Tempt Me Again Page 2

  As she sipped champagne, the atmosphere, the pep talk and her own transformed appearance sent a burst of excitement through Andrea’s veins. Like viewing a priceless work of art for the first time, she felt capable of anything.

  And suddenly the idea of seducing Tyler seemed possible.

  She’d tried it once without success. Was she crazy to attempt it again? Or did she have to try once more, just as Sloan had suggested, to get her pride back, to honor the memory of a nervous girl who longed for someone she’d always known she could never have?

  With the memory, though, came resentment. How could she burn a torch and hold on to the anger of her rejection at the same time? Could seduction bring that decade-long dichotomy to a close?

  “Oh, Andrea, I nearly forgot.” Sloan crossed to a table set up beside the front door, picked up something black and turquoise, then dangled it on her finger by the elastic strap.

  A mask.

  With a devious smile on her face, Sloan walked toward her. “Nobody says you have to tell Tyler who, exactly, his seductress is.”

  Was her buddy brilliant or what?

  Tonight, she didn’t have to worry about her ex-con brother. She didn’t have to face her fellow islanders; she could hide from anyone who’d known her as quiet and plain. She could be exotic and mysterious, alluring and confident—everything she’d always dreamed she could be with Tyler.

  Her gaze met and held Sloan’s. “You’re a genius.”

  “I know,” she said as she slipped the mask over Andrea’s face.

  TYLER LANDRY ACCEPTED a glass of champagne from a passing waiter as he struggled to keep his attention on one of his—hopefully—future constituents.

  In a few short weeks, he’d officially be their law enforcement leader. To serve and protect. As current sheriff, Buddy Caldwell, had done for more than thirty years. As his own grandfather had done before that.

  All he had to do was get elected, which he didn’t see a problem accomplishing, since he had Buddy’s endorsement, and the only other candidate advocated the use of long-bow leather whips instead of guns as a sidearm.

  For Indiana Jones, yes. For Lester Cradock, not exactly.

  Not that Tyler planned to use his gun that often anyway. He’d done so plenty of times in his decade as a Marine and in many ways didn’t mind leaving that violent and unsteady life behind him.

  But was rosebush vandalism going to be the highlight of his term as sheriff?

  “I mean, some people just don’t understand the nuances of roses, particularly a premier hybrid tea.”

  “I’m sure that’s true, Miss Patsy,” he said politely.

  “It’s all about color and bud tightness.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’ve spliced the palest yellow trimmed with bright pink.” Her tone took on the familiar fervor—aka obsession—of a true horticultural guru. “It’s certain to win the prize this year.”

  His grandmother had suffered—or maybe thrived—from the same affliction, so Tyler nodded as expected. “I’m sure.”

  “You’re not simply placating me, are you?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

  “No, ma’am.” Or not a lot anyway. He smiled widely as a young woman walking by sent him a flirty smile and wondered how quickly he could follow her. “I’m riveted to your story.”

  “If you want to know what’s happening on this island, and if you want to eat right while you’re on it, you’re going to need mine and Betsy’s help.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m definitely aware of that.”

  Patsy Smith and Betsy Johnson were known as the Casserole Twins. And though they were of similar age, they weren’t twins or even related, but they did make the best comfort casseroles in the state.

  Through every birth, death, graduation, promotion, job loss, tragedy and triumph, they were there, offering food in foil-covered containers and strength in their faith and hope for the future. Their support, as well as their tendency to meddle, had even landed them in the middle of a murder investigation last spring.

  “Both my Precious Pink and Sunlit by the Stars roses won first prize in their categories at the state fair last year,” Patsy continued.

  Part—okay, maybe all—of the perks of having a prizewinning rose was getting to name it. Like submitting a child’s name on a birth certificate, this was a long-drawn-out and hotly debated process.

  Patsy nibbled a cracker, seeming calm, but not. “The roses are at the end of their blooming cycles and need to be left alone until I cut them back on President’s Day.”

  Tyler paused with his glass of champagne nearly to his lips. “That’s in February.”

  Patsy bobbed her gray-streaked head in agreement. “Exactly my point. By these unscrupulous vandals cutting them now, the tender branches are left vulnerable to the winter elements. They need to hibernate.”

  “Like bears.”

  “Of course not like—” She stopped, considering. “Well, perhaps. Cutting encourages growth, and the plants are going dormant, gathering strength to bloom in the spring.”

  “Like bears.”

  “Sly.” She waggled the finger of one hand while balancing her plate of appetizers with the other. “Your grandfather was the same.”

  He nodded at the compliment. His parents and grandfather still lived on the island, as his family had for four generations, so he was well aware of the sterling reputation he had to live up to. He’d nearly accomplished that. He’d excelled at sports, distinguished himself in combat and was now on the verge of being a vital community leader.

  His family’s pride should be safe.

  And if that included The Case of the Chopped Rosebush or The Mysterious Disappearance of the Palmetto Trees—which the local landscape architect had already bent his ear about yesterday—then that’s what he’d handle.

  Wasn’t normal and mundane activity what his CO had insisted he needed? Wasn’t that why he’d taken early retirement?

  The years of blood and death, poverty and frustration, secret missions in the dead of night had taken a toll on his ability to do his job. He’d become too hard and callous, taken too many risks with himself and, to his great regret, his team.

  And if the residents of Palmer’s Island knew any of that, the only position he’d get elected for would involve gutter cleaning.

  After a major hurricane.

  Coming back home was about remembering and honoring his roots and maybe reliving a bit of the good ole days, when he was a football champion bound for glory defending his country.

  Nobody had to know he’d changed. Nobody had to know he wasn’t the hero they remembered. Nobody had to know about his fear of living up to his family legacy.

  He could be responsible for cultivating the next Precious Star of the…whatever that flashed on the national rose tabloid scene.

  A woman wearing a mask and fluttering a fan in front of her face approached him and Patsy. “Quite a party,” the woman said. “Have you tried those mini crab cakes? Yum.”

  “Good evening, Miss Betsy,” Tyler said brightly, in an effort to charm her and hopefully get the conversation off hybrid teas.

  The pale blue eyes behind the mask narrowed. “How’d you know it was me?”

  “Your eyes are pretty distinctive. I remember them scowling at me during Sunday school many times.”

  “See, Betsy,” Patsy said, nudging her friend, “I told you he’d grown into a sharp boy.”

  Tyler fought a wince at boy, but he supposed he’d always be young to his parents’ and grandparents’ friends. The fact that he’d graduated with honors from both high school and the Naval Academy, fought in a war and led countless other military missions, would apparently always be superseded by his days coloring pictures of disciples at St. Matthews Catholic Church.

  “Why aren’t you wearing a mask?” Betsy asked.

  There was no way he was going to listen to cracks from his buddies about the Lone Ranger all night—though he had no intention of telling that to the ladies. He ran
his fingers over his jaw. “And cover up this perfect face?”

  “There’s a difference between confidence and conceit,” Patsy said, tapping her foot and clearly unmoved by his charm. “Your grandfather knew that, too.”

  He grinned. “And I don’t?”

  Patsy’s gaze raked him from head to toe. “With a little guidance from us.”

  After sending her friend a nod of agreement, Betsy laid her hand on his arm. “Now, tell us all about your girlfriend. We haven’t heard a thing about her.”

  “Because I don’t have one.”

  And that was definitely the wrong thing to say.

  Both women’s eyes lit like fireworks. “Really?” they said in a weirdly simultaneous question that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up.

  “My niece just graduated from the College of Charleston,” Patsy said.

  “There’s a lovely young lady who’s been volunteering at the church.” Betsy squeezed his arm. “She moved back to the island to take care of her grandmother. I could set you two up…”

  “I can get my own dates,” Tyler returned in a rush, feeling a bubble of panic bloom in his chest. “Really.” When they scowled, he added, “But thank you. Really.”

  “He was a heartthrob in high school,” Patsy recalled.

  Betsy frowned. “Clearly his charm is somehow suffering, if he can’t get a date now.”

  Tyler held up his hands. “Uh, ladies? I can get a date.” And he remembered, quite desperately, the woman who’d walked by earlier. Why hadn’t he run after her when he’d had the chance? “I just don’t have a girlfriend.”

  The two women glanced at each other, then pinned him with twin glares.

  “You need one,” Patsy said.

  “It’s certainly time for you to settle down.” Betsy nodded.

  Tyler shook his head and vowed not to panic. “No, it isn’t. I’m happy being single. I’m good at it.”

  “Yes,” Patsy agreed.

  “I’m sure you are,” Betsy finished.

  “But there comes a time…” Patsy said.

  “When even infamous bachelors retire into matrimony,” Betsy finished again.

  Tyler stepped back. “Well, yeah. But I’m not ready—”

  “Hi, Tyler.”

  He nearly fell to his knees at the sight of the attractive brunette who’d stopped next to him. “Hi, uh…Cheryl? Cheryl Elliott?” When she nodded, he pulled her close for a hug. “I haven’t seen you in years. Maybe not since high school graduation. You look great. How are you?”

  “Fine,” she said, her eyes bright with interest. “It’s so good to see you. You look better than ever. And how is that possible?”

  He shrugged. “Clean living.”

  Cheryl winked. “Oh, sure.”

  “Hello, Ms. Elliot,” Patsy said.

  “Or is it Mrs.?” Betsy asked.

  “Could the divorce proceedings be over that quickly?” Patsy asked.

  “My, how time does fly,” Betsy said, looking amazed and fooling nobody.

  Cheryl made a quick and embarrassed exit.

  Tyler sighed. “You two are ruining my night.”

  The Casserole Twins each gripped one of his arms. “Don’t upset yourself,” Patsy said.

  Betsy glared at him. “But, remember, if you want to be sheriff, you need us. So be nice.”

  Tyler now knew how the fly in a spider’s web felt. His comfortable bachelorhood hanging in the balance, he prodded, “When have I not been nice? You’re the ones running off my chances to—” it would probably be better if he modified that thought before it escaped “—to meet nice girls I could possibly, someday, settle down with and make babies for you to teach in Sunday school.”

  The two women exchanged skeptical glances.

  “We raised four boys and three girls between us,” Patsy said.

  “Do we really look that dumb?” Betsy asked.

  “Definitely not. Still, I—” Tyler stopped as his attention was caught by a woman entering the parlor from the dining room. She wore a pale blue satin gown and mask of peacock feathers. Even with her face obscured, her sculpted cheeks and the feminine line of her jaw hinted at her delicate beauty. Her lips were full and deep red. Her golden hair was pulled up, exposing the delicate column of her throat, leaving ringlet curls to barely brush her shoulders, and the costume cinched her waist and lifted her breasts, leaving no doubt about the curvy delights that lay beneath.

  She was a vision from the past, though the confident way she moved across the room was completely modern.

  The contrast made his mouth go dry.

  “Who’s that?” he asked, his gaze fixed to the blonde like a magnet.

  Patsy turned her head. “Well, now. I don’t really know. Betsy?”

  “No idea.” Betsy patted his shoulder. “But we’ll certainly find out.”

  2

  “YOU LOOK THIRSTY,” a male voice said from behind Andrea.

  Turning, she barely avoided jolting at the sight of the gorgeous, blue-eyed man who held out a glass of champagne.

  Tyler Landry.

  She hadn’t recognized his voice. But then that was hardly surprising, after not hearing it for more than a decade. Swallowing, she fought for words, the right tone. There were lines in his face that hadn’t been there before. His eyes had a sharper edge that most probably wouldn’t notice, but she did, as she’d spent hours studying pictures of him and wondering how she’d feel, how she’d react, if those perfect baby blues had ever focused on her for more than a millisecond.

  As they were now.

  Oh, boy.

  Heart hammering, she fought for something clever to say. He knew her as a nerd and hadn’t wanted her. Would he really change his mind now? Underneath it all, she wasn’t any different.

  She flicked a glance at the glass he held and hoped her voice would hold steady. “How far away were you when you noticed my unquenchable thirst?”

  He smiled invitingly, a flash of the bright white teeth that graced storefronts and utility poles all over the island. “On the other side of the room.”

  “Noticed me from way over there, did you?”

  “Definitely.”

  Her heart jumped against her ribs, but she kept her tone casual. “Maybe I don’t like champagne.”

  His smile dimmed. “I could get you something else.”

  And there was the innate niceness that had always been part of Tyler. He was popular, beautiful and athletic. He could have been a jerk to everybody, and he still would have been worshipped. But, no, he’d been decent and kind. Even to a nerd with braces who couldn’t speak to him without stammering.

  She plucked the glass from his hand. “But I do like champagne.”

  He stepped closer. “It suits you—sparkling and elegant.”

  “Thanks.” Her gaze met his, the seductive blue seeming to peer into her soul. She avoided looking at the lustrous, dark brown hair she’d always longed to trail her fingertips through and never had the courage. But she did notice his shoulders were broader, his body still leanly muscled. Still perfect, after all these years.

  Did she even dare to inhale too deeply? He probably smelled perfect. Like heaven. Or maybe sin.

  She sipped champagne and fought for something witty to say. Glancing around the room, she caught Sloan’s gaze. Her friend gave her an enthusiastic thumbs-up, which helped her focus. What would Sloan say?

  “Do I know you?” she managed to ask. “You look familiar.”

  He held out his hand. “Tyler Landry. I’m running for sheriff.”

  As she touched him, she felt the spark of attraction that hadn’t, ridiculously, faded after all this time. “I’m…”

  Surely you’re not crazy enough to make that mistake.

  “Glad to meet you,” she finished.

  “You have a name, too, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  He cocked his head. “But you’re not going to tell me what it is.”

  “No.”<
br />
  “Why?”

  “Why should I?”

  “So I can get to know you.”

  “We don’t need names for that.”

  His eyes flashed with shock, regret, then interest.

  Wow, oh, wow, it’s working.

  “Mystery lady, huh?” He grinned and considered her, slowly, from head to toe. “Have we met before?”

  Andrea hesitated before realizing he’d never connect her with his braces-and-thick-glasses former math tutor. “Yes.”

  Though she had his attention before, now she had his interest. “Recently?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Did we meet on the island? I haven’t visited very often, and I only moved back a month ago, so—”

  She laid her hand in the center of his chest. “No more questions. You’ll spoil the fun.”

  “Yeah? How much fun are we talking about?”

  She licked her lips. “Lots.”

  His gaze grew intense. “Well, we definitely wouldn’t want to ruin it, then.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Before I saw you I was.”

  “Then let me show you the house. Do you know the history surrounding it?”

  “Only a bit.” He linked their hands. “Show me.”

  With the warmth of his palm pressed against hers, she led him from the parlor and into the dining room, which was equally crowded with guests who were eating, drinking and chatting as if they had no idea of the significance of her and Tyler Landry touching.

  Which, thankfully, they didn’t.

  “The house was built in 1809 by George Batherton, a successful physician and planter of the day. He had a fear of the water, hence the settling two full blocks from the shore.”

  “But no hence on why he lived on an island in the first place.”

  “No. We can only assume that his wife, who was a cousin to the Earl of Something-Or-Other, understood the intimate and financial definition of beachfront property.”

  Tyler nodded. “A wise and progressive woman.” He glanced at the elaborate copper chandelier dangling above the dining room table. “And one with excellent taste.”