Surrender to a Playboy

by Renee Roszel

  The boxes started to slip sideways, drawing Taggart back to his offer to help. He grasped the packages, shouldering them to halt their slide. “Let me take those,” he said.

  She didn’t let go, seeming to return from her thoughts more belatedly than Taggart. She was very close, his face inches from hers. He could tell when she returned to the here-and-now by the way her eyes went wide, and her smile vanished. “What—what are you doing?” she asked, sounding frightened.

  The panic in her voice bloodied his heart. He loved this woman more than life, and she feared him, loathed him. Any declarations of who he really was, and how much he loved her, would fall on deaf ears. She wouldn’t listen, and even if she heard, she wouldn’t care.

  Ensnared in his lie, and bitterly defeated, he had difficulty pretending that the shock on her face didn’t rip him apart. He managed an apologetic grin. “Don’t panic. I was just taking the packages.” He lifted them away and stepped out of kissing range. “You were gone somewhere in your head and they started to fall.”

  She colored fiercely. “Oh—of course.” Her lashes went down shyly, contritely. The effect was subtly erotic and blatantly cruel.

  In an attempt at self-preservation, he glanced away. Exhibiting an ease he didn’t feel, he hefted the pile of gifts. “All these are for Becca’s birthday? She’s a lucky little girl.”

  “I guess I do go a little overboard,” she said. Unable to help himself, Taggart met her gaze. She still wore that charming blush. Her lips were even tilted slightly upward, an exhilarating surprise. Clearly, the closer Becca’s visit came, the more elevated Mary’s mood became, even in the presence of Bonner Wittering. “I started buying her gifts right after her last birthday—when I had a little extra money—after putting what I need aside for nursing courses.” She shrugged, slipping her hands into her jeans pockets. “I—I guess I want to spoil her, after—after…” She shrugged again and looked away. She bit her lower lip and Taggart could tell she was having trouble talking about Becca’s circumstances.

  “Yeah, I don’t blame you,” he said, drawing her gaze.

  “You don’t?” she asked, wiping away a tear.

  He was surprised by her question. “Absolutely not. Why would I?”

  She frowned, swallowed, then shook her head. “Joe says it’s not good for her—that the real world is a hard place, and she might as well know that early.”

  “Please don’t tell me you listen to that jerk.”

  “I have to,” she said. “He’s Becca’s father.”

  “Well, you’re her sister.” Taggart wanted—no needed—to find words to make her smile again. “As long as she has you, she’ll be okay.”

  Mary’s gaze dropped to the rag rug and she frowned in thought. “I hope so, but Joe’s hard to fight. He won’t let her take half these gifts home. They’ll sit here gathering dust. It’s so unfair.”

  “If life were fair, Joe would be a grizzly bear’s love-slave.”

  Mary’s gaze shot to his face, her surprise at his comment evident in her expression. After a second, she grinned. Actually grinned. “I’d pay to see that,” she said.

  The shocking thrill of her smile—aimed at him—affected him so deeply, anything he might have planned to say lodged in his throat. A tiny glow sparked to life amid the ashes of his hope. He knew the humble flame would be fleeting and quickly flicker out, but he savored it, blessed it.

  He stood there, spellbound by her smile, aware for the first time of a fragile thread that stretched between them. A connection. He sensed she felt it too—for however briefly it might endure—and a strange, spiritual peace flowed through him. He tried to memorize her face, that smile, needed to learn it by heart for the long, solitary years ahead of him.

  Taggart was packed and ready to leave. He’d said goodbye to Pauline and Ruby, then had breakfast with Miz Witty and Mary, a difficult hour. Things had been different between Mary and him since the dance. Though Mary avoided him, when she could, her obvious pleasure at Becca’s impending visit had an all-encompassing effect on her. Even his arrival in a room didn’t dim her bubbly enthusiasm, and he’d noticed her actually smiling at him several times. He blessed Becca for that.

  Mary had left to pick up her sister over thirty minutes ago. She’d be back any minute, and Taggart didn’t plan to be there. It was time to go, anyway. Why drag out his agony for one more chance to see Mary’s face—even if that once more would be his last chance, and would mean he could see her at her happiest.

  He couldn’t stay. It would be too tough on his heart, not to be able to take her in his arms, kiss those wonderful lips, make love to her, whisper how beautiful she was in the morning, or at night under the stars. Not to be able to tell her how much of the rest of his life he would give simply to glimpse again how perfect, how lovely she was, lounging sleepily in the tub, one flickering candle illuminating her body—taunting him with skin he could never touch, never kiss, never awaken to passion.

  He’d heard someone say that sometimes the best thing to do was nothing at all. He hadn’t understood how difficult that could be until now. He had to go back to Boston, had to leave Wittering, had to do nothing, never reveal his love.

  He didn’t know if doing nothing was kind or right or wrong or stupid or wise. He only knew he’d made, and kept, a promise to his boyhood friend, Bonner Wittering. Miz Witty believed he was her “Bonny.” She’d had a happy seventy-fifth birthday and a nice visit with her “grandson.” The game was finished and he had won.

  “Yeah, right,” he muttered, through a bitter laugh. With suffocating loss tightening his throat, he trudged down the stairs with his suitcase.

  He opened the front door and was startled when Mary tumbled into his arms. Clinging, weeping, her knees buckled and she began to sink to the floor. He dropped his suitcase and lifted her in his arms. “What the—what’s happened?” He carried her into the living room.

  She pushed hair out of her face, and Taggart could see that she’d been crying for some time. Her eyes were red, her cheeks flushed, her face wet with tears. “She’s gone—they’re gone!” she cried, dropping her face against his shoulder, as though she were too weak and shattered to hold her head up. “The—the trailer’s gone.” He felt her hands fist around wads of his turtleneck shirt. “Nobody—” Her voice broke. “Nobody knew where they—they were. Just that they left sometime late Wednesday night.”

  “Joe’s gone?” Taggart asked in disbelief. He took a seat on the velvet Victorian sofa. It creaked under their combined weight.

  Seeming not to notice she sat in his lap, Mary sniffed, nodding. “And Becca—and Joe’s latest girlfriend. Everything’s gone!” She looked into Taggart’s face, her expression so tragic he had a sudden, vicious urge to string Joe Lukins up by his ears.

  Her fists eased and she slid her arms around his neck, crying against his chest. “By now they’re out of Colorado and—and we’re bordered by seven states! Even Texas is just a hop across the Oklahoma panhandle! They could be almost anyplace!” she cried. “How could Joe do that? Two—two weeks is so little to ask! And Mother—wanted Becca and me to be together! The judge said…” She bit her lip and choked back a sob.

  Trembling with fright and sorrow and loss, she pressed her face against his throat, her sobs muffled by his shirt. Taggart held her, stroked her hair. Scalding fury twisted his gut in a knot. How many times had he wanted to hold her, cradle her—but not like this. Not with her heart breaking.

  “He—he’s not supposed to leave town without letting me know where he’s going,” she cried. “He can’t take Becca away. What—what if I never see her again?” She broke down completely, the sound of her suffering so mournful it caused him physical pain.

  Taggart clenched his teeth throwing out a silent vow. Damn you, Joe Lukins! You won’t get away with this, you cowardly bastard. Maybe I can never love Mary the way I want to, but I’m a damn good lawyer with excellent contacts. I have a private investigator on retainer who can find a snowflake in Had
es before it has a chance to melt. If Becca is on the face of this earth, she’ll be found!

  His glance chanced across the mantel clock. Nine-thirty. Hell, he had to go. And not only did he have to go, but he had to go as Bonner Wittering, a man with little knowledge or interest in legal matters, except when they pertained to saving his own tail. So, as Bonner Wittering, he said, “Call the police, Mary.” He knew it would do little good. The child was with her father. No all-points bulletins would be issued. No roadblocks set up. But it should be reported. Any future case she might make against Becca’s father would be strengthened by verification of court-order violations.

  He lay a hand on the back of her head, slowly, lovingly stroking her hair. Its light, flowery scent reminded him of the high-country meadow. He filled his lungs with the heady essence and it made him weak. Against his will, he nuzzled the side of her face with his cheek. Unable to stop himself, he placed a wayward, foolish goodbye kiss on the hair above her temple. “Joe’s in the wrong,” he murmured into her hair. “Report it.”

  He continued to stroke and caress her hair, tucking locks behind her ear that had fallen over her face. “I have to go, Mary,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with regret.

  He forced his hands to her shoulders, raising her into a sitting position. He felt her shudder and draw in a deep breath before she met his eyes. Sniffing, she ran her knuckles across her tearstained cheeks. “Oh—of course,” she said, her voice fragile and tremulous. “I’m sorry—I just…”

  She swallowed, ran her hands through her hair to push it off her face. Breaking eye contact, she sucked in another breath to regain her poise. He had a feeling she was embarrassed for being so broken up she’d allowed herself to be comforted by “the snake.” “I’ll call the police right now.” She scrambled off his lap and pushed up to stand. From the way she swayed and reached out for the sofa arm, it was clear she wasn’t very steady.

  He stood, taking her arm to help her balance. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Keeping her gaze averted, she pulled out of his grasp. “Forgive me for imposing my problems on you.”

  He wanted to tell her that coming to him with her problems would never be an imposition, but he knew he couldn’t. Instead, he said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ve—”

  “You’d better go if you’re going to catch your plane,” she cut in. Turning away, she hurried to the antique commode next to the living room entry and grabbed the phone.

  “Right—my plane,” he murmured more to himself than to Mary. She’d dismissed him from her thoughts when she turned her back. He watched her grimly. Her hands shook so badly he wasn’t sure she could dial. He ached to tell her that he would do everything in his power to get Becca back, but his promise to Bonn kept him from speaking.

  He stood there like a fool, lovesick and torn. His thoughts tasted like gall. He wanted to say something, do something. Anything, to ease her fears. “Mary, I’m sure the police will—”

  “Hello? Sheriff Platt?” she said, interrupting his empty observation. “This is Mary O’Mara.”

  Go on! Get out! he berated inwardly. Staying any longer would be pointless. Focus, Lancaster! You have a little girl to find—for the woman you can never have.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  AFTER reporting Joe Lukins’ illegal, dead-of-night bolt with Becca, Mary hung up the phone. Though the sheriff was caring and sympathetic he wasn’t very reassuring. It seemed, as illegal as Joe’s actions might be, law enforcement put a parent absconding with his own child—no matter how big a sleazebag he might be—fairly far down on their list of priorities.

  She turned around to tell Bonner the bad news only to discover he wasn’t there. She jerked toward the front door. It was closed and his suitcase was nowhere to be seen. She experienced a sudden, wrenching rush of sadness.

  Bonner Wittering was gone.

  Well, hadn’t she told him to go? Why did she think he wouldn’t? And why, oh, why did she feel so abandoned? Why was the fact that he had actually walked away as shattering to her mind and spirit as losing Becca?

  “Mary O’Mara!” she chided mournfully. “How hopeless can you be?” Struggling to cope with her bleak, lightless future, she sank to the floor. Tears choked and blinded her. Rocking back and forth, she wept aloud.

  Mary’s world was shrouded in gloom. She went about her daily chores as though nothing was wrong, but inside torment ate at her. When she was with Miz Witty she did her best to be upbeat, yet every day without news of Becca pounded her spirits lower and lower.

  Then, twenty-eight days from the day Joe disappeared with Becca, daylight broke through to Mary’s dreary world. She got a call from authorities in Utah. A private investigator had found Becca in a small hospital there. She’d been admitted the night before with a broken arm. The PI notified the authorities of Becca’s whereabouts, and they had taken charge of the matter. Exactly who the PI was, and why he’d been searching for Becca, Mary couldn’t find out. She desperately wanted to thank the man, but he disappeared as quickly and furtively as he’d appeared.

  What Mary did find out, to her horror, was that Joe had been in a car accident, driving drunk. He’d smashed his pickup truck into a convenience store’s plate glass window. Luckily no one inside the store had been hurt.

  Joe and his girlfriend suffered minor injuries, but were okay. Joe, however, was being held in the local jail. His police record from Colorado had somehow found its way to the Utah authorities. Considering Joe’s long history of drinking and driving, it looked like he would be in jail for a while.

  Before Mary knew what was happening, she suddenly had Becca back, at least temporarily. Then, another miracle she couldn’t explain or understand came into her life in the form of the best family law attorney in Colorado. Out of the blue, he contacted her, explaining that he could get her permanent, sole custody of her half sister.

  Since Mary was Becca’s only other living relative, and Joe Lukins was clearly unfit as a parent and very likely headed for prison, the attorney promised “a slam-dunk.” His assurances lifted Mary’s hopes, but she admitted she couldn’t afford his services. His answer was simply, “It’s been taken care of.”

  In late October, the wonderful day came when a family court judge decreed that Mary O’Mara would, now and forever, have sole custody of Becca Lukins. Mary was so overwhelmed with joy and gratitude, she impulsively hugged her lawyer. To Mary’s surprise, she discovered the forceful, graying, urbane attorney, had the most charming and unexpected capacity for blushing. Unfortunately, he also had an exasperating capacity for being immovable on the subject of who hired him on Mary’s behalf and who was paying for his legal expertise.

  Mary suspected, of course. It had to be Miz Witty who’d orchestrated these miracles. She must have hired the PI and the attorney. There was no one else in the world who would do so much, spend so much, for Mary.

  But Miz Witty kept insisting she’d done none of it. Very frustrating! Mary decided she must have the truth, once and for all. She owed Miz Witty everything for what she’d done. It wasn’t fair that her sweet, benevolent employer wouldn’t allow Mary to thank her properly. But, then, how did one thank a person for giving her everything she wanted in the whole world?

  A sly, cruel voice in her head whispered, You mean almost everything, don’t you? What about Bonner Wittering?

  “Oh, stop it!” she mumbled, as she cleared lunch dishes from Miz Witty’s small bedroom table. She checked her wristwatch. Becca wouldn’t get out of school for another hour.

  As she went back to her chore, Bonner’s face loomed large in her mind’s eye, making her heart leap foolishly. “Get over the man!” she groused under her breath. “Whatever chemical imbalance you’re suffering, wait it out. You’ll recover. And even if you don’t, surely one day they’ll invent a medicine to correct it—like they have for out-of-control cholesterol or rampaging blood pressure!”

  “Did you say something to me, dear?” Miz Witty asked.

  Ma
ry spun around. Had she said that out loud? “Uh—er—no.”

  Miz Witty sat before her window in her wheelchair, a novel in her hands. Snow fluttered down prettily, blanketing the pine forest behind the house. It was November third, and winter in the Rockies had begun in earnest. The older woman smiled at Mary, her expression inquisitive. “I thought I heard…is it already time to take my blood pressure?”

  Mary felt like an idiot, and shook her head. “No—I—I was talking to myself.”

  Miz Witty laughed lightly, patting the silvery mound of curls piled on her head. “You’re talking to yourself about blood pressure? Were you discussing yours or mine with yourself?”

  Mary smiled wanly. “No—my thoughts were just—um—wandering.”

  Miz Witty’s brow wrinkled. “When I was your age, Mary, and my mind wandered, it certainly wasn’t about blood pressure.” She lifted a pale hand, beckoning Mary forward. “Come here, my child.”

  Mary indicated the tray of dirty dishes. “I was going to take these to the kitchen.”

  Miz Witty waved that idea away. “Forget it for the moment.” She stretched out a thin, blue-veined hand. “Come, child. You look—distressed.”

  Mary had tried so hard to keep her irrational infatuation with Bonner from showing. But she supposed Miz Witty knew her too well to be fooled. Still, she didn’t intend to discuss it. The best defense was a good offense. Stiffening her resolve, she vowed that once and for all she would get at the truth—compel Miz Witty to admit her extraordinary generosity.

  She walked to her employer. “Miz Witty,” she began, “I have to know the truth. You hired that lawyer, didn’t you? I know I told you I didn’t want any charity from you, that I wanted to make my own way. But—but finding Becca for me and then helping me get sole custody. Well, it’s just so perfect. If you did this, I can’t let it go as though nothing happened. I want to pay you back in some way. If you don’t want money, then let me do something else. Please, I—”