His Ultimate Temptation

“I’ll be right back,” he said as he passed by Leslie. “We’ll settle this.”

The command in his voice grated on her. She wasn’t one of his employees. She wasn’t even his wife.

Dragging her hands down her face, she ordered herself to stay calm, knowing an argument wouldn’t solve anything. She wandered into the living room and curled up in a corner of the sofa, thinking about Ben as she watched the fire.

He was the most goal-oriented person she knew, a driven-to-succeed man who had accomplished staggering success at a young age. Only thirty-two years old, and he was the sole owner of three exclusive, luxurious, extended-stay hotels boasting one-hundred-percent occupancy, with leases signed well into the next century and a waiting list for each facility. How many people could make that kind of claim?

In the beginning, they’d had so much in common. Raised by single parents in lower-class and lower-middle-class neighborhoods, they were used to making do with little. But Ben always had plans. Big plans. He’d conceived the idea for his hotels at age fifteen, then let nothing get in the way of making it work.

Including his wife.

“Oh, stop,” Leslie ordered herself, wincing at the hot scrape of words along her throat. She’d made her own contributions to the failure of their marriage. And now, at the most vulnerable she’d been in a long time, she would be alone with the man she’d loved for so long, the man she’d given up in the most terrifying and heart-wrenching decision of her life.

Decisions. There was another decision she needed to make, as well, one she’d put off for too long. She had been dating Alex Jordan for a while, and he was waiting patiently for her to take their relationship to the next level. She’d promised him a decision by New Year’s Eve.

She couldn’t think about that now, though.

Erin. She’d think about her radiant sunbeam of a daughter, so unlike Ben, who was all thunder and lightning and wild storms, a man who’d tamed that side of himself so that he could fit into the world he’d chosen. She missed that unpredictable and uncivilized strength. She wondered if she’d ever told him how much she appreciated that about him. Probably not. Yet another mistake she’d made.

Ben came out of Erin’s bedroom, pulling the door shut behind him. Leslie let herself admire him for a minute, the tall, broad-shouldered, powerful man who was gentleness itself with his daughter—and so much more with Leslie.

Desire gripped her, staggered her. She tried to breathe against a flood of memories and what seemed like a lifetime of separation. This was a mistake. She couldn’t have a casual conversation with him alone. He would see how much she still wanted him. Needed him. How could he not see? She’d already abandoned her self-control once tonight.

“I’ll leave after breakfast in the morning,” she said abruptly, not looking at him, but aware when he sat in a chair beside her. “It’s your year to have her for Christmas. I won’t intrude on that precious time.”

A few beats passed. “What do we do about Erin?”

“I’ll say I was called back to work.”

“We agreed never to lie to her, Les.”

She finally looked at him. “Give me another option.”

After a minute, he shook his head. “This is Gabe’s fault. He’s the one who put us in this bind.”

“We both know we’re never going to change Gabe, so we just have to deal with it.”

“You’ve already forgiven him?”

“I’m focusing on damage control. We can’t tell Erin that we couldn’t get along well enough to share the same space for a few days, Ben. We’ve always gone out of our way to be civil with each other. And it’s your turn. Your Christmas.”

“It’s not easy having The Perfect Divorce, is it?”

“It’s paid off well with Erin.” Leslie waited. He didn’t ask her to stay. Her throat ached, but she stood and forced herself to speak. “It’s settled, then.”

After a few seconds he nodded.

And that tiny flicker of hope that still burned in her heart died.

He dreamed of a woman crying. Trying to soothe, he reached for her, wrapping his arms around her, tucking her close, his lips brushing her soft and fragrant hair until she quieted. Her hands flattened against his back, then dragged down his body. She was naked. So was he. He angled his head to kiss her and she moaned, her tongue meeting his, her body moving silkily against him. Heat pooled low in his abdomen, throbbing, aching. She whispered his name—

His eyes opened with a start. He struggled to catch his breath against the erotic images. Drenched in sweat, he tossed the bed covers aside and rubbed his face with his hands. So real. It had seemed so real.

There was no doubt who he’d held in his dream. She lay sleeping in the next room. oblivious. He glanced at the clock—2:00 a.m.

Needing a drink of water, he pulled on his sweatpants and headed for the kitchen, slowing as he reached the living room. Cocking his head, he listened, then he moved to the window, pulled aside the curtain and looked out.

He hadn’t dreamed it. Les was there, on the porch. Crying. And crying was a mild word for the sounds coming from her as she curled in a ball, an afghan wrapped around her, her face buried against her knees.

Letting the curtain drop, Ben leaned a shoulder against the wall beside the window. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her cry. Not even the night they separated, when they’d parted with angry words.

What could be this devastating? Certainly not a problem at work. In the almost decade she’d been with the department, she’d proven herself again and again, even to her father, third-generation S.F.P.D. Hugh Sullivan didn’t believe in women becoming police officers, much less detectives, a promotion Les had earned almost six months ago—Inspector Leslie O’Keefe, Domestic Violence Response Unit.

Ben had never gotten used to her being a cop, especially when she was in full uniform, which was when the reality of her work hit him the hardest. But she was good at her job, that much he knew.

So, what possibilities were left? A man? What else could cause tears to this extreme? Ben knew she’d been dating someone. He’d seen them sharing a candlelit dinner a couple of months back, the image popping into his head at odd moments since then. Now it flashed brilliantly.

Another man had held her. Kissed her. Made love to her.

Had he broken it off?

Pushing aside the curtain again, he looked at her. She’d stopped crying and was just staring at the night, her shoulders hitching every few seconds, like Erin when her tears were spent. The difference was that Les wouldn’t want his comforting, his protection.

Helpless, he returned to his bedroom, closing the door quietly, leaving her to her private misery.

Two

Ben heard the distant sound of humming and the sizzle of something frying. And he could smell—he sniffed the air—sautéing onions. Was there a more-mouth watering fragrance on earth? Erin must be anxious to get to the slopes.

Shutting the bedroom door behind him, he followed the scents and sounds to the kitchen. It wasn’t his junior-chef daughter, however, who stood at the stove humming “Jingle Bells.” It was his ex-wife.

He leaned against the door frame and watched her. She looked competent as she sliced mushrooms with a large chef’s knife, the rocking motion she used an indicator that this wasn’t the first time she’d handled such a utensil efficiently. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes...

“You’re cooking,” he said finally, unable to hide his amazement.

“Jingle Bells” faded away. She turned around, knife in hand, a smile on her face. “Good morning.”

Lord, she looked good. She wore a long, loose, red cotton shirt over black leggings. He could see the ridges of her undershirt, scooping low. No bra. She hated bras, believing they were designed by a torturer bent on sadistic pleasure. Her breasts weren’t small, but not large, either. Perfectly formed, easily aroused. His gaze lingered, traveling down her long legs, stopping at her bare feet.

He’d almost forgotten her other aversion—shoes were the second most torturous of man’s inventions. He hadn’t forgotten nibbling on her toes in a shared bath. The picture branded itself in his mind as clearly as if they were neck deep in bubbles right then, teasing each other. Who would’ve thought that toes could be erogenous zones?

“Still not talkative in the morning, I see,” she said, her cheeks flushing.

“When did you learn to cook?”

“Erin’s been teaching me what you teach her,” she said, the pink in her cheeks deepening. “And then, of course, there was the matter of survival. How could any decent mother raise her child on a consistent diet of cereal and fast food? The amazing thing is, I kind of like to cook.”

She seemed to retreat a little then. Embarrassed? Uncomfortable? He didn’t know.