Surrender to Temptation (2 page)

T
hree days later, I curled my toes into the sand and tried to make sense of my life.

I hadn't smelled the brine of sea air for years. I didn't have an excuse—Sacramento was only a five-hour drive from the coast, a short enough time to make the trip for something that I loved.

Well, I was here now.

Not caring about muddying the butt of my denim cutoffs, I plopped down onto the sand and hugged my knees to my chest, letting the crash of the waves fill my mind. I had to fill my mind with something, or else I'd start thinking about how incredibly off track my life had just veered, and I would start to panic.

After leaving Tom's apartment, I'd gone straight back to what was now a shell instead of my home. Possessed by the need to get as far away as possible from Tom, from work, from my
life
, I'd lugged my few boxes of possessions—mostly clothing and a few personal mementoes—down into my little blue hatchback.

I'd wanted red, but blue was much more sensible.

I'd then driven to a McDonald's parking lot and while eating a Quarter Pounder with Cheese and an extra-large order of fries—to hell with a well-balanced diet and nutrition—drafted my resignation letter on my laptop.

No way was I going back to that law firm, not when I'd have to see Tom every day. Not when I'd have to endure the pitying stares from people who surely knew what had been going on long before I had.

What a fool I had been.

Digging my fingers into the long tangles of my hair and tugging with frustration, I felt the dam break and my panic flow.

What had I done?
My job hadn't been spectacular or particularly exciting, but it had been my starting point. I'd dreamt of going back to school, of becoming a lawyer myself. To do that I needed to save up the excess money from a job that paid decently and didn't involve serving old men who gave me pinches on the tushie instead of tips.

Rather than the inheritance I might have expected, my parents had left a mountain of debt when they'd died in a car crash three years ago. There was no money for law school, not unless I earned it myself.

The panic grew, snaking itself into that same oily blackness that had visited me so often in those days after my parents' accident, when I'd been treading water, just trying to make sense of both the grief and the instantaneous poverty that I hadn't been prepared for and wasn't used to.

I dug my fingers into the sand until I felt the rough granules catch under my nails.

Pull yourself together, Devon.
Deliberately I drew in one last, stinging lungful of salty ocean air, inhaling until my throat stung.
You've clawed your way out before, and you will again.

The comforting smell of the water helped—a bit, at least—but deep down the same old fears swirled.

I'd just gotten used to not identifying myself solely as Dr. Evelyn and The Honorable Rhys Reid's daughter. In truth, I had simply become the girlfriend of Tom Cambridge-Neilson, young star defense attorney.

It had been comfortable, and the loss of that hard-earned comfort was what I was grieving most of all.

Now I had to dig down, down deep, and see who Devon Reid was underneath.

•   •   •

I
was immensely comforted by the fact that Suzanne's Diner still existed, right in the middle of what the tourists laughingly and the locals seriously called
downtown
in Cambria.

Suzanne's still had the same chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes with gravy, and sweet buttered corn that I remembered from my youth. Now, of course, I accompanied it with rich red wine instead of orange soda, and thought that it was a vast improvement.

“Don't look now, but I think you have an admirer.” The waitress was one of Suzanne's granddaughters, or at least I assumed she was, for the ringlets falling out of her messy ponytail were the same unmistakable shade of red that the owner's hair had once been. Her pale skin flushed as she gestured with a slight sideways nod, setting my fresh glass of ice water down on the table and scurrying away.

Having had one too many glasses of red wine to care about being subtle, I turned in the direction that the young waitress had gestured.

The man at the next table didn't smile when I turned and caught his eye, and despite the very nearly mocking set to his lips, I suddenly felt as though I were in the midst of the waves that I had been watching only an hour earlier—as if the heavy water that was infused with salt was pulling me under and claiming me as its own.

He was . . . dark. That was my first thought. Though his tanned skin was actually the burnished gold of tequila and his eyes were the color of rum, the tousles of hair that were nearly jet-black combined with his expression to lend him an air of power and authority, and something else that I couldn't quite put my finger on. His face was sculpted, his features arrogant and aristocratic, and I was quite certain that that face had inspired many a lusty daydream.

I was no better. As those golden eyes, surrounded by thick, dark lashes, stared so boldly into my own lighter blue ones, I felt a sexual tug like nothing I'd ever felt before. I wasn't a virgin—no, there was Tom, and my high school boyfriend, and the two somewhat disastrous one-night stands that I'd had in between.

None of those had inspired anything that felt even a fraction as seductive as the frankly intrusive examination by this man at the next table. He brought to mind every intimate fantasy I'd ever had, and I felt certain that he and that wicked-looking face were capable of inciting many more.

He lifted his wineglass and tipped it at me, then returned to his meal—some kind of healthy-looking grilled-fish-and-steamed-vegetable thing—as if he'd never seen me in the first place. I was left with flushed skin, nipples that had contracted to the point of pain, and a dull ache between my legs.

What
was that? I had to sit on my hands to stop myself from reaching over and fisting them in the stranger's hair.

Instead of doing that, I focused on my plate, which, while incredibly appetizing only moments before, now held little appeal.

Scooping up a small forkful of potatoes, I pressed it into my mouth, forced myself to taste and to swallow. There were times in my life that I'd dreamt about this exact meal—my comfort food of choice—and now it was dry as dust in my mouth, tasteless and unnecessary.

I swallowed, the potatoes feeling like glue as they worked their way down my throat. When I'd succeeded in that small movement, I rewarded myself by sneaking a glance across the restaurant at the handsome stranger.

He was watching me again, and he wasn't even being discreet. Self-consciousness washed over me, followed quickly by irritation, no doubt brought on by the wine that was flowing through my veins.

“If you're going to stare, you might as well join me.” My scowl was only half in earnest—the other half was hiding the tremble of my lower lip.

I needed to squash this ridiculous lust. Not only was there no way that this man—this
stranger
—was feeling the same way, but I was really in no position to be thinking about sex.

The man raised an eyebrow at my tone—unless I was very much mistaken, he was not the sort of man who was used to be being spoken to like that. He frowned slightly, as if playing my words back in his head. Then, to my astonishment, he shrugged slightly and stood, catching his own wineglass in his hand as he did.

“I think I will.”

Startled by his reaction, I swallowed—hard—as he rose and made his way over. He seated himself at my table as comfortably as if he owned it, and I studied him from beneath my makeup-free lashes as I tried to compose myself.

He was dressed casually, blue jeans and a black button-down shirt, but he still didn't seem like the type of person to bum around a tiny surf town like Cambria. No, unless I was very much mistaken, he'd paid a pretty penny for the jeans, and for the shirt, as well.

I peeked under the table, no longer bothering to be subtle. Yup, I was right—his feet were clad in polished black loafers, not the flip-flops or even skater sneakers that most Californians wore on their off time.

“Do they pass inspection?” Caught in the act, I snapped my stare back to the man's face. My fascination with his footwear had brought on a small curve of his lips, and the result was so wicked, so enticing, that I picked up my wine and gulped, just to keep from drooling.

What was I doing? My life was in shambles. I was in no place to be having lustful thoughts about anyone, let alone some tall, dark, and handsome stranger. Sex would only complicate things.

“I'm Devon.” Panicked when his smirk suggested that he knew where my thoughts had run, I blurted out my name. The words wanted to keep coming, and they seemed beyond my control, so I shoveled a forkful of meat between my lips and instantly wished I hadn't.

The meal that I had been so enjoying earlier in the evening now tasted like sand, scraping at the tender insides of my throat.

“Is it not to your liking?” Before I could say a word, the man had signaled my waitress, who of course came right over.

I would have done very nearly anything this man asked, too.

“Clear away the lady's plate, please. Bring a bowl of berries, if you have them, with cream.” Where I would have been apologetic for sending my meal back without having finished, my dinner partner spoke as if he knew that he would be obeyed without a fuss.

Of course, he was.

“Did it occur to you that I might not have been done?” I wasn't sure that I liked having my decisions taken away from me, and I felt the start of a frown between my brows.

He cocked his wineglass in my direction and took another sip. “Was I wrong?” His tone, of course, told me that he knew he was no such thing. I wasn't about to lie, either, so instead I narrowed my eyes at him.

Grumpiness seemed to be my only defense against the attraction that was consuming me, attraction that I knew he couldn't possibly return.

“It would be nice to know the name of the man who is feeding me dessert without dinner.” There. I'd surprised him again. I smirked and sat back in my chair, pleased to have scored a point in this strange game that we were playing.

“It's Zach—Zach.” He seemed to cut himself off.

“Zach.” I rolled the name around on my tongue, decided it suited him—mostly—though it wasn't quite as dark and intriguing as he was.

I told him so. “I was expecting something more like ‘Count Vladimir the Third.'” Zach blinked, and for a moment I wasn't sure if I'd offended him or delighted him. When a full smile, a real one, broke out over his face for the first time since I'd laid eyes on him, I concluded that it was the latter.

“I find you so refreshing.” He leaned in closer to me and my breath caught in my throat.

I didn't know what I was expecting—didn't even know what I was hoping for—but when he again relaxed back in his chair, I felt oddly deflated.

The silence stretched out, and while Zach seemed content with it, I squirmed.

“Where are you from?” His expression darkened at the question. I couldn't fathom what was wrong with what I had asked, but I felt the need to apologize.

“I'd much rather hear about you.” I was aware of the overly smooth change of subject, but if the man wasn't going to talk, I certainly couldn't make him. I didn't much want to, either, but I'd had just enough wine, and was feeling just off balance enough emotionally that once I started to talk, I couldn't stop.

“I'm from Sacramento. Well, not originally. I was born in D.C. And I guess I don't live in Sacramento anymore.” The reminder saddened me. I loved the city, had very much loved my apartment, but at the moment knew that I couldn't go back.

“I guess I'm not from anywhere, right now. My lying asshole of a boyfriend cheated on me, so I quit my job and came here, 'cause it's one of my favorite places. And I have no idea what I'm going to do next.” The panic came then, washing over me in one quick wave.

Oh, no. I wasn't going to have a panic attack here. Not now. Not in front of this man.

I inhaled, then let the air out, repeating until I felt calmer. When I realized that I'd just done a relaxation breathing exercise in front of a sexy stranger, I felt like smacking myself upside the head.

Of course, I'd also just told him that I was so alluring that I couldn't keep a man, so the breathing was probably nothing.

Biting my lower lip, ashamed, I dared to sneak a peek at the man sitting across from me.

He was watching me with eyes at half-mast, and he looked so damn sexy that I actually trembled. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but whatever he was about to say was interrupted by the arrival of the dessert that I hadn't wanted, and wasn't sure I could stomach, not with my internal upheaval.

I couldn't help but notice that the scarlet color of the strawberries was enticing against the stark white of the bowl. I caught the eye of the waitress, who winked at me knowingly as she added a separate dish full of soft whipped cream.

I felt my skin flush, the same hue as the berries, with mortification. For something to do, I took a berry in my fingers, toying with it so that I didn't have to look Zach in the eyes.

He had to know how attracted to him I was feeling, I was certain of that. There wasn't a woman in the small restaurant who wasn't watching him at least out of the corner of her eye— and that included Suzanne, the owner, who had looked at least eighty when my parents had first brought me here twenty years ago.

“Let me.” Zach's voice had dropped in timbre, sounding even more alluring to my ears than it already had. Reaching across the cheerfully checkered tablecloth, he took the strawberry from my fingers.

The small patch of skin burned where his fingers brushed my hand. Inhaling sharply, I jolted, forgetting that now wasn't a good time, forgetting that I'd just met this man. His expression mirrored mine in intensity. I had no idea what had just happened, but unless I had been robbed of all of my senses, he felt it, too.