiritual retreats as a recruiting device for new seminarians is brilliant.”
“Doesn’t the church already have facilities for holding retreats?” Naomi asked.
“Sure.” Avery spread his hands. “But there’s a growing shortage of priests in the United States, and Father MacFarland is hoping a venue like this will increase attendance.”
“And you began to hear the little echoes of cha-ching, cha-ching in the back of your mind.”
Avery grinned at her. “Well, that, too. If Father MacFarland likes the place, it could be very profitable for the hotel in the off-season.”
“I’m happy to talk with him,” Naomi said. “In fact, it could be good for me. I haven’t been out of the tower floors since I got here.”
“Then I’m happy I let myself get carried away,” Avery said as he rose. He glanced at his watch. “I’ll ring the good father’s room and let him know that it’s all arranged—ten o’clock tomorrow morning in the courtyard. One more thing.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys.
Naomi glanced at them. “What?”
“If we’re going to get you out of your room, you’ll need transportation. As long as you’re on the island, I want you to have full access to my car.”
Her eyes widened. “Your Corvette?”
“That would be the one.”
Naomi knew how much he treasured his car. “Avery, I can use the car Jillian keeps here if I want to go into town.”
He moved toward her, took her hand and dropped the keys into her palm. “Think of driving it as part of your exploration of discovering the new Naomi Brightman. I’ve always found when something’s troubling me, a fast ride in a car with the top down helps, and it’s a lot cheaper than therapy. Try it.”
“Okay.” She threw her arms around Avery and hugged him. “Thanks.”
Stepping back, he grinned down at her. “Enjoy. And since my mission here is accomplished for tonight, I’ll get my nose back to the grindstone.”
The moment Avery left, Naomi locked the door and turned around. While they’d eaten, the sky had darkened, and the only illumination in the room came from the moonlight streaming through the filmy curtain she’d drawn across the closed balcony doors.
Another surge of anger at herself had her pacing to the balcony doors and throwing them open. It was bad enough that she’d run away from her troubles in Boston. She was not going to allow herself to hide out in her room. That was not the way she was going to explore who the new Naomi Brightman was.
That’s when she saw him. He was in a room directly across from hers and one level down. Naomi’s throat went dry. The doors to his balcony were open, and the drapes billowed inward. Because he had the lights on, the thin material of the curtains had become transparent, and she could see him very clearly.
There was no Roman collar now, nothing to indicate he was a priest. But she recognized that body. And this time she could see a whole lot more of it. He wore only a towel around his waist as he strode across the room and picked up a phone.
He stood with his back to her, his dark hair wet and slicked back, his broad shoulders still glistening from a shower.
Her mouth literally watered as her eyes traveled down the well-muscled back to his waist. The towel was short and damp and clung like a second skin to the curves of his tight butt. It would be hard to the touch, she thought, then marveled at the tingling rush of heat in her fingers. She wanted to touch him. She wanted to run her hands over every plane and hard angle of that body.
And she wanted to taste him, too.
As she thought of doing both of those things, her insides melted. She couldn’t feel her legs below her knees, but she discovered that all on their own, they’d moved her to the railing of her balcony.
She continued to stare, fascinated by the angle of his arm, the strength in his wrist, the grace of his movement as he lowered the phone to its stand. And then she saw it. Lying right next to the phone. The Roman collar. And that should have had the effect of stepping into a cold shower.
But it didn’t. Instead, everything she was feeling intensified. Her pulse hammered at her wrists, at the base of her throat. The heat she’d felt from the moment she’d spotted him ratcheted up several degrees. Her brain cells clicked off, and she forgot to breathe.
When he turned and met her eyes, she suddenly couldn’t think. All she knew was desire—a scorching wave of it that she couldn’t control. Didn’t want to. What she was feeling wasn’t anything like the illicit puppy love she’d experienced at fourteen.
She wasn’t sure how long she stood there or how long she might have remained on her balcony, but the fact that someone had knocked on her door finally penetrated. It had to be room service come to clear the dishes, she thought as she turned and moved on legs she still couldn’t feel.
But when she opened the door, there was no one in sight. Just an envelope lying on the floor. She blinked, still trying to clear her head as she leaned over to pick it up. She’d closed and locked the door and made it back to her bed before it sank in.
The envelope was made of the same yellowing parchment that she’d pulled out of Hattie’s box in the secret room.
And she knew even before she opened the envelope what the folded piece of parchment inside would say.
Your secret fantasy has always been to make love with a priest. Now you will experience all those forbidden pleasures.
NAOMI GLANCED at her watch, then pressed a hand against the nerves dancing in her stomach. Nine forty-six. Exactly two minutes since the last time she’d checked. Too early to go down to the courtyard. With a quick, impatient step, she strode to her closet and inspected her image in the mirror. For the fifth time.
It hadn’t improved. She still looked like a lawyer. The linen suit was a pearl-gray color and the white silk tank top she wore beneath it was prim and suitable for the office. Normally, she liked neutral colors. In fact, her entire wardrobe was a tribute to the practicality of the word neutral.
So why was drab the word that came to mind now? It was the perfect suit to wear to court in Boston in the summer. And dammit, she was a lawyer. Not to mention a hotel owner.
Lifting her chin, she stared at herself defiantly. She was appropriately dressed for a business meeting. None of the more casual outfits she kept here at Haworth House—T-shirts, a couple pairs of shorts, a bathing suit and some jeans—would do for a meeting with a prospective client. And certainly not a priest.
Pressing her hands to her temples, Naomi walked back to the side of her bed and sank down on it. Never in her life had she taken such care, never had she worried so much about how she looked. Not for the office. Not for a court appearance. Not for Michael Davenport.
Not even for herself.
Perhaps that was the problem. Maybe to become the new Naomi, she had to focus more on pleasing herself. Pulling open the top drawer of the bedside table, she glanced at the parchment envelope she’d placed there the night before. She had no idea how it had ended up on the floor outside of her bedroom.
Had Hattie put it there? That had been her first suspicion. But the only manifestation she had experienced of her presence was on that day in Hattie’s boudoir when she and her sisters had toasted their purchase of Haworth House with champagne.
There’d been nothing since. Not even a little chill in the air. Still, Naomi had often felt her presence.
A less fanciful explanation would be that Jillian had confided in Avery about the hatbox and the secret room. And since he now knew just who her first crush had been, he might have somehow dug out the parchment and left it for her. As a joke? Or as another little incentive to live on the wild side, like giving her the keys to his Corvette. Avery might think that doing something as outrageous as seducing a priest could be just the ticket to jettison her down the road to reinventing herself.
Whoever was responsible, receiving the parchment with her fantasy written on it had helped her to think everything through and reach a decision. Since she’d locked the tote with her notebooks in Hattie’s secret room, she’d used the hotel stationery to jot her ideas down.
Making love with a priest was a particularly alluring fantasy because it was so forbidden. And impossible. Talk about being star-crossed. Absolute secrecy was another essential element of the fantasy. When she was fourteen, the fact that no one knew about her crush on Father Bouchard had been ninety percent of the thrill.
Most of the guilty pleasure she’d experienced had been private, the result of writing those diary entries by flashlight in the middle of the night and those vivid and tantalizing dreams she’d had after she’d fallen asleep. During the day, she’d been very careful to act in a perfectly respectful and normal way around the young priest.
And there was absolutely no reason why she couldn’t handle the attraction she was feeling for Father Dane MacFarland the same way. If the intensity of the attraction persisted, she would record everything she imagined she might do to him in her diary, and make sure the fantasy stayed right there on the page.
Before she’d fallen asleep, she’d considered going up to Hattie’s secret room and retrieving one of her notebooks out of her tote bag. But they were a part of her old life. Right after her meeting with Father MacFarland this morning, she’d go into town and buy some new notebooks to record her new fantasies.
And she already had one to record—the dream she’d had during the night. Even now as the memory slipped into her mind, Naomi felt her eyes close and her breathing become more rapid.
It had been dark in her bedroom. The moon had shifted in the sky, so only starlight had filtered through the curtains. But she’d known that the figure standing just inside her balcony doors was him. She’d known it by the sensory shock her body experienced.
He’d stood there, his dark hair slicked back, wearing nothing but the skimpy towel she’d seen him in the night before. The towel that she’d wanted very much to rip off him.
The urge to get out of bed and cross to him was strong. But the dream seemed to paralyze her, and all she’d been able to do was push herself into a sitting position. She couldn’t even lift her hands, and her voice hadn’t worked. All she could do was look at him as a rush of hunger seared through her. The needy ache that followed freed one of her hands and she lifted it to beckon him closer.
He moved then from the faint illumination of starlight into the deeper shadows of the room. Flames licked along her nerve endings and a hotter fire burst to life inside her. He knelt on the bed, took the hand she still held extended and drew her to her knees. They knelt facing each other, their bodies nearly brushing. That was when she saw it—the thin strip of white at his throat. It made such a stark contrast to the bronze tone of his skin. Raising her free hand, she ran her fingers over the stiff material of the Roman collar and felt the shocking thrill move through her.
This was wrong. So wrong. Was that why she wanted it so desperately? Raising her eyes, she met his. They were so hot that when he dropped his gaze to her mouth, she felt her lips burn.
Finding the strength to move, she dug her fingers into his shoulder to draw him closer. He settled his at her waist. Together they moved until their bodies touched. Pleasure exploded at each contact point. Her breasts and thighs ached where they softened against his muscles.
He rocked into her and she felt the length of his erection sink into the skin of her stomach. Wrong. So wrong, she thought as heat rocketed through her with the speed of a wildfire.
More. She remembered then what she’d thought of doing earlier and she ran her hands to the back of his waist to slip her fingers beneath that towel. His muscles were tighter than she’d imagined. She kneaded them first, then dug her nails into them.
In response, the exact one she’d wanted, his hands gripped her waist and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around him and wiggled until his erection was pressed flush against the raging heat at her center. There were still barriers separating them—the towel and the prim cotton of her bikini panties. But she couldn’t bear for him to stop moving, couldn’t make herself stop. Instead, she gave herself over to the building wave of pleasure until she finally crested and let herself be tossed over.
When she’d awakened, he was gone. Because all he’d been was a fantasy.
Ignoring the piercing sense of loss, Naomi opened her eyes. Even the memory of the intense pleasure she’d experienced in her dream had weakened her so that she had to brace herself with her hands or she would have collapsed on the bed.
It was sad but true. The fantasy sex she’d had with her imaginary Father MacFarland had beat out any sex she’d ever had with a real man. The new Naomi was going to have to do something about that.
She let her gaze stray to the foot of the bed where her T-shirt and panties lay folded. The one regret she had was that she hadn’t worn more accessible clothing in her dream. She was going to remedy that, too. It wasn’t only notebooks that she intended to purchase in town today. She was going to visit the boutique Jillian had recommended.
Shifting her gaze to the parchment envelope, Naomi pushed the drawer shut and drew in a deep breath. She’d made the right decision. She was going to continue to indulge her fantasy. Hadn’t she gotten the best night’s sleep she’d had in weeks?
Handling challenging situations and keeping in control had always been two of her strengths. All she had to do was keep her daytime meetings with Father MacFarland brief and businesslike. Then in the dark hours of the night, she was going to indulge herself with no-holds-barred, wild sex. As hot as she could possibly imagine it. And she was going to record every single detail in her diary.

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