by Renee Roszel
“I’m sorry.” His lips stroked hers erotically as he made the guttural apology—a taunting termination to his kiss. He pushed away from the wall. As he distanced himself, Mary could only stare, too dazed and breathless to react.
“Forgive me—I…” His voice hoarse, he shook his head, as though not sure what to say.
In the waiting silence she stared at his set features, clamped jaw and dark, seductive eyes. Blood pounded unmercifully in her head, making it hard to hear, hard to think. She tried to work up some indignation, but she couldn’t. She’d never been kissed like that before. She’d never even dreamed of being kissed like that!
“It was wrong of me,” he ground out. Looking tormented, he dragged a hand through his hair. “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I’ve never done anything like that before?”
She might not be hearing too well at the moment and she might not have all her faculties in tip-top condition, but she heard his question. And he was right. She didn’t believe that. Telling her such a bold-faced lie, while managing to look irresistibly anguished and angry with himself, required a lot of talent—and, unquestionably, a great deal of experience!
Did this carousing Boston playboy think his “I’ve-never-done-anything-like-that-before” act would really work for a man with such a notorious reputation—no matter how skillfully played? Did he think because she was an unsophisticated, small town girl she’d be easy pickings?
The fact that she so obviously despised him made her a challenge. A challenge! To him, kissing her had been nothing but a careless and cruel game. To her, it had been a mind-blowing excursion into a realm of sensual perfection she wished she’d never encountered. Struggling to hold back tears she refused to let him see, she fought to conquer her anger and hurt.
Pushing away from the wall, she edged toward the entrance to the dining room and her escape to the kitchen. “Who…” she croaked. Clearing her throat, she forced steel into her words. “Who am I to question your honesty?” she jeered.
CHAPTER FOUR
TAGGART could not believe what he’d done. He’d actually kissed Mary O’Mara. Blindsided her. And himself! Naturally she wouldn’t believe him when he said he’d never done anything like that before. After all, he was Bonner Whitney Wittering the Fourth, womanizing ne’er-do-well. At least he was as far as Wittering, Colorado was concerned.
Taggart eyed the dusty rose wall beside the staircase where, only a moment ago, he’d trapped Mary O’Mara’s face between his hands. He couldn’t get her shocked expression out of his head—her complexion winsomely high, eyes flashing with hostility and hurt. Why this woman? What was it about her that had the power to touch him at a level no other human being on earth had been able to reach—since Annalisa?
How different the two women were. Like night and day. Dr. Annalisa Wayne Lancaster, well-born pediatric surgeon, brilliant, sophisticated, ever gracious. Then, there was Mary O’Mara, nursemaid, a blunt, country girl who had probably never been farther from Wittering than Denver, just over an hour away by car.
Even so, the life flashing in her eyes fascinated and mesmerized him. The spirit and passion she exhibited in her devotion to Bonn’s grandmother, impressed and inspired him. The women he’d dated since Annalisa’s death had been from Boston society or highly educated professionals: doctors, professors, several executives, even one congresswoman.
Then there was Lee Stanton, a partner in his law firm. They’d had a six-month affair that had ended in early spring. He regretted getting involved with Lee, considering he had to see her at work every day. Especially since she refused to believe their affair was over.
None of these other women, with all their breeding and education, could compare to Mary O’Mara when it came to how she made him feel. He peered toward the front door, deciding he should make himself scarce for a while, give Mary some space. He headed outside onto the porch, angry with himself. “Kissing her is no damn way to kill an attraction, idiot!” he gritted out.
When it came to love, he’d fallen quick and hard. He’d been fortunate with Annalisa. She’d fallen quick and hard, too. All the others since his wife’s death had meant nothing, just bouts of loneliness temporarily deflected. Not love. Never love. Never again. Annalisa’s memory was too precious.
Hustling down the steps to the gravel drive, he muttered, “You were lucky in love once, my friend. Don’t get greedy. You’ve kissed her. It’s out of your system. Now move on.” Unfortunately, he couldn’t “move on” from Wittering for ten more days.
His mood grim, he thrust his hands in his pockets and strode down the serpentine, sloping drive to the blacktop road leading to town, an easy half-mile walk. He’d already been there once today. It was his own fault that he had no choice but to go again. He needed to move and keep moving. If things kept going the way they had so far on this trip, he would get to know the town intimately—out of necessity, to keep his distance from Mary O’Mara and her magnetic lips.
He heard the ding-ding of the approaching trolley’s bell as it proceeded along its route around town. Taggart ignored it, ignored the people clustered at the trolley stop, and leapt across the tracks. He needed to walk or he would explode with fury at his impulsiveness. He’d behaved more like his rash, thrill-seeking friend and client, Bonn Wittering, than Taggart Jerod Lancaster. Ordinarily he was so careful, so adamant about preparing for any possibility before he acted, his law partners kiddingly referred to him as “The Boy Scout.”
He blew out an exhale through gritted teeth. “You’re an attorney, not a method actor!” he muttered, trekking downhill toward Wittering’s main street. “Don’t get carried away with the act.”
He tried to get his mind off Mary and the kiss by taking in the scenery. Wittering was typical of many villages nestled in the Rockies, surrounded on all sides by snowcapped behemoths and accessible only by cliff-hugging highways that leap-frogged steep divides. His trek took him past quaint, century-old homes of painted siding and native stone, nestled side-by-side with contemporary stucco, redwood and log houses, one or two as new as the spring thaw.
A stack of condominiums was under construction, amid an evergreen thicket, the staccato sound of nail guns drowning out the high, wild scream of an eagle, the gentle babble of a tumbling creek and the whisper of wind through tall, skinny pines.
Further down, beyond the cascading homes, the structures became small businesses that spilled onto Center Street. A mile-long stretch of shops and homey restaurants, Wittering’s main thoroughfare invited tourists and residents alike to enjoy their rustic, cozy ambience.
Taggart walked toward the main boulevard, paying little heed to the side street shops. Suddenly someone exited a store directly in front of him and he couldn’t avoid a collision. In a mental flash, he realized he’d run into a woman, and she was falling. Instinctively, he grabbed her by the shoulders to halt her tumble. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have been more care—”
The woman he’d collided with cleared long, dark hair out of her eyes and looked up at him. He could tell by the near-smile on her face she’d been about to say something like “No problem,” or “I’m fine.” But when she recognized him, her expression mutated into a glower. He released her, since the anger in her eyes made her desire to be free of his contaminating touch quite clear. After some brief, knife-sharp eye contact, she dropped her attention to the sidewalk. His gaze followed hers down to notice a package he’d obviously knocked from her hand. He bent to retrieve it just as she did, his fingers closing over hers.
“I have it,” she said, in a tone that meant “Don’t touch me!”
He let her go and straightened. “I’m sorry, Mary,” he repeated, meaning it. “I didn’t see you.” He had no idea she would be in town. She must have dashed through the kitchen, out the back door, then struck out toward town in a dead run.
She straightened, making a production of checking the contents of her bag.
“Did I break anything?” he asked, wishing he cou
ld somehow make amends for the crazy kiss.
She shook her head, keeping her attention riveted on the bag and what was inside it. “I don’t think so.”
Self-reproach clung to him like a heavy overcoat. He couldn’t erase the image of her shock and outrage over his irrational kiss. “Look,” he said, “I can’t apologize enough about—the other thing, too.”
She stilled, one hand deep in the sack. She clearly hadn’t expected him to bring that up.
“How can I make it up to you?” he asked.
She blinked, withdrew her arm and closed the plastic bag. “Forget it. Just—forget it.”
“Could I buy you a cup of coffee?”
She peered his way, clutching the sack to her chest like a shield. “You don’t seem to get it, Mr. Wittering,” she said, her words slow and measured, as though trying to make it clear enough for even a moron to understand. “What you can do for me is—stay out of my sight.”
He experienced the prick of her statement even as his gaze was drawn to her mouth. That dangerous, seductive mouth. Her fuller lower lip perched erotically above a defiant, jutting chin. He noted that her upper lip was slightly slimmer, yet, together, in their serendipitous union, they embodied the perfect valentine.
Irresistible.
Looking at those lips now, he could almost forgive himself for his lapse. He’d never seen such a blatantly kissable mouth in his life.
“Did you hear what I said?” she asked, breaking into his wayward reverie. She apparently hadn’t expected him to loiter there, watching her after she’d told him in no uncertain terms to go away.
He shook himself out of the trance her lips seemed able to draw him into. “Yes, I heard.” That strange, renegade part of him took charge, adamant that she not leave and that he not walk away either. He searched around for a reason she might stay. Miz Witty’s happiness and welfare seemed to be his best bet. “I need to ask a favor of you.”
She stared, mutely. Her wide-eyed disbelief didn’t surprise him. He was sure she assumed he would do as she demanded and get out of her sight. “You want to ask a favor of me?” she echoed after a long, stunned silence. The stupefaction in her voice was no great shock.
Sure, it took crust to ask a favor of her when she’d just told him she wanted nothing to do with him. What Mary O’Mara didn’t know was that, as a trial lawyer, crust was part of the job description. He smiled wryly. “I know it’s hard to believe.”
“It’s impossible to believe.” She swallowed, looking as though keeping eye contact was torture. “Unless you’d like me to slap your face, which I admit would be a pleasure.”
He couldn’t help lifting a dubious brow in a wordless, sardonic response.
“I was afraid that wasn’t it.” She turned on her heel, presenting her back to him. “Goodbye.”
“It’s about Miz Witty.”
When she skidded to a halt he knew his gamble had paid off. For Miz Witty, Mary O’Mara would stick her head in a lion’s mouth. She shifted toward him, her expression distrustful and troubled. He didn’t need clairvoyant powers to read her mind. She obviously feared she was head and shoulders inside the lion’s mouth right now.
“What about Miz Witty?” she asked tightly.
He pushed up his sleeves, working to appear ultra-casual and harmless as a newborn lamb. No more surprise attacks. He planned to convey that silent promise in his nonassertive demeanor. Unfortunately, he didn’t know how well he would succeed. For one thing, Mary’s lips taunted him cruelly. Secondly, being a trial lawyer had drilled any nonassertive tendencies out of him years ago. Third, and most disturbing, that traitorous and contrary entity so recently born in him, was in full control, overriding the logical, Boy Scout mentality that usually guided his behavior. He should be walking away by now! Why the hell wasn’t he?
“It’s Tuesday.” He wore his most earnest, most trustworthy courthouse expression, the one he used when appealing to a jury to find his client “not guilty.” “Miz Witty’s birthday is Thursday, the twenty-fourth, and I haven’t bought her gift.” He lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness, the image of a man out of his element when it came to shopping. “I wondered, since you know her so well, if you’d help me.”
She didn’t even try to hide her mental turmoil. He watched a gamut of emotions flicker in her eyes and could almost hear her internal scream of frustration. She stirred uneasily, shifted her shopping bag to under one arm. Her gaze skittered away and she readjusted her bag, then relocated the plastic sack to its shielding position, hugging it with both arms. “Well…” she said, her voice wavering. She coughed behind a fist. “Well, I suppose—for Miz Witty.”
He felt like smiling but he didn’t. He merely nodded. “I appreciate it.” He indicated Center Street, half a block ahead. “That way?”
She nodded, keeping eye contact brief.
“What do you think she’d like?” he asked, adjusting his pace to her shorter stride.
Mary accompanied him toward the main street, clutching her bag to her breast. She couldn’t have looked more unwilling if he’d been leading her to her own hanging. After a long, solemn interlude, she answered his question. “Miz Witty is not a woman who needs much to make her happy.” She peered at him meaningfully. “A little attention goes a long way.”
He met her gaze. “If it makes you happy to bludgeon me with reminders of my failings, go ahead. But just so you’ll know, there’s something to be said for subtlety.”
She laughed, a short, sarcastic burst of sound. “Subtlety? You? I spent two whole years trying to get you here. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all that time, Mr. Wittering, it’s that subtlety is wasted on you.”
She had a point. As far as sensitivity was concerned, Bonn was like a bull in a china shop. The closest Taggart ever got to subtlety with Bonn consisted of grabbing him by the shirt-front and shouting, “Listen to me, you idiot!”
No doubt that was why she’d had to exaggerate Miz Witty’s health crisis. “Well, you got me here. That’s the important thing.”
She blinked, looking strangely taken aback. Her eyes glittered, heralding a storm. “Yes, I did.” She flicked her gaze ahead, her bearing stiff. He couldn’t imagine what sparked the surge of renewed anger. Was she mad at herself for lying about Miz Witty’s health? He’d expected her to be slightly shamefaced about that, if anything.
Apparently being reminded of his—Bonn’s—negligence could set her off as quickly as striking a match. She obviously didn’t feel guilty pangs for lying about Miz Witty’s impending demise. To her, the means—in other words, a bold-faced lie—was justified by the end—getting a reluctant, self-centered grandson to visit.
He decided he’d better change the subject. Another few seconds of stewing and Mary would stomp off mad, her decision to help him tossed aside in the dust. “What about a compact disc player and some disks?” he suggested. “I noticed she likes to have a radio on, and the reception is full of static.”
Mary’s stern profile grew contemplative and she glanced his way. “Yes. I think she’d like that.”
They stood on the corner of Center and Third. He indicated the main street with a broad gesture. “Which way to the compact disc player store?”
“I think the mercantile.” She indicated the way. “I was going there anyway.”
As they strolled the town’s main artery, the sun shone down on them, warm and restorative. The air, though thinner up here, smelled fresh. The trolley rumbled by. Street traffic was light. Only a handful of shoppers strolled along, laughing and talking. Several waved and called out friendly greetings to Mary. She responded with smiles and equally friendly replies. Taggart found himself trying to catch glimpses of her smiling. He shouldn’t have tried. Mary, really smiling, did things to him, made the blood course through his veins like a Colorado river thawed by the sun’s heat in springtime. This was not killing his attraction! Was he some kind of masochist?
“Mary, see you at the birthday party?” a husky, lumber
-jack type called out as he approached along the sidewalk.
“Sure Jake.” She smiled and waved.
“I get the first dance, right?”
She laughed, the lilting sound causing Taggart’s skin to prickle pleasantly, as though she’d run teasing fingertips over his bare flesh. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
As the young man passed them, his glance transferred to Taggart. The message he received was not neighborly. Taggart didn’t know if the spiteful flash in Jake’s gaze was because the townsfolk thought he was the infamous Bonn Wittering, or if any man lucky enough to walk with Mary O’Mara would reap killer glares from less fortunate males. Taggart nodded a curt greeting without offering a smile, either. Irrational as it was, he felt proprietary toward Mary.
The stranger’s palpable antagonism toward Taggart made him take more notice of passersby. “There will be dancing at Miz Witty’s party?” he asked.
“Yes. Miz Witty might not be able to dance, but she wants her guests to have fun.” Her tone lacked friendly lightness now that she was once again speaking to him.
“I see.” He supposed he could count on being elected President of the United States before Mary would agree to dance with him.
Taggart watched the faces of the men as they passed. On the whole they went about their business paying Taggart and Mary no particular heed, so he found himself relaxing. Most of Wittering’s roving populous wore jeans, work shirts or T-shirts and hiking boots. Many of the men sported beards and the women wore little or no makeup, like Mary. These mountain dwellers were plain folk, hearty individualists. They put on no airs, harbored no hidden agendas, weren’t driven incessantly to acquire the most toys and the power to choose the games. “I like Wittering,” he said.
“You have a strange way of showing it.”
He cursed inwardly at his lapse. How quickly he could forget. He was supposed to be a native of this little burg! He glanced at her and eased into a cynical, half smile. “I meant—in small doses.”
“Like every quarter century or so?”
