Surrender to a Playboy Read online

  Her voice broke. She swallowed hard and he could tell she was attempting not to cry. “I’m begging you, Bonn—be a greedy pig if you have to. Be a womanizing weasel if you must. I don’t care. But please don’t do anything to get yourself put in prison. It would kill her.”

  Her reproach grated on him, but he hid it. Blast! That’s all he needed. More pressure. With Bonn in serious trouble, charged with insider trading, getting him off without jail time would take every ounce of Taggart’s legal expertise, not to mention a magic wand. “She has a bad heart?” he asked, unaware he’d even considered the question until he heard himself ask it.

  “Of course. I told you that in my letters.”

  Damn. He should have insisted Bonn let him read those confounded letters to avoid this kind of screwup. “Right,” he mumbled. Her plea weighed down on him, a choking burden. He couldn’t look away from her eyes, couldn’t miss her suffering, glinting in the depths like shards of glass, cutting him and making him bleed.

  He laid a hand over hers and squeezed encouragingly. The idea of touching her that way hadn’t entered his mind, at least not on a conscious level. He simply felt a need to comfort her, ease her fear. “Mary, I…” He paused. What could he say? That she affected him like no other woman since Annalisa? Yeah, that would be bright. He could just hear that speech.

  “Mary, you’re driving me crazy. I don’t love you. I don’t want to, but I can’t get you out of my head. I never hoped to find another woman I could care for as deeply as I did for Annalisa. I have my memories, and that’s all I need. But ever since I met you, I’ve felt like I’m on fire.

  I’ve been lying to you since that first moment. I’m not Bonn Wittering. I’m his lawyer—yes, a high-priced, smooth-talking lawyer, the vermin you hate even worse than you hate Bonn. And even as sleazy a shyster as you think I am for what I do, I might not be able to save Bonn from prison. If I can’t, I hope Miz Witty’s heart can stand the blow.

  And last but far from least—if you can overlook the little matter of finding me, and all I do, contemptible, could you please do me the kindness of releasing me from whatever hold you have over me before I go completely mad?”

  Yeah, Taggart. Excellent speech. He closed his mouth, one of the few times in life he’d been at a loss for words. The only emotions getting through were the gnawing pain in his heart and the torture of his struggling conscience. The nagging obligation to keep a friend’s confidence, the haunting knowledge that the truth about who he was, and the trouble Bonn was in, if revealed, could only cause heartache for innocents. And if what Mary said about Miz Witty’s heart was real, the truth might even kill.

  He scanned Mary’s face, those soft, somber eyes and sad, yet bewitching lips. Must every expression on her face, every movement she made, bedevil him? He was astonished and troubled, at the sense of oneness he felt merely holding her hand.

  Her distraught gaze held his, questioning. Somehow she seemed less angry, less disapproving. “What—Bonn?” she asked in a hushed whisper. “What were you going to say?” Her face was so close he could feel the warmth of her breath. Her lips were mere inches from his, tantalizing cruelly.

  What he’d started to say, wanted to say, was out of the question. He only knew he held her hand—a hand she hadn’t yet withdrawn from his touch. He grasped at mental straws. What could he say? What would reassure her? He couldn’t be positive Bonn wouldn’t go to prison. He couldn’t even be sure something wouldn’t go wrong any moment, that he would be found out. If that happened, or if Bonn went to prison, he couldn’t assure her Miz Witty’s health wouldn’t suffer.

  She dropped her eyes before his steady gaze and seemed to focus on his hand, holding hers. “Why the long silence?” she whispered. “Why the hesitation?”

  His gaze caressed her face, the dark hair spilling over her shoulders. He inhaled her scent, delicately erotic. She was so lovely, so loyal, so unhappy. He ached to fold her in his arms, tell her everything would be all right. But he was no miracle worker, no fortune-teller. He was only a man, an imperfect creature who’d allowed himself to be pulled into an impossible situation, out of obligation and loyalty.

  His internal battle tore at his insides. What to say? How much truth did he dare? How much lie must he swear? At long last, and with difficulty, he found his voice and his answer. “Mary,” he said gruffly, sincerely, “I can’t make any promises to you.”

  She lifted her gaze to meet his, her eyes large and luminous. Rather than looking forlorn and afflicted, as he’d thought she would, she appeared mystified. “I’m surprised,” she said.

  “Surprised?”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t just promise.” She searched his face as though attempting to probe his thoughts. “Why bother with honesty?”

  He understood what she meant. Why hadn’t he put her at ease with a smooth lie? After all, the unreliable Bonn she knew was renowned for taking the path of least resistance, tossing off empty promises along the way without hesitation or regret.

  Because I am not Bonn. We are two entirely different people! Mary O’Mara, you are shrewder than you know. Weary of the hoax, but knowing he had no choice, he lifted his hand from hers and sat back in his chair. “It must be the thin air,” he improvised, feigning cynicism. “Don’t worry, Miss O’Mara. I’ll be my slithery, old self in no time.”

  She straightened abruptly. Lacing her fingers in a tight ball she regarded him with coldness. The sight of her renewed abhorrence filled him with a cruel and perverse sense of loss.

  Raking his fingers through his hair, he gave himself a minute to clear his head of the effects of her nearness and her touch, and to deal with her renewed hostility. Excruciating tasks, especially after so recently seeing—something in her eyes. Something new and contrary to all reason.

  Taggart lay in bed, wide awake, staring up at his ceiling. Sleep seemed to be a luxury of some dimly remembered past, considering how much of it he’d managed to get since his arrival in Wittering on Monday. Here it was Wednesday night at—he checked his watch—correction, two-thirty, Thursday morning. He could count on one hand the hours he’d actually slept in this bed.

  His mind roamed to terrain he’d traveled too much in the past few hours—to earlier that evening. He recalled vividly the image of Mary leaning over the table, imploring him to consider Miz Witty’s health as he went about his wicked lifestyle. Be a greedy sleaze and a womanizer, but don’t go to jail.

  “Be a greedy sleaze?” he murmured. “Be a greedy sleaze and a womanizer?” He didn’t know what she meant. What did she think Bonn did? Cheat at cards? Bilk vulnerable heiresses out of their fortunes? He frowned. That couldn’t be it. Bonn had his own money. He might be a skirt chaser, but he didn’t lie to women. Didn’t cheat them. While women were dating Bonn, they had a great run, plenty of luxury and fun. As a matter of fact, most of Bonn’s ex-girlfriends remained his friends. He was that hard to dislike. He was generous, spontaneous, amusing, and he didn’t have a mean bone in his body. He had a quick temper, true. And he was rash, but never mean.

  And he didn’t gamble. Not even for matchsticks. Sometimes he bet on football games if there was a pot going at the gym, but who didn’t? For the life of him, Taggart couldn’t imagine why Mary O’Mara would call Bonn a greedy sleaze.

  He rubbed his eyes. What in blazes difference did it make what Mary O’Mara called him? “Get your mind off the woman,” he grumbled. “She thinks Bonn is the devil incarnate and his lawyer is his evil twin. There’s nothing you can do about it. So shut up and get some rest.”

  Since staring at the ceiling wasn’t working, he rolled to his stomach and closed his eyes. “Closing your eyes is a start,” he muttered. “Think of something boring.”

  Somewhere in his mental meandering, he heard a noise that didn’t mesh with the usual Rocky Mountain night sounds he’d become accustomed to during long, sleepless nights. A tapping, rapid and incessant, intruded into his consciousness. He opened his eyes. What was that? It sounded like a w
oodpecker, pecking on his window.

  He heard something else in addition to the tapping, like a voice. But he couldn’t make out what it said. He came up on his elbows, shaking his head. Had he gone to sleep after all? This had to be a dream.

  He heard the tapping again, then quite clearly he heard someone call out a name—Bonn. He shifted around and sat up, his attention instantly drawn to the side window of his bedroom. To his astonishment, he saw the silhouette of a head and shoulders outside the glass. Good Lord, his bedroom was on the second floor! Who could be outside his window? “What the…” He threw back the bedcovers and jumped up.

  Hardly a babe in the woods where criminals were concerned, Taggart cautiously checked out the shadowy figure. It was clear, even from where he stood, the person outside wasn’t a man. And making all that racket, if she were a burglar, she was never going to be a success.

  He walked to the window and peered out. Hell! It was Pauline, the amorous cook! “What are you doing?” he asked, through the glass.

  “Let me in, Bonn,” she called in a loud whisper. “Hurry! I’m afraid this trellis won’t hold much longer.”

  He had an urge to tell her she’d better scamper back down, then. Unfortunately, even though he’d known her for a very short time, he sensed she would rather perch out there until the thing collapsed and sent her plunging to her death rather than voluntarily climb down. Hating the need to, knowing no good could come of it, he unlocked the window and raised it. Before he could say anything, she pitched forward into his arms. Taken so by surprise, he nearly toppled backward but managed to retain his balance. “Whoa!” he said, as she grabbed him around the neck. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  She giggled, clinging. “Well, when the mountain won’t go to the molehill…” she let the sentence die, as though it spoke for itself.

  His temper frayed from stress and lack of sleep, Taggart’s attempt to remain sympathetic to Pauline’s underlying feelings of inferiority was evaporating fast. He reached up to detach her stranglehold. “Then the molehill climbs in Mohammed’s bedroom window?”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind.” What in blazes was he going to do about this woman? In the strict, all-male boarding school where he’d grown up, he’d been taught to treat women with the utmost respect, to ignore uncouth or vulgar behavior, respond as a gentleman, no matter what. He had a feeling the school’s ultra-proper, puritanical faculty had not come up against anybody like Pauline Bordo. And when he said “against” he meant that literally.

  She stretched on tiptoe and smooched his jaw. “I couldn’t sleep. It killed me to think of you here—all alone. I had to sneak over and climb up, make sure you aren’t lonely.”

  He grasped her wrists, compelling her to release him. “That’s very—sociopathic of you.”

  “Yes, I’m—I’m very sociopathic conscious!” She looked as sincere and civic-minded as she could manage, considering she’d climbed in a near-stranger’s bedroom window. “I rescued a cat from a tree, once. And every year at the Founder’s Day celebration, I raise more money for charity than anybody else who volunteers for the kissing booth.”

  He released her wrists. Before she could re-grab his neck, he gripped her shoulders and pressed her an arm’s length away. “I’m sure you’re a credit to the community,” he said as civilly as he could, under the circumstances. Now, the problem was, how to gently make her understand her playboy sex fantasy was not going to happen.

  “Thank you.” She smiled, reveling in his whispered compliment.

  “You’re welcome.” Slipping a neighborly arm about her shoulders he aimed her toward the door. “I appreciate your dropping by, Pauline, but it’s late, and—”

  “Wait a second!” She slid out of his hold and faced him. Taggart hadn’t had time to notice what she’d been wearing when she vaulted through his window, but with her escape she gave him no choice but to take note. Her legs braced wide, she stood before him in a light colored raincoat and jogging shoes. Her stance was the image of a superhero about to rip off her everywoman guise to reveal her secret, crime fighting identity.

  Taggart’s impression wasn’t far off the mark. She yanked open her raincoat, flashing a skimpy, belly-baring T-shirt and tight shorts. He breathed a sigh of relief that she wasn’t naked. He wouldn’t have put it past her. “I thought we might—play,” she said, her smile wily.

  He didn’t need this! He was dead on his feet. His eyes hurt with every blink, sandy from lack of sleep. Inhaling for patience, he tried hard to hold on to his attitude of weary tolerance.

  He closed the coat and reached for the dangling sash. “Pauline, you’re a beautiful woman. A fine person,” he said, cinching the belt. “Not to mention, you’re a fabulous cook. You’re kind to animals and you volunteer for charity.” Firmly but gently, he took her hand and tugged her toward the door. “I have the highest respect and admiration for you.”

  “You do?” she said, appearing a little shell-shocked. Clearly she hadn’t expected to be marched from the bedroom she’d taken such a risk to get inside.

  “Absolutely.” Taggart got her headed down the stairs, still absorbed in his flattery. “I can’t tell you when I’ve been more—impressed by a person’s—diligence and, especially—her intrepidity.”

  “Intrepidity?” she asked, as they hit the bottom of the staircase. He glanced toward the front entrance and noticed the bright porch lights. Way too much visibility. With hardly a second’s pause, he opted for the back door. The chances of anybody seeing Pauline leave the house via the rear entrance were almost nil. “Yes, intrepidity.” He tugged her around the corner toward the kitchen. “I’m awed by yours.”

  He held her hand, coaxing her along. They entered the kitchen. It was so dark he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face so he flipped on the overhead light. He hoped stark illumination would dampen Pauline’s lurid inclination.

  “What does intrepidity mean?” she asked.

  “It means—courage, poise, self-reliance.”

  He had her almost to the back door when she dug in her heels, pulling to a halt. “Oh.” She looked downcast. “I thought it meant—like—sexy.”

  Blast! He was so close to success he could almost taste it. “Well—Pauline, to be frank with you, I find courage, poise and self-reliance…” He tasted gall at the thought of finishing that sentence, but knew he had to forge on. One or two more compliments should get her out the door. “…very sexy.”

  She brightened. “No kidding?”

  “No kidding.” He encircled her shoulders with an arm, the better to guide her outside. But before he could get her through the door, she moved like lightning, slipping out of his grasp, unfastening her sash and shrugging out of her raincoat. She tossed it on the kitchen table. “Oh—that’s just so—sweet!” She lunged, her arms going around his neck as she pressed herself provocatively against him. She smiled in invitation. “You look even better without clothes than I thought you would.”

  For the first time in his adult life, he wished he slept in a full set of pajamas instead of the black boxers he was wearing. “Look, Pauline—”

  “Kiss me!” She puckered her lips.

  He was losing patience fast. Her sexual pursuit was so aggressive it felt like hostility. What did he have to do to get rid of her, pick her up and toss her outside? It wasn’t as though she didn’t have a body most men would give their right arm simply to fondle. But, dammit, for all her voluptuous willingness, Pauline wasn’t Mary O’Mara, and that was the bottom line. Taggart wanted Mary—in his heart, in his home, and in his bed.

  He experienced a violent jolt, as though he’d been struck by lightning. What had he been thinking? He chewed on the thought and frowned. He meant Annalisa, not Mary O’Mara. He wanted Annalisa back. The pain of her loss whipped in quickly with a hammer-blow to the belly. He felt woozy and gut-punched, like a mugging victim. Shaking himself, he struggled back from the blow, locked his turmoil and pain away. He had to deal with his current
problem.

  The cook’s inflexibility on the subject of having sex with Taggart was eroding his desire to remain civil. Dismayed at the prospect of beginning the “remove-Pauline-process” over again, he measured his words as carefully as he could. “I’m afraid you misunderstood what I meant when I said courage, poise and all that was—sexy.”

  She ran her tongue around her lips, an unsubtle come-on. “Enough talk,” she said in a husky voice. “It’s time for action.”

  He gritted his teeth and commanded himself not to fling little Miss It’s-time-for-action over his shoulder and dump her in a heap onto the back lawn.

  “My pretty, pretty man,” she purred, brushing his lips with hers. “Oh, yummy.”

  Oh hell! He’d had it! He was no longer interested in getting Pauline out the door on her own power. She still clutched him about the neck. Without bothering to disengage her, or give her any other hints that she was mere seconds away from a brisk departure, he swooped down to grasp her behind the knees and lifted her in his arms.

  Pauline giggled with glee. “Oh—you’re so masterful!”

  She had no idea he’d picked her up because it was the most expedient method of getting her out of the house. Good. In her deluded frame of mind, he could eject her more easily.

  When he reached the kitchen table, bent on scooping up her overcoat, a wave of foreboding passed over him. He stilled. Though he’d heard no sound, detected no movement, a troubled, sideways squint told him what he suspected was true.

  Mary O’Mara stood frozen in the kitchen doorway.

  CHAPTER SIX

  MARY stared in shocked disbelief at the lewd spectacle unfolding in the kitchen. She was well aware of Bonn’s badboy reputation, but to witness him about to amuse himself with such—such depravity, right out in the open, was almost too obscene to comprehend—even seeing it with her own eyes.

  Seeming to sense her presence, Bonn peered her way. Had she gasped? Screamed? She didn’t think so, but somehow he’d realized she was there. An instant later, he plucked Pauline’s coat from the table and carried her out the back door. Mary’s last sight of the pair was Pauline hugging his neck, giggling wickedly. She closed her eyes but the vision remained, burned into her mind.