Taylor's Temptation

by Suzanne Brockmann

  A woman? At Mass General Hospital…? Now it was Colleen’s turn to stare at him stupidly. “You didn’t track me down because Wes is hurt?”

  “Wes?” Bobby shook his head as he leaned forward to turn the air conditioner fan to high. “No, I’m sure he’s fine. The mission was probably only a training op. He wouldn’t have been able to send e-mail if it were the real thing.”

  “Then what’s going on?” Colleen’s relief was mixed with irritation. He had a lot of nerve, coming after her like this and scaring her to death.

  “Andrea Barker,” he explained. “One of the chief administrators of the AIDS Education Center. She was found badly beaten—barely breathing—outside of her home in Newton. I saw it in the paper.”

  Colleen nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I heard about that this morning. That’s really awful. I don’t know her that well—we talked on the phone only once. I’ve mostly met with her assistant when dealing with the center.”

  “So you did know she’s in the hospital.” Something very much like anger flashed in his eyes, and his usually pleasantly relaxed mouth was back to a hard, grim line.

  Bobby Taylor was mad at her. It was something Colleen had never experienced before. She hadn’t thought he was capable of getting mad—he was so laid-back. Even more mind-blowing was the fact that she truly had no clue what she’d done to get him so upset.

  “The article went into some depth about the problem they’ve—you’ve—You’re part of them, providing legal services at no cost, right? The problem you’ve been having establishing a center in this one particular neighborhood in Boston. The same neighborhood where you just happened to be threatened yesterday while having a car wash…?”

  And Colleen understood. She laughed in disbelief. “You really think the attack on Andrea Barker had something to do with her work for the education center?”

  Bobby didn’t shout at her the way Wesley did when he got mad. He spoke quietly, evenly, his voice dangerously soft. Combined with the spark of anger in his eyes, it was far more effective than any temper tantrum Wes had ever thrown. “And you don’t?”

  “No. Come on, Bobby. Don’t be so paranoid. Look, I heard that the police theory is she startled a burglar coming out of her house.”

  “I heard a partial list of her injuries,” Bobby countered, still in that same quietly intense voice. She had to wonder, what would ever set him off, make him raise his voice? What—if anything—would make this man lose his cool and detonate? If it ever happened, boy, look out. It would probably be quite an impressive show.

  “They weren’t the kind of injuries a woman would get from a burglar,” he continued, “whose primary goal would have been to knock her down so he could run away as quickly as possible. No, I’m sorry, Colleen. I know you want to believe otherwise, but this woman was beaten deliberately, and if I know it, then the police know it, too. The burglar story is probably just something they threw out to the press, to make the real perpetrator think he’s home-free.”

  “You don’t know that for sure.”

  “Yes,” he said. “You’re right. I don’t know it absolutely. But I’m 99 percent sure. Sure enough to be afraid that, as the legal representative to the AIDS Education Center, you could be the next target. Sure enough to know that the last thing you should be doing today is driving a truck around all by yourself.”

  He clenched his teeth, the muscles jumping in his jaw as he glared at her. That spark of anger made his eyes cold, as if she were talking to a stranger.

  Well, maybe she was.

  “Oh. Right.” Colleen let her voice get louder with her growing anger. What did he care what happened to her? She was just an idiot who’d embarrassed both of them last night. She was just his friend. No, not even. The real truth was that she was just some pain-in-the-butt sister of a friend. “I’m supposed to lock myself in my apartment because there might be people who don’t like what I do? Sorry, that’s not going to happen.”

  “I spoke to some people,” Bobby told her. “They seem to think this John Morrison who threatened you yesterday could be a real danger.”

  “Some people?” she asked. “Which people? If you talked to Mindy in the center’s main office—well, she’s afraid of her own shadow. And Charlie Johannsen is no—”

  “I dare you,” Bobby said, “to look me in the eye and tell me that you’re not just a little bit afraid of this man.”

  She looked at him. Looked away. “Okay. So maybe I am a little—”

  “And yet you came out here, anyway. By yourself.”

  She laughed in his face. “Yeah, and like you never do anything that you’re a little afraid of. Like jumping out of airplanes. Or swimming in shark-infested waters. That’s a particularly tough one for you, isn’t it, Bobby? Wes told me you have a thing about sharks. Yet you do it. You jump into the water without hesitation. You face down your fear and get on with your life. Don’t be a hypocrite, Taylor, and expect me to do anything less.”

  He was trying hard to be patient. “I’m trained to do those things.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m a woman,” she countered. “I’ve been trained, too. I’ve had more than ten years of experience dealing with everything from subtle, male innuendo to overt threats. By virtue of being female, I’m a little bit afraid almost every single time I walk down a city street—and I’m twice as afraid at night.”

  He shook his head. “There’s a big difference between that and a specific threat from a man like John Morrison.”

  “Is there?” Colleen asked. “Is there really? Because I don’t see it that way. You know, there have been times when I walk past a group of men sitting out on the front steps of their apartment building, and one of them says, ‘Hey, baby. Want to…”’ She said it. It was impossibly crude, and Bobby actually flinched. “‘Get over here now,’ they say. ‘Don’t make me chase you to get what I know you want to give me.”’

  She paused for emphasis. Bobby looked appropriately subdued. “After someone,” she said more quietly now, “some stranger says something like that to you—and if you want a real dare, then I dare you to find a woman my age who hasn’t had a similar experience—you get a little—just a little—nervous just going out of your apartment. And when you approach a man heading toward you on the sidewalk, you feel a little flicker of apprehension or maybe even fear. Is he going to say something rude? Is he going take it a step further and follow you? Or is he just going to look at you and maybe whistle, and let you see from his eyes that he’s thinking about you in ways that you don’t want him to be thinking about you?

  “And each time that happens,” Colleen told him, “it’s no less specific—or potentially unreal—than John Morrison’s threats.”

  Bobby was silent, just sitting there, looking out the window.

  “I’m so sorry,” he finally said. “What kind of world do we live in?” He laughed, but it wasn’t laughter that had anything to do with humor. It was a burst of frustrated air. “The really embarrassing part is that I’ve been that guy. Not the one who actually says those things, I’d never do that. But I’m the one who looks and even whistles. I never really thought something like that might frighten a woman. I mean, that was never my intention.”

  “Think next time,” she told him.

  “Someone really said that to you?” He gave her a sidelong glance. “In those words?”

  She nodded, meeting his gaze. “Pretty rude, huh?”

  “I wish I’d been there,” he told her. “I would’ve put him in the hospital.”

  He said it so matter-of-factly, but she knew it wasn’t just an idle threat. “If you had been there,” she pointed out, “he wouldn’t have said it.”

  “Maybe Wes is right.” Bobby smiled at her ruefully. “ “Maybe you should have a twenty-four-hour armed escort, watching your every move.”

  “Oh, no,” Colleen groaned. “Don’t you start with that, too. Look, I’ve got a can of pepper spray in my purse and a whistle on my key ring. I know you don’t think so,
but I’m about as safe as I can be. I’ve been keeping the truck doors locked, I’ve called ahead to set up appointment times, I’ve—”

  “You forgot me,” Bobby interrupted. “You should have called me, Colleen. I would have gladly come along with you right from the start.”

  Oh, perfect. She knew without even asking that he was not going to leave, that he was here in the cab of this truck until she made the last of her pickups, dropped off both the donations and the truck, and took the T back to Cambridge.

  “Has it occurred to you that I might not be overly eager to spend the day with you?” she asked him.

  She could see his surprise. He’d never dreamed she would be so blunt and to the point. Still, he recovered nicely. And he surprised her back by being equally straightforward.

  “It’s already too late for our friendship, isn’t it?” he said. “I really blew it last night.”

  No way was she going to let him take the blame. “I was the one who kissed you first.”

  “Yeah, but I was the one who didn’t stop you right then and there,” Bobby countered.

  She jammed the truck into gear, silently cursing herself for being stupid enough to have even just a little hope left to be crushed. Yet there it was, flapping about like a deflated balloon on the gritty floor of the truck, right next to her shredded pride and pulverized heart.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have been able to control myself, but I couldn’t. I’m…”

  Colleen looked at him. She didn’t mean to. She didn’t want to. God forbid he see the total misery that his words brought her reflected in her eyes. But there was something in his voice that made her unable to keep from turning her head.

  He was looking at her. He was just sitting there, looking at her, and it was the exact same way he’d looked at her last night, right before he’d pulled her close and kissed the hell out of her. There was hunger in his eyes. Heat and need and desire.

  He looked away quickly, as if he didn’t want her to see those things. Colleen looked away, too, her mind and heart both racing.

  He was lying. He’d lied this morning, too. He didn’t want them to stay just friends any more than she did.

  He hadn’t given her the “let’s stay friends” speech because he had an aversion to women like her, women who actually had hips and thighs and weighed more than ninety pounds, wet. He hadn’t made that speech because he found her unattractive, because she didn’t turn him on.

  On the contrary…

  With a sudden clarity that should have been accompanied by angelic voices and a brilliant light, Colleen knew.

  She knew. Bobby had said there was more to it, but there wasn’t. This was about Wes.

  It was Wesley who had gotten in the way of her and Bobby Taylor, as surely as if he were sitting right there between them, stinking of stale cigarette smoke, in the cab of this truck.

  But she wasn’t going to call Bobby on that—no way. She was going to play—and win—this game, secure that she knew the cards he was holding in his hand.

  Bobby wasn’t going to know what hit him.

  She glanced at him again as she pulled out of the parking lot. “So you really think Andrea’s attack had something to do with her being an AIDS activist?” she asked.

  He glanced at her, too, and this time he managed to keep his eyes mostly expressionless. But it was back there—a little flame of desire. Now that she knew what to look for, she couldn’t help but see it. “I think until she comes out of that coma and tells the police what happened, we should err on the side of caution.”

  Colleen made herself shiver. “It’s just so creepy—the thought of her being attacked right outside of her own home.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that. I’ll go home with you after we’re done here.”

  Jackpot. She had to bite the insides of her cheeks to keep from smiling. She somehow managed to twist her mouth around into a face of displeasure. “Oh,” she said. “I don’t know if that’s necessary—”

  “I’ll check your place out, see what we can do to heighten the security,” he told her. “Worst-case scenario, I’ll camp out in the living room tonight. I know you probably don’t want me to, but…”

  No, indeed, she did not want him camped out in her living room tonight.

  She wanted him in her bedroom.

  “Wait,” Colleen said, when Bobby would’ve opened the truck door and climbed down, after she parked outside the next senior center on her list. She was fishing around in her backpack, and she came up brandishing a hairbrush. “The wild-Indian hairstyle needs a little work.”

  He had to laugh. “That’s so completely un-PC.”

  “What, telling you that your hair is a mess?”

  “Very funny,” he said.

  “That’s me,” she said. “Six laughs a minute, guaranteed. Turn around, I’ll braid it for you.”

  How had that happened? Ten minutes ago they’d been fighting. Bobby had been convinced that their friendship was badly strained if not completely over, yet now things were back to where they’d been when he’d first arrived yesterday.

  Colleen was no longer completely tense, no longer looking wounded. She was relaxed and cheerful. He would even dare to call her happy.

  Bobby didn’t know how that had happened, but he wasn’t about to complain.

  “You don’t have to braid it,” he said. “A ponytail’s good enough. And all I really need help with is tying it back. I can brush it myself.”

  He reached for the brush, but she pulled it back, away from him.

  “I’ll braid it,” she said.

  “If you really want to.” He let her win. What harm could it do? Ever since he’d gotten injured, he’d had to ask for help with his hair. This morning he’d gone into a beauty salon not far from his hotel, tempted to cut it all off.

  Back in California, he’d gotten help with his hair each day. Wes stopped by and braided it for him. Or Mia Francisco—the lieutenant commander’s wife. Even the captain—Joe Cat—had helped him out once or twice.

  He shifted slightly in the seat so Colleen had access to the back of his head, reaching up with his good arm to take out the elastic.

  She ran both the brush and her fingers gently through his hair. And Bobby knew immediately that there was a major difference between Colleen braiding his hair and Wes braiding his hair. They were both Skellys, sure, but that was where all similarities ended.

  “You have such beautiful hair,” Colleen murmured, and he felt himself start to sweat.

  This was a bad idea. A very, very bad idea. What could he possibly have been thinking? He closed his eyes as she brushed his hair back, gathering it at his neck with her other hand. And then she was done brushing, and she just used her hands. Her fingers felt cool against his forehead as she made sure she got the last stray locks off his face.

  She was going to braid his hair, and he was going to sit here, acutely aware of each little, last, barely-touching-him movement of her fingers. He was going to sit here, wanting her, thinking of how soft she’d felt in his arms just last night, how ready and willing and eager she’d been. She wouldn’t have stopped him from pushing up her skirt and burying himself inside of her and—

  Sweat trickled down his back.

  What harm was there in letting her braid his hair?

  None—provided no one at the Parkvale Senior Center had enough of their eyesight left to notice the uncomfortably tight fit of his pants.

  Provided Colleen didn’t notice it, either. If she did, she would realize that he’d lied to her. It wouldn’t take her long to figure out the truth. And then he’d be a dead man.

  Bobby tried thinking about death, about rats, about plague, about pestilence. He tried thinking about sharks—all those teeth, those mean little eyes coming right at him. He thought about the day—and that day was coming, since he was no longer in his twenties—when he’d have to leave the SEAL teams, when he’d be too old to keep up with the newer recruits.

  N
one of it worked to distract him.

  Colleen’s gentle touch cut through it all. It was far more real than any of his worst-imagined nightmares.

  Yet it was remarkably easy to picture her touching him like that all over—not just on his head and his hair and the back of his neck, but all over. Oh, man…

  “If I were a guy,” Colleen murmured, “and I had hair like this, I’d wear it down. All the time. And I would have women falling at my feet. Lining up outside my bedroom door. All the time.”

  Bobby choked. “What?”

  “Most women can’t keep their hands off guys with long hair,” she explained. “Particularly good-looking guys like you who are completely ripped. Hey, did you pack your uniform?”

  She thought he was good-looking and ripped. Bobby had to smile. He liked that she thought of him that way, even though he wasn’t sure it was completely true. He was a little too big, too solid to get the kind of muscle definition that someone like Lucky O’Donlon had.

  Now, there was a man who was truly ripped. Of course, Lucky wasn’t here right now as a comparison, which was just as well. Even though he was married, women were still drawn to him like flies to honey.

  “Hello,” Colleen said. “Did you fall asleep?”

  “No,” Bobby said. “Sorry.” She’d asked him something. “Um…”

  “Your uniform?”

  “Oh,” he said. “No. No, I’m not supposed to wear a uniform while my hair’s long—unless there’s some kind of formal affair that I can’t get out of attending.”

  “No this one’s not formal,” she told him. “It’s casual—a bon voyage party at the local VFW the night before we leave. But there will be VIPs there—senators and the mayor and…I just thought it would be cool for them to meet a real Navy SEAL.”

  “Ah,” he said. She was almost done braiding his hair, and he was simultaneously relieved and disappointed. “You want me to be a circus attraction.”

  She laughed. “Absolutely. I want you to stand around and look mysterious and dangerous. You’d be the hit of the party.” She reached over his shoulder, her arm warm against his slightly damp, air-conditioner-chilled T-shirt. “I need the elastic.”