Seduced. Metsy Hingle

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      Seduced

      Metsy Hingle

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      For Jim, my husband, my lover, my friend

      Contents

       Prologue

       One

       Two

       Three

       Four

       Five

       Six

       Seven

       Eight

       Nine

       Ten

       Eleven

      Prologue

      “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust...”

      Michael Grayson could barely make out the words of the muffled prayer as the priest’s voice broke and faded in the brisk January wind.

      “We commend our sister to you, Lord...”

      Sister. Michael swallowed as he caught the word. He stared at the coffin. Rose petals escaped from the floral wreath positioned nearby and scattered across the ivory casket, creating bright splotches of color in the bleak New Orleans cemetery.

      “Now that she has passed from this life...”

      He glanced down at his seven-year-old niece. Dressed in the navy blue wool coat and white leggings he’d purchased for her a few days earlier, Summer stood dry-eyed and silent beside him. A strong gust swept over the grave site and she shivered. Michael moved behind her to block the wind.

      “May she live on in your presence, oh, Lord...”

      Michael shifted his gaze to the waiting tomb...the dark, lifeless crypt where Sara’s body would soon rest.

      Sara. His beautiful, free-spirited, younger sister. Michael squeezed his eyes shut. Images of Sara—laughing, painting, holding baby Summer in her arms—raced across his shuttered lids like frames from a movie projector. The pictures slowed, stopping on his last memory of Sara—her face filled with defiance and fear. She’d been afraid when she’d left. For Summer, for herself, for him.

      After six long years she’d come home—in a coffin. And Summer... He opened his eyes and looked down at his niece. Summer had returned a stranger—to him and to the Western world.

      “In your mercy and love, forgive whatever sins she may have committed...”

      The attendants moved the granite slab away from the vault entrance. Michael took a deep breath. The ache that had taken root deep inside him when the call had come from India spread.

      “Grant her eternal rest, oh, Lord...”

      “Uncle Mike?”

      At the tug on his hand, Michael looked down into a pair of familiar green eyes—eyes identical to those that had viewed him and his family with such coldness, eyes he’d learned to hate.

      “Uncle Mike,” Summer whispered again.

      Michael shook his head to clear the image. Guilt surged through him as he studied the pale, heart-shaped face of his niece. She’s a Grayson, he reminded himself, dropping down on one knee. “What is it, sweetheart?”

      “Who’s that lady?” She pointed to a tall woman standing across from them. “She’s staring at me.”

      Michael looked past the circle of mourners and sucked in an angry breath as his eyes locked with Martha Winthrop’s. Even with the dark fur hat shadowing her face, he recognized the avaricious gleam in Martha’s green eyes. Regal in her full-length ranch mink coat, she gave no indication of her sixty-eight years or the heart of ice she possessed.

      “Nobody important,” Michael said, slanting a glance to the slender blond man standing beside Martha. He watched as Bradley Winthrop leaned closer and whispered something to his aunt.

      “She looks important. Maybe she was a friend of my mother’s.”

      “No,” Michael said, his voice sharper than he’d intended. “She’s not a friend.”

      Moments later the service ended. After thanking the priest and small gathering of friends who had come to pay their respects, Michael looked one last time at the tomb. Turning away, he took Summer’s hand and headed toward the waiting limousine. When he reached the car, the chauffeur opened the rear door. “Give me a minute,” he told the dark-suited driver, and the man obediently retreated.

      Stooping down, Michael brushed a tangle of dark curls behind Summer’s left ear. “Honey, you do understand that your mother’s...gone, don’t you?”

      “You mean, she’s dead,” Summer said matter-of-factly.

      “Yes.” Once again, he marveled at the child’s calm acceptance of her mother’s death.

      “Michael.”

      Michael stiffened at the sound of Martha Winthrop’s voice. Slowly he rose to his feet and drew Summer to his side.

      “I was sorry to hear about Sara’s accident.”

      “Were you?” Michael asked, making no attempt to hide his bitterness.

      Martha’s lips tightened, etching deep lines at the corners of her mouth, but her voice was cool, controlled. “Despite what you believe, I never wished your sister any ill will.”

      “No. Not as long as she stayed away from your precious son.”

      “If you’ll recall, I did offer to help her before she ran off.”

      “You mean you tried to buy her off! And when that didn’t work, you used threats. If I had known—”

      “That’s enough, Grayson!” Bradley took a step toward Michael.

      “Stop it,” Martha commanded. “You’ll frighten the child.”

      Bradley stilled, but his eyes flashed dangerously. Michael could almost smell the other man’s anger.

      Martha glared openly at both men before turning toward Summer. “Don’t pay any attention to them, dear,” she said gently. “I’m Martha Winthrop and you must be Summer.” She held out her gloved hand.

      Summer hesitated. She looked from Martha to Michael and back again. Tentatively, she shook Martha’s hand. “You were staring at me,” she said.

      A flicker of surprise crossed Martha’s face. “Yes. I suppose I was.”

      “Why?”

      “Probably because I was so glad to see you again.” Martha stooped down in front of Summer and touched her cheek. “You were such a little thing the last time I saw you. You’re even prettier now than I remembered.”

      “You