Her Last Temptation

Well, this is it—the last month of Harlequin Temptation. We’ve had a good run, but everybody knows that all good things have to end sometime. And you have to admit, Temptation is very, very good….

When we celebrated our twentieth anniversary last year, we personified the series as a twenty-year-old woman. She was young, legal (well, almost) and old enough to get into trouble. Well, now that she’s twenty-one and officially legal, she’s leaving home. And she’s going to be missed.

I’d like to take this opportunity to thank the countless number of authors who have given me, and other Harlequin Temptation editors past and present, so many hours of enjoyable reading. They made working at Harlequin an absolute pleasure.

I’d also like to thank our loyal readers for all their support over the past twenty-one years. Never forget—you are the reason we all do what we do. (Check out the back autograph section if you don’t believe me.)

But this doesn’t have to be the end….

Next month Harlequin Blaze increases to six books, and will be bringing the best of Harlequin Temptation along with it. Look for more books in THE WRONG BED, 24 HOURS and THE MIGHTY QUINNS miniseries. And don’t miss Blazing new stories by your favorite Temptation authors. Drop in at tryblaze.com for details.

It’s going to be a lot of fun. I hope you can join us.

Brenda Chin

Associate Senior Editor

Temptation/Blaze

Cat had decided to seduce Dylan about one minute after she’d learned he was a drifter

Soon. Immediately. Tonight.

Actually, she’d been toying with the idea from the moment she’d met Dylan’s stare across the crowded bar. Something had happened—something electrifying and emotional and completely unexpected. She wasn’t sure why, but she hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that this thing building between them was destined to happen. In that moment it had risen above the sexual want they’d been dancing around since Friday night and had suddenly become…more.

Thank heaven she hadn’t told anybody else about her new plans for herself and her life, because they’d think her crazy. The truth about Dylan’s situation might have made her run screaming in the opposite direction if she’d already succeeded in her transformation from the reckless Cat to the mature responsible one.

Luckily, that hadn’t happened yet. Besides, a girl could take on only so much at once, right? Saying goodbye to the family bar, Temptation, was quite enough all by itself, without throwing virtual celibacy into the mix.

So for now, Cat Sheehan was going to enjoy the hell out of Temptation…and temptation. With a man who epitomized the word.

Her Last Temptation

Leslie Kelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

I hate saying goodbye. Whether it’s hugging a loved one I seldom see after an all-too-brief visit or packing up my Christmas decorations wondering how the holidays could be over already—or even finishing a book populated by people I’ve come to care about—I find myself getting down with every farewell.

This one is especially tough. I love Harlequin Temptation, and knowing I won’t be seeing those sassy red-covered books on the store shelves every month makes me very sad.

As a reader, I stumbled onto Harlequin Temptation back in the early nineties and read them avidly. So selling my very first book to my favorite line was a dream come true. I never imagined that a short six years later I’d be writing the last Temptation novel to be published in North America.

This book was truly a work of love. I and the other authors in this last month wanted to create a suitable tribute to the line that has sparked the careers of so many popular romance writers of today—and the line that has forged such a tight bond of friendship between its authors. So as you read the books, you might stumble across some familiar names…and yes, there are definitely some inside jokes. After all, Harlequin Temptation has always been about having fun and being just a little bit naughty.

I sincerely hope Her Last Temptation is worthy of standing beside all the marvelous Temptation stories that preceded it. And on behalf of all the Temptresses, thank you very much for your support and your enthusiasm. It’s been a true pleasure entertaining you.

Best wishes always,

Leslie Kelly

To the Temptresses of the past who inspired me.

And to the Temptresses of today who have given me

some of the greatest friendships of my life.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Epilogue

Autographs

Prologue

IF SOMEBODY STARTED singing that Little Orphan Annie song about the sun coming out tomorrow, Cat Sheehan was gonna hurl. Or run screaming into the street, pulling her hair out and kicking every road construction worker she came across right where it counted. Or maybe just wail to the sky, let the tears she’d never let drip from her eyes fall where they may, and face what she did not want to face.

Her uncertain future. Worse…the negation of her past.

She, her sister and their two best friends were practically alone in their bar, Temptation, shell-shocked by the letter they’d received from the historical society. Their plea to have their building designated a historical landmark—saving it from demolition by the city—had been rejected.

There was no sun. No tomorrow. Sure as hell no Daddy Warbucks. Nobody was coming to save them from the bureaucratic crime that allowed the city to shut them down after twenty-one years just because some newer businesses in higher tax brackets had enough clout to demand an unnecessary road widening.

“It’s over,” she said, still not believing it herself. “I knew those biddies from the historical society would reject us.”

She hadn’t really been talking to the others. More to the world in general, if for no other reason than to distribute some of the pain that had landed on her shoulders with a bit more equity.

Seeing everyone else looking at her, Cat busied herself behind the bar, making their signature drink, the Cosmopolitan. Cat and Laine had chosen it as a joke three years ago when they’d taken over the bar from their mom, because Kendall was about as uncosmopolitan as any dusty little Texas town could be.

It was only after she realized she’d forgotten to put any liquid in the shaker—which contained only ice—that she acknowledged how shaken up she was. She quickly corrected the situation, going heavy on the vodka.

Then, because everybody seemed to be waiting for her to say something—or else explode—she added quite mildly, she thought—“The city wants a new road, so we’re out. Did you really think we’d change anything tonight?”

Passing out the drinks, she eyed the three other women, waiting for the “it’ll be okays” to start. Laine appeared on the verge of tearing up; Gracie sighed, looking depressed rather than sad; and Tess seemed more nervous than anything else.

None of them looked the way Cat felt about the loss of this last fight to cling to a way of life her family had held dear for two decades—absolutely furious and utterly heartbroken.

Laine appeared close, however, at least as far as the heartbreak went. The sheen of moisture in her eyes cut deeply into Cat. Her sister never cried. She was the rock—the steady foundation of the family—and the antithesis of Cat. Her older-by-six-years sister was solid, smart and reliable. The calm one. The good one. The angel.

Solid, smart and reliable were three words that had never been used to describe Cat, the younger Sheehan sister. And nobody in his right mind had ever thought of her as good. Her blond hair and green eyes might appear angelic at first glance. But her attitude and never-ending ability to get into trouble had made her seem much more destined for a pitchfork than a halo as a kid.

Her adult life hadn’t changed anybody’s opinion.

She’d been called the rebel, the bad girl. Her mother had dubbed her the wild child at the age of three when she’d tried climbing headfirst out of her bedroom window to run away from home so she wouldn’t have to start preschool. Laine had hauled her back inside by the laces of her Buster Browns that time.

But nothing was going to save Cat from falling now, especially not if Laine started showing emotion over this. Or worse, appearing helpless, as the slight tremble in her lip and the shakiness of the hand holding her martini glass indicated.

“How are we going to explain this to Mom?” Laine asked, sounding bewildered.

Laine at a loss? Unsure what to do? The sky was gonna start falling at any minute. And Cat just couldn’t take it, not on top of everything else. So she raised a brow and gave her sibling a challenging look. “Had faith in the system, Laine, dear?”

Bingo. Her sister immediately stiffened. As usual, when Cat went on the offensive, she inspired rapid mood changes, often involving anger. Or sometimes laughter. She’d used the technique all her life and it was a damn good defense mechanism, if she did say so herself. Including now.

Laine’s eyes darkened and her jaw tensed as she crumpled the letter in her hand. “Yes, I did. This isn’t right. How can they just take away everything we’ve worked for?”

Cat nearly sighed in relief. A teed-off Laine, she could handle; a bereft one, she couldn’t.

Everyone kept talking, but Cat couldn’t bring herself to listen. The others all had a sad stake in this, but they weren’t going to lose quite as much as she was. Her business, her job, her way of life. Even her home.

Okay, the three tiny rooms over the bar weren’t much of a home, but they were hers. She loved retreating into her private little world, listening to the late-night whispers and creaks of the aged oak paneling downstairs as the old building settled ever deeper into its foundation. A foundation that had, until the city’s road project, seemed incredibly sound.

The trill of birds in the lush walled garden right outside her window woke her every morning. And the tinkle of glasses and muted laughter of their regulars lulled her to sleep on her rare nights off. She loved those sounds. As much as she loved the smell of the lemony polish she used daily to bring back the lustrous shine to the surface of the old pitted bar.

She loved the hiss of a newly tapped keg. Loved the clink of glass on glass when she poured a neat whiskey. Even loved the whirr of the blender when she had to make girlie drinks for the froufrou crowd that occasionally wandered in for happy hour.

Mostly she loved sitting here, alone, late at night when the place was closed, picturing the faces and voices of everyone who had passed through here before her. Her grandparents. Her dad, who’d died so many years ago. She could still see his wide Irish smile as he slowly pulled a draft of Guinness for a customer, explaining that the nectar of Ireland was well worth the wait.

Gone. All the things she loved would be gone. Washed away, like sidewalk etchings in the rain, by city officials who had no idea they were washing Cat’s entire world away, as well.

No job. No business. No home. No future.

No identity.

Just who was she going to be when this was all over?

She sipped her drink, depressed and overwhelmed at the thought. She’d gotten so used to her place in the world, stepping in at the bar at such a young age because it was what the family always figured she—the so-so student but A+ party girl—would do. She’d dated poor excuses for men and never been serious about any of them. Worst of all, she’d put away any glimmer of an idea that she could do something different with her life. Like fulfill a long-secret dream to go to college and become a teacher.

She’d shoved all of those things aside, and for what? A business that was going under, a family who had drifted apart, and a life that seemed…empty.

You can change it. Change everything.

She couldn’t thrust the unexpected thought out of her mind…maybe she should take this as a sign to move on in a completely unexpected direction, to walk a new path.

She could change. Become somebody new.

The idea grew on her. Since she had no choice, maybe the time had come for her to try something else. To change some things about herself—from her attitude to her hairstyle. Her clothes to her social skills. She could work on her education—slowly—to see if she really would be as good at teaching English to teenagers as she thought she might be.

She could work on her notoriously bad language, her secret addiction to romance novels. Maybe she’d even break herself of her awful habit of getting involved with even-badder-than-herself bad boys, who were ever-so-safe to fall for since they never aroused any ridiculous expectations of happily-ever-after. Just happily-between-the-sheets.

Yeah. No bad boys.

“Who are you kidding?” she mumbled under her breath, doubting she was that frigging strong.

“Did you say something?” Tess asked.

Cat merely smiled, trying to tune back in on the animated conversation the others had been having. “Just talking to myself,” she admitted. “Making some plans.”

Plans. Yes, she definitely had to make plans. She had time—until the end of the month, at least. Her sister and two closest friends would be right here by her side for every minute of it, riding things out until the very end. They’d be like the string quartet on the Titanic, playing their instruments as the ship sank beneath their feet.

She’d use these last weeks to figure out how to become the new Cat Sheehan. Heck, maybe she’d even start going by Catherine. It was something, anyway, along with those other big changes, which she went over again in her mind.

Education. Check. Home. Check. Attitude. Check.

No dangerous men. Hmm…

But hey, stranger things had happened. All it would take was willpower. Well, that and the knowledge that no hot-enough-to-melt-a-polar-icecap man with trouble in his eyes and wickedness in his smile had wandered into her world in quite some time.

And one sure as hell wasn’t likely to now.

1

SIN HAD JUST WALKED INTO her bar and he was wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt.

Cat Sheehan paused midsentence, forgetting the conversation she’d been having with one of her customers. Forgetting everything. Because, Holy Mother Mary, a man who’d instantly set her heart pounding and her pulse racing was standing a few yards away, completely oblivious to her shocked stare.

He was tall. Very tall. And he had the kind of presence that immediately drew the attention of every person in the place—at least, every female person. Their gazes drifted over because of his size. They stayed because of his looks.

A strip of leather kept the man’s jet-black hair tied at the back of his neck in a short ponytail. A simple thing, that piece of leather, and she’d certainly seen men with longish hair and ponytails. But on him, well, the look was…rakish. That was the only word she could think of.

Cat liked rakes. Not that she’d ever met one for real, but she liked the ones she’d read about in her pirate romance novels.

A pirate. It fit. From the ponytail to the flash of silver glistening on the lobe of one ear to the aura of danger oozing from his body, this man had the pirate thing going in spades.

His classically handsome face was lean, a faint shadow of stubble adding a layer of ruggedness to his strong jaw. His lips briefly widened into a smile as he greeted someone. For a moment, Cat felt very sure the ground had trembled a bit under the power of his smile. Not to mention the mouth, which looked as if it had been created for the sole purpose of kissing.

His body was a living testament to the beauty of nature—broad at the shoulders, slim at the hips, with long legs covered in tight, faded jeans. His thick arms flexed, muscles bulging under the weight of the sizable guitar case he was carrying, though he hardly seemed to notice. Lifting it higher, he stepped deftly around tables and chairs, skirting the outstretched legs of the few patrons in the place.

He moved gracefully. Catlike.

“Oh, yeah,” she murmured. Cat definitely liked.

She never took her eyes off him as he approached. Then it sunk in. He was approaching her, Cat Sheehan, the woman standing here with her mouth only slightly less wide-open than her eyes.

Blinking, she gave her head a hard shake, then grabbed the nearest cloth she could reach and busied herself by wiping up some spilled beer.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

Cat barely registered the shrill words from somewhere nearby, because suddenly he was there. A thick, tanned forearm dropped to the surface of the bar, and she couldn’t help staring at his fingers. Long fingers. Artistic-looking. Perfect for a guitar player. Not to mention a lover.

“Wow,” the same female voice said, sounding subdued.

Swallowing hard, Cat slowly shifted her gaze, surveying his limb from fingertip to elbow, then the ninety-degree turn up the thick planes of his arm, the tight hem of the black cotton T-shirt. The broad shoulder. The hollow of his throat. The cords of his neck. Wow, indeed.

Then, oh, God, the face.

If Helen’s face had launched a thousand ships to the sea, surely this man’s could inspire ten thousand pairs of panties to drop to the floor.

Her legs wobbled, her knees knocking together loud enough to be heard over the sound of the jackhammer outside. But probably not loud enough to be heard over the pounding of her heart. Ordering herself to calm down, she slowed her breaths, mentally grabbing for control as she assessed the situation.

She was facing the most incredible man she’d ever seen—the kind of guy women fantasized about meeting for real, instead of on the pages of books or on giant screens in darkened movie theaters. One-hundred-percent pure sin.

Separating them were only the broad mahogany bar and Cat’s own resolution to change her ways and steer clear of sexy, dangerous men.

She should have known she didn’t have a snowball’s chance of keeping that resolution, though, honestly, she’d figured she could last a week. But no. It’d been only three days since they’d received the letter from the historical society and she’d made the stupid promise to herself. Of all the changes in her world since Tuesday—including the shockingly abrupt departure of Laine and Tess for far-flung adventures—she’d thought the ones she’d resolved to make in herself would be the easiest to deal with.

Uh, not.

A slow grin tilted the corners of the stranger’s lips up and he leaned closer. As he did so, his dark, intense eyes caught and reflected a reddish glimmer from one of the stained-glass light fixtures overhead.

Devilish. Dangerous. Off-limits.

Or so she tried to tell herself. But she suspected it was no use. Unless the guy had a hideous voice, he was altogether perfect. And since conversation wasn’t even on the top ten list of the things she’d been picturing doing with this man since the second she’d set eyes on him, she suspected it wouldn’t matter if he sounded like Roger Rabbit on speed.

“I think that’s her purse you’re using to clean up the spilled beer,” he said.

Velvet voice. Soft. Husky. As smooth and warm as their very best whiskey—the kind she kept hidden beneath the bar for special customers. She felt every word he spoke on each of the nerve endings in her body.

Doomed. The new, reformed Cat Sheehan was utterly doomed.

Then what he’d said sunk in and Cat looked down at her hand. “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry,” she said when she spied what she’d been using as a rag.

It was a small, cloth handbag belonging to a customer seated at the bar. Fortunately, the woman was one of their regulars, a bank teller named Julie. Even more fortunately, Julie was just as drooly-faced over the stranger as Cat, because she seemed to understand Cat’s lapse into hot-man-induced dementia.

“It’ll wash,” Julie mumbled.

The man plucked the damp purse from Cat’s limp fingers and handed it to its owner, giving her an intimate smile. “Maybe a drink on the house would help?”

Julie nodded dumbly. Cat was tempted to grab the woman’s left hand and flip it over to remind her of the big diamond ring she’d been flashing in here since her engagement to some salesman. But she couldn’t blame her. Engaged or not, any woman would look twice…or dozens of times…at a man like this one.

Then he turned his attention back to Cat. His full, unwavering attention. “Hi. I’m your entertainment,” he finally said, his voice low and intimate though she’d swear laughter danced behind his eyes.

“You’re very good,” she replied matter-of-factly.

A dimple flashed in one of his lean cheeks. “You haven’t seen what I can do yet.”

“Wild guess,” she mumbled, her mind filling with possibilities of just what he could do. She had to give herself credit—only half were X-rated. Well, maybe sixty percent.

“You won’t have to wait for long to find out,” he said, his tone as suggestive as her words had been.

Oh, boy, did that set her heart flip-flopping in her chest.

Her expression must have given away her thoughts. His brown eyes darkened to near black and he leaned closer, both elbows now resting on the bar. “You sure you’re gonna be able to handle it?”

She raised a challenging brow. “You think you’re that good? That you can’t be handled?”

“I’ve been known to shake the walls when I get going.”

Cat grabbed the edge of the bar to steady herself and took a deep breath. She should walk away, ignore the comment, pretend she’d misunderstood.

She did none of the above. Instead, even though she knew she shouldn’t step farther into the fire, she threw a spark right back at the solid stick of dynamite watching her with promise in his eyes. “I’ve been known to rattle a few walls myself.”

His cocky grin faded and his jaw tightened a bit. Tie game. She’d definitely gotten under his skin, just as he had hers. Then he managed, “So you play, too?”

“Not lately,” she admitted.

Nope, she hadn’t played with a man in a very long time. Not since last year, when she’d briefly dated a rodeo cowboy, whose lack of finesse in the saddle had been equaled only by his lack of staying power.

He’d lasted about three-and-a-half minutes. They’d lasted about three-and-a-half dates.

“What instrument?” he asked.

The words, “a thick, eight-inch one is my preference,” came to mind, but she bit back the reply. This game had gotten a bit too reckless for a woman who’d sworn off guys with trouble written all over them. This one was the absolute Yellow Pages of trouble. “Um…”

“I somehow see you as a sax woman.”

Her mouth dropped open. She was definitely a sex woman, which she was being reminded of with every passing second. But, lord, he’d skipped right past the subtle innuendo, hadn’t he?

“Or maybe clarinet?”

Her brow shot up. “You mean we were talking about musical instruments?”

“Of course.” He managed to pull off a look of such complete innocence that Cat began to believe she really had misread their conversation. “What else would we have been talking about?”