Flirting With Temptation. Cara Summers

Then she shifted her attention to Jack Kincaid who was taller than his companion and dressed more conservatively in jeans and a tan linen sport coat. The two men made a very odd couple indeed. The shorter man placed a hand on Jack’s arm, and Jack leaned closer to listen.

      For the first time, it struck her that they might be just that—a couple. Jack had said he was bringing a “friend” to the airport, and this was San Francisco, after all. As she watched, Jack grinned at something his companion was saying. Then the dimple that she hadn’t been able to keep from touching on his book jacket was there, too, appearing and disappearing as his grin deepened or faded. What would it feel like to press her finger into that dimple?

      The thought had her stopping dead in her tracks.

      It wasn’t wise to be thinking about touching Jack Kincaid. Especially since it appeared that he already had someone to touch his dimple. Besides, hadn’t she decided that Jack was just the kind of man her mother had warned her about? “He will lie to you, and you will believe him.”

      Well, she wouldn’t believe him—not entirely. In the two days since she’d made her decision to use the plane ticket Jack had sent her, Corie had clarified her goals, and she had a notebook full of doodles to prove it. The library had given her one week off, and she was determined to make the most of it. Not only was she going to meet the man who might be her father and find out why her mother had run away to hide, but she was also going to live it up while she was in San Francisco. She was going to do things she might never have the opportunity to ever do in Fairview—not with Muriel Ponsonby and the quilting circle hovering over her. One thing she was sure of. When she returned, no one was ever going to even think of her in the same sentence as Harold Mitzenfeld again.

      Moving forward, she caught what the two men were saying.

      “You’ve got to tell her,” the man with the green shorts was saying.

      “I’m going to just as soon as I find the right time—after she settles in a bit,” Jack replied.

      Corie saw the other man’s brows rise above the orange-framed sunglasses. “There’s a right time to find out your family has a lurid past?”

      Corie stepped forward. “Why don’t you tell me right now?”

      For a moment, the two men stared at her, and Corie had the sensation that she was being studied as thoroughly as a biologist might study a smear on a slide. No one had ever looked at her quite this closely back in Ohio. It made her wonder it she’d put her dress on inside out.

      And then she made the mistake of looking into Jack’s eyes directly. They were steel-gray, cool and very intent. Where in the world had she gotten the idea that he was charming? Without the dimple and the smile to distract her, she could see that this was an intense and driven man who watched and measured everyone. He reminded her a little of a Brontë hero—Rochester right after he’d nearly run Jane Eyre down with his horse.

      Jack’s friend was the first to recover. Holding out his hand, he said, “Franco Rossi, at your service. I’m Jack’s landlord and yours, too. Welcome to San Francisco.”

      Pulling her gaze away from Jack’s took some surprising effort, but Corie managed it, then beamed a smile at Franco. “Thank you, Mr. Rossi.”

      “Franco, please. We’re going to be neighbors.”

      The moment Franco released her hand, Corie extended it to Jack. “What is it that you should have told—” The minute his hand clasped hers, her heart felt as if it had turned right over in her chest. Perhaps it was because she was drowning in those eyes. The longer she stared into them, the more they reminded her of fog hanging thick and dark over the cornfields in Ohio. It wasn’t until he released her hand that she felt the weakness in her knees.

      “Are you all right?”

      It took her a moment to realize that Franco had asked the question, and another minute to grab on to a thought. Those Brontë heroes might have been short in the charm department, but she was sure her mother would have included them in her first commandment.

      Gathering her scattered wits, Corie managed to drag her gaze away from Jack’s and smile at Franco. “It must be jet lag. I felt a little dizzy there for a minute. But I never faint.”

      “Good to know,” Jack murmured.

      She risked a quick look at him and was pleased to note that this time her heart stayed right where it belonged. “What was it that you were going to tell me, Mr. Kincaid?”

      “Jack, please.” He smiled at her. “It’s just some of the evidence that I told you about. We can talk about it over lunch.” He glanced at the nearby beltway that had begun to move. “If you’ll just point out your luggage, we’ll be on our way.”

      Very smooth, Corie thought but she knew it was a lie. She was almost sure that Franco had been pressing him to tell her about Benny Lewis’s past.

      “This is my luggage,” she said, indicating the duffel she was carrying.

      Franco took it from her. “Then we’re off to lunch and after that to Lorenzo’s. He does my hair.” He gave her a little shove into the revolving doors.

      When Jack joined her on the street, he said, “Franco says Lorenzo is the top choice of the Hollywood starlets when they come to town. And I told him that if you end up with spiked hair, I’ll have to kill him.”

      She couldn’t prevent the laugh. And this time when she met his eyes, it was her stomach that seemed to lurch and then tighten. She threw all her effort into dragging her gaze away from his, and that was the only reason that she saw the man with the gun.

      Later, she would recall the other details—that the man holding it was standing by the open door of a car, that he wore a hat and dark glasses and a dog sat patiently next to the white cane he was holding in his left hand. But, at the moment, all that fully registered in her mind was the gun.

      A woman screamed. “He’s got a gun!”

      “A gun!”

      There was another scream and people at the curb began to scatter. As they cleared, Corie had enough time to see the man raise his hand and point the gun into the air. Then someone pushed her into Jack. It was like colliding with a brick wall.

      “Get down,” she said.

      The sound of the shot split the air, drowning out her words, but Jack was already shoving her to the ground.

      3

      “LORENZO WILL SQUEEZE YOU IN AT TWO,” Franco announced, closing his cell phone and signaling a waitress. “When Cameron Diaz was late for an appointment, he made her wait three days before he rescheduled.” Pausing, he leaned closer to Corie. “Thank heavens I knew him when he was Billy Lawrence from Trenton.”

      Jack leaned back in his chair as a waitress slapped down three menus.

      “Three Irish coffees,” Franco ordered before anyone could speak. Then he turned to Corie. “It’s the house specialty. They claim credit for originating the drink here in the U.S., and a shot of strong Irish whiskey will do us all good after that unfortunate incident at the airport.”

      Unfortunate incident? Jack studied the two people at the table and stifled the urge to pinch himself. Franco punched more numbers into his cell phone, and Corie stared out the window of the café, looking for all the world like Eliza Doolittle getting her first glimpse of Henry Higgins’s world. Was he the only one who was worried about the “blind” gunman who had shot at them at the airport?

      Both Franco and Corie had gotten a look at the shooter. Franco had noticed that the shooter had been wearing a fedora and a tan trench coat. Corie had described the gunman as an older man wearing sunglasses with a white cane and she’d caught just a glimpse of a small, fluffy dog.

      The moment she’d spoken the words white cane and dog to the policeman, the hairs on the back of his neck had sprung to attention.