Surrender to a Playboy Page 8

  She didn’t know how much time passed before he reentered. It could have been a few seconds or a week. Her brain had gone numb. The fact that she was rooted in the kitchen doorway when he came inside, was another indicator that her brain had completely stopped functioning. The last thing she wanted was to be on hand to revisit the—the incident with him.

  As he came inside and shut the door, his gaze met hers. He wasn’t smiling, wasn’t frowning. His expression was impassive, as though he’d just been outside getting a breath of air. Without speaking, he moved to the kitchen table and readjusted a chair that had been pushed slightly ajar. He turned around, faced her, grasping the top rung of the chair behind him with both hands. He pursed his lips and dipped his head in a brief nod. “Evening.”

  Was that all he intended to say? Did he have the audacity to act as though she had interrupted nothing out of the ordinary? As if stumbling upon a wild sex-capades in the kitchen was nothing to comment on?

  Well, she didn’t intend to pretend she didn’t see what she saw! He could be blasé about his behavior, but that didn’t mean she had to be! Her anger helped her brain reconnect with the rest of her body and she stomped into the kitchen, her bedroom slippers making slapping sounds as she moved past him to the stove.

  She bent and clanged around in a cookware drawer beneath the oven until she found a small saucepan. She stood and slammed it down on a burner, tramped to the refrigerator, took out a milk carton, retraced her steps to the stove and sloshed milk into the pan. She could feel his eyes on her, but refused to acknowledge him. After replacing the carton in the refrigerator, she slammed the door so forcefully she could hear clinking and rattling inside.

  “What are you doing?” he asked quietly.

  From where she stood she could keep her back to him, so she did. “I’m having wild sex on the kitchen table, what does it look like?” She bit down hard on her lower lip. Why had she blurted that? Apparently, she’d felt an uncontrollable urge to needle him. Sarcasm was a well-accepted form of payback. However, bringing up sex for any reason was more like bashing herself in the head with a baseball bat than the pithy comeback she’d meant it to be. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for the power to disappear.

  “I wasn’t going to have sex on the kitchen table,” he said, his tone composed.

  She kept her eyes closed. Drat! Why had she opened up the very door she’d wanted so badly to nail shut? Mentioning the—the incident—hadn’t been in her head at all! She’d planned to say she was playing the piano. What happened to, “I’m playing the piano”? Opening her eyes, she stared into the pan of milk and muttered, “I don’t care whether you were or not.”

  “You might want to turn on the flame,” he said. “Unless you like drinking cold milk out of saucepans.”

  She flinched. Where was her mind? She switched on the heat but refused to comment.

  “We both had clothes on.”

  She was painfully aware of how much—rather how little—they where wearing. She refused to speak for fear her voice would break. How dare she feel jealous! Bonn Wittering was not worthy of any woman’s honest affections.

  “Pauline climbed in my bedroom window,” he said. “When you came in, I was getting rid of her.”

  Blinking back idiotic tears, Mary pulled her terry robe closer about her and cinched up the sash. “I really don’t care.”

  I really don’t! I really don’t! I really don’t! she told herself, the screams of her denial deafening in her head. She would stamp out her wayward attraction for this amoral playboy or die trying! She bit her lip worriedly. No! No! No negatives. She would stamp out her attraction to him, no “ifs,” “ands,” or “buts,” and positively no “or-die-tryings”!

  “Pauline doesn’t take no for an answer,” he said.

  Mary swallowed to dislodge the lump stuck in her throat. She struggled against her wayward feelings of envy for Pauline—of all people! “You two make a wonderful couple,” she said, sounding hoarse. “You don’t give no for an answer!”

  The silence between them became drawn out and very dead.

  At long last, he asked, “Did you see any actual sex going on?” Though his question was spoken quietly, in the bleak stillness it rang like steel striking against steel.

  She jumped, her gaze bounding from steaming milk to the sea-green wall over the stove. Pressing a calming hand on her heart, she unwillingly revisited the scene in her mind. “Don’t give yourself a halo just because I broke in on the foreplay.”

  “Foreplay?” His chuckle was deep and cynical and went through her like an electrical current. “Foreplay for that woman was the fifteen minutes she spent bursting through puberty.”

  Mary turned off the fire and carried the pan of steaming milk to the counter where the mugs were stored. She took one down from the shelf and poured herself some hot milk.

  “Any left?” he asked.

  She stared bleakly into the pan, still half full. She’d been in too much of a state of insane, envious hostility to care about waste when she’d filled the pan. She nodded.

  “Would you mind pouring me some?”

  Without comment she grabbed another mug from the shelf above the coffeemaker and emptied the rest of the milk into it. She carried the pot to the sink and ran water into it, then retrieved the drinks. On feet of lead, she moved to the table. “Here.” She shoved a mug at him.

  Pulling out a chair she sat down and set her steaming milk on the pine surface. An instant later, in a horrible flash, she remembered what had almost gone on there. “Ewe!” She vaulted up and shoved the chair back. It scraped loudly against the pine floor as it skidded away. “Yuck!” She spun to face the sink. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat food there again.”

  “Come now.” He sounded weary. “It’s just a table that had a raincoat, and nothing else, on it.”

  Wood scraping against wood told her he was seating himself. She shifted to peer at him as he took a sip of hot milk. He looked tired around the eyes. Even fatigued, he still had a mesmerizing gaze. A swath of wavy, ebony hair fell across his forehead, creased in what appeared to be weariness or adversity, or both. Otherwise, he looked as yummy as Pauline had cooed.

  He rested his forearms on the table. Wide shoulders drew Mary’s gaze, even slouched as he was. His broad, contoured chest rose and fell as he breathed. He certainly had the physique of a playboy, at least what she presumed a playboy’s chest must be like. To attract women a playboy’s body would need to be superior to other men’s. It must be the kind of body that could seduce women the way firelight seduced a moth—so attractive, so innately seductive, the moth, and the woman, would ignore inherent dangers.

  His steaming mug sat between his hands. In the silence, he clenched and unclenched his fists. His gaze remained focused on the hot milk but he seemed to be looking inward, pondering some dark, difficult thought.

  Even as grim and exhausted as he looked, he was a compelling presence. So much so, Mary found herself pulling up her chair and taking her seat—like that moth fluttering dangerously near the flame. The man had magical powers. That was the only way she could explain the fact that she had seated herself kitty-corner to him at the table where he and Pauline had, moments ago, almost…

  She pushed the thought back into a deep, dark corner of her mind and sipped her milk. Unable to help herself, she silently observed him. Her emotions were a hodgepodge of dire suspicion and palpitating curiosity. From his fixed expression, she could tell he’d gone so far away in his head, she didn’t think he knew she was in the room. Yet, he had the capacity to draw her, even detached from the here-and-now, as he was.

  His nearness both disturbed and excited her with excitement winning out by a hair. What happened to the levelheaded Mary, the objective, hardworking caregiver, who knew the difference between right and wrong, fair and unfair, worthy and unworthy?

  What happened to the Mary who knew for a fact that Bonn Wittering was a self-serving reptile? She’d come to know this as a
n absolute, undebatable truth through their many, fruitless correspondences. Until she’d made up that lie about Miz Witty considering dropping him from her will, all she’d gotten for her begging and pleading that he visit were half-baked promises he never kept and slick excuses explaining away his negligence.

  So why, when she looked into his eyes, could she see nothing of the man she’d come to know? Why did she think she could detect in those earthy depths, subtle hints of wisdom, vague whispers of nobility in his character?

  Even now, with the spectacle of him entwined with Pauline wrecking havoc in her mind, why could she see nothing villainous or cowardly in his eyes? She scanned his face, puzzled. His features were forbidding, his firm, sensual lips set in a grim line. His tensed jaw, darkened by the shadow of a beard, gave him a stirring aura.

  While he looked inside himself, unaware she was even there, Mary searched his eyes. Where was the lecher? Where did the snake lurk—the self-centered bum who’d made this trip to sweet talk his grandmother so she wouldn’t cut him out of her will? Mary knew all his tricks, his evasions, knew his black character as well as she knew her own name.

  Yet as hard as she probed, she could only see a weary, contemplative man—a man very conflicted about something. She’d never thought of Bonn as a person to reflect on anything longer than it took to decide on the next thrill, and certainly not one to fritter away a moment in serious thought, especially if the thought were troublesome or gloomy.

  Finishing her milk, she thudded her mug to the table. Just because the man had eyes that could hide his shifty character was no reason to be taken in by him! She knew him! This pensive musing over Bonn Wittering was almost as crazy as her senseless attraction to him. What was she doing wasting her time conjuring up some deep, emotional goings-on in his head? Most likely, he was only brooding because she’d interrupted his sexual hijinks, leaving him frustrated and ungratified.

  Annoyed with herself for having soft and gooey thoughts about a man she knew all too well, she nudged his arm. “Hey, wake up.”

  He blinked, coming out of his trance. Shifting his gaze her way, he met her frown straight-on. “What?”

  “Drink up. No use crying over spilt sex.”

  His brow crinkled further, as though what she said made no sense to him.

  “Drink the milk.” She indicated his mug. “It’ll help you sleep.”

  Creases of affliction between his eyes deepened as his glance drifted over the mug, then back to her. “I don’t believe in sleep.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “It’s highly overrated.”

  “Then why ask for the milk?” She wondered why she was still there. Her milk was gone. She needed to get to bed so the beverage could weave its sedating spell. She was afraid, after witnessing barely-clothed-Bonn-with-the-sexy-chest-and-stunning-eyes, any tranquilizing gift the milk contained would have its work cut out for it.

  “Why did I ask for the milk?” He repeated her question in a whisper, as though pondering it. He shifted his focus to the mug, then slowly shook his head. “I guess…” Unreadable, hooded eyes sought hers. His nostrils flared as though tormented about something. “…I don’t know why,” he said woodenly. She sensed he was lying, but couldn’t tell if he was lying to her or to himself. She rubbed her temples at the crazy thought.

  Placing the flats of his hands on the table, he pushed up. “Good night, Miss O’Mara,” he said through clenched jaws. Before he walked away, his gaze held hers, in a split second filling her mind with the unforgettable image of a man and his iron-bound firmness of purpose—a man in pain, torn apart by private demons.

  A full minute after he’d left the kitchen, she still couldn’t catch her breath.

  Miz Witty’s birthday party was in full swing, the house packed to the rafters with laughing, chatting guests. Mary’s most vivid memory of the party so far was of Bonn, as he’d gallantly carried his grandmother down the stairs and swept her into the living room. The two of them had made quite a spectacular entrance. Miz Witty in a long, royal blue velvet dressing gown and Bonn in navy slacks and a matching mock turtleneck that showed off bulging muscle as he whisked his beaming grandmother into a roomful of applauding friends.

  Mary squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the memory from her head. Getting her mind on business she checked her watch. Nine o’clock. She glanced around the living room, filled with casually dressed partygoers. Furniture had either been removed temporarily to the basement or pushed to the walls, the Persian rug taken away, to create space for dancing on the polished oaken planks.

  Miz Witty sat in her wheelchair among a group of well-wishers, having a gay old time. Her delighted tittering could be heard above conversation and dance music that filled the air.

  Gifts had been opened, the wrapping paper and ribbon debris cleared away. The festivities had settled into a comfortable gathering of old friends, grazing the refreshments on the dining room table or just sitting and talking. A few of the younger couples danced. Bonn’s compact disc player had been a big hit. Music wafted over the buzz of chitchat.

  Mary scanned the dancers. Several couples swayed to the sultry melody, including Bonn and a giggly teenager. Miz Witty’s grandson had spent a great deal of time on the dance floor. Mary had to admit that most of his dancing was the result of invitations by goofy-grinning Wittering women, ranging in age eighteen to eighty. They all seemed to find their most infamous native son’s charm impossible to resist. From Mary’s vantage point, the black sheep of Wittering had treated each dance partner with the gallantry of a truly accomplished charmer.

  The lights were low, the mood cheerful, even romantic, if one’s mood could be coerced in that direction. Mary, unfortunately, was in no mood for either romance or cheer. Besides the difficult problem of having to appear delighted to be around Bonn in Miz Witty’s presence, she’d had a bad blow of a personal nature. Joe Lukins had promised faithfully to allow Mary’s half sister, Becca, to attend the party.

  Becca loved Miz Witty like family, and the little girl had been promised an overnight stay. Little Becca would have loved being at the birthday party—with the cake and ice cream and noisemakers. She would have loved a visit with Miz Witty, and her doting big sister. However, typical of Joe, he’d called at the last minute saying Becca had a cold. Preposterous! He was simply too contemptible to care that he was breaking his little girl’s heart.

  Mary had pleaded to be allowed to come pick up Becca as they’d arranged, since Joe’s drunk driving record had caused his license to be revoked. But Joe insisted his daughter was not physically up to a party. When Mary demanded she be allowed to come take a look at the girl, Joe told her he was Becca’s father and his word was law. He warned her if she came over she’d be wasting her time, because he wouldn’t let her inside his trailer.

  Angry, frustrated and hurting for her little sister, Mary escaped into the kitchen only to find herself alone with Pauline. That was just peachy! All she needed was for the cook to start in on a blow-by-blow description of her kitchen romp with Bonn. Well, she’d have to chance it. She was too unhappy to fake a party smile for one more second, and she didn’t have to fake one in front of Pauline.

  The cook sat at the kitchen table, staring blankly at a piece of half-eaten birthday cake. She glanced up when Mary came in, but didn’t speak, didn’t smile. She looked strangely depressed, which wasn’t like Pauline.

  The kitchen air smelled luscious with the lingering scents of baking cake and the varied, delectable snacks the cook had whipped up for the party. One thing she had to give Pauline credit for, she was as passionate about her cooking as she was about her sex life. For the millionth time, she shoved back the memory of last night and headed to the stove. She hefted the teakettle to check how much water was in it. It felt full so she turned on the heat. When she was dejected over some mean stunt Joe Lukins pulled to keep Becca away from her, a cup of chamomile tea helped blunt her bloodthirsty urges.

  “How’s the party going?” Pauline asked, sounding depressed.r />
  Mary turned away from the stove and looked at her, so uncharacteristically blue. Working to get her mind off her own troubles, Mary walked to the table and pulled out a chair. “The party’s going great. The cake and all the hors d’oeuvres are wonderful. You outdid yourself.” She indicated Pauline’s half-consumed piece of birthday cake. “Aren’t you feeling well? It’s the best carrot cake I’ve ever eaten, so it can’t be that you don’t like it.”

  Pauline hunched there, elbows on the table, her hands pressed to the sides of her face as though they were holding up her head. “I’m not hungry.”

  Mary crossed her forearms on the table, peering at the cook. “You usually love parties, especially if there’s dancing.” She indicated the closed kitchen door. “Go on out, have some fun. I can hold down the kitchen for a while.”

  Pauline shifted her morose gaze to Mary and made a face. “I just couldn’t. Besides the last batch of cheezy pizza puffs is in the oven.”

  Mary didn’t want to pry, but this sad woman who couldn’t eat her own delicious cake, and—Mary noticed belatedly—whose flannel shirt was buttoned all the way to her neck, was not the Pauline she’d seen cavorting in this very kitchen in the wee hours of the night. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “It’s not like you to be depressed.”

  Pauline heaved a big sigh. “I know.” She indicated the kitchen door, presumably referring to the party going on not far away. “It’s because of Bonn.”

  Mary experienced a sharp pang in her heart. Maybe she didn’t want to hear this after all. “Oh—uh—well, if it’s private…”

  Pauline sagged back in her chair, allowing her arms to dangle. “Oh, well, you saw us—in here. You know what happened.” She lolled her head back to stare at the ceiling. “You saw me making a big, dorky fool of myself.”