Flirting With Temptation

Was Benjamin Lewis the charming man who’d lied to her mother? Corie suspected that he was. And that was just the first of many questions. If Benny was her father, why had her mother run away? Corie had only had to read the letters to know that her mother had loved the man she was writing to, so why hadn’t Isabella mailed them? And why had she kept “Benny’s” existence a secret?

Reaching beneath one of the packets of letters, Corie drew out the only other item in the box, a menu from Edie’s Diner, a restaurant in the same town that the Lewis Winery was located in. By calling directory assistance, she’d learned that the diner no longer existed. But when she contacted the chamber of commerce, they’d informed her that Edie’s place was now called the Saratoga Grill. She hadn’t called, but she intended to go there in person. Perhaps someone could tell her more about her mother.

As she closed the box, Corie wished it were just as simple to put a lid on the feelings rushing through her. Tomorrow she would take the first step on a journey that could lead her to her lifelong dream of having a real family. Tomorrow was the beginning of a whole new life—even though it might only last a week.

So why did she feel so…guilty? Placing the box back in the closet, she walked down the hall to the kitchen, passing by the living room she and her mother had used only on holidays and the dining room table that had never been set for company. How many years had she waited, hoping to break free of this house?

If her mother hadn’t died so suddenly two months ago, she might never have been able to leave. She might never have found out that she had a father and a family outside of Fairview. Instead, she might have ended up married to Harold Metzenfeld. Corie shuddered at the thought. Then she glanced at her reflection in the hallway mirror and shuddered again. Maybe she wasn’t that woman who was staring back at her. Didn’t she deserve the chance to find out?

And she wanted to find out the answers to her questions. She was enough of a realist to know that she might not like the answers. But she owed it to herself to find out why her mother had spent so much of her life as a recluse—and why she wanted Corie to do the same thing.

She’d made the right decision.

If only she could get rid of the nagging voice in the back of her mind that was chanting her mother’s third commandment: Be careful what you wish for.

JACK ROUNDED THE CORNER, drew in a deep breath, and steeled himself for the final sprint that would take him to the end of Pier 39. At 6:00 a.m. the Fisherman’s Wharf area of San Francisco was one of his favorite spots. Later the stores and walkways would be thronged with people. Boats would be blowing their whistles, announcing departures to Sausalito or Alcatraz, and there would be ample evidence that only Disney World and Disneyland surpassed Fisherman’s Wharf as a tourist attraction.

But right now, there was silence except for the occasional sharp call of a seagull. Sprinting up a flight of wooden steps, Jack welcomed the burn in his shins and lungs. This morning he’d doubled the length of his run, hoping to ease his tension, but so far it hadn’t worked.

He should be feeling relieved and elated that he’d persuaded Corie Benjamin to come to San Francisco today. Instead, he’d spent two sleepless nights, and even now he had that anxious feeling deep in his gut, the one he always had when he was pursuing a lead and something was about to go wrong.

The moment the end of the pier came into view, Jack began to slow his pace. Sun glared off the water, and cars streamed steadily across the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance. “San Francisco at its best,” his Aunt Mel would have said.

Just thinking about his aunt had his lips curving. He’d been five when his parents had died in a car crash. His father’s sister, Melanie Kincaid, had been in the navy at the time, and it had taken her six months to free herself up to take him in. The months in foster homes had given him the worst memories of his life. His years with his Aunt Mel had given him the best.

“We’re the last of the Kincaids, kid,” she’d said. “We’ve got to stick together.” And stick they had—until he’d gone away to college.

“Why in hell would you want to go a whole continent away? What’s New York got that you can’t find right here in San Francisco?”

Everything, Jack thought. Or at least that’s what he’d thought at the time. His smile faded as he reached the end of the pier and planted his hands against the railing. He hadn’t come here today to rekindle old feelings of guilt. He’d come here because he needed his aunt’s advice, and he always felt close to her here.

He glanced at the rows of shops and restaurants. She’d brought him here to celebrate every good report card he’d ever gotten. Since her disappearance twelve years ago, he’d come here whenever his work schedule permitted. Dropping his gaze, Jack watched the dark water swell and push against the pilings. “I was right to talk her into coming out here, Aunt Mel.”

Corie Benjamin was his ticket to finding out what had really happened to his aunt when she’d disappeared twelve years ago. He’d been sure then, and he was sure now, that Benny Lewis had been behind his aunt’s disappearance. Melanie Kincaid had been working as the Lewis family’s personal chef, and she’d discovered something about the family that disturbed her. She wouldn’t tell him what, only that she was going to check it out. Later he’d learned that she’d disappeared within hours of calling him that day.

If only he’d been closer, he might have…

Impatiently, Jack pushed the thought away. Wallowing in guilt wouldn’t change the fact that he’d been a whole continent away, and by the time he’d made it back to San Francisco, the trail was cold, and no one would listen to his theory of foul play. Even then, Benny Lewis had established a reputation of being a leader in the wine-growing community and a philanthropist. The police had even located a witness who’d seen a woman matching his aunt’s description jump off this very pier.

What Jack knew for sure was that his aunt would never have taken her own life. The fact that the Lewis family had insisted on holding a memorial service for their late chef had infuriated him. Hotheaded and grief-stricken, he’d driven to the Lewis estate that day and accused Benny of having his aunt killed. From that moment, he’d been a persona non grata at the Lewis Winery, and a recent article he’d written, part of a series called “Crime Families in the Twenty-first Century,” had rekindled the old animosity.

The cry of a gull overhead brought him back to the present. Shading his eyes, he watched the bird circle and then light on a second-story railing. For years, he’d nurtured a hope that his aunt might be alive. To this day, he was sure that he’d caught a glimpse of her at his college graduation ceremony. His roommate Franco had told him that it was just some kind of wish projection, but Jack hadn’t been entirely convinced. Then there’d been the anonymous fan letters that he’d received during the eight years he’d spent abroad, covering stories and writing the articles that would become his first book. At times, he could have sworn he heard his aunt’s voice and phrasing in them. But none of them had been signed, and the postmarks had all been from different places.

Turning, Jack glanced down at the dark water as it pushed against the pilings. It had been twelve years, and it all came back to the same question. If his aunt was alive, why hadn’t she ever contacted him in person? One thing he was sure of—Benny Lewis held the key to answering his questions.

With Corie at his side and the threat of scandal if the story of an illegitimate daughter wasn’t handled “properly” in the press, Benny Lewis would have to finally grant him an interview. Then he could complete his work on crime families and send it off. His publisher was already pressuring him to think about a series of articles on the Middle East, so the clock was ticking.

Jack pushed himself away from the railing and began to pace. Why in hell wasn’t he celebrating the fact that he’d convinced Corie Benjamin to fly out here?

“You got a problem, you face it head-on.” That’s what his aunt’s advice would have been. Well, his problem was Corie Benjamin. He’d never before been so curious about a woman. The more he got to know her, the more puzzling she became.

There was her voice for one thing. At times, there was a shyness in it that went hand in hand with the image he’d formed of her in his mind—mousy hair tied into a bun, a baggy sweater worn with a shapeless dress and sensible shoes.

Frowning, Jack gazed out across the water. But at other times there was a hint of steel beneath the soft tone. He’d heard it loud and clear when she’d demanded that makeover.

“What in hell do I know about arranging for a woman to get a makeover?” He couldn’t imagine any other woman in his acquaintance admitting that they even wanted one.

“She’s different, Aunt Mel.”

And that was part of the problem. Corie Benjamin was different. And he hadn’t been completely honest with her. If he had, she probably would have stayed in Fairview. So maybe that was why he felt so…protective of her.

“But I was right to persuade her to come out here.” He had to believe that. Lifting his hands from the railing, he rubbed them over his face. What was the matter with him? Corie Benjamin was going to be perfectly safe. Benny Lewis certainly wasn’t going to jeopardize his reputation as one of San Francisco’s leading philanthropists just because his long-lost daughter showed up, not when the mayor was going to honor him for the new wing that was being dedicated at the San Francisco Memorial Hospital this coming Friday.

“There isn’t a safer time for her to make her appearance in his life.” Even though he’d been over and over it in his mind, it helped him to say it out loud. “And everything should run like clockwork.”

Jack lifted a hand and rubbed at the back of his neck to ease a prickling sensation. He felt as if someone was watching him. As his heart began to race, he whirled and scanned the pier.

Empty—except for a man tapping a white cane along the wooden planks on the lower level. A blind man taking a morning stroll with his dog. So much for the strange feeling he’d had that he was being watched. Jack frowned again. He was going to have to get a grip on his nerves. A good reporter always kept a cool head.

He pushed himself away from the pier and started a slow jog back to his car.

2

JACK PULLED INTO HIS SLOT in the underground garage of his apartment building and opened the door. Before he could close it, Franco Rossi, his old college roommate and current landlord, hurried toward him.

“Well, do you think she got on the plane?”

During his globe-trotting years, Jack had met his share of colorful and eccentric characters, but Franco still remained at the top of the list. For the past eight years Franco had lived in New York City, subsidizing his acting career with a job as a doorman at a posh Central Park West apartment building, and he’d acquired an…unusual wardrobe.

“She told me she was coming, and I have a feeling that once Corie Benjamin makes up her mind, she sticks to it.”

“Wonderful!” Franco rubbed his hands together. “Wonderful!” This morning he was wearing a bright red kimono, a souvenir from his performance in an off-Broadway production of Tea House of the August Moon. Beneath the spiked hair and the orange-rimmed sunglasses, who would suspect that there lurked a man who was a black belt in karate? And Jack was pretty sure no one would guess that Franco owned the apartment building he lived in. The lovely old Painted Lady had been his sole award in a palimony suit against his former longtime lover.

Franco whipped a notebook out of his pocket. “What else do you know about her? I’ve decided she’s the perfect heroine for my screenplay.”

Jack urged Franco back into the building. “You say that about every woman you meet. Your place or mine?”

“Yours,” Franco said, glancing at his watch. “My Monday-Tuesday tenant hasn’t moved out yet. Besides, you have better coffee, and I just French-pressed a pot of your Arabica.”

“Make yourself at home,” Jack said dryly as Franco used his passkey to let them in. Until he sold his screenplay, Franco had decided to live as frugally as possible. Therefore, he was presently renting out his second-floor apartment on a per diem basis to two women who lived there on different days of the week while Franco had moved into the old maid’s quarters in the basement.

Franco poured two cups of coffee and settled himself on the couch that swept around two walls of the sunny living room while Jack filled him in on what he knew about Corie Benjamin.

“So, the opening scene is eleven-fifteen at the airport. I can see it now. Sun pouring down through all that glass as our heroine walks wide-eyed through the gate into a brave new world.” Grabbing the notebook that was never far from reach, Franco began to jot down notes.

“This isn’t a movie,” Jack said.

“It will be. Corie Benjamin’s perfect—a shy little country mouse coming to the big city. My agent will be very excited about it.”

“I thought he was interested in the other two plots you’re hatching,” Jack said.

“Those too.” Franco waved his hand, then continued to scribble notes.

Jack moved to the window. Across the street, the construction workers were taking their places on the scaffolding that decorated two houses. In a matter of moments, a cacophony of ear-numbing noises would begin.

Turning back to Franco, he said, “I told her that she could use your apartment for the entire week and perhaps more, if she decides to extend her stay.”

“No problemo. I spoke with the two women who use the apartment now on different days, and I’m sure she can work something out with them.”

“There’s just one more thing.” Jack ran a hand through his hair. “She wants a makeover—the kind they’re always doing on TV talk shows. Do you know what she’s talking about?”

Franco glanced up. “A makeover! That will be perfect. It’s just what I needed—a Pygmalion theme. Eliza Doolittle meets Vito Corleone! That is sooo high concept! My agent will definitely be able to sell it!”

Jack crossed to the couch and sat down. Sometimes his friend needed a firm hand. Taking Franco’s notebook and pen, he then set them on the table. “Forget about the screenplay for a minute. Can you handle the makeover for me?”

Franco’s brows shot up. “Is rain wet? Do flowers bloom in the spring? When my mother first read me Cinderella, I didn’t want to be the prince. I wanted to be the fairy godmother. I’ve always wondered why I wasn’t born with a magic wand in my hand.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “You’re going to do it yourself?”

“Heavens no. I’ll be her advisor, but I’ll probably enlist the help of Lorenzo. He’s currently doing my hair.”

Jack frowned. “I don’t think she is envisioning spikes.”

“Relax. Lorenzo is one of the top hair designers in San Francisco. He does all the movie stars when they visit. Our little Corie will be in good hands.”

Jack’s frown deepened. “That’s just it. She’s not our little Corie.”

Franco studied Jack for a moment. “For someone who spent the past two weeks convincing our little Cor—librarian to board that plane tomorrow, you don’t look very happy.”

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Jack began to pace. “If there was some other way that I could gain access to the Lewis family, I wouldn’t have involved her.”

“You worry too much.”

“Maybe I haven’t worried enough. I still don’t know who sent me the anonymous e-mail, telling me about her and where to locate her.”

“Why don’t you ask your friend at Cop Central to help you out?”

Jack had thought about that. His friendship with Captain D. C. Parker went back to their high school days. “I couldn’t ask D.C. to do anything illegal. He’s on the political fast track in the department.”

Franco shrugged. “Who says he’d have to get involved? All you need is a name—someone who’s had a few brushes with the law….”

Jack paused in his pacing to study his friend. “You know, with a devious mind like yours, you’d make a good journalist.”

Franco threw up his hands. “Not on your life! I’ll stick to my screenplay, thank you. And I think you really ought to relax about this. Even if all your suspicions about Benny Lewis turn out to be true, he’s worked too hard to build his reputation as a pillar of the community and a philanthropist to risk even the barest hint of scandal at this point. Our little Corie is going to be perfectly safe.”

“You’re right. I know you’re right.” But… Jack barely kept himself from saying the word out loud.

Franco leaned back against the cushions on the couch. “You know, I’ve never seen you this concerned about a woman before.”

Jack considered that for a moment. He made a point of never becoming too involved with a woman. He’d always told himself that it was because he was never in one place for long, and he had no business taking on the responsibility. But he didn’t have to go to a shrink to figure out that he didn’t trust long-term relationships. He’d lost his parents when he was five and his aunt when he was eighteen. Nothing lasted. Therefore, it was just…easier not to get involved. And he didn’t intend to get involved with Corie Benjamin. It was just that… “I’ve never met anyone like her before. She’s different. And she wouldn’t be coming out here to meet her father if I hadn’t called her.”

“Is she pretty?” Franco asked.

“How would I know? I’ve never seen her.” But he wanted to. For the first time, it occurred to him that he was looking forward to meeting Corie for reasons that had nothing to do with his pursuit of the truth surrounding his aunt’s disappearance. Suddenly, he frowned.

“Well, well, well. I never thought I’d see the day that a woman would tie you up in knots,” Franco said.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Corie Benjamin is not my type.”

“Anything you say.”

“I’m just feeling a little guilty because I never told her about Benny’s early connections to the mob.”

Franco’s eyes widened. “That’s a biggie.”

“I kept telling myself that I’d do it as soon as she got out here. And now I feel responsible for her. If something should happen…”

“What could happen? You have labored under the suspicion that Benjamin Lewis had something to do with your aunt’s disappearance far too long. The man’s a pillar of the community, for heaven’s sake. Sure, he supposedly had past mob connections, but not since he moved his family out here almost thirty years ago.” Franco rose from the couch. “But just in case our little librarian is in any danger, I have the perfect backup plan. I thought I would store it here while my apartment is in use.” Rising, he strode to the hall closet and drew out a hanger. “This,” he gave the hanger a little shake and for a moment the black skirt hanging from it seemed to catch the light, “will protect her.”

Jack shifted his gaze from the skirt to Franco. “That’s a skirt.”

“Indeed, it is—but it’s a very special skirt. The fiber was woven from the lunua plant that grows only on this one island, and whoever wears the skirt has the power to draw men like a magnet. I’m trying to get in touch with the original owner, Torrie Lassiter. She lives here in San Francisco and I’m trying to track her down for an interview. Supposedly, she started everything by tossing the skirt instead of her bouquet at her wedding. Since then, this little skirt’s become an urban legend.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Jack asked.

Franco raised his right hand, a solemn expression on his face. “I would never joke about this skirt. I’ve seen it in action. Since I’ve moved out here to San Francisco, I’ve given some thought to wearing it myself. Getting back into the dating scene is tough. It’s a real wasteland out there.” Franco shifted his gaze to the skirt. “Still…I’m not sure I’m ready. The skirt comes with a little catch.”

“Most things do.” Jack studied the skirt. It looked ordinary enough—simple, black, basic.

“Whoever wears this skirt will draw her true love to her,” Franco said.

Jack studied his friend. He’d known Franco long enough to know when he was joking. But he was serious. And he was sober. “Just how is a man-magnet skirt supposed to protect Corie Benjamin? She isn’t coming out here looking for a man.”

Franco held up a hand. “On the contrary. She is looking for one—her father. And the interesting thing about this skirt is that it has different effects on different men. It’s been known to get some of the women who’ve worn it out of very tough scrapes—including ones involving guns and knives.”

Moving forward, Franco spread the skirt out on one of the couch cushions. “I was going to talk Corie into wearing it anyway. Now I’ll just fit it into the makeover. The skirt is the hook I’m using in my screenplay.”

“Franco, I don’t know…”

“What can it hurt?”

Reaching out, Jack fingered the material. For a moment, he was almost sure he caught a scent that reminded him of the kind of exotic flowers that would only grow on a tropical island. That was almost as ridiculous as the feeling of being watched that he’d gotten on the pier earlier.

Outside on the street, there was a loud sound like a gunshot. Dropping the skirt, Jack whirled back to the window in time to see a large black car give one lurch, then, tires squealing, race toward the corner.

Franco patted him on the shoulder. “That car was just backfiring. You should take something to calm your nerves.”

But it wasn’t the car or the backfiring that bothered Jack. It was the man he’d caught a glimpse of in the front seat of the car. A man wearing a hat and sunglasses with a dog on his lap. For a second, he was almost sure that it was the blind man he’d seen walking his dog at Fisherman’s Wharf.

CORIE STEPPED OUT of the jet way and blinked at the bright sunlight streaming through the windows that ran along both walls of the airport. Well, she was here. Too late for regrets, she told herself as she pressed a hand against the mix of nerves and excitement bubbling away in her stomach.

Tightening her grip on her duffel bag, she glanced at the overhead signs and followed the arrows toward baggage pickup. Jack Kincaid would be there, and her San Francisco adventure would begin. She was determined to make the seven days count.

Eagerly she studied people around her, noting the tiny Chinese woman in the slim black pants and sandals, the Indian woman in a colorful sarong, a luxuriously built redhead in pencil-thin heels and a blue silk business suit that Corie bet cost more than she made at the library in a month. Only by force of sheer willpower did she keep herself from glancing down at her shapeless navy dress and serviceable shoes. In Fairview, she fit right in. In San Francisco she was a walking, breathing 9-1-1 fashion emergency.

Straightening her shoulders, she stepped onto the escalator that promised to take her to baggage claim. She was going to change her image as soon as she could, but for now, she had to focus on meeting Jack Kincaid and his friend with the unusual wardrobe. As she scanned the heads popping into view, she spotted the man who had to be Jack’s friend.

Skimming her gaze over the lime-green walking shorts, orange polka-dot T-shirt and orange-rimmed sunglasses, Corie couldn’t prevent a smile. The whole outfit seemed to work somehow. Then she shifted her attention to Jack Kincaid who was taller than his companion and dressed more conservatively in jeans and a tan linen sport coat. The two men made a very odd couple indeed. The shorter man placed a hand on Jack’s arm, and Jack leaned closer to listen.

For the first time, it struck her that they might be just that—a couple. Jack had said he was bringing a “friend” to the airport, and this was San Francisco, after all. As she watched, Jack grinned at something his companion was saying. Then the dimple that she hadn’t been able to keep from touching on his book jacket was there, too, appearing and disappearing as his grin deepened or faded. What would it feel like to press her finger into that dimple?