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Taken Beyond Temptation
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.
Taken Beyond Temptation
Cara Summers
To my editor Brenda Chin who continually inspires me
to write better stories. thanks for always encouraging
me to take on new challenges. And thanks for your
never-wavering and never-ending support.
You’ve made me a better writer.
Dear Reader,
Have you ever had a secret fantasy that you’ve never shared with anyone? I’d forgotten mine until my editor suggested I write a story for Blaze®‘s FORBIDDEN FANTASY series. Then I ended up writing three books!
When interior designer Jillian Brightman and her sisters buy Haworth House and turn it into an exclusive hotel, they fulfill a dream that they’ve shared since they were children. But they get more than they bargained for, including a former resident who tempts them to unearth their most secret and forbidden fantasies …
Jillian’s purpose in visiting Haworth House is strictly business. Pursuing a fantasy, no matter how tempting it might be, is not on her agenda. Until she meets him. Posing as a writer, ex-CIA analyst Ian MacFarland’s goal is to investigate the series of disturbing incidents that have been plaguing Haworth House. But once he meets Jillian, all he can think about is fulfilling any and every fantasy she has.
I hope you enjoy Ian and Jillian’s seductive adventures, and that you’ll look for the other books in this series. Reese will find her fantasy in Twice the Temptation later in the year. Please visit me at www.carasummers. com.
Happy reading,
Cara Summers
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Copyright
1
Fourteen months earlier
THE MOMENT JILLIAN STEPPED into the tower room, she knew she wasn’t alone. It wasn’t just the steady dip in the temperature as she’d climbed the circular iron staircase. Although that was a big clue. According to the research she’d done, haunted houses were known for those cold spots.
Another big clue was she suddenly had goose bumps and the hairs on the back of her neck were snapping to attention like soldiers at the first sound of reveille.
Jillian peered into the gloom. The grime on the windows that circled the outer wall cut down on the amount of sunlight. But there was definitely someone else here.
“Hello?”
The only answer was the muted sound of the Atlantic sweeping into the rocks below.
“I’m not a trespasser,” she said. “The real estate agent gave me the key.”
No response.
“She gave it to me because I’m one of the new owners. My sisters and I put in a purchase offer and it was accepted today.”
The air shimmered. She was certain of it. Encouraged, she took another tentative step.
Sensing the presence of an incorporeal being was a first for Jillian. And it kicked up her heartbeat considerably. A ghost-buster she wasn’t. Or at least she never had been.
What she had been was an avid reader of the Nancy Drew mysteries when she was a child. She’d always admired Nancy’s fearlessness and her ability to take on challenges. At one point in her life, she’d wanted to be Nancy Drew. Right now, she’d settle for a little of the teenage sleuth’s luck.
Because there was a ghost in Haworth House, and Jillian was sure she was here in the tower. Hattie Haworth was her name. Belle Island’s top real estate agent Vivian Thorley had told her the story when she’d given her a tour of the property and Jillian had asked why the door to the tower levels was boarded up.
Vivian’s tone had been prim and proper. “I’m bound by full disclosure to let you know that the second owners of Haworth House believed that the place was haunted.”
The original owner, Hattie, was a successful silent-film star who’d been dropped by her studio and her husband when she’d failed to make the transition to talkies. According to Vivian, Hattie had sought refuge at Belle Island and had lived in seclusion at Haworth House before she’d passed away.
“And ever since the tower room was boarded up, there haven’t been any complaints,” Vivian had assured her. And she’d quickly steered Jillian back into the sunny open courtyard at the center of the old stone mansion—where the view of the Atlantic could work its magic.
Drawing in a deep breath, Jillian moved a little farther into the tower room. When the agent had told her the story, she’d felt an instant empathy for the silent-film star. “I think it’s awful that they’ve kept you boarded up all of these years.”
Of course, she hadn’t mentioned the ghost in her phone calls to her sisters. Why muddy the waters? The important thing had been to sell them on the idea that Haworth House was the perfect spot for their business venture. And she had.
Nerves danced in her stomach as she glanced around the room again. She’d taken risks before, but never one this big, and never one that had involved anyone but herself.
Still, she’d known from the first instant she’d seen the stone tower rising into the sky that this was the perfect place for them.
Now, all she had to do was convince Hattie Haworth. Taking a deep breath, she said, “I wanted to give you a little heads-up. My sisters and I plan on turning Haworth into a luxury hotel.”
No response.
“We’ve had this dream of going into business with one another since we were in our teens. In fact we took a vow to do just that.” And turning Haworth House into a hotel would allow the Brightman sisters to fulfill that vow.
Naomi had been a senior in high school, applying to colleges, when she’d come up with the idea that they should go into business together one day. Her older sister had been four, she’d been two and Reese had been a baby when their father had left them with the nuns who ran the boarding school.
It was supposed to be a temporary arrangement. He was still recovering from their mother’s death, and he needed some time. He’d been on his way to collect them when his car had gone off a cliff near Monte Carlo. The nuns had kept them, and she and her sisters had grown up inseparable. But Naomi, always practical, had foreseen that their career paths were going to separate them. She’d chosen business and law, Reese had already known she wanted to be a chef, and Jillian’s heart had been set a little more vaguely on travel and art.
“This hotel idea is not some kind of harebrained scheme,” she continued as she strolled around the room. Up close, she could see that the toile in the faded silk draperies could only have been imported from France. Delighted, she moved on to inspect some of the furniture, continuing to talk as she went. Keeping up the one-sided conversation was easing her nerves.
“Naomi works at this law firm in Boston and she’s handling the business side. Reese, my younger sister, is a five-star chef. Amazing. She’ll handle the kitchen. And I’m going to handle the interior design.” She might not have been as focused as early on as her sisters had been, but she knew what she wanted now. And Haworth House would be the perfect place to launch her career.
Pausing, she ran her hand over what she was sure was a Queen Anne desk. “Some of the pieces you have here are lovely.”
There was another little shimmer in the air.
She moved even farther into the room and discovered that what had appeared to be only a dark shadow was a huge, four-poster bed in hand-carved mahogany.
“This was your bedroom. No, your boudoir. The word bedroom is way too pedestrian.”
This time there was more than a shiver. Jillian could have sworn she heard something. A laugh?
It was only as she turned in the direction of the sound that she saw the beveled mirror, gilded in gold.
“Oh, my.” Hurrying toward it, Jillian reached out to run her fingers gently down part of the frame. “This is beautiful.”
Then she stepped back two paces. Had there been a tiny flash in the mirror? Or had she imagined it?
This time the flash was brighter and an image of a woman appeared. She was beautiful—tall and willowy. Her red-blond hair tumbled in loose waves below her shoulders and a filmy white dress billowed around her.
Jillian’s heart skipped a beat, and for the first time since she’d stepped into the tower, she couldn’t think of a thing to say. Not that she would have been able to make a sound around the hard ball of fear lodged in her throat. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that she was looking at Hattie Haworth.
Sensing the presence of a ghost was one thing. Seeing one was quite another. But just as she was getting used to it, the image began to fade.
“No. Wait,” she managed as she placed a hand on the mirror.
Then Hattie was gone. All that remained was her own image in the glass. As Jillian stared, willing Hattie to reappear, she saw something move in the wall beyond her reflection. Whirling around, she watched a panel slide open.
Drawing out her flashlight, she approached the opened space and discovered what every Nancy Drew enthusiast dreamed of—a secret room. A small one—no larger than five by seven. And the only thing inside was a hatbox. It was covered in faded linen and there was a parchment label on the top.
Picking it up, Jillian carried it back to the mirror and sat down cross-legged on the floor to study it. The label read Fantasy Box: Choose carefully. The one you draw out will come true.
Jillian glanced into the mirror. “What have we here, Hattie?”
For a few seconds, she hesitated, weighing her options. The label was a clear warning. And maybe she should wait until her sisters could come and they could look inside together? But patience had never been her strong suit.
Very carefully, she lifted the cover off the box. Inside, there was a pile of envelopes. She didn’t hesitate as long this time. But she didn’t choose the top one. Instead, she dug deep and drew out one near the bottom of the box.
After all, what could be the harm? In her life experience, fantasies were nice, but they didn’t come true all that often.
Opening it, she read it and her head spun. As fast as she could, she stuffed the parchment back into the envelope, returned it to the box and closed the lid. Jumping up, she walked on legs she couldn’t feel to return the hatbox to the secret room. Then she pushed the lever that slid the panel back into place. Because she still had a bad case of jelly knees, she leaned against the wall.
It had to have been a coincidence. Who could possibly have known about the fantasy that had fueled several of her adolescent dreams?
Perhaps all the envelopes held the same fantasy. But she didn’t have the courage left to reopen the hatbox to find out.
And it was ridiculous to feel so … unsettled by a silly parchment. What she’d read, after all, was just words pure and simple.
Lifting her chin, she turned and strode to the mirror. All she saw was her own reflection.
“What were you doing with that box, Hattie? And why is it the only thing in your secret room?”
No answer. Except for the words that flashed as bright as a neon sign in her mind. The one you draw out will come true.
Heart pounding, she whirled and barely kept herself from running down the iron staircase.
2
AS HER CAR HIT THE OIL slick and went into a spin, Jillian kept her foot steady on the brake and gripped the steering wheel for dear life. It badly wanted to jerk out of her hands, but she fought it just as one of her ex-boyfriends had taught her.
The hairpin curve she’d been negotiating had blocked the oil slick from view until she was nearly on it. Still, she might have sailed through it without incident if only the SUV hadn’t appeared out of nowhere….
Sounds assaulted her ears—the squeal of tires, the whir and rat-a-tat-tat of gravel as it struck the car. Her heart thundered like a freight train speeding its way through a tunnel.
In a distant part of her mind, she waited for her life to flash before her eyes.
Nada.
All she saw was a rotation of freeze-framed images—the ditch at the side of the turn, the tall tower of Haworth House shooting into a cloudless blue sky, a row of tall pines, followed by the large vehicle blocking the road ahead. And all the while the pavement beneath her screamed.
With one final shudder, her car stopped spinning and the noises stopped. She drew in a deep breath, felt it burn her lungs, and then finally focused on the view through her windshield. Only then did her heart shoot to her throat. Even through a haze of dust, she could see the front of the large, silver-toned SUV only inches away.
Inches.
She pried her hands from the steering wheel and noted they were trembling. Beyond them she saw a figure unfold himself from the driver’s seat of the SUV and move toward her.
Because of the glare of the sun on her windshield and the fact that her sunglasses had flown off while she was in ditch-and-tree-avoidance mode, she got only a dim impression of a tall, lanky figure. A man?
“Are you all right?” Definitely a man. The deep voice clinched it.
“I’m fine.” She glanced down at herself just to make sure. But she had to be fine. There was no time for Jillian Brightman to be otherwise. To emphasize the point, she scrambled out from behind the wheel of her Beetle. Her knees only threatened to buckle. Good news. “How about you? ”
“I’m okay, but I didn’t just bring my car out of a tailspin that racecar fans would have applauded. Nice driving.”
“I didn’t expect that oil slick, and I was in a big hurry. I usually am.” It seemed she hadn’t had time to breathe in the fourteen months since she and her sisters had bought Haworth House and begun work on opening their hotel.
When she used her hand to brush the dust off her jacket, she saw that it was no longer trembling. Good.
“It was a close call.”
“Yeah.” When she glanced up, a wide, solid-looking chest filled her vision. She hadn’t heard his approach. Now they stood toe to toe, only inches separating them.
Move back. The warning flashed into her mind as awareness rippled through her and her heart gave a little thud.
He was big. At five foot two, she was used to men being taller. But as she tilted her head way back, she figured he had to be six-three or-four. Since he hadn’t lost his sunglasses, she couldn’t see his eyes but she noted the shaggy straw-colored hair, the very male face with a slash of cheekbones, the trace of stubble on his jawline. When her gaze lingered on his mouth, her heart gave another thud.
This time when the warning flashed, she drew back and slammed into the side of her car.
He grabbed her arms to steady her. One of his feet had moved between her legs and for a moment, she felt the long hard length of his thigh pressed against hers. Heat arrowed out from the contact point and pooled in her center. A mist settled over her brain, and her throat went dry.
“Are you all right?”
She was still coming down from the adrenaline rush of nearly hitting him. That had to be it. Her senses were still in overdrive. That was why she felt the pressure of each one of his fingers on her arms. That was why she was having trouble finding her voice.
“I’m fine,” she lied. She was going to start to tremble any second.
One of them moved. Jillian wasn’t sure which one, but suddenly he was even closer. She felt the warmth of his breath on her mouth. She could almost taste it, and what shocked her was that she wanted more. Then there was nothing but the torrid, liquid heat of that one concentrated desire.
For a moment, she was incredibly tempted to go on impulse—to rise up on her toes and close that last little distance between them.
No. This was not a time in her life when she could afford to throw caution to the winds. This man was a stranger. And she had … business … Business that had slipped right out of her mind the instant this man had touched her.
She wasn’t sure how she found the strength to raise a hand and press it firmly against his chest. “I have to go.”
He dropped his hands and stepped away. But he didn’t return to his car. Instead, he circled hers. His movements were slow so she had plenty of time to take in the broad shoulders, narrow waist and long legs in tight, tattered jeans. In spite of the distraction, most of her brain cells clicked back on. And by the time he finished his little tour, she could even stand without the support of her car.
He wasn’t local. She’d met almost everyone who was, and she wouldn’t have forgotten him.
Because he was definitely a hunk.
Get a grip, Jillian. Hunks were her particular weakness. And acting too quickly on her attraction to them was something she’d paid the price for again and again.
Mr. Racecar Driver had only been the most recent. It was the main reason she’d vowed to abstain from starting up any new relationships, at least until she met the next goal on her two-year business plan.
“You’re lucky,” the hunk drawled. “Not a scratch. Want to check my car out? ”
She glanced at her watch. No time. She’d wasted all her time checking him out. And he was coming closer again. “Look, I have an appointment in Belle Bay in five minutes. I really have to dash. Lawyers hate to be kept waiting. How about I take your word?” Reaching into her car, she grabbed her purse and fished out a business card. “I’m Jillian Brightman, and if there’s any kind of a problem, you can reach me at Haworth House.”
He took the card, studied it for a minute.
She barely kept from tapping her foot. “Are we good here?”
He nodded. “You’ll be the first to know if we’re not.”
“Great.” She slipped back into her car and started the engine. After first backing up and then edging her way carefully around the SUV, she pressed her foot on the gas pedal. It took three straight minutes of driving for her heartbeat to steady.
IAN MACFARLAND WALKED as far as the sharp curve where he’d nearly met his maker and watched Jillian’s car race down the twisting road to the village of Belle Bay. His heart was still hammering. And he didn’t think he could blame that all on the near miss he’d just had.
Although when he’d rounded the curve and seen the car nearly upon him, he thought he’d bought it. The oil slick had taken her into a spin and if she hadn’t been able to handle it, neither of them would have cheated the grim reaper.
The lady sure could drive.
But part of the reason his heart had kicked into overdrive could be laid at the door of Jillian Brightman herself. He wasn’t a man who normally went with impulse. In the five years he’d worked as an analyst for the CIA, he’d learned the value of taking his time, figuring the angles, not jumping to conclusions.
But from the moment he’d stepped out of his SUV, he’d felt the damnedest pull. Walking over to her car to see if she was all right—that he could understand. What confounded him was the almost irresistible temptation he’d had to touch her, to kiss her. For an instant while the soft curves of her body had been pressed against him, the desire to taste her had become so urgent, so overwhelming that he hadn’t thought of anything else.
Certainly not the possible repercussions.
The question was why? He’d researched the Brightman sisters, so why hadn’t he been more prepared for the impact Jillian would have on his senses? Perhaps because the image on her Web site, one that he’d returned to study more than once, didn’t even begin to do justice to the woman. Oh, it had done a fair job of replicating the large blue eyes, the tumble of gold curls and the pixielike features that could have belonged to Peter Pan’s Tinker Bell. But it hadn’t even begun to capture the energy the woman radiated in person. Jillian Brightman in the flesh had been more than he’d anticipated.
She moved as fast as she drove. He recalled how quickly she’d gotten out of and back into the car. Then there’d been that moment when she’d looked right into his eyes. He hadn’t expected the little punch he’d felt right in his gut. Nor had he expected the almost instantaneous emptying of his mind.
She’d surprised him in more ways than one. Ian’s lips curved into a smile. She wasn’t even supposed to be on the island for another week. And the fact that she was might complicate the job he’d come to do. Avery Cooper, the hotel manager who’d contacted him, had stressed that the investigation he’d been hired for had to be done incognito.
Ian recalled Avery’s initial phone call. The first thing out of the man’s mouth had been, “This is Avery Cooper. You may know who I am?”
“I do,” Ian had said.
“Are you as good an investigator as your brother?”
“Hopefully. I don’t have as much field experience as Dane does.” It was something that Ian dearly wished to rectify. “What do you need?”
“First, I need to know that you’ll keep what I tell you in strictest confidence. Not a word—even to your brother. I don’t want to interrupt his holiday with Naomi, and I don’t want the Brightman sisters unnecessarily worried. Not until I know that I’m not just being paranoid.”
“If I think I need to tell my brother, I will. I can ask him to keep it from the sisters. But I can’t guarantee anything until I know what you’re going to tell me.”
There’d been a brief pause on the other end of the line. Then Avery had told him of the incidents plaguing Haworth House in the few weeks since Ian’s brother Dane had captured swindler Michael Davenport on the premises and the story of Haworth House’s resident ghost had received extensive coverage on the twenty-four-hour news channels.
First there’d been a breakdown in the air-conditioning system. Avery had chalked that up to bad luck and the cost of doing business.
Then there’d been the poisonous mushrooms that had nearly made it into the veal marsala, the restaurant’s signature dish. It was a young chef Reese had hired who’d recognized them and saved the day. Avery had had the mushrooms tested in a private lab. The good news was they wouldn’t have proven fatal. The bad news was that whoever had eaten them would have wished they had.
Then there’d been an incident when a guest had taken a tumble on the large stairway leading from the second floor to the lobby. Thankfully, the woman had only fallen down a few steps and suffered no more than a good scare.
