Surrender to a Playboy Page 3

  Taggart experienced a gut punch of grief at the memory of his adored wife, lost five years ago in a fire at the hospital where she had been a pediatric surgeon. He still owed Bonn more than he could ever pay for Annalisa alone. Had it not been for his friend’s impulsiveness, making plans with both Taggart and Annalisa that fateful evening, then forgetting them, running off to New York on a whim as they waited at his apartment door, Taggart would never have met Annalisa. He wouldn’t now have the precious memory of three blissful years loving her.

  Unable to deny the fact that for all the rest of his days he would owe Bonn for giving him Annalisa, here Taggart was, in the small Rocky Mountain town of Wittering, for nearly two weeks—pretending to be someone he wasn’t.

  Taggart had been aware for some time that Miz Witty’s caregiver had been writing to Bonn, trying to shame him into a visit. For some reason her last letter managed to make him see the error of his ways. Unfortunately, fate had Bonn hip-deep in another brush with Boston’s legal system. This time it wasn’t the usual small stuff, like the time he hired the marimba band to serenade his latest girlfriend at three in the morning, getting him arrested for disturbing the peace. This time his trouble wasn’t simply an abundance of parking tickets or the occasional fistfight over a football team or a woman.

  This time Bonn was implicated in a serious insider trading deal. Taggart felt sure Bonn had not meant to do anything criminal. His characteristic rashness and gullibility were at fault. Nevertheless, a trial date was set for late September, two months from now, and could end in serious jail time.

  He lay there, his mind congested with the weight of the responsibility to save Bonn from his own foolishness, mixed with resentment at his friend for what they both were doing to Miz Witty.

  With a low groan, he rolled to his stomach, any expectation of sleep he’d harbored proving to be crazed, wishful thinking.

  Mary hadn’t slept well. Her loathing for Bonner Wittering kept her tossing and turning all night. Just having that self-seeking rat in the house made her skin crawl. She felt sick to her stomach knowing the only way she had finally, finally managed to get him to come to Wittering was to hint that his grandmother was considering writing him out of her will.

  What a sleaze! Telling him about her strokes, her heart and her pneumonia hadn’t budged him, so she’d been forced to lie, big time. Mary was aware that Bonn had been writing to his grandmother for money. Apparently he’d nearly run through his own inheritance and started sweet-talking soft-hearted Miz Witty into paying for big chunks of his spend-thrift lifestyle.

  When Mary accidentally stumbled across one of Bonn’s letters wheedling his grandmother for money, she’d known exactly what she would need to do to get him to visit—threaten him with The Will. It had worked. He’d flown out so fast her head still spun. And because her ploy worked so swiftly, making it clear Bonn cared more about his finances than his grandmother’s health, she despised him all the more.

  Dragging herself up to sit, she stretched and yawned. Her glance fell on the framed picture on her bedside table. Even in her emotional turmoil, she managed a smile, kissed the tip of her finger and touched the face of her five-year-old, half sister Becca, a morning ritual, a silent prayer of sorts, thrown up to heaven. Mary’s fondest wish was that somehow, by some miracle, she could wrestle custody of Becca away from the child’s good-for-nothing father.

  Sadly, miracles were hard to come by. Her spirits dipping again, she threw her legs over the side of the bed and stood, groggily pulling on her terry robe. She cinched up the sash and winced. What was she trying to do, slice herself in half? Loosening the belt, she stepped into her bedroom slippers and shuffled toward the bath. She heard water running. Ruby was up. Mary could always hear the water flowing through the pipes from the housekeeper’s attic bathroom, above hers.

  Movement caught her eye and she shifted to glance toward the rustic pine dressing table, her reflection in the wavy mirror glowered back at her. She instinctively ran both hands through her tousled hair. She narrowed her eyes, then shuffled closer. “Are those dark circles under your eyes?” she muttered. They were! “Drat you, Bonner Wittering!” She shifted away from the bedraggled sight, opened her mouth to express an additional thought, then changed her mind. She would not voice a notion that was so wayward and irrelevant—that Bonner Wittering had no business being as handsome as he was.

  She remembered her first impression, in Miz Witty’s room, when he’d turned to look at her. She’d been so dumbstruck she’d almost dropped the tray. His hawklike features were classically handsome, cunningly dramatic.

  It was as though he knew just how to tilt his head, and organize his expression to appear slightly curious, vaguely troubled. She hated Bonn Wittering, yet her heart had taken a wild, mutinous leap of attraction. What did the man do, practice that look in front of a mirror to become just seductive enough—yet sincere enough—to dazzle and confuse the pants off a woman? She shook herself, not happy with the wording of that last thought.

  Her reaction yesterday had been out of the blue, and it made her mad. When she’d lashed out at him at the top of the stairs she’d been as furious with herself as she was with him.

  All night she’d struggled with her unwanted attraction for such an unworthy, self-centered jerk. This morning, she was adamant the sleepless hours had been well spent, exorcising the lewd demons from her body. She had trampled the worrisome delusion to dust. She might be exhausted, but she was back to loathing him with every sizzling, throbbing corpuscle of her being. She only hoped she would be able to avoid him for much of his stay. The idea of the need to smile at him and call him “Bonn” in any tone less than out-and-out revulsion was too painful to contemplate.

  Her mind roved unaccountably to his eyes, the color of rich earth, framed by thick, dark lashes. They had been amazingly clear and candid, for a greedy, womanizing pig. But she supposed that’s how greedy, womanizing pigs were able to womanize. They could look like nice guys with nothing but the most honorable intentions. That’s what made them so dangerous!

  She shoved open the bathroom door and froze, her body reacting before her mind grasped the truth. Standing there not two feet away, was the greedy, womanizing pig, himself—wearing nothing but a towel. Or maybe she should say, thank heaven he wore a towel!

  Shaving cream covered one cheek and part of his jaw. As she stood there gripped by a bizarre paralysis, he stopped shaving and glanced her way. He didn’t appear shocked. Possibly a little surprised. But then womanizing pigs were no doubt accustomed to having women burst into their bathrooms.

  Lowering the razor to water running in the sink, he returned his attention to what he was doing. “Good morning, Miss O’Mara.”

  Lord, she’d forgotten both their bedrooms connected to the adjoining bath. Evidently she wasn’t as alert this morning as she should be. Unfortunately, it was all his fault! “Oh—I’m…” She couldn’t seem to form a coherent thought. For an out-and-out rat, he had a disturbingly masculine chest. So disturbing it could apparently rob women of the ability to think straight or even move. “I thought—I didn’t think…” Well, did you or didn’t you, nitwit? Get hold of yourself! She swallowed. “It’s six o’clock. I didn’t think you’d be up.” Get out. Close the door! What are you doing, planted in the doorway like a stupid pine tree?

  He lifted his chin and shaved upward along his jaw. “Actually, I slept late.” He glanced her way as he rinsed the razor. “It’s eight o’clock in Boston.”

  That surprised her. “I thought playboys slept till noon.”

  “And you’re an expert on playboy behavior?”

  Though she was having trouble getting her body to obey her, she worked on her stern expression. “Actually, my experience with playboys is limited to you,” she said. “Naturally, I’ve heard of your…” She groped for a single word that would encompass the disreputable rumors over the years, about his sexual delinquency and general wild living. “…exploits,” she said finally. “You must
know the topic of Bonner Wittering would be popular gossip in a town bearing his name.” She paused, giving him a chance to respond. He merely carried on with his shaving. Annoyed by his disinclination to explain himself or at the very least express regret for his disgraceful behavior, she added, “However, it’s been these past two years, getting to know you through your letters, that my low opinion of playboys has been set in stone.”

  “So, you judge all playboys by your estimation of me?” he asked, glancing her way.

  She managed a shrug, gratified she could move her shoulders. She hoped the performance looked like utter indifference to his nearness. “Let’s just say getting to know you has ruined me for all other playboys.”

  His lips twitched. “Why Miss O’Mara, are you flirting with me?”

  She gasped. He was an incorrigible tease. “I’d rather cut off an arm!”

  He broke eye contact and returned his attention to the mirror. “So, it’s not really playboys you hate,” he murmured. “It’s me.”

  “If you’re an example of what constitutes a playboy, then it’s safe to say I’m not a fan of you—or any of your breed! Is that clear enough?”

  “It seems fairly clear,” he said. After a pause, he added, “I’ll be out of your way in a minute.”

  Somehow, she regained the use of her arms and jerkily indicated the sink. “I—was just going to brush my teeth.” Why did you tell him that? What does he care? Get—out—of—the—room!

  He shifted his attention back to her. She wondered what was going through his mind. Nothing in his expression gave away his thoughts. He took a step back and indicated the sink with his razor. “Go ahead. I can see over your head.”

  She stared, realizing after a half dozen precariously rapid heartbeats her jaw had dropped and her mouth was open. Did he really think she’d get in front of him and bend over the sink—with him wearing nothing but a towel?

  He lifted his chin and began to shave again. “Go ahead, Miss O’Mara.” His lids slid to half mast, a clear indication he’d taken his eyes off the mirror and was watching her. “In case you’re worried, the Playboy Handbook expressly prohibits attacking women in the act of brushing their teeth.”

  She winced slightly as if her flesh had been nipped. Did this guy read minds?

  “Pretend I’m not even here.” As he dragged his razor across his cheek she thought she saw a muscle bulge there. Did it annoy him that she’d think he might attack her? Or did it bother him that she was probably not going to be a conquest.

  Probably not? That didn’t sound like she was sure about it! She shook herself. Get with the program, Mary. You hate this man. She saw him standing there, heard him when he spoke, yet she didn’t see him, didn’t hear him. Her thoughts ebbed and flowed as though she were slipping in and out of consciousness.

  Before she grasped what was happening, he doused his razor under running water, replaced it on the glass shelf below the mirror and rinsed his face. He took a bottle of aftershave off the shelf, spattered it into his palm, rubbed his hands together and splashed the aromatic liquid on his cheeks and square jaw. She watched, transfixed, experiencing the kindling of an odd yearning deep inside her. For what? Certainly not this—this sexy—No! No! I didn’t mean sexy, I meant selfish! This selfish reptile.

  He replaced the cap on the bottle and set it aside then snagged her gaze. “It’s all yours, Miss O’Mara.” She stood there motionless, torn between wanting to look deeply into those hypnotic eyes and scratching them out. “I’ll just slither quietly away,” he said, with the vaguest hint of a bow.

  After he left, Mary didn’t know how long she stood there, stock-still, trying to gather her fragmented thoughts. The bracing, woodsy scent of his aftershave lingered, turning her malfunctioning mind to slush.

  After what seemed like an eternity she found herself able to move, and leaned heavily against the doorjamb. She ran her hands through her hair and grasped wads in her fists, furious for allowing herself to get—flustered. Yes, that was all it was. She’d been flustered. She hadn’t expected to see him, especially nearly naked. The situation had been embarrassing and—and flustering.

  She inhaled several deep breaths for strength, reminding herself of what she knew better than her own name. The man was a human slug. “I hate you Bonner Wittering,” she whispered in a guttural snarl. “I will hate you until the end of time!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  TAGGART felt eligible for the Olympic Speed Eating race. One minute and twelve seconds had to be a record for consuming a stack of pancakes, a slab of ham, a tumbler of orange juice and a cup of coffee, which scalded the back of his throat.

  The throat-scalding and the breakfast-bolting had been accomplished in a good cause. Otherwise, he might have found himself clasped in the embrace of the infatuated cook. Though aggravated and losing patience, Taggart was determined to remain sympathetic to Pauline’s brazen overcompensations for her feelings of inadequacy.

  He’d managed to break free of her panting attentions for a temper-cooling stroll through the evergreen forest behind Miz Witty’s home, a shady cloister of low-growing pinyon pine, juniper, oak and towering ponderosas.

  His hike over the rocky, forested landscape took him constantly upward. With every step he managed to rid himself of a little pent-up tension. He spotted a porcupine, a red fox and a mother deer with her fawn before emerging from the chill of the wood into a sun-drenched meadow. A clear, shallow brook meandered across the clearing, gurgling and sparkling in the sunshine for a dozen yards before tumbling back into the forest.

  Beyond the meadow, past a steep chasm, the landscape was forbidding, yet stunningly beautiful, the earth, fractured and jagged. The timbered mountainside rising above the canyon was strewn with abandoned mining structures, no doubt part of the Wittering silver mining heritage. From what Bonn had told him over the years, savvy investing by several generations of Witterings, had multiplied the family’s wealth a hundredfold, allowing Bonn the existence of leisure and excess he lived.

  That thought brought Taggart harshly back to the present and the reason he was here. Spotting an outcropping of rock among a stand of tall ferns at the edge of the wood, he leapt across the shallow brook, walked to the boulder and sat down.

  He scanned the clearing, awash with midmorning sunshine. Masses of flowers bobbed in the stony field, giving a delicate blue-violet cast to patches of ground. Along the bubbling stream, dense colonies of taller, pale pink flowers held court.

  He inhaled crisp, clean air, experiencing a sense of peace in the vast quiet. He couldn’t imagine why Bonn avoided his hometown with such a vengeance. Of course, Boston had a great deal to offer in convenience and comfort as well as historical significance, but this untouched wilderness held a grandeur far superior to mere convenience and creature comfort. Plus, its historical significance went back not merely a few hundred years, but eons.

  He scanned the unbounded, cloudless sky. In this lofty realm a man could easily feel like Zeus himself, his thunderbolts cast aside, unnecessary amid such serenity. Truly, this sanctuary in the sky seemed too idyllic for mere mortals. He had the strangest sensation he’d been given a gift, just being allowed entry.

  For the first time since arriving in Wittering, he didn’t feel resentful. How many times in his life had he truly felt serene? Certainly never in his high-powered, litigious career. He sat very still for a long time, drinking in the quiet, becoming one with the solitude. He felt like a man who had been lost in a desert, dying of thirst, then stumbling into an oasis awash with cool, life-giving water. The single difference between Taggart and that tragic wayfarer was that Taggart hadn’t been aware of the depth and breadth of the parched void inside him.

  The realization was both shocking and compelling, sending his conflicting emotions into a bitter fight for supremacy. He told himself his life was exciting, filled with challenges. He had power, respect, money—was a big fish in a big pond. So, why then did he find being in this quiet spot on a remote mountain so
significant, so potent, it made him doubt everything he was?

  It’s the prehistoric cave dweller in you talking, his logical side insisted. Sure, it was tempting, this idea of getting away from everything. But it was a pipe dream. A man had to survive in the real world, make a living. “Hell,” he muttered, “Getting away from the rat race is what vacations are for.” He wasn’t sure he appreciated his term “rat race” but, since he’d been the one to think it, he let it pass without examination. Nobody’s job was perfect. Cave dwellers had to risk life and limb just to eat.

  As careers went, his was as vital as it was profitable. His quandary, this unexpected emotional quagmire, was simple to explain. He was sleep-deprived, and a little disoriented—thrust into the position of suddenly being so loved, so loathed and so lusted after, all in one day. That could be hard on any man’s psyche.

  He heard rustling and turned expecting to find another mother deer with her baby, or a fox, maybe an elk. Instead, he was astonished to see a being far more extraordinary, exotic and welcome, no matter how unwelcoming her reaction might be when she noticed him.

  Her back to him, she walked along the edge of the brook as it took a turn into the sunny meadow. Spilling over the crook of her arm, an array of willowy, blue flower clusters bobbed with her every step. She knelt to pick a handful of the tall, pink flowers at the stream’s edge. Her dark hair fluttered and cavorted in the breeze, taunting him with come-ons he knew to be lies.

  She rose, the move as graceful as any prima ballerina. Wearing hiking boots, jeans and a clingy, white turtleneck, she walked on. In full, bright sunlight, she paused before a bush, a riot of contrast with light green leaves and bright red berries. Using garden shears she snipped off several branches and added them to her bouquet.