Christmas Seduction. Jessica Lemmon

Sixteen

       Seventeen

       Eighteen

       Nineteen

       Twenty

       Twenty-One

       Twenty-Two

       Twenty-Three

       Twenty-Four

       Twenty-Five

       Twenty-Six

       Epilogue

       About the Publisher

       One

      Outside the Brass Pony, a five-star restaurant where he’d nursed more than one whiskey at the bar, Tate Duncan stood beneath the canopy and watched the rain come down in sheets.

      He’d picked a hell of a night to walk.

      But, that’s the way the streets here were designed in Spright Wellness Community. With plenty of sidewalks and paths cutting through the woods, making a walk more convenient than a winding car ride to your destination. This was a wellness community, after all.

      Tate and a dedicated team of contractors had developed the health and wellness community five years ago. Its location? Spright Island, an enviable utopia thirty-minutes by ferry from Seattle, Washington, and Tate’s twenty-fifth birthday gift from his adoptive parents. The island had been, and remained, a nature preserve and was the perfect spot to build a sustainable, peaceful, modern neighborhood that would attract curious city dwellers.

      He’d imagined into existence the luxury wellness enclave, which had become a refuge of sorts for those who desired a strong sense of community, and wanted to be surrounded by lush greenery rather than concrete. As a result, Spright Wellness Community teemed with residents who glowed with wealth and stank of wellness. There was a big demand to live small and, even though it wasn’t all that small, SWC had that feel about it.

      “Umbrella, Mr. Duncan?” The manager of the Brass Pony, Jared Tomalin, leaned out the door and offered a black umbrella by it’s U-shaped handle. His smile faded much as it had earlier when he’d attempted to make small talk and learned that “Mr. Duncan” wasn’t in the mood for small talk tonight.

      There had been a time, and it wasn’t that long ago, that Tate would have turned, given Jared a smile and accepted the offer, saying, “Thank you. I’ll bring it back by tomorrow.” Now, he gave the manager a withering glare and stalked off into the abysmal weather. A twenty-minute jaunt—soggy, chilling and wet—was a good metaphor for the downward spiral his life had taken recently.

      Everything in Tate’s world had been on an upward track, steady and stable until...

      Until.

      He popped his collar and tucked his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. Chin down, eyes on the gathering puddles under his feet, he began to walk.

      Surrounding neighborhoods were marked by a variety of shops; markets with fresh produce and organic goods, restaurants like the Pony with reputations that drew diners from the coast, plus plenty of service-based businesses like salons, art stores and yoga studios. With its high-end wellness fare, SWC was part luxury living, part hippie commune, but to Tate, simply home.

      A rare flash of headlights caught his attention and he lifted his head. Summer’s Market stood on the opposite side of the street, the wooden shelves and brightly-colored stacks of produce visible from the windows. The safety lights spotlighted wheels of cheese and boxed crackers arranged near a selection of wine. It was hard to believe he’d once had nothing better to do than pop into Summer’s for a wine-tasting and cheese-pairing and have a chat with his neighbors.

       Back when I knew who I was.

      Tate had never thought of identity as a wily thing, but lately his own had been wriggling, slippery in his grip. He’d known once, with certainty, who he was: the son of William and Marion Duncan, from California. Life, apparently, had other plans for him. Plans that had sent him careening, grappling to understand how he’d become the son of William and Marion Duncan, right around the same time the woman who was supposed to marry him had walked away.

      I can’t do this, Tate, Claire had told him, her delicate features screwed into an expression of regret. Then she’d given back the engagement ring. That was two weeks ago. Since then, he’d become a ripe bastard.

      The rhythm of his breath paced the time along with his steps. Rainwater beat drumlike on his head and soaked into his Italian leather shoes.

      On his side of the street, he came upon a building that held an array of businesses, including an acupuncture office, a family doctor and a yoga studio. The yoga studio was the only one lit inside, by a pair of pink hued salt lamps glowing warmly on top of a desk. He peered through the window, wishing he’d have accepted the damn umbrella. Wishing he could absorb the warmth emitting from the place. It was orderly, homey, with its scarred wooden floors and stacks of cubbies for storing shoes and cell phones during class.

      He’d been inside once before, to greet the new owner who’d leased the space. Yoga by Hayden was run by Hayden Green, a new resident who’d been in SWC a little over a year now. He saw her around town sometimes. She was the equivalent of looking at the sun. Bright, glowing, joyful. She had a skip in her step and a smile on her face most days. He wondered if yoga was her secret to being happy, if maybe he should try it—make that his new therapy. God knew he wasn’t heading back to Dr. Schroder any time soon.

      The first-world problems he used to bring to his therapist were laughable considering the actual drama surrounding him now. He could imagine that conversation, his doc’s eyebrows climbing her forehead into her coifed dark hair.

       Yeah, so I found out I was kidnapped when I was three, adopted out for a large sum of money and my real parents live in London. No, my adoptive parents didn’t know I was kidnapped. Yes, London. Oh, and I have a brother. We’re twins.

      Eerie. That’s what this was. Like a scary story told around a campfire, there was a large chunk of him that wanted to believe it was false. That the repressed memory of big hands cuffing him under the arms and dragging him away from his and his twin brother’s birthday party had been a nightmare he could awaken from. That George and Jane Singleton were no more related to him than the Queen of England.

      Though he was from the UK, so God help him, he could be related to the Queen of England.

      Ice-cold raindrops soaked through his hair to his scalp, and he shuddered. His mind had been bobbing in the atmosphere like a lost balloon for going on two months now. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get back to normal at this rate. Wasn’t sure if he knew what normal was any longer.

      This entire situation was surreal. And after living an organized, regimented, successful life, a shock he hadn’t been prepared to deal with.

      What were the odds of two estranged London-born twin