by Renee Roszel
“Yeah.” That was a lie. He really liked Wittering. He bet the population exploded in the wintertime, when skiers invaded. He’d loved skiing as a kid, but hadn’t had the chance since leaving Switzerland, when he’d enrolled at Harvard. More like, he hadn’t taken the time. “Or when my grandmother has a seventy-fifth birthday.”
“That’s sad.” Mary shook her head at him. “You’re really something, you know it?”
He frowned, baffled. “What do you mean?”
There was almost an imperceptible note of pleading in her expression. “You’re saying you won’t be back.”
He realized what she meant. When he left town Miz Witty would once again be deserted by her one and only relative. He didn’t know how to respond. After all, he wasn’t Bonn Wittering, and heaven only knew whether Bonn could ever come back, even if he wanted to. His trial would determine whether he’d spend the next decade in prison. Taggart decided to defuse the situation with a little honest hedging. “Look, I’ll do the best I can.”
Her expression made it clear she didn’t believe his best would be very good. She opened her mouth to speak, then as quickly clamped her jaws, evidently deciding voicing her opinion would be a waste of breath. With a sigh, she turned away and indicated an array of display windows. “This is Wittering Mercantile.”
Mary had thought, when she dashed into town to do some shopping while Miz Witty read her book, she would be free of Bonn Wittering. His kiss had been a shock to her senses, too stimulating and extraordinary for her peace of mind, especially since she’d spent the past two years learning to loathe him.
How ironic that Fate had forced him directly into her path when she’d so badly needed distance, time to untangle her emotions. Even after he’d run into her, she’d desperately tried to get away, but he’d thrown in that monkey wrench about Miz Witty’s birthday gift. If there was one person she couldn’t deny, it was Miz Witty. Even if it required being in contact with this smooth, playboy grandson—and he was smooth.
She’d experienced the odd moments when she’d almost liked the guy. Well, not liked, exactly, but—well, yes, for scattered fractions of seconds she’d liked the guy. His eyes never failed to disarm her. She’d read somewhere that the eyes were the windows to the soul. Why then, when she looked into Bonn Wittering’s eyes, where she should see self-serving, smarmy charm, was she always astonished to find what looked like deep sincerity and honest regret for the way he’d treated his grandmother? Or was the truth simply that she was too unworldly to recognize the snake in the man suit?
He held the door as she preceded him into Wittering Mercantile. Once inside the general store with its wooden display shelves and rough-hewn appeal, she automatically aimed toward what she’d planned to buy. Not until she was in the toy department, scanning the doll section, did she realize Bonn stood beside her. She glanced at him, confused. “I thought you were going to look at compact disc players.”
He surveyed the array of brightly packaged dolls, then returned his attention to her. “I thought that was where we were going.” He picked up a boxed doll, dressed like a movie star. Examining it, his expression grew as close to amused as she could recall seeing. “I’m just guessing, but I don’t think this is a compact disc player.”
Witnessing the near smile and the mirth in his eyes sent a wayward thrill skittering along her spine. She quickly pulled her gaze away. “My little sister’s birthday is August third. She’s dying to have a Hollywood Queenie doll.”
He examined the platinum-haired toy swathed in a formal gown. “That’s what this is?”
“She’s the ‘Senior Prom’ Hollywood Queenie.”
He chuckled. Though cynical, the sound was rich and charged with enough electricity to make the hair at her nape stand up. “She wasn’t at my senior prom,” he said.
Against her will she glanced at him, finding that statement hard to fathom. If anybody had the sexual magnetism to assure himself a date to his senior prom with the blondest, shapeliest girl in town, he did. “Why not?” She bit her tongue for asking. How dare she care!
He replaced the doll. “From age nine until eighteen, I went to an all-male boarding school. You do the math.”
She found herself smiling, then quickly fixed her expression. “Right, I forgot. But—your school didn’t have a senior dance—to celebrate graduating?”
“To celebrate graduating, my school handed out a packet with final grades, a diploma in Latin and a small, gray envelope for depositing our room keys. It was touching,” he said, his tone sarcastic.
“Tear-jerking,” she quipped back, turning away to inspect the Hollywood Queenie dolls on display. She didn’t intend to exchange childhood memories with this man.
She picked up the ‘Senior Prom’ Hollywood Queenie and looked at the price tag. Thirty-five dollars. She sighed and returned it to the counter. The fanciest ones were way too expensive. Those she could afford wore scanty cotton shorts and tops. She would give anything to be able to buy Becca a really showy one—with a glittery gown, sparkling crown and all the accessories to satisfy a little girl’s fondest fantasies. Becca had so little in her life that was cheery and fun. She picked up one with dark hair, clad in black, plastic slacks and a belly-baring knit top. Twelve dollars! She bit her lip, trying to decide if her budget would allow it.
“You have a little sister?”
She nodded but resisted the urge to look at him. “Becca’s five.” She picked up a doll in a simple cotton, flowered sundress. It cost three dollars less.
“Do your folks live in Wittering?”
“No—well…” She glanced his way. Why was he still here? It was hard enough to make a choice that fit her budget as well as her longing to make Becca’s life brighter without him muddying up her mind. “Actually, my father died when I was fifteen. Mom remarried seven years ago, to a man named Joe Lukins.”
She tried to sound conversational, but her intense dislike for Joe tended to reveal itself in the mention of his name. “Mom got sick a couple of years ago, and passed away right before Christmas that year.” She swallowed around the lump of grief that formed whenever she thought about her mother, a good woman who’d never had much luck in life. “Becca’s my half sister. She lives with her father in a trailer park, down a side rode at the other end of Wittering.”
“That’s too bad,” he said.
She frowned, confused. Did he read minds? Had he detected how much she hated the fact that little Becca lived with Joe Lukins, a heavy drinker who had a new live-in girlfriend every week? She detested the fact that Becca was being brought up in such a—a shoddy, unwholesome atmosphere. “What’s too bad?”
His gaze lingered on hers, his expression serious. “About losing your mother and dad.”
“Oh—yes. But you know all about how that feels, yourself.”
He pursed his lips, nodding. “Yeah.”
She made a production of picking up two dolls, comparing them with such seriousness you’d think world peace depended on her choice. “Uh—look—why don’t you find the compact disc players. I don’t want to keep you.”
He was silent for a moment, and she sensed he was absorbing her abrupt dismissal. “Sure. Why don’t I?”
She didn’t watch him go, but she could hear the retreating thud of his boots. Once he was gone, she exhaled to relieve pent-up tension. Emotionally spent, she sank to the scuffed oak planking. Huddled there, she clutched a Hollywood Queenie doll in each fist, staring blankly at the floor.
CHAPTER FIVE
TAGGART sat at the kitchen table, blessedly alone. Pauline was gone, having finished her day’s work. Absently, he gnawed at a chicken leg. He’d already eaten dinner with Miz Witty, in her room, but his serving sizes had been as small as hers. He had a sneaking suspicion Pauline dished him up those dainty portions so he would have to seek out more food. And in doing so, run into her.
What Pauline didn’t realize was that Taggart Lancaster wasn’t a top-notch defense lawyer for nothing. He knew how deviou
s minds worked, so he steered clear of the kitchen until the cook was gone. As he ate, his thoughts trailed back to this afternoon in the mercantile. Eventually, Mary had joined him in the electronics department to help pick out several “easy listening” and classical compact discs she thought Miz Witty would enjoy.
He’d pulled out his billfold. Remembering just in time not to use his credit card, he extracted several twenties and a couple of fifties. As he paid, Mary had made a strange remark. “Look at all that cash,” she’d said, sounding disgusted. “For a minute, I forgot who and what you are.”
She’d turned and stalked out without another word. The next time he saw her was at dinner when he’d joined her and Miz Witty in the master suite. He and Mary had smiled and chatted, even laughed together at a funny story Miz Witty told about her childhood. Her friendly manner completely masked her utter abhorrence of him. He was sure the charade was taking its toll on her. Not that it wasn’t stressful for him, but for entirely different reasons.
He dropped the chicken bone to his plate and wiped his hands on the napkin in his lap. Brooding, he finished the mashed potatoes and broccoli, then lounged back in his chair, sipping his coffee. He had a headache. Possibly from the altitude. Yeah, right, Lancaster, he jeered silently. It’s the altitude. It has nothing to do with the stress of trying to kill an attraction to a woman who despises you to the depths of her soul. Why was it so hard? It wasn’t like she was coming on to him, using her wiles to subtly seduce him! She hated him for Pete’s sake!
He knew, intellectually, that she didn’t really hate him, just who she thought he was. “It doesn’t make any difference who she hates or thinks she hates,” he mumbled. “Falling in love is not on your agenda.”
His cell phone rang, jarring him from his thoughts. He shifted in his chair, drawing it from a back pocket. He glanced at the display and recognized the number. Lee. Grimacing, he set down his coffee mug. He hoped her call was business, but doubted it. “Lan—” He cut himself off, remembering he was not Taggart Lancaster while sitting in the kitchen where anybody passing by might hear. “Hi, Lee,” he said, unable to disguise his morose frame of mind.
“Well, hi to you, too. You don’t have to sound so excited,” she said, sarcastically.
“Sorry, Lee. I’m just tired.”
“You? Tired? I didn’t think you knew the word.” She laughed, a honeyed, purring sound. He rubbed his eyes. As he’d feared, this wasn’t a business call. She didn’t laugh like that in the office. “Have you been out mountain climbing all day?”
“That’s what I’m doing now,” he said, his tone dispassionate. “As a matter of fact, I’m hanging from a cliff by one hand.”
She laughed again. “You’re such an idiot, baby.”
“No argument there,” he said. “The reminder’s superfluous.” Not only about the fact that I’m an idiot, he thought, but your use of “baby” leaves me no hope that you’ve reconciled yourself to the fact that we no longer have a relationship outside work.
“So, how’s the little game going?”
He dropped a forearm to the table and turned his mug in circles to help defuse his restlessness. “Let’s just say, being the degenerate grandson of the beloved matriarch of a small town isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be.”
“Poor Taggart,” she murmured, her tone coyly sexual. “Maybe I should come out there and give you a back rub—or something.”
He winced. Eyeing the ceiling he decided to change the subject fast. The last thing he needed right now was Lee’s sexual innuendoes cloaked in chitchat. Glancing around to make sure nobody lurked in the doorway, he asked, “Say, Lee, what’s happening with that Margolis case?”
She didn’t sound happy about the abrupt switch in topics, but she was a good lawyer, so she familiarized him with the latest.
He absorbed the news. “Considering how bad it could have been, if we get off with a fine, I’ll consider it a win.”
He heard a sound and glanced toward it. Mary had walked in and was reaching for a mug. He watched her pour herself coffee as Lee returned to her back rub offer. He had no choice but to cut her off. “Look, I’ve got to go. I’ve—got company.”
“Oh? Well—later then.” Lee sounded reluctant to end the call. “Have a nice vacation, baby.”
“Don’t bet the farm.” Before Lee could respond, he flipped the phone closed and replaced it in his hip pocket.
Mary turned away from the green tile counter, her mug of coffee clutched in both hands. Frowning, she settled her glance on him.
After several grim, still seconds, he nodded a solemn greeting. “Evening,” he said, wondering why she hadn’t sprinted out the door once she’d poured her coffee.
She eyed him with suspicion. “Who was that, your lawyer?”
“What?” Her question caught him off guard. He stalled, unsure what to say, since he didn’t know how much she’d heard.
She sipped her coffee, maintaining eye contact over the rim of her mug. When she finally lowered the cup, she said, “You made a remark about only having to pay a fine being like a win.”
He absorbed her statement. Considering who she thought he was, he supposed his end of the conversation could have sounded that way—Bonn’s lawyer advising him on some legal transgression, and the near miraculous possibility that he might get off with only a monetary fine. “Oh—right. Yeah. That was my lawyer.” It wasn’t quite a lie. Lee was indeed a lawyer, who had been, and still wanted like hell to be, his very own—on the most intimate level.
“Doesn’t your lawyer get tired of bailing you out of trouble?”
Admittedly weary of wrangling to keep his white collar clients—including Bonn—from paying too dearly for their crimes and misdemeanors, Taggart shrugged. “That’s what lawyers are paid to do.”
For the second time that day, she shook her head at him, the corners of her pretty mouth turning down in open disapproval.
What a shock.
She looked away for a moment, chewed her lower lip, then focused on him again. “As much as I dislike you, Mr. Wittering, I am even more revolted by lawyers who make their livings saving rats from sinking ships.”
Her unwelcome frankness didn’t do his ego any good. Up until now, she’d insulted the man she thought he was. Little did she know she was finally insulting the man who was actually in the same room with her.
He met her disparaging gaze with a poker face. “A million lawyer jokes prove you’re not alone in your low opinion. Even so, defense attorneys are an integral part of our justice system.” For some reason he had to know her particular reasons for hating attorneys. “What did a lawyer ever do to you?”
She blinked, seeming unsettled by the question. When she continued to stare wordlessly, he coaxed, “I might be a lot of bad things, but people tell me I’m a good listener.”
She inhaled, as though for strength. “Not that I think you really care,” she said, “…but I’ll tell you, just so you’ll know how regular people live—and get so-called justice. My dad was in a car accident. It wasn’t his fault. He was badly hurt and didn’t have enough insurance to cover the medical bills, so he was forced to sue. Dad’s lawyer was a nice, average guy from a nice, average firm. The rich jerk who hit our car had lots of money and hired a high-priced firm to defend him. Daddy’s lawyer could win in a good, honest fight. But he’d never gone up against a tableful of smooth-talking, amoral sharks.”
She shook her head, looking sad. “It was a massacre. By rights, Mr. Moneybags should have paid my father’s medical bills, plus punitive damages, but his lawyer got him off scot-free.” Her voice quivered and she swallowed. “Dad never fully recovered. That slime trail of a law firm might as well have stabbed Daddy in the heart.” She lay her mug on the countertop, her gaze shimmering, her features hard.
Taggart didn’t know what to say. The legal system wasn’t perfect. No legal system was without flaws. Of course, Mary would only see her father’s side of things. He could have been more at fault than
she wanted to believe, but bringing that up would serve no purpose. “I’m sorry about what happened to your dad,” he said, meaning it. “What can I say?”
“Nothing. You can’t help being born rich,” she said. “But try getting justice without money sometime. See how it goes.”
He didn’t speak. Fighting the wayward urge to drag her in his arms, he took a sip of his coffee.
“So what trouble did you get into that your high-priced shyster’s gotten you off with only a fine?”
High-priced shyster? That was painful, and not a pretty picture of his career choice. Yet, even as antagonistic as she was, this was the longest conversation they’d shared outside Miz Witty’s presence. At least, the longest initiated by Mary. He couldn’t imagine what had caused this sudden need of hers to break her vow to avoid him like the plague. Some kind of morbid curiosity about the black sheep mentality? “I thought you were the one who told me to stay out of your way.” He sat back, eyeing her with curiosity. “What’s with the examination? Do I dare hope you’ve decided to write my biography?”
She crossed her arms and pointedly looked away, seeming disconcerted, as though she wasn’t sure herself why she was still there. “I have absolutely no interest in you, Mr. Wittering,” she said, tentatively meeting his gaze again. “I just—well, Miz Witty is important to me, and I don’t like to think you’ll end up hurting her any more than you already have, that’s all.”
He experienced a knife twist in his gut. Wasn’t he walking a tightrope, doing his damnedest not to? “What do you mean?” he asked.
“I mean…” She walked to the table, leaned forward, placing the flats of her hands on the polished pine surface. “I mean, I don’t know what kind of trouble you’ve gotten yourself into, or what kind of trouble you’re likely to get into after you leave.” Her face was only a short distance away now, her smoky-brown eyes glistening with emotion. “If you go to jail, that would destroy her. She really is in fragile health—her heart’s not strong. A blow like that and—and…”
