by Renee Roszel
It wasn’t easy, since Lee fairly glittered. Her snowy, silk blouse had a trillion sparkly rhinestone buttons running down the front, with a dozen more strung along each wide cuff. Add the sparkle of those huge diamond rocks in her ears and, well, she practically caught fire with reflected light every time she moved. Her slim, black skirt fit like a sausage skin—one of those creations only mannequins and half-starved models could pull off, but Lee managed. She was so tall, so thin, so sophisticated, so educated. Every time Mary’s glance fell on the lady lawyer, she felt a little more dowdy and puffy and boring.
The dance ended and Mary’s partner, a local mail carrier, thanked her and escorted her to the fruit punch table. She’d used the “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get something to drink” plea so many times tonight, she was beginning to fear going into sugar shock.
She smiled a mute “goodbye” to the gangly man and turned her attention to the paper punch cups. Nervous and out-of-sorts, she straightened several, turning them so the flower designs faced out. Another slow, seductive melody began. When she was sure her latest partner had moved off into the crowd, she took a step back from the table and slammed into someone. By the solidness of the body, she knew it was a man. A big man, she decided, since he hadn’t stumbled backward when she’d rammed him. “Oh, excuse me, I should have looked where I—”
She turned to find herself staring into Bonner Wittering’s dark eyes. Her apology and her polite smile died a quick death. Apparently, so did her brain, since she could do nothing but gawk.
“No problem, Miss O’Mara,” he said softly. “I’ve been stepped on before.” His lips quirked vaguely, as though he might smile. He didn’t quite. She wondered why he bothered to hide his amusement from her, since he obviously found her easy to laugh at when her back was turned. “To be honest, you’re not the first woman to step on me tonight.” He held out a hand. “I was about to ask you to dance.” He indicated the dimly lit room, pulsating with entwined couples. “You’d have complete freedom to stomp on me out there. I have a feeling you’d enjoy that.”
He wasn’t wrong about her desire to stomp on him, but no matter how much she wanted to agree, she didn’t respond, couldn’t move. Before she realized what was happening, he took her hand and tugged her into his arms. An instant later, their bodies softly impacting, they swayed to the sultry melody.
Mary blinked, stared blankly into his white dress shirt. She didn’t like to think it, but he looked gorgeous, in dark slacks, beige sports coat and pristine dress shirt open at the neck. He smelled delicious, too, manly, clean, with a hint of spicy after-shave. The kind of smell you wanted to bury your nose in and just breathe until you passed out.
She resisted the urge, holding her face away from his shirt-front. She couldn’t help but notice that he held her like a real Western dance partner would hold a woman. Bellies rubbing, knees brushing. His hand rested gently, yet firmly, at the small of her back, his fingers spread, warm and unsettlingly welcome. He cupped her other hand against his heart. She could feel its slow, measured beat beneath her palm. He swayed with her to the music, so easy to follow, the sum of his parts an erotic whole that grew harder to resist with every strum of the guitar.
“You look lovely tonight,” he whispered, drawing her gaze and dispersing the haze that had begun to cloud her brain.
He wasn’t smiling, but watching her with that pseudo-sincerity that looked so disarmingly real. His eyes held a troubling allure. She threw up her guard, hardening her heart against the sensory onslaught. “I’d rather not talk, if you don’t mind.”
His brow creasing, he looked away for an instant before snagging her gaze again and nodding. “Of course.”
They danced on. Though Mary concentrated on staring at his shirt, she felt his eyes on her hair, her face, her throat, her bare shoulder where the wrap had slipped. Time seemed to stop, but they danced on. Mary sighed deeply, wishing she could remain in his arms forever, wishing he weren’t a cavalier playboy, a thoughtless, conniving snake. Wanting him to be just one of the Wittering men, an honest, average guy. Longing for the look in his eyes to be genuine. Despairing that he was not a man worthy of undying love.
“I’m sorry about what happened with Becca this afternoon,” he said, startling her so badly she forgot her request that they not speak.
“How do you know about that?”
“We saw,” he said, looking sympathetic. “Have you tried the courts—getting custody?”
She winced at the irony of his question. “Me?” She shook her head. “No, but Joe has.”
“What?”
She shrugged. “Mom left a will stating she wanted me to have Becca part of the year. Joe didn’t want that, so he took me to court. It ended with me getting Becca the first two weeks every August, for Becca’s birthday, and every other Christmas.” She felt tears welling and blinked them back. “And Joe can’t change residences without letting me know first. When the judge upheld my mother’s wishes, it made Joe furious and even more determined to keep us apart. He does his best to obstruct anything that’s not strictly documented in the ruling. He cancels our plans at the last minute, or like today, Becca and I get together, but Joe shows up early and makes her leave before she’s supposed to.”
She wiped at a tear and looked away, embarrassed. “As mean-spirited as Joe is, he’s her father. Courts don’t take children away from their natural parents without good reason, and being a jerk isn’t a good enough reason.” She chanced a quick look at his face but those eyes were so powerful in their charismatic pull, she quickly looked away. “Friday’s August first, so I get her for two whole weeks. Thank heaven he can’t do anything to ruin that.”
Bonner didn’t speak for a long time, long enough for Mary to have to fight the effects of his subtle attraction again. She was sorry she’d said she didn’t want them to talk. At least dialogue got her mind on something beside how good he smelled, or how sexily he danced. She felt tingly all over, and hot. Her breathing came in forced, little gasps. “Well?” she asked, panicky, needing conversation, any conversation, even if it had to be the unhappy topic of Joe Lukins. If she didn’t get her mind wrapped around something else very soon, she was afraid she’d rear up on her toes and kiss him again!
“Well, what?” he asked, his breath caressing her cheek, a warm, seductive whisper that made her weak in the knees.
“Don’t you have anything you want to say to me?” she asked, her voice high-pitched.
His expression was unreadable, his dark eyes reflecting the tiny, white lights, but nothing more. His jaw hardened and a muscle jumped in his cheek. After a drawn-out moment, he shook his head, looking oddly regretful. “No, Mary,” he murmured, “there’s nothing I can say.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
TAGGART sat on the edge of his bed. Restless, he checked his watch. Nearly eight o’clock. Lee would be finishing breakfast. In a few minutes she needed to leave, to drive to the Denver airport for her noon flight back to Boston. He planned to go down to say goodbye, but didn’t intend to spend one more moment with her than necessary.
These past six days with her dogging his heels, refusing to believe anything but her own deluded fantasies about the two of them wore him down. With the lie he was living on Bonner’s behalf, and then so unexpectedly discovering Mary, who kept him tripping over his heart, he had precious little charity left for Lee’s persistent pawing and clinging.
He slumped forward to rest his forearms on his thighs, recalling last night and the party in a log lodge, decorated so simply with hundreds of tiny, twinkling lights. Even the memory rejuvenated his weary soul and brought a smile to his face. The modest party, attended by ordinary townsfolk, seemed like it took place on a faraway planet. Wittering was so different from all he dealt with as a Boston trial lawyer—antagonistic courtroom environments, clashes with rival attorneys, hostile prosecutors, not to mention dealing with the fears and egos of wealthy, whiny clients.
He wished he didn’t have to leave on Friday
, wished he never had to leave. He wished he’d met Mary in a completely different way, maybe on a ski trip. Okay, so he was a lawyer. That didn’t make him the devil incarnate. So he had clients who were more worm than human. It was the nature of the beast. Even worms deserved a strenuous defense. Sometimes he won when his gut told him he shouldn’t have, but most of the time the system worked the way it was designed to.
Yeah, Taggart, but there are days when you’d chuck the whole thing! a less defensive part of his brain whispered. Not only the hassles of defending clients who had more money than morals, but the seven figure income and the big-fish-in-a-big-pond lifestyle.
Until he’d come to Wittering, met Mary and Miz Witty, Taggart had all but forgotten why he’d gone into the practice of law. To help innocent people, wrongly accused. It had been a calling, like nursing was for Mary.
“Some calling,” he muttered, unable to remember when he’d done his last pro bono work for the public good. Certainly not since Annalisa died. “You sold out, brother—for big bucks and a luxury penthouse. Congratulations.”
A knock at his door brought his head up. “Yes?”
“It’s me, baby.”
He experienced a stab of annoyance and peered at his watch. Eight o’clock, exactly. One thing you could say for Lee, she was punctual. He stood and crossed to the door. “Sorry. I let the time get away from me.” He went into the hall and threw an arm about her shoulders, steering her toward the stairs. The last thing he wanted was to be alone in his bedroom with her.
“I was beginning to think you were avoiding me,” she said.
“Of course not.” It was a lie. If she hadn’t deduced that by now, she wasn’t the savvy legal eagle he’d given her credit for being. They descended the steps and he aimed her toward the front door. “I’ll get your bags.”
“Not necessary. That Jed person was here earlier. He carried them down and put them in the trunk of my car.” As Taggart led her onto the porch, she slipped her arm about his waist, squeezing. “Can that guy not talk?”
“He’s the strong, silent type,” Taggart said, grateful to have the conversation turn away from them as a couple.
They crossed the porch and descended the steps to the gravel drive. “Well, I don’t like that type.” When they reached her car, she turned to face him, slipping her arms around his neck. “I like men who talk to me.” She grinned wickedly. “The dirtier the better.”
“Yeah, well…” He cleared his throat. This was the part he hated—the drawn-out, tell-me-you-love-me goodbye. Didn’t she know by now she wasn’t going to get what she wanted from him? His smile was courteous, but brief. “Have a good trip, Lee.”
A shadow flitted over her features, but before Taggart could fully register what he saw, or be positive he saw anything, she took his face in her hands and kissed him hard on the lips. He didn’t help. Reaching up, he grasped her fingers. Gently but firmly liberating his face from her grip, he clasped her hands between his and pressed her away.
“I wish you were going back with me, baby,” she whispered.
“I’ll be back for the Friday night meeting.” He released her. “You’d better go. You know how airport security loves to frisk you.”
Her gaze probed his, possibly hoping she would see something for her there. After a long moment, her expression changed subtly, her eyes glistening, her smile skewing off-center. “I wish you loved to frisk me.” The quiet declaration held a hint of melancholy, as though somewhere, down deep, she was finally facing the truth. Taggart Lancaster was no longer her lover, and never again would be.
“Drive safely,” he said.
Her glance shifted away for a second before she met his eyes again. “Right.” She lifted her hands as if to hold his face again, but seemed to think better of it, and at the last minute dropped them. Her saucy smile returned, but he knew it was a fake. The shimmer in her eyes told the true story. “You’re such a fool,” she said, huskily.
He couldn’t disagree with her, and remained silent.
She nodded slightly, a mute acknowledgment to what she now seemed to accept as true. Taggart did not love her. She swallowed and he had the feeling she was working to remove the emotion from her voice. “Oh, baby, what you’re gonna miss!” She broke eye contact. “Now open my car door like the Boy Scout you are.”
He did as she asked. “Goodbye, Lee,” he said.
“Sayonara, baby.” She slid into the driver’s seat, her attention focused on adjusting her skirt and fastening her seat belt. Taggart sensed she was fighting tears. Lee Stanton, the cast iron woman, was actually on the verge of crying? He experienced a gut twist of compassion, but could do nothing for her.
Even though Mary was out of his reach, for him to pretend affection for Lee, as a substitute, would do them more harm than good. Any relationship he might forge out of pity and lost hope was doomed before it began. Eventually they would hate each other. Knowing this, he made no further attempt at conversation. Closing her door, he stepped away from the car.
The rental’s engine roared to life. For an instant Lee’s glance met his. She winked at him, clearly attempting to appear indifferent, but the effort was faulty and hard to watch. Eyes shimmering, she quickly removed her attention to the rearview mirror, backed up and turned around. Gunning her engine, she spit chat and raised a cloud of dust.
Lee’s speedy exit was a stinging memento of her frustration and anguish. The pebbles her tires spit were tantamount to assault and battery, yet Taggart felt obligated to remain there until she disappeared beyond the line of trees masking the property from the blacktop road.
When the sound of her car died away, a huge weight lifted off his shoulders. But in its place descended a shroud of nagging guilt. Blast! He had nothing to feel guilty about. Lee had known their affair was over before she took it upon herself to show up unannounced. Any grief she suffered she’d brought on all by herself.
For a few more seconds he stared after her, at the dust in the air. Then, without caring about where he was going, he strode into the house and up the stairs to his room. Inside, behind his closed door, he stood motionless, looking at nothing, trying not to think about anything. He had no memory of how long he remained stone-still, Mary’s face floating in his mind’s eye in direct disobedience to his mandate that he think about nothing. Mary was definitely not nothing!
She was everything.
A soft knock at his door jarred him out of his contrary fantasies. “Yes?”
“It’s Mary.”
He was startled—no, shocked. In all the time he’d been there, she’d never come to his door. He turned around, his mood suddenly buoyant. “Come in.”
The doorknob rattled, then turned. An eternity later, she appeared, looking solemn. In her arms she held a stack of brightly wrapped gift boxes. He scanned them, neon pinks and yellows and purples, with kiddie designs, cartoon kittens, balloons and ice cream cones. Even if Mary and Taggart had been on good terms, the wrappings made it obvious the gifts weren’t for him. He didn’t care who they were for, the lift he got merely seeing her there, made him lighthearted, and maybe even a little light-headed. “You shouldn’t have, Miss O’Mara,” he kidded, stepping forward and removing her burden from her grasp. “I’m touched.”
She crossed her arms, sucking in a breath. “I—I’m sorry to bother you—Bonn.” She was obviously uncomfortable but trying to hide it behind a facade of civility. “Becca’s coming on Friday morning, and I’ve been storing her birthday presents in her room. Since her birthday isn’t until Sunday, I need a place to hide the gifts. Last year I hid them in the closet in here. I wondered if you’d mind—if you’d have room…”
She let the sentence die, but held eye contact. When he realized she was through speaking, he said, “Oh—sure. No problem.” Turning away, he rounded his bed to the closet. Opening the door, he lifted the packages to a shelf above the clothes rod. “Any more?”
“A few.”
“I’ll be happy to help.” He stepped out o
f the closet and turned toward her. She was gone. He chuckled cynically, muttering, “What did you expect, Lancaster?” Louder, he called, “Let me help.”
When she didn’t respond, he crossed the hall and entered the room set aside for Becca. He’d never been in there and was surprised by how perfectly it had been decorated for a little girl. The room was small, about half the size of his. Bright and airy and full of sunshine, it had a cozy, embracing feel.
The mattress of a wrought iron daybed was covered with a white, ruffled spread. A dozen or so pillows, piled against the sides and back of the bed, were clad in matching, ruffled shams. A colorful menagerie of stuffed toys lolled against the pillows.
The walls were soft pink, accented by fairy-tale artwork, hung in groupings and framed in white. The dresser, vanity table and stool were also white. A large, oval rag rug in shades of purples, pinks and greens covered most of the pine floor. The window curtains were sheer and ruffled.
Taggart nodded admiringly. “She must love this room.”
His gaze met Mary’s as she came out of the closet with another armload of brightly wrapped gift boxes. Her expression eased at his compliment. “She does love it.” Taggart could tell Mary was picturing her half sister in her mind, because she smiled. “Becca picked out the color for the walls and we painted it together.” She laughed lightly, the sound sending a quiver of desire along his spine.
Mary’s gaze had gone inward, though she continued to look at Taggart. “Well, to be scrupulously honest, Becca and Pauline kept me supplied with freshly baked, chocolate-chip cookies while I painted.”
She continued to smile, obviously recollecting happy times with her half sister in this room. Her sweet expression, the light blush on her cheeks, affected Taggart like a particularly tough win in court—the jury’s verdict so unexpected it knocked the wind from his lungs. Mary’s smile affected him like that, except multiplied a thousand times. He couldn’t help smiling back. Hell, he’d probably been smiling since he first saw her in his doorway.
