Surrender to a Playboy Read online

  For a long time after his wife’s death he hadn’t dated at all. After three years, his friends finally convinced him to get out, meet women. Since then he hadn’t been a monk, but he wasn’t a playboy like Bonn.

  His work kept him busy. If the truth were known, he was more accustomed to being pursued than pursuing. That’s why, when he saw Mary O’Mara, the sense of urgency that overtook him was startling, even strangely disturbing. Where had the dour, guarded Taggart Lancaster suddenly gone? He’d never been the sort to chase females down. Certainly, he’d never experienced such a strong craving to speak to a woman since Annalisa’s death. He’d never even imagined he would.

  “Mary?” He caught up with her, “May I call you Mary?” he asked with a smile. “So you’re the Mary who wrote those letters to—me.”

  At the head of the stairs she halted abruptly and shifted to face him. Those beautiful eyes he’d so badly wanted to gaze into again staggered him with their shocking transformation. Her stare was withering, her eyes flaring with fury and malice.

  “Yes, I am that Mary.” That sexy voice he’d wanted to hear again had become low and hard-edged. “How dare you neglect that wonderful woman for so many years, you—you selfish snake!”

  Taggart stood there, speechless. Her metamorphosis from sweet to spiteful had been so swift and fierce, he was caught completely off guard.

  “For Miz Witty’s sake,” she went on in a deadly whisper, “When you and I are in the same room with her, I will be polite and pretend to find you less than thoroughly repulsive. I will call you Bonn in her presence, if that is her wish, and I will try not to spit in your eye when you call me Mary. But otherwise, Mr. Wittering,” she hissed, “stay out of my way!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  TAGGART watched Mary O’Mara-of-the-smoky-eyes storm down the stairs. The air around him still sizzled with her rage, and he thought he could detect the faint aroma of charred ego. Now he knew how a tree felt when struck by lightning and left a smoldering stump.

  Absently loosening his tie, he muttered, “That went well.” Being a lawyer, he was accustomed to adversarial relationships, but he hadn’t seen that one coming. And why not, idiot? Hadn’t she written letters for the past two years, pleading for Bonn to come, getting rejection after rejection? What kind of attitude did he think she’d have? Taggart was usually good at gauging people, sensing their sincerity or lack of it. Plainly, something in her smile or those smoky eyes had jammed his radar. That tongue-lashing he’d just been given had hit him like a two-by-four to the back of his skull.

  “So far I’ve been greeted with suspicion, devotion and loathing.” He stuffed his hands into his slacks pockets, muttering, “Thanks a whole heap, Bonn, old buddy.”

  He took the stairs two at a time. He had no desire to get coffee, but he’d told Miz Witty that’s what he was going to do, so he might as well. Maybe a strong cup of java would wash the taste of Miss O’Mara’s bone-jarring disgust out of his mouth.

  At the bottom of the staircase, he swung toward the back of the house, assuming that’s where he’d find the kitchen. He was right. Upon entering, though, he was surprised to see Miss I-Hate-Your-Guts O’Mara along with another woman who stood on the opposite side of the kitchen, a heavy-boned blonde who appeared to be about his age. She was pretty, but not nearly as stunning as Mary.

  When the blonde spotted him, she arched her penciled brows in triangles and gave him a thorough once-over. Miss O’Mara did exactly the opposite. She turned her back, her rigid spine and shoulders telegraphing her antagonism. He tried to shake off his aggravation at her transparent resentment at his intrusion. She knew he was getting coffee. Where did she think he would go for it, Brazil?

  “Well, hello there.” The blonde turned away from the stove to fully face him. With a wooden stirring spoon in her hand, she crossed her arms over her ample bosom. She wore jeans, like Mary O’Mara, but hers were much tighter. Though she sported a man’s button-front shirt, the fasteners at her chest were no match for her voluptuousness, and had popped open. Glimpses of a red bra peeked from a gap in the cotton plaid. “So this is that bad boy we’ve been hearing about.” Whatever she’d been stirring with that wooden spoon was the color of tomato paste. A drop separated itself from the runny coating and spattered to the pine floor.

  “Pauline, you’re dripping.” Mary pointed to the spoon.

  The blonde continued to stare at Taggart, her expression designing. “Well, pardon me, but he’s the cutest thing that’s come into this kitchen in a long time.”

  Taggart was startled by the woman’s unsubtle sexual overtures.

  “For heaven’s sake, Pauline.” Mary stood at the sink where she’d apparently been getting a drink of water. She plunked down the tumbler, still half full, and walked across the kitchen to the cook. Her profile and demeanor were stiff, and she ignored Taggart with stanch determination. Taking the wooden spoon from the smirking blonde, she placed it on the spoon rest. “You’re dripping spaghetti sauce.”

  The cook glanced at the floor. “Oops.” She shrugged, which only served to widen the breach in her shirt.

  “Pauline!” Mary said in a half whisper as she cast a severe look in Taggart’s direction. “You’re undone.” She swiftly refastened the derelict buttons. “I’ll be in the basement if you need me.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” Pauline fixed her gaze on Taggart.

  Mary disappeared out the back of the kitchen into an alcove that looked like it led to a rear porch. The stairs to the basement must be there, too, but Taggart couldn’t see from his vantage point. All he knew was, even detesting him—rather Bonn—as Mary O’Mara did, her presence electrified a room. The loss of it made everything seem drab.

  “Not to toot another woman’s horn, but I’ve never seen Mary so—so…” She scrunched up her face, snarled and made clawing gestures.

  Taggart’s glance returned to Pauline. “So totally smitten?” he suggested sarcastically.

  The cook looked momentarily confused, then laughed. “Yeah.” She smoothed back a blond wisp that had fallen from her casually swirled and clipped hair. “When Mary can afford it, she takes night school courses to become a nurse. And nurses are supposed to get along with sick people—crabby sick people. I always thought she was pretty easygoing. Until you came along, that is.”

  So, Mary O’Mara could get along with anybody, except the one man she knew to be a self-centered playboy named Bonner Wittering. “Maybe she’d like me better if I came down with something,” he suggested, adding silently, preferably the Black Plague.

  The cook laughed again. “You’re funny.” She winked. “Funny and cute. I like that in a man.”

  He cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. He’d known other women like Pauline and sensed she was terribly insecure, at least where men were concerned. Through her wanton behavior, she was overcompensating, trying for “sex-kitten” but, instead, becoming a caricature.

  She crossed the kitchen, holding out a hand. “I don’t think we’ve been officially introduced. I’m Pauline Bordo. Miz Witty and Ruby call me Cook, which I hate.” She winked again. “You can call me anytime.”

  Bearing in mind her feelings of inadequacy, he forced himself to remain civil and accepted her hand. “I’m—Bonn.”

  “Well, I know that. Everybody in town knows you’re here.”

  Oh, great! Taggart grumbled inwardly. Bonn’s reputation had certainly preceded him. So far he’d experienced four very different attitudes—suspicion, devotion, loathing and, now, lust. He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out which dominated.

  Glancing around he spotted the coffeemaker. Luckily it was half full. He indicated it with a nod. “I’m here for coffee. Miz Witty’s waiting for me.”

  Pauline didn’t release his hand. “That’s too bad.” She shifted a shoulder toward the bubbling sauce on the stove. “I’m not a live-in like Ruby and Mary, so I’m usually free by seven.” She lifted her other hand and held his with both of hers. “Mo
st nights I’m all dated up, but you whistle, handsome, and I’ll come runnin’. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Apparently nothing high-minded or saintly, he responded mentally. “I’ll keep your offer in mind.” He disengaged himself from her two-fisted grip, headed to the coffeepot, grabbed a mug from the shelf above, and made quick work of pouring coffee. The whole time he felt her eyes on him. When he turned she was exactly where he’d left her.

  She grinned. “Nice butt.”

  He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised by the comment, but he was. Barely containing his exasperation, he reminded himself she needed approval badly, poor thing. He would be polite if it killed him, but he would give her no hope of a romance in either word or deed.

  Even so, he was supposed to be Bonner Wittering, the womanizing playboy. For the ruse to ring true he had to be somewhat glib. Without smiling, he lifted his coffee mug in a mock salute. “If I only had a dime for every time I’ve heard that.”

  Her wicked laughter was bold, a lusty invitation. Even if he had been the charred tree stump Mary O’Mara made him feel like, he couldn’t have missed the fact that Pauline Bordo had a fixation on the “playboy” label that was part of the town’s folklore about their most infamous native son.

  She planted her fists on her hips causing one of the shirt button that Mary had fastened to pop open. He wondered if she practiced that move to be able to undo buttons on demand. “You surprise me, handsome.”

  Today hadn’t been one of his best, and except for meeting Miz Witty, it was getting worse by the minute. Working to retain his polite facade, he glanced at the door and took a step in that direction. “I surprise you?” he repeated.

  She must have nodded, since he didn’t hear a response. “I figured I’d pitch and you’d catch, if you get my drift.”

  He did. She was about as subtle as her red underwear. He felt a headache coming on and wouldn’t be surprised if the veins in his forehead were standing out like cords. He glanced in her direction.

  “I’ve been pitching like a major leaguer, and you stand there like some cool-as-a-cucumber prince doing nothing but holding a cup of coffee.” She smiled slyly. “I have to hand it to you big city playboys. You really know how to play a fish!” She winked again. She’d done it so often in the past five minutes, it was beginning to look like a facial tic. “Okay, pretty man, I’ll play along. That smoldering I-don’t-care act of yours is makin’ me hot!”

  She’d pegged the I-don’t-care part, but smoldering? Taggart had a hard time suppressing his irritation. He felt sorry for her, but there was a limit. Striding toward the exit, he quipped, “Then my job here is done.”

  Pauline’s lusty guffaws trailed him down the hall.

  Taggart hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep until the melodious warble of his cell phone woke him. Groggy, he fumbled in the darkness for the bedside table. After grabbing his travel alarm, then his billfold, he blundered into his cell. Flipping it open, he muttered, “Lancaster.”

  “Wrong, Tag, old man. You’re not supposed to be using your real name,” came the familiar voice on the other end. “I hope nobody’s sleeping with you.”

  Taggart couldn’t mistake Bonn’s voice. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Just the usual, a couple of supermodels.”

  “Slow day?”

  Taggart was strung tight, but Bonn’s joke had an effect. Even as aggravated as he was, he grunted out a half chuckle. “Maybe a little slow for Bonner Wittering, but I’m only pretending to be you. Why in Hades are you calling me at…” He squinted at the fluorescent dial on his travel alarm. “Nearly one-thirty in the morning? It must be, what? Almost three-thirty there?” He had a horrible thought and drew up on one elbow. “Tell me you’re not in jail!”

  Bonner’s laughter rang through the phone. “Stop being an old woman. I’m a regular choirboy, sitting here in my condo watching a fascinating infomercial. Did you know you can buy a belt with electrodes that will exercise your abs while you sleep?”

  Taggart didn’t need this right now. “Great. Order one and go to bed.”

  Bonn laughed, his unquenchable good nature magically taking Taggart’s annoyance down another notch. “Okay, okay, I’ll get to the point,” he said. “I just wondered how it’s going. When you didn’t call, I decided I’d better check on you—see if they’d strung you up.”

  Taggart swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. “I’m still breathing. But I have a feeling Mary O’Mara has a hanging on her agenda.”

  There was a pause. “She’s an old busybody with a bad attitude. Ignore her.”

  Taggart ran a hand through his hair. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Another pause. “I know it’ll be hard, with her right there underfoot.”

  “Yeah. That, too,” Taggart muttered, pushing the memory of a pair of smoke-gray eyes from his mind.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Well, tell me about ol’ Miz Witty. She swallowed it, right? Hook, line and sinker?”

  “I guess so.” Taggart hunched forward, resting a forearm on his thigh. “She’s not very deaf or blind. Was that your embroidery or Miss O’Mara’s?”

  Another pause. “Miss? Is she a Miss?” Bonn asked, sounding like his playboy antenna was up and operational. “Is she pretty? Nah, probably one of those hateful, old-maid-types, right?”

  Here we go again! “Try to focus, Bonn,” Taggart said, pained at the reminder of how very pretty—and, as far as he was concerned—hateful, she was. “Did you lie about the deaf and blind thing or was it Mary?”

  “Okay, okay. Let’s see. I guess—maybe a little of both.” He chuckled, sounding sheepish. “You know my motto: life’s no fun if you can’t embellish.”

  Taggart wished he could reach through the phone and throttle his friend, but he fought the urge. “You’re damn lucky it’s been a long time since she’s seen you.”

  “But she really is sick, right? Mary told me she’d had a couple of strokes, and something else. I forget.”

  “Pneumonia. She can’t walk, due to the strokes, but she seems to be on the mend. I’m no doctor, but she doesn’t look like a woman on her death bed. Personally, I’m glad, because she’s a nice lady.” He paused, then decided he had to add, “You’re a dirtbag for the way you’ve treated her.”

  “Look, I know that,” Bonn said, sounding contrite. “I’m trying to make up for it, aren’t I?”

  Taggart frowned, took the phone from his ear and stared at it, astonished at Bonn’s view of the situation. When he put the phone back to his ear, he grumbled, “You are sitting in your Boston condominium watching an infomercial about an electric belt. I am in Colorado, trying to make it up to her.”

  “Sure, sure. You’re right,” Bonn said. “You’re doing—a lot. And I love you for it, bro.” His apologetic tone sounded sincere. “Remember, it’s her seventy-fifth birthday. That’s a milestone. She is in fragile health, and I am stuck here, a slave to my bail bondsman. None of that’s a lie. What you’re doing is above and beyond the call.”

  “Yes, it is.” Taggart needed sleep, and didn’t want to start the same shopworn lecture over again, but by now it was such a reflex, he found himself saying, “You’ve got to start giving more thought to the consequences of your actions, Bonn, before you plunge in. If you’d only—”

  The long, theatrical yawn he heard made Bonn’s boredom clear. “Yeah, yeah. I’m reading you loud and clear, Tag.” A pause. “Whoa, a new infomercial just started. Looks good. Something to do with women’s thighs—”

  “Go to bed!” Taggart cut in. “And don’t call in the middle of the night for updates. If news of my murder doesn’t show up in the national headlines, assume I’m okay. Remember the adage, ‘No news is good news.”’ He snapped shut the phone and tossed it aside. “I hope that goes for you, too, Bonn,” he muttered, lying back.

  Wide awake now, he laced his fingers beneath his head and stared into the darkness. He worried that infomercials
about electric belts and thigh exercisers wouldn’t hold Bonn’s interest for long. He hoped his oldest friend would use his head for something beside scaffolding for the latest designer sunglasses.

  Even as rash and immature as Bonn was, Taggart couldn’t picture his life without him. Sure he had his faults, but he was an eternal optimist, always laughing, generous to a fault.

  Taggart threw an arm over his eyes, vivid pictures of the long past flashing into his mind. Visions of himself and Bonn spooled by, as they were at the age of nine when they’d been thrown together by happenstance.

  Taggart had been sent away to the Swiss boarding school when his parents died in a freak bridge collapse. His guardian and only relative was a crotchety, seventy-year-old great-uncle, a United States Supreme Court Justice, who smelled of stale cigars and old paper. Justice Lancaster might have been a great legal mind, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to take in an orphaned child. Bonn, on the other hand, had been sent away because his parents couldn’t deal with their imaginative, uninhibited, prankster son who refused to conform to his father’s rigid, humorless temperament.

  So, as young boys, Bonn and Taggart bonded in their loneliness. Taggart was Bonn’s strength and Bonn was Taggart’s exuberance. Bonn had always been able to make Taggart laugh, one of the few people who could. Being left alone at the remote school when the other boys went home for vacations and holiday breaks, Taggart was grateful for a friend who could bring humor to their abandonment. That’s why he had never minded Bonn leaning on him.

  Now they were both thirty-five, and Bonn was still leaning, not only as his longtime friend, but also as a legal client. After so many years, Taggart had to admit if only to himself, it was starting to wear thin. Taggart knew always being there to snatch Bonn out of the frying pan before he got burned wasn’t helping him be a man, responsible for his own actions. The sad fact was, Bonn was an expert at manipulating Taggart with his humor and poor-pitiful-me act. Not to mention the inescapable coup de grace, when he reminded Taggart just who had introduced him to Annalisa, the love of his life.