The Temptation Trap

The Temptation Trap
CATHERINE GEORGE

The Charmer…Ewen Fraser's rakish reputation went before him–Rosanna had read the newspapers, and could see with her own eyes his collection of girlfriends, past and present…The Charmed …But that didn't stop her falling for him–he was funny, tender, warm and sexy, and working closely with him was a joy…The Trap…Rosanna was tempted. Ewen was all that she'd ever wanted, but could she trust her instincts when they told her that Ewen, the infamous lover-and-leaver, had marriage at heart after all?

“Let’s talk about what happened in the elevator.”

Rosanna’s heart gave a thud against her shirt. “I’m not angry about that,” she said carefully. “It was my fault, anyway.”

His eyebrows shot up to his hair. “Your fault!”

She nodded glumly. “I was hysterical, you comforted me and the inevitable happened. A good thing the power came back on.”

Ewen’s eyes locked with hers. “What would have happened if it hadn’t?”

CATHERINE GEORGE was born in Wales, and early on developed a passion for reading, which eventually fueled her compulsion to write. Marriage to an engineer led to nine years in Brazil, but on his later travels the education of their son and daughter kept her in the U.K. And instead of reading to pass her lonely evenings, she began to write the first of her romance novels. When not writing and reading she loves to cook, listen to opera, browse in antique shops and walk the dog.

The Temptation Trap

Catherine George

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE

THE dark attic was airless in the heat of the June day. Rosanna swung herself up through the hatch, found the light switch and picked her way gingerly through boxes and bundles, past her brother’s electric guitar and old tennis racquets, the small desk she’d used as a child. Eventually, behind a pile of boxes full of Christmas decorations, Rosanna spotted some battered old luggage and in triumph seized on a suitcase stencilled with the initials R.N. She threw open the lid, then sat back on her heels, suddenly reluctant to disturb the layers of silver paper. Her grandmother had been dead for a long time but it felt like trespass, nevertheless, to rummage through the belongings Rose Norman had once locked away so carefully.

In silent apology Rosanna lifted the top layers of paper, revealing not, as she’d expected, a favourite ball-gown from Rose’s youth, but worn grey dresses folded with voluminous aprons yellow with age, the red cross prominent on the bibs.

Rose Norman had been a VAD, a member of the Voluntary Aid Detachment in the First World War. Rosanna had always loved hearing how her grandmother had left home at the tender age of seventeen to tend the wounded, unpaid, armed with only a basic training in first aid, but fired with the desire to help.

Rosanna took the clothes out and began filling polythene bags with the countless letters and photographs stored underneath. When the only thing left was a linen bag containing a rosewood box, Rosanna slid it into one of her carrier bags, replaced the clothes in the case, then climbed down to the landing with her haul and pushed the stairs up into place behind their square wooden cover in the ceiling.

Rosanna took her treasure trove down to the kitchen and laid it out on the big round table, amused by her mother’s cunning. Rosanna had actually been driving her to Heathrow Airport when Henrietta Carey casually mentioned that a man was coming to the house the following evening.

‘I meant to tell you before, darling, but with you so snowed under with work it slipped my mind. This Mr Fraser called round last week, credentials very much in order. I thought you wouldn’t mind dealing with it.’

‘Deal with what? Who is he? What does he want?’

Mrs Carey explained that quite by chance she’d seen an item in the Personal column of The Times, a request for information about Miss Rose Norman.

‘Really?’ Rosanna’s eyes lit up. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

‘I thought you might talk me out of contacting Mr Fraser in case he was up to no good.’

‘As if I could talk you out of anything!’ Rosanna chuckled and, having parked the car, began hauling out suitcases. ‘Who is he, and where does Grandma come in?’

‘He’s involved in research for memoirs of some kind. I liked him.’ Henrietta gathered up her flight bag, smiling at her daughter. ‘I told him to call round after dinner, so make sure you’re in.’

Rosanna drove back into North-West London, quite taken by the idea of research about Rose Norman. Henrietta Carey hadn’t enlarged much on this Mr Fraser, but if he was writing memoirs he was obviously elderly. In which case, after sherry and biscuits, and some reminiscences about her grandmother, he could be eased politely on his way. In the meantime, thought Rosanna happily, with no Monday morning rush to work she had an entire, leisurely day to sort something out for this Mr Fraser.

Rosanna had assumed she knew everything there was to be known about her grandmother, until her mother mentioned the suitcase. Rose Norman had passed it on to her daughter just before she died, and told her to show it to Rosanna when the time was right.

And now, thought Rosanna, pulling the first batch of letters towards her, the time is perfect. She’d packed in her job and, though sharing a flat with her friend Louise was fun most of the time, the prospect of living alone for a while, house-sitting for her mother, was absolute bliss. A spot of research about young VAD Rose Norman was the icing on the cake.

Rosanna forced herself to leave the rosewood box locked for the time being. It so obviously contained something special, she would save it for last. The rest of the papers were mainly letters and cards from members of the family, along with photographs of Rose’s parents and her sister Amelia, stiff, posed portraits very different from the bundles of amateurish family snapshots of a later date.

Rosanna quickly sorted letters and photographs into date order before settling down to read the diaries, which gave a fascinating insight into the life of the time. She read of Gerald Rivers’ proposal, and how dashing he looked in his officer’s uniform. Rose had accepted him, and he’d kissed her reverently and gone off to war, and that was the last she’d seen of him.

‘Gerald is dead,’ said a final, terse entry in 1916. ‘I cannot stay here, grieving and idle. There must be some way to make myself useful.’

At that point Rosanna found she couldn’t keep her eyes open. She yawned wearily, then locked up for the night, deciding to leave the rosewood box for the morning.

Next day Rosanna was so deeply affected after reading the contents of the box, she went for a long run in the park in the early evening, and only just managed to make herself presentable by the appointed hour. In deference to the probable age of her visitor she borrowed a linen skirt and white voile blouse of her mother’s, and used only a minimum of make-up, and was still piling her damp hair into a knot on top of her head when the doorbell rang. She raced downstairs, tucking in escaping damp tendrils, threw open the door, then stared blankly at the man standing in the porch.

This was no elderly gentleman. He was tallish, with high cheekbones in a suntanned face, and a mop of thick black hair in need of a barber. And at a guess he was a mere few years older than she was. And equally surprised—dumbfounded even. He wore a light tweed jacket with jeans, polished loafers and a plain white T-shirt. And something about him was familiar. And very, very attractive. As she met the dazed look in his slanted eyes Rosanna stiffened, astounded by a deep-down flicker of reaction. And as though he sensed it he moved towards her involuntarily, then stopped dead, the hand he’d half raised dropping to his side again.

‘Good evening,’ he said huskily at last. He cleared his throat. ‘My name’s Fraser.’

‘Hello,’ said Rosanna, pulling herself together. ‘My mother said you were coming tonight.’

‘Would you like proof of my identity?’ He produced a yellow card with a photograph and signature that confirmed he was E. A. Fraser, a member of the National Union of Journalists. ‘If you want confirmation your best bet at this time of night would be the offices of the Sunday Mercury.’

‘Is that where you work?’