Surrender To A Playboy

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. “Most 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.

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.