One Tough Cookie

by E C Sheedy

  One Tough Cookie

  by

  EC Sheedy as Carole Dean

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  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  © 1993, 2011 by Edna Sheedy

  Cover and eBook design by eBook Prep (www.ebookprep.com)

  Thank You.

  Always Tim.

  And to George and Betsy Millar,

  my neighbors, my supporters, and my friends.

  (Oh, and Maddy, too!)

  Chapter 1

  Taylor looked at the number on the door for the third time. Eight. Right number. Wrong key? He sure as hell hoped not.

  He tried again and the lock gave. He was in.

  Dropping his luggage, he pocketed the key and groped blindly for a light switch. To the right? Wrong. To the left and not working.

  "Figures," he muttered, before starting across the dark room—carefully. Unless Danny boy had changed his ways, the room was a minefield of sneakers, clothes, camera equipment, and pizza boxes.

  "Damn!" The coffee table shin kicked him just as he found a small lamp.

  He turned on the lamp and looked around. One quick scan told him he was in the right place. Clutter City. Only Daniel Monroe would live like this.

  Distinctive, eclectic, he would say.

  Taylor would say a bloody mess.

  It had taken him two years to find and refurbish his own West Side apartment in New York. This run-down second-floor condo on Spain's Costa del Sol wasn't for him. No way.

  He coughed, then swallowed to ease his dry, scratchy throat. He needed a drink. On route to the tiny kitchen, he sidestepped a broken tripod and switched on another lamp. The fridge yielded beer, bottled water, some suspicious-looking milk, and something labeled jugo de naranja. The words meant nothing to him, but the color said orange juice. He took a swallow and gasped.

  The damn stuff burned like a lye cocktail. Massaging his throat with his free hand, he traded the juice for water. Water in hand he headed for the scruffy sofa. He sat down heavily, loosened his tie, and took a good look around the room.

  What a dump!

  Even if you could ignore its inglorious state of disrepair, the place wasn't big enough to swing a kitten. But that hadn't deterred Dan from filling every inch of it with—Taylor tried to think of a description—stuff. He knew most of it, miscellaneous jugs, bottles, tiles, and—he picked up a piece of fabric resting on the littered coffee table—black lace would be represented in the dozens of unframed photographs on the wall. He shook his head at the chaos. That Danny traded a potential partnership in a successful business for this was a mystery to him.

  Well, Dan, it's adios, Espana for you. You're coming home if I have to drag you. You're too much like dear old Dad for your own good.

  Their father… dreamer, occasional cab driver, and general all-round do-little, maker of big plans and even bigger disappointments. Following his star, he called it. Trouble was the damn star was always over the next hill, in the next town. And while he chased it, their mother supported two sons by pushing a laundry wagon down an endless labyrinth of hospital corridors. Taylor loathed the idea his younger brother had inherited their father's instability—his wanderlust.

  His gaze fell on the photographs covering the walls. Dan's photographs. They were damn good, sure, but a thousand of them wouldn't buy a hamburger let alone pay the rent. It was responsibility time and past time for Dan to come home. He was twenty-five years old. There was a position open for him in the company, and he was going to take it if Taylor had to haul him back in chains.

  He glanced at his watch. Almost one a.m.

  Letting his head fall back against the sofa, he closed his eyes. His damned throat felt like an acupuncture test site. Just your luck, Monroe, your first trip to sunny Spain, and you bring a New York cold. Not that it mattered. This wasn't exactly a vacation. As soon as he got Dan right side up, he'd be on the next flight stateside.

  He stood up, rotated his cramped shoulders, and stretched. The weariness in his bones held fast. He was beat and, for the first time, glad Dan hadn't been there to meet him.

  Tomorrow would be soon enough to hear his impractical, romanticized arguments. Right now he needed sleep, long, deep, dreamless, and uninterrupted. That would do it.

  * * *

  Willy pulled the hat further down her scowling brow and turned the key. Again.

  "Come on you rusty, corroded excuse for a lock." But her muttering and cajoling had no effect.

  Damn Dan Monroe anyway. Why didn't he get the lock fixed? Willy was dirty, tired and frustrated. Leaving the car on the other side of Marbella and hitchhiking the last few miles to Puerto Banus in the rain hadn't been in the plan. Bloody car. But buying a new one wasn't in the plan either, not unless this arrangement with Dan worked out.

  When the lock finally gave, Willy shoved open the door with a strong shoulder and stepped in. The room was as dark as the bowels of a coal mine. She left her baseball cap on, dropped her backpack to the floor with a grateful sigh, then flexed her tired muscles.

  No stranger to Dan's apartment, she headed directly for the sofa without turning on the light, kicking off her shoes and dropping her jacket along the way.

  When she stubbed her big toe on the leg of the coffee table, her throaty, creative Spanish curse nearly illuminated the room. She hopped and grimaced the next few steps to the sofa.

  She rubbed her injured toe for a minute before closing her eyes and resting her head on the sofa back.

  I'll just relax here a minute, then hit the bed. A moment later she slid down to stretch out on the sofa. The moment after that she was dead gone, face down on a hard beaded pillow.

  Taylor woke coughing and sat up in bed. Massaging the back of his neck—it felt as if it had a poker in it—he glanced at the digital bedside clock: 4:11.

  Disoriented, he squinted at the smaller letters. A.M. He groaned, rolled his head, and coughed again, tried to ease his tight throat. He felt like shit. Whatever this bug was, it was no common cold. His body was one giant ache. He was burning up and felt as if he'd swallowed a golf ball, along with a dozen tees.

  He swung around and put his feet on the cold floor.

  Aspirin, he needed aspirin. Ignoring his nakedness, he stood up. Struck by a wave of dizziness, he stumbled toward the bathroom. Once there, he turned on the light and rifled through the medicine cabinet over the sink. Shaving gear, condoms, and vitamins. Not an aspirin in sight.

  Seized by a sudden chill, he grabbed the robe hanging on the back of the door. It was worn thin and too small for his large frame, but he put it on anyway. The kitchen. Maybe Dan kept the aspirin in the kitchen.

  One step out of the bathroom, he stopped.

  Someone was stretched out on the sofa, a long, lean someone wearing a baseball cap. And by the look of things, he'd made himself damn comfortable. Taylor cursed. Probably one of Danny's down-on-his-luck, squatter friends. There
'd been a stream of them while Dan was living with him in New York. He'd tolerated it then, he didn't intend to now. He was in no mood for company. Period.

  He shook the intruder's shoulder—none too gently.

  He expected a sleepy grumble.

  What he got was a catlike response so fast, so agile, he was face down eating carpet dust in under five seconds. With his right arm twisted painfully between his shoulders and a knee lodged in his lower back, he couldn't move. He sucked in a harsh breath.

  "Quien es usted?" a low voice demanded.

  When he tried to turn his head to speak, the grip on his arm tightened, and a sharp pain burned up from his wrist to his shoulder.

  "Se llama!" the voice said, this time closer to his ear. Taylor had no idea what the words meant, and with his face ground into the dusty carpet, he couldn't answer. He managed to shake his head.

  "Espanol?"

  Again he shook his head.

  "English?"

  He nodded and tried to shift his weight.

  "Don't bother trying to move. Unless, of course, you're into pain. Just answer the question. Who are you? What's your name?"

  Taylor tried to answer. Nothing. No words. No sound. Just air and a rasp. He tried again. Nothing.

  His assailant's grip tightened. "I'll count to three. If you haven't identified yourself by then, this arm is cast material. Clear?"

  It was a woman! He was sure of it. He was face down on the floor with a woman on his back. On his bare ass more like it. Despite her viselike grip on his wrist and arm, he managed to turn his face. He still couldn't see anything, but he did draw in a full breath. He spit out some carpet grit.

  "Monroe," he said, without a damn sound passing his lips. He'd lost his damned voice. Great. Just great. He tried again. "Monroe," he strained. "Taylor Monroe." Most of it was the faintest of whispers, but the last syllable bounced out, while he was trying to figure out what hurt more, his razor lined throat or the arm she'd twisted up his back.

  The lady eased her grip—slightly. "Again," she demanded, leaning closer. A strand of hair brushed his cheek.

  He swallowed hard. "Taylor Monroe," he repeated. It came out like acid rock through a faulty microphone.

  The knee came out of his back as she settled herself more firmly on his bare butt, but she kept the grip on his arm, high and tight. "You're Dan's brother?"

  He managed a nod and her grip eased a bit more.

  "Where are you from?" She increased the upward pressure on his arm.

  "New York." New didn't make it but York did.

  With the same speed used to pin him, she rolled off and knelt beside him. "Dan's brother. How about that?" she said without a trace of contrition.

  Still face down, Taylor tried to bring his arm down his back before sitting up. It was too numb to move. Probably cramped permanently into the center of my back—if this wild woman hadn't broken it.

  The room brightened, she'd turned on the lamp.

  "Here. Let me help." She grasped his wrist with surprisingly gentle hands and brought the arm slowly down his back. She also pulled the ratty cotton robe over his ass, which did nothing to soothe his wounded dignity. "The arm will be okay in a minute as soon as the blood starts to circulate," she advised soberly.

  Taylor sat up, propped his back against the sofa, and glared into the eyes of his mugger.

  He had lots to say to this woman—if he had a voice. But right now he couldn't utter a word, not a damned word. Add to that he was as weak as old denim. She was on her knees opposite him, studying him with the open attention a child might give a stranger's big dog—and not at all apologetic.

  Who the hell was this woman?

  He pointed to his throat and motioned impatiently for pencil and paper. She tilted her head, looked at him vaguely, looking distracted and more than a little stunned. He did the mime thing; gripped his throat, gave a peevish lift to his eyebrows, and glared. Again he motioned for pen and paper. What he really wanted to do was throttle her.

  "Oh. Right. Just a minute." She leaped to her feet and retrieved a backpack, bringing it to where Taylor sat propped against the sofa seat. She tore through it haphazardly until she found what he wanted. Gripping a pen and a notebook, she sat down directly across from him. Again she stared at him, weighing, appraising.

  "Before I give you these, I think I should apologize. I hope I didn't hurt you. Not that you didn't have it coming. You really shouldn't sneak up on people like that." She smiled then and handed him the paper and pencil.

  Sneak up on! Taylor let out a rough, angry breath and clenched his teeth. She called that an apology after she'd nearly broken his arm? Not good enough. Not by a long shot. He snatched the pencil from her hand and in capital letters shouted, "WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?"

  "Willy," she answered without embellishment.

  Pencil scraped across paper. "Willy who? Willy what?" his pencil yelled.

  "Willy Desmond. As for the what part, I'm a friend of your brother's. We, uh, sort of travel together sometimes. When I'm here, in Puerto Banus, I stay at his place."

  Taylor eyed her until she again dug into her backpack.

  "Look. I have a key and everything." She dangled the key, sat back on her heels, and stared at him.

  He stared back—while thinking of how he'd get her the hell out of here.

  Danny sure could pick 'em.

  Willy Desmond's face was smudged, her dark blond hair a matted, stringy mess. And probably none too clean. When she pushed a lock of it behind her ear, the gesture exposed a fresh scratch on her cheek. The other side of her face had a checkerboard imprint as though she'd been sleeping on a grid.

  Clean her up and she'd be pretty enough. Still an odd face, he decided, with wide, high cheekbones and a too small nose; a face dominated by a pair of direct, up-tilted eyes. Impossible to tell her age, could be twenty or thirty or anywhere in between. In the dim light, he couldn't make out the color of her eyes and didn't much care.

  What pissed him off the most was how slender she was. The slim lines of her body gave no hint of the strength she'd used to pin him to the floor. She was tall, yes, but from what he could see not unduly muscular. Damned embarrassing to be floored by such an ordinary woman. He scowled and rubbed the back of his neck. His headache had blossomed to a roar.

  "Do you want me to leave?" she asked, seeming not to care one way or the other.

  There was nothing he'd like better, but even through his foggy head he heard the rain hammering on the tile roof, and this was Dan's place, not his. He had no right to send her packing. When he shook his head in the negative, she smiled again. He didn't return it. Just because he'd let her stay didn't mean he liked it.

  "Are you okay?" she asked. "Your voice. It's not a permanent thing is it?"

  He shook his head and started to get up, making the mistake of leaning his sore arm on the sofa seat. A silent curse passed his lips.

  "Here. I'll help you." She stood over him and reached out her hand.

  He ignored it, leaned heavily on his good arm, and managed to stand. But once fully on his feet, his head whirled, and he was wracked with chills. He had lots more questions for Willy Desmond, but they'd have to wait, because if he didn't lie down—and soon—he'd fall down. At the moment, Desmond was the least of his problems. For now all he could do was pray she was who she said she was and not some kind of crazed, unbalanced Amazon.

  "God. You look awful. Absolutely green." she said. "Before you go back to bed, take a shower. The steam will help your throat."

  When he gave her a suspicious look, she crossed her heart and encouraged him with a smile.

  He nodded stiffly and headed for the bathroom. Right now he'd try anything. The woman had enough sense not to touch him again, but she did trail him to the shower. He turned it on. When she made no move to go, he gave her an arch look. She took the hint but not before flashing him a grin.

  "I've got some aspirin in my bag. I'll get it. Put it beside the bed."

  He nodded
and she left. Taylor shut the door.

  Damned infuriating woman. No doubt another of Danny's artsy, shiftless friends with no job, no roots, and no ambition. He shook his head in disgust and stepped into the hot shower.

  She was right. The steam did ease his burning throat.

  * * *

  Willy put the pills and a glass of water beside the bed, while the shower was still running.

  How about that, she mused, after closing the bedroom door behind her. Dan's big brother. Here. In Spain. She tilted her head and pulled on her memory. Taylor Monroe. A real button-downed type. Harvard man, with honors, of course. Addicted to work. Financial wizard and successful entrepreneur. Quite the guy, according to Dan. He'd called him something else, too. What was it again? The family godfather, that was it. Controlling and dictatorial.

  For sure, he wasn't anything like his blond, blue-eyed brother. Dan was…cute. Taylor , with his hard jaw and steely gaze, was anything but. He was as dark as Dan was fair and at least a head taller. She'd had to raise her eyes to look at him when he stood up, and being five ten herself made that a rare thing. She guessed him to be six two at least. And those snapping green eyes. Whew! He'd really pinned her with them when she let him up.

  If looks could kill...

  No doubt she'd insulted his precious male pride when she'd pinned him to the floor. She rolled her eyes and let out a sigh.

  Suddenly hungry, she headed for the kitchen, the shower still playing its water song.

  It wouldn't be the first time she'd deflated a male ego and probably not the last. Besides, a little come-down wouldn't hurt him. He looked like an arrogant SOB, had that edge of power the women in her family were notorious for falling for. But not her type. Not at all. Though she did feel a tiny bit bad about almost breaking his arm. For Dan's sake she'd try and make that up to him.

  In the kitchen she foraged through cupboards. Surely there was something here that could ease the poor guy's throat. She found some cough medicine behind the cornflakes and smiled.