The Only Way to Avoid
Temptation . . .
The Friday night of the Fourth of July weekend, with the waters still off-limits, tourists had practically disappeared from the town, but the locals were still going to celebrate. At the North Inn Bar, Bon Jovi was blasting, and even if it was nowhere near midnight there were already a bunch of girls dancing on tables, camisole straps falling from their shoulders, their jeans loose and low on their waists.
As usual, Bran was out of town, and this would be their longest separation yet, as he was traveling through Southeast Asia this time with a large group of donors. She thought she would be used to it by now, and chided herself for being so weak.
To make herself feel better, Freya turned up the volume even louder, just as Killian Gardiner walked into the bar. She tried not to tense up, but felt her skin blush just at the sight of him and the flash of his sexual history, seeing a vision of herself in his arms as he kissed her down the entire length of her naked body. Yet it was firmly in the past, and as long as she kept her distance that was how it would remain. No matter how many dreams she had about him. He could fantasize about her all he wanted, he could replay that bathroom scene over and over again until the world ended, but nothing would ever happen between them again, she would see to that.
“Hey,” he said, sliding over and taking a seat right in front. How did that happen? She was sure every seat had been taken, but at his appearance the crowd had parted like the rivers of the Nile.
“Killian,” she said curtly. “I told you to leave me alone.”
“I wanted to see you. Besides, Bran’s away now. The coast is clear.” Killian smiled. He picked up the laminated menu with the list of magical cocktails. “Love the hearts—very cute.”
It had been Sal’s corny idea to add the hearts. Freya wished she hadn’t allowed him to talk her into it, but she hadn’t wanted to hurt her boss’s feelings.
She watched Killian read the menu, a sardonic smile on his face, wishing he was anywhere else but here tonight. She just did not need the aggravation. The North Inn crowd wasn’t Bran’s group of horsey socialites, but it was still a small town and tongues would wag if they appeared too friendly or intimate.
“Excuse me? Miss?”
“Hold on,” Freya told him. She turned to her customer, a little brown wren of a girl who was studying the list of cocktails as if she were memorizing it for a final. “What can I get you?” she asked.
“Umm . . . I don’t know . . .” Molly Lancaster was a jumpy little thing, a summer intern at city hall, a recent college graduate. Freya caught hints of a failed love affair, the usual teenage sexting of digital courtship. “I’d like Irresistible, please,” Molly finally whispered.
“Make me one, too,” Killian teased, flicking the menu back on the table.
Freya ignored him and began to mix Molly’s drink. She kept the flowering cattails bunched in a glass jar, on a lower shelf; she removed them and began to crush the spikes with a pestle.
“Here, let me help you with that,” Killian said, walking behind the counter so he could stand next to her and leaning forward so that she could feel his hot breath on her neck.
“Killian, please. Get back to the other side. Go on, now.”
“But you’re shorthanded,” Killian said, nodding to a guy waving a twenty-dollar bill. He quickly served up the asked-for pint, made change, and slammed the cash register with a bang. “C’mon, let me.”
It did seem like a good idea; the bar was five deep and everyone was waiting. Sal wouldn’t mind, and Kristy had called in sick. Freya sighed. She could use the extra hand.
“So what else are you putting in there?” Killian asked, watching her measure the cattail powder into the cocktail shaker.
“Nothing. Just a jigger of lime juice, cherries, and a whole lot of vodka.”
“Seems rather harmless; hard to believe something like that could turn that little mouse back there into Marilyn Monroe.”
“I don’t put all my ingredients on the menu,” she said, reaching for another one of the secret black jars she kept in the under-the-counter refrigerator, and began to add a few drops of each into the cocktail: aster, maidenhair, vetiver root. She liked having Killian’s eyes on her, his intent attention as he watched her work, and began to show off a little. She pulled out a small amber bottle containing grains of paradise, minuscule seeds full of potent magic, and shook a sprinkling of them into the mixture. The potion turned a deep vermillion with a flash. The air fizzed with smoke, carrying the heady scent of vanilla and honey.
“That smells almost as delicious as you do,” Killian murmured, nuzzling her neck, his hand sneaking around her waist.
“Hey!” she protested, twisting away from him, but not quite making such a huge effort. “Hands to yourself! And you have customers—you’re here to help me, remember?” she said, as she poured out the cocktail into a martini glass. Had she already put in the vetiver root? She couldn’t remember and added just a little more just to make sure.
She handed the martini glass full of frothy purple liquid to Molly. “Here you go. One Irresistible,” she said curtly.
Killian proved adept at bartending, which shouldn’t have been a surprise. They worked side by side, slinging drinks, crushing ice, keeping the party going, the energy high. “Come on, now, you know you’ve missed me,” he said in between serving up a tray of shots for a rowdy group of ladies. “Oh, the silent treatment, is it?” he sighed, when she did not respond. “You can’t still be mad at me for what happened the night of your engagement, are you? You are? How boring of you. It’s not like you ever came to see me on the boat.”
Freya had heard enough. “Killian!”
“Yes, love?”
“Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please leave me alone.”
“No.”
“No?”
Their eyes met, and it was just like the engagement party all over again. There was no denying the powerful attraction she felt toward Killian. It felt just as strong as her love for Bran. As if an invisible force was pushing her toward him. When she thought of Bran, her heart died a little in her chest. She had tried. She had tried so very hard to resist. She had been so very good for so long.
Killian bent his head toward hers, his lips brushing her cheek, but at the last moment she turned away from him and ran to the other side of the bar, her heart pounding in her chest. She turned up the volume on the jukebox. Maybe if she made the music loud enough she could drown out her confused whirl of emotions.
“You don’t have to hide from me,” he said, finding her a few minutes later in the walk-in pantry where Sal kept the supplies. “I won’t bite, I promise. Hand me that bottle of maraschino cherries.”
She shrugged and threw up her hands, as if to give up, and handed it to him. His fingers brushed her skin and she felt the fire between them begin to smolder; she could not look at him without seeing his want and his need all over his beautiful elfin face.
“What are you doing?” she asked, as he put aside the bottle and put his arms around her instead.
“You know what I’m doing.” He began to kiss her and push his body against hers, and the heat between them consumed her. . . . What was she doing. . . . Why was she doing it? . . . Why couldn’t she stop? Why couldn’t she offer even one word of protest?
“Freya,” he sighed. His voice was low and musical, playing her like a flute. Then he cupped her face in his hands and they began to kiss. He kissed her all over her face and neck, and they pressed against each other. Their kisses were long and soft, wet and searching; she could feel his excitement growing and she felt as if she were melting underneath his tongue.
This is the beginning of the end, she thought. The first time had been a mistake, a rash, impulsive act by a silly young girl. This time she should know better . . . and yet she had still succumbed. Freya returned his kisses eagerly, and fell headfirst into the abyss.