THE TEMPTATION OF SEAN MCNEILL Read online

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  THE TEMPTATION OF SEAN MACNEILL

  Virginia Kantra

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  Contents:

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

  Epilogue

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  Chapter 1

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  There was a strange man in Rachel's bedroom, in Rachel's bed. A naked man, she guessed, by the hard curve of shoulder that showed in the light from the hall. A strange, naked man.

  Her mother must be thrilled.

  Rachel wasn't. Not at 2:00 a.m. Not after driving half the night with her two children sleeping in the back seat of a rental truck. Desperation and caffeine were the only things keeping her going. At this moment a naked Brad Pitt couldn't have thrilled her.

  Heart sinking, she regarded the long, well-muscled body tenting the flowered sheets. What on earth was she supposed to do now? She couldn't put her kids to bed in that firetrap of a spare bedroom. She couldn't even see the room's twin beds beneath the piled cartons. A hotel room—even if she were willing to drag the children another half hour down the road, which she was not—was beyond her means. And waking her mother… No, she couldn't cope with her mother right now.

  Bad enough that the break-in had forced her home. She certainly wasn't explaining it to her mother in the middle of the night, as if she were some teenager caught sneaking in after curfew.

  The only solution, the only practical, adult solution, was to rouse this naked stranger and oust him from the only available bed. Any minute now an accusing Lindsey and a sleepy-eyed Chris would come stumbling up the stairs, and she needed a place to put them.

  She cleared her throat. "Excuse me?"

  He didn't stir.

  She took a cautious step forward. "Hello?"

  The stranger shifted onto his back, revealing a three-quarter profile that could have made Penelope abandon her weaving or Juliet forget poor Romeo. A muscled chest, its nudity emphasized by a perfect pattern of dark hair, stretched above the sheet. A small gold hoop like a pirate's winked from his exposed earlobe.

  He was young, she noted. Her stomach sank to join her heart in her neatly tied running shoes. Young, unshaven and outrageously good-looking. Oh, help. What was her mother thinking?

  She pressed her lips together, light-headed from hunger and trembling with fatigue. After Carmine Bilotti's threats, she should be able to take one half-naked stranger in stride.

  She opened the door wider, hoping the light from the hall might wake him. It sliced through the room and fell across the pillow.

  The man in her bed opened his eyes. His dark gaze jolted her heartbeat. And then a slow smile curved his wide mouth and he dropped his head back onto the pillow.

  "Sweet Mother in Heaven, please don't let me be dreaming." He raised his hand, stopping Rachel's interruption before she could get it properly started. "Or if this is a dream," he continued, "then don't let me wake up. Amen."

  "More like a nightmare," Rachel muttered. Control, she reminded herself. There was no point in antagonizing the man. "Please wake up."

  "Okay." He propped himself up on one elbow. Mercifully, the sheet stayed in place. She bit her lip. Just how naked was he?

  "What can I do for you, beautiful?" he asked. "And if you need suggestions, let me tell you, I am here to help."

  Help. Right. Like she could believe that. But she was encouraged by his cheerful offer, all the same.

  "Gee, thanks," she said. "Look, I realize it's the middle of the night and all, but would you mind moving to the couch?"

  He rubbed his unshaven chin. "Not to disoblige a lady, but why?"

  "Well, because I sort of need the bed."

  "I'm sort of in need of it myself. I've been working all day."

  "I've been driving all night."

  "In that case—" he slanted her a smile that promised … oh, wicked things "—you're welcome to join me."

  For one crazy moment she was tempted to do exactly that, to slip into the warm nest of sheets and hot forgetfulness of sex. She must be losing her mind. From sleep deprivation or stress or something.

  "No. Thank you," she added politely. "The bed is for my children."

  His eyebrows lifted. His gaze traveled past her to the hall. "And they are…?"

  "Downstairs. In the truck."

  That broad palm scrubbed his face again. "And you are…?"

  "Rachel Fuller." Clearly the name meant nothing to him. She sighed again. "Myra's daughter."

  "Rachel? You're Rachel?" Dropping his hand, he inspected her again, reminding her sharply that she was sweaty and grungy and wrinkled. "I thought you weren't due for a couple of days yet."

  She lifted her chin. "I didn't think my mother set a time limit on her invitation."

  He grinned. "I thought you'd be older."

  She dredged a wry smile from somewhere. "I'm ancient," she told him. It felt true. "And very, very tired. And I have two tired, cranky children. So, if you really wouldn't mind, Mr.…?"

  "Sean. Sean MacNeill." He curled up effortlessly, bunching the sheet at his waist, and extended his big hand.

  Rachel took it, feeling the ridiculousness of the formal gesture in the face of her snarled nerves and his near nudity. His grip was sure and strong, his palm calloused. A scar ran across the knuckle of his thumb. He tugged on their joined hands, bringing her face down to his level.

  Rachel blinked as his warm breath skated across her mouth. He smelled like toothpaste, like soap and sleep and man.

  "Welcome home, Rachel Fuller."

  And then his warm lips brushed her cheek.

  She felt the bristle of his beard, the softness of his lips. Despite her surprise, under her indignation, her stomach gave a quick undisciplined thump. Alarmed, she pushed against the smooth curve of his shoulder. He released her instantly.

  "Get up," she commanded, panicked by the threat to her control.

  "Yes, ma'am. As soon as you turn your back. Unless—" his hand hovered above the sheet at his waist "—you'd like to watch?"

  Maybe. Oh, Lord. She really was losing her mind. Turning her back, she said in her most daunting schoolteacher's voice, "I hardly think that's appropriate."

  She heard the squeak of the mattress behind her, the rustle of sheets. "Just welcoming you home."

  He meant the kiss. "That wasn't just inappropriate. That was uncalled for."

  Something—a belt buckle?—clanked as he tugged on his jeans. She listened for the reassuring rasp of his zipper, her face hot in the dark. It was unbearably intimate, listening to this large stranger dress behind her.

  "Seemed to fit the circumstances to me," he remarked. "Most times a woman wakes me up in the middle of the night, she expects a hell of a lot more than a kiss."

  This time she couldn't summon anything in response to his teasing. Not a smile. Not a word. It was as though the break-in had fractured something inside her, her spirit or her sense of humor, that gave way unexpectedly under pressure. She hugged her elbows tighter.

  "Hey." His voice gentled. "It's okay."

  It wasn't okay, Rachel thought bleakly. Things hadn't been okay for a very long time. The willpower that had held her together through the long drive, and her stripped and vandalized living room before that, and the truly horrible year before that, stretched thin as thread. At the slightest tug she'd unravel like new knitting. She could feel herself fraying already.

  But she appreciated his attempt at comfort.

  She turned as he reached for the T-shirt draped over the back of her vanity chair, struggling for the normal social responses that would get her through this. "I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting…"

  He tugged the shi
rt over his head. "I said it's okay. Take the bed. I'll clear the rest of my stuff out in the morning."

  "I… Thank you." Now that he was moving and dressed, she felt the familiar prick of guilt. "I'll get you a pillow for the couch,"

  "I'll do it."

  So he knew his way around her mother's closets. The thought twinged like a pulled muscle. Rachel's adolescence had been marked by a procession of "uncles"—some intimate, some not-so-intimate, some nice, some not-so-nice—all recruited to alleviate her mother's terrible loneliness after her father died. Rachel didn't really suspect this latest houseguest of visiting her mother's bed. Surely he was too young? But she didn't appreciate finding him in hers, either.

  "Fine," she said, and went downstairs and out of the house.

  The sultry August night enveloped her. Cicadas buzzed from overgrown azaleas and pies. A troop of moths wandered drunkenly in and out of the light at the corner of the old frame house, sparking like planes in a dogfight. Her athletic shoes crunched on the graveled drive. Despite the muggy heat, Rachel shivered as she approached the parked truck.

  In the front seat Chris was awake and still, his pale eyes gleaming in the shadows. Rachel's insides pinched at the apprehensive look on his face. At eight, he was still so young. Too young to deal with his life being turned topsy-turvy. The events of the past year had turned her "easy" baby, her happy child, into this anxious and uncertain boy. More than anything, Rachel longed to set things right again.

  At her tap, he uncurled and scrambled to unlock the passenger door.

  "Hi, sweetie. We're here."

  He nodded.

  On the bench seat behind him, ten-year-old Lindsey sprawled, hair and arms and legs every which way. Her lips parted; her dark lashes fanned her cheeks. Sleeping, she looked so much like the sweet baby she had been that Rachel wanted to crawl in and cradle her.

  She put her hand on her shoulder instead, knowing that was the most her daughter tolerated these days. "Lindsey? Honey, we're at Grandma's."

  Dark eyes opened. "You woke me up."

  "Yes. Come on, honey. Let's get you to bed."

  "I'm tired."

  "I know."

  She soothed and prodded the kids from the truck, making sure Lindsey clutched her pillow and Chris his bear. Briefly, Rachel wished she had her own talisman. But she was the grown-up. She was too old for a "blankie." Grabbing the children's duffel bags instead, she shepherded her family along the short walk, promising water and a bathroom and French toast in the morning.

  A shadow loomed across the concrete steps as the stranger appeared in the doorway. Backlit, standing, he looked enormous. Rachel stopped, her heart jolting. Chris pressed into her side.

  "Give you a hand?" he rumbled.

  Rachel drew a deep breath. They were in tiny Benson, North Carolina, she reminded herself. Miles away from any threat to her children.

  She made herself smile. "No, thank you. We're fine."

  Lindsey scowled. "Who's he?"

  "This is Mr. MacNeill," Rachel said, urging them up the steps.

  He stepped back to let them pass, smiling engagingly down at the children. "Call me Sean."

  Her daughter's dark brows came together over her nose. "But who is he?"

  Rachel wished she knew. She was half afraid to find out. "He, um…"

  "I work sometimes for your grandmother," the tall man said. "Can I take that upstairs for you?"

  Rachel tightened her grip on the duffel strap. "I can do it."

  "You can take mine," Lindsey said.

  He lifted an eyebrow, glanced at Rachel. And waited. The yellow lamplight winked on the gold earring, making him look even more like a pirate.

  "Well… Thank you," she said, and handed their bags over. "The room at the top of the stairs."

  "I remember the way."

  Silenced, she followed his broad back and long legs up the narrow staircase.

  Lindsey, pushing ahead, stopped in the doorway and regarded their accommodations with scorn. "Where are we supposed to sleep?"

  Dismay rose in Rachel. "In the bed," she said with forced cheerfulness.

  "I'm not sharing a bed with Chris. He farts." Her brother poked his head around Rachel. "You kick."

  "Baby," Lindsey sneered.

  Chris tautened with eight-year-old rage and dignity. Rachel squeezed his shoulder in comfort, in warning. "That's quite enough, Lindsey."

  The pirate deposited their bags and then propped himself in the doorway. "So, who do you want to bunk with?" he asked Lindsey.

  Her startled gaze flew to his face.

  Rachel's protective instincts went off like a smoke alarm. "Now wait a minute…"

  He shrugged. "I'm just pointing out that everybody's got some bad habit. Like they snore or they drool or they steal the covers. You want to take a chance with your grandmother?"

  "No…" Lindsey said uncertainly.

  "No," he agreed. "I'm betting you don't want to sleep in the car. Your mom's taking the floor, and I'm not offering, So I guess you're sharing a bed with your brother." Straightening, he gave Rachel a brief smile.

  "Good night."

  "Good night," she echoed.

  He sauntered down the stairs, his head nearly brushing the canted ceiling.

  Well. Had he deliberately baited her daughter to trick her cooperation? Rachel pursed her mouth, unsure how she felt about Tall, Dark and In-Your-Face interfering with her children.

  She glanced down at Chris's white face. Both kids were almost swaying on their feet. It would wait until the morning, she decided. Everything could wait until morning.

  She was lying on the floor beside the bed, listening to her sleeping children, before it occurred to her that Sean MacNeill never came back for his pillow.

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  Tiny blue flowers dotted the wallpaper. Rachel always imagined that their scent perfumed the room, and not the lavender sachet her mother put in all the drawers. She snuggled deeper, wrapped in sleep and a light cotton blanket. The smell of coffee and biscuits rose from the kitchen, and the deep sound of her father's laughter.

  Two things shattered her morning dream, more or less at once: she was sleeping on the floor, not in her childhood bed, and that laugh didn't belong to her father. Her father had been dead for twenty years. Tears pricked her eyes.

  "Damn," she whispered.

  Chris rolled over on the mattress above her. "Mom?"

  "It's okay, honey," she soothed him. "Go back to sleep."

  Doubled over in the early light, she pulled on her jeans and finger-combed her hair. Tears were of no use at all. What she needed—what Lindsey and Chris needed—was a fresh start. A good breakfast, a secure future, and miles between them and Carmine Bilotti's threats.

  Don't think about that. Not now. Not, please God, ever again.

  She poked her toes into her running shoes. What to do first? She ought to unpack the truck. Clear out the spare bedroom. Find out exactly what Sean MacNeill was doing in her mother's house and … well, she'd figure it out as she went along.

  Not for the first time in the past year, she wished crises came with instruction manuals.

  Tugging her belt, she marched down the stairs.

  Her mother stood at the kitchen sink in a housedress and slippers, washing out a blue-and-white ceramic bowl. Her graying blond hair was already neatly curled. A soft pink lipstick defined her mouth. Unlike her tall, athletic daughter, Myra Jordan would no more go out in public without makeup than without a bra. Sudden affection for her caught Rachel unprepared, swamping her chest. Maybe the adage was wrong, she thought with a little lift of heart. Maybe you could go home again.

  Myra's dark-haired houseguest sprawled at the kitchen table, back to the door, bare feet sticking out under the table. With his gold hoop and morning stubble, he looked dangerous, disreputable, and very, very attractive.

  Rachel stopped in the kitchen doorway. Then again, home hadn't been a reliable refuge since her father died.

  Sean turned one of her
mother's flowered coffee mugs in his big hands. "I don't want to put you out, Mrs. Jordan. I'm due on-site in another hour, anyway."

  "Oh, it's no trouble. And those biscuits'll be ready in just a minute."

  Rachel took a deep breath. "Good morning, Mama."

  "Rachel!" Letting the bowl slide into the soapy water, her mother rushed to envelope her in warm, yielding arms and the scent of lemony detergent.

  Just for a moment Rachel closed her eyes, holding on to the illusion of homecoming.

  "You didn't wake me when you came in," Myra chided.

  Rachel leaned back to inspect her mother's soft, lined face. She looked older, Rachel thought, concerned. What if the children were too much for her? Or what if, despite the payment Rachel mailed yesterday, the Bilottis came after them? She'd never forgive herself if she'd put her own mother at risk. But what choice did she have?

  "Yes, well … I didn't want to disturb you."

  "You've met Sean?"

  Dark eyes, bright with mischief, watched her over the rim of his mug. "I welcomed her home," he said gravely. "Then I cleared out so she could tuck the kids in."

  Rachel's whole body warmed at the look in his eyes, as if she'd already been for her morning run. Ducking her head to hide her hot cheeks, she poured herself coffee. "Yes, he did. Thank you. For vacating the room," she added, in case he thought she meant the other. That kiss.

  He looked amused. He remembered. "Don't mention it."

  "You didn't get a pillow," she said foolishly, and then bit her tongue.

  "There are pillows on the couch. I figured you and the kids could use what was in the closet."

  "I hope you were comfortable," Myra said. To which one of them, Rachel wasn't sure.

  "Very comfortable, Mama. Mr.—Sean gave up his bed for the children." My bed, she thought but did not say. "Of course, now that we're here, I'm hoping I can clean up the spare room for them."

  "Oh, yes. Yes, of course. I meant to tidy things up before you came. But you're early, dear."

  Rachel took a sip of coffee, swallowing the guilt caused by her mother's faint reproach. She'd never planned on coming home. But then, she'd never planned on the Bilottis, either. If it weren't for the threat to her children… There was no way she could pay what she owed and still afford the mortgage on the house she'd shared with Doug. At this moment she couldn't even scrape together a security deposit for an apartment.