by E C Sheedy
"Infected?" He looked baffled.
"Yes. Infected. I—" She stopped. She couldn't expect him to understand. What man would understand a woman who had spent the last four years of her life meticulously building defenses, immunizing herself against loving too much? At this moment, captured by Taylor's oddly speculative gaze, she wasn't sure she understood it herself. And she didn't want to explain, not now, in time and space alive with frightening emotions. She wanted to get away, to think—and she wanted him to let go of her wrist. She tugged and his grip tightened.
Willy's voice lowered an octave, and she gave him a threatening stare. "Let me go. Now."
"And how the hell do you plan on getting back to the condo? We came in my car in case you've forgotten."
"I've been managing to get around for a lot of years now. I'm sure I can manage without your fancy car." She tugged on her hand.
"I won't have you hitchhiking. I'll drive you." His words were diamond hard, and his fingers tensed around her wrist.
"Damn! If you're not the most arr—" She stopped, closed her eyes, and took a calming breath. When she looked back to him, her expression was icily stubborn. "Understand this, Mister Taylor Stanley Monroe, if I wanted to hitchhike, I would. But I don't happen to be a fool. For your information I plan on taking a cab. And right now you and ten good men couldn't make me get in your car. Can I make it any plainer?"
He took a long moment to consider her words, then abruptly released her. She spun away from him and headed up the beach.
Taylor stood with his hands on his hips, making no move to follow her. The hard set of her shoulders was eloquent. It was Garbo time. The lady wanted to be alone. For that matter so did he. He had a few random thoughts of his own to put in order. Draping the towel around his neck, he sat down and faced the water.
Willow Desmond, he admitted to himself, was unique, an awkward ingénue one minute and a perceptive, intelligent woman the next. A strong, dangerously wary female with the simmering wildness of a tame tiger. Soft and savage. The combination was compelling. Erotic. His groin tightened when he remembered her pulsing against his thigh, hot and wanting. He swore and stood up.
He strongly suspected Willy hadn't developed her body to gratify a man's desire but as protection against it. No one would take from her what she wasn't prepared to give. Still a virgin,, for God's sake. Amazing. Intriguing. Too damned intriguing. Telling himself innocents weren't his style, he headed for the changing room.
He hadn't come to Spain to get tied up with a woman, any woman. He pulled on his shirt, combed his hair with his fingers, and strode up the beach.
In no hurry to return to the condo, he decided to wander a while. You're going to get yourself completely under control, he told himself. There would be no more passes made at the resident virgin. When Dan came home, he would talk to him, accomplish what he came for, and head home ASAP. Willow would be nothing but a memory. Better for her and better for him. She'd didn't want to be messed with. Fair enough. He could handle that.
Now if he could only forget the way she felt, slick with the Mediterranean, plastered against his chest, he'd be fine. He cursed softly. What was the word she used? Infected, that was it. Good word, he thought. He definitely had a fever. Thinking that the cooling night air would lower it, he started walking.
* * *
It was after midnight when he let himself back into the condo. Light slivered through the partially opened bathroom door. With luck he'd make it to bed without waking her. And tomorrow he'd insist she take the bedroom. He had the feeling there'd be more nights ahead requiring some midnight strolls.
He was at the bedroom door when she spoke.
"Taylor?" Her voice was low and sleep filled.
"Yes. It's me. Sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep." And fast, because I need to put this door between us ASAP. Christ he was hard at the sound of her voice. So much for long walks.
"That's okay. I tried to wait up for you."
"Why?" His eyes were growing accustomed to the dimly lit room, and he watched as she pulled herself to a sitting position. Sleepily pushing some stray hair behind her ear, she looked up at him.
"Dan called. He's going to be a couple of days late."
"You're kidding." Taylor groaned. Damn his brother's irresponsible hide.
"I told him you wouldn't be happy."
Understatement of the year.
She went on. "He says he has important news, and that he wants you to wait."
"I'll bet he does." What I should do is make plane reservations. Get the hell out of Dodge. Then he glanced at the sleepy woman on the sofa. Hell, he didn't want to go. Sure he wanted to straighten things out with Dan, but honesty forced him to admit that his brother's life-style choices were fast becoming secondary to this... unfinished business between him and Willy. But not tonight. There was nothing he could do about either of them tonight.
"Taylor." Her voice was fuller now, sensible and awake. "Please stay. It's important to Dan. Really. If I'm, uh, getting on your nerves, I can find somewhere else to stay."
Wracked by pain unique to the male species, he grumbled, "It's not my nerves you're getting on, Willow. Now go back to sleep."
* * *
Taylor woke the next morning to the sound of soft rain and muttered curses. At least he thought they were curses. Only a Spaniard would know for sure.
A couple of minutes later, his door opened and Willy walked in carrying a huge breakfast tray. She gave him a bright—slightly forced?—smile and headed for his bed.
"What are you doing?" he said. "I told you I feel fine. You don't have to do this anymore." He indicated the full tray. Add to that a smiling, congenial Willy was the last thing he expected this morning. The woman was a changeling.
"Along with breakfast in bed, I'm trying to make amends. I was an uptight prude yesterday. I overreacted to your kiss—"
"Our kiss," he corrected.
"Whatever," she airily agreed. "Anyway, this totally American breakfast is a peace offering." She waved her hand over the perfectly fried eggs and bacon before adding, "Now I'm not foolish enough to suggest we become friends. There's too much sexual pull between us for that, but I think we could at least try to understand each other."
"You mean me understand you, don't you? From what you said yesterday I gather you're satisfied that you've already got a clear angle on me. I'm your run-of-the-mill oversexed male looking for a quick conquest. Remember?"
Her smile slipped a little at that, and he continued to eye her warily. Never had he met a woman who strove so hard for the upper hand. He bit into a piece of hot buttered toast. It melted in his mouth. "You bake this?" When he lifted his piece of toast, she nodded absently. "Good. Better than good."
"Thanks, but we're not talking about bread. We're talking about… about unfinished business between you and me."
He took another bite of the toast and swallowed it a little too fast, surprised her thoughts were a mirror of his own. He played dumb. "What unfinished business?"
"You're trying to wear innocence, Monroe, and it doesn't suit you. You know exactly what I mean." She sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up a piece of crisp bacon from his plate. "I'd like to talk, really talk, with you, Taylor."
"Yeah, well, I'd like to kiss, really kiss, you." He took another frustrated bite on his toast.
She got to her feet. "See, that's exactly what I mean. How can we get over this... this thing if we don't talk about it. Dan will be here in a few days, and it's important that we're—"
"We're what?"
"In control of things before he gets here."
Taylor stopped eating and studied her. Her expression was anxious, maybe even a bit fearful. "It's important that you're in control, you mean. As for me, I don't mind letting go once in a while. Especially in bed."
"You're going to be…difficult, aren't you?"
"Probably."
She looked genuinely dismayed.
He put down his toast.
&nbs
p; "You honestly believe we can talk away what's happening between us?"
"It's possible. If not, I'll at least have been true to myself. I live by my rules. You need to understand that. Rejecting you isn't a whim. I'm not being…capricious. I tried to tell you before. I don't live a life—or want one—that responds to raw need. I make choices, select options, and—"
"You're afraid of me, aren't you?"
"I'm not—" She stopped her denial midstream. A frown creased her forehead. "Yes. I am. Not you exactly, what you make me feel."
He put the tray beside him and reached for her hand. He pulled her to sit on the bed at his side. "You," he chucked her under her stubborn chin, "are certifiable. You know that, don't you? But I have this feeling you have some good reasons for believing the things you do. So, we'll talk—along with other things." He felt her stiffen.
"What other things?"
"Let's just say I have my agenda and you have yours."
"Does your agenda have anything to do with taking me to bed?"
"It might. It's a big part of our unfinished business. At least on my end." He ran his hand to her elbow and up her arm. Tempted to go further, he restrained himself. No unwanted passes, he promised himself.
"That's not exactly what I had in mind." She shivered and her voice took on a new tension. She looked worried, and for a minute, he thought she'd bolt for the door.
She surprised him again. A strange light came into her eyes, and she got up from the bed and walked to the window. For a time she stood there in silence with her back to him. When she faced him again, her words came out measured, cautious. More tentative than he'd ever seen her. "Okay, I'll consider that. Only consider, mind you. But I'll have to be sure how I feel about you. I want to—" She faltered.
"Make sure your first time is special," he said, "I promise you it will be." Big words. Big mistake.
She leveled him with a frigid stare. "You must have dug deep for that piece of trite, Monroe." She paused. "But just so you get it. This is not about it being 'special' it's about me being sure it's what I want. That I can handle it. That I don't care for you too much. If I do—there'll be no lift-off. Got that?"
The next sound was the bedroom door slamming and after that the front door.
Now you're out on the street, girl, where do you go from here? Walk, she told herself. Walk, then walk some more. She set off uphill away from the beach, grateful the rain had let up, although a glance at the sky said that might be temporary.
You probably just made the biggest damn mistake of all your twenty-six years, Willow Desmond, she thought, quickening her step. You know you're falling for the guy. And you know you don't want that. You promised yourself it would never happen.
You should run…
She shuddered when she remembered yesterday, her breasts tingling against the hard wall of Taylor's chest, his green eyes filled with a mysterious promise. Another shiver claimed her, and her step faltered. The hill was steeper here. Good. She needed the workout, needed to clear her head and think sensibly about this.
The trouble was she couldn't seem to define the problem. Had to be Taylor—the pompous, arrogant, self-satisfied ass. She pictured him bare chested in Dan's rumpled bed. Make it special! he'd said. She'd wanted to wipe that smile off his sexy mouth. She would have, too, if her stomach hadn't been doing aerobics. No, the problem wasn't with him, it was her. She was losing it. Plain and simple. She had to be if she was considering going to bed with a man as potent, as irresistible to her as Taylor Monroe. It wasn't in her plan, damn it. He wasn't in her plan.
She should have married Jerry. That's what she should have done. Jerry— She thought a minute, then shrugged. So she couldn't think of his last name right away. So what. He'd been a sweet guy, not too conventional, and she'd cared about him. His touch had…stirred her. Not thrilled her, like Taylor's, but at least she'd had a positive reaction. He was exactly what she was looking for—someone she could love without risking everything. With Taylor the risk was limitless.
Well, there was no point worrying it to death. She had to wait for Dan.
At the thought of Dan's phone call, a smile lit her face. The cookbook was a go, and she was anxious to get started. The publisher—and the tourist bureau—loved it, he'd said. On the basis of his photographs, and her recipes, they'd agreed to provide some initial funding. Spain would only be the beginning, she was sure of it. Once the first book was published, they'd move on. Portugal, Italy… And Russia! She hadn't been there yet. It would be hard, exciting work, and she couldn't wait.
Something else she couldn't wait for was seeing Taylor's face when Dan told him about the contract. That should take the wind out of him. Taylor Monroe would definitely be flying back to New York—alone. She sniffed, sloughing off a wave of sadness at the thought.
"Willow. Is that really you?"
At the sound of the familiar masculine voice, Willy turned. She met with an exuberant embrace.
"Peter! What a treat. I didn't know you were in Spain. What are you doing here?" She gave him a fierce hug.
"Absolutely nothing."
"You're on a vacation?" Willy cocked her head and smiled. "I don't believe it." Still gripping his hands, she pulled back to give him a closer look.
The attractive middle-aged man grinned. "Even agents take vacations, you know. We just don't tell our clients. They might think we're earning too much commission."
"Knowing you, you probably are, bandido. When you were representing me, I was sure of it." She stepped back again and gave him a measuring look. She held genuine affection for this man who had so carefully charted her career and protected her in those first years before the camera. "No has cambiado nada, Pedro," she said sincerely.
"You haven't changed either, sweets. And you're as lovely as ever. Bellisima! I'll always remember the day your mother brought you to see me. You were what ... thirteen?"
"I was eleven and scared to death."
"What you were was a marvelous little girl with a face the camera was created for." He kissed her hand, then tucked it under his arm. "Now, can I buy you a coffee? It's a bit early for anything stronger, and we have a lot to catch up on. Tell me, are you working?"
They started across the street to a small cafe. "If you mean by working, am I modeling? The answer is no. I did some when I first arrived in Paris, but my last time in front of a camera was a year ago. I haven't missed it a bit."
"Maybe not, but it misses you. If you come back to New York before you get too old and wrinkled, I'll be happy to represent you."
"I'm already too old. Twenty-six is almost a senior citizen in this business, and you know it."
He stopped and took her chin in his cupped hand. Turning it this way and that, he frowned thoughtfully. "True, you are getting a bit long in the tooth... and your lips aren't quite full enough to be fashionable. But with a little surgery and a spot of collagen you could be brought to adequate condition." He pursed his lips in an effort to stop the grin from spreading across his face.
She pushed his hand away and laughed. "Thanks, I needed that. Now what about that coffee?"
Coffee led to lunch and the day was half over before Willy returned to the condo. Peter walked her back. He was standing at the door insisting she join him for dinner when Taylor arrived. Judging from the paper bag he was carrying, he'd been to the market. There was nothing else to do but introduce the two men. She didn't embellish on her relationship with Peter, simply referred to him as a longtime friend.
Peter, his usual gregarious self, immediately included Taylor in the dinner invitation. "I'm trying to cajole this pretty lady into joining me and my friends for dinner on their boat. Why don't you come along? Hell, the Faux Pas is big enough for an army. Nine, nine-thirty, okay with you?"
Taylor glanced at Willy, then answered. "Sounds fine. Good of you to invite me. If you're sure your friends won't mind, we'd be happy to come."
After giving them directions to the boat, and Willow another bear hug, Peter left
.
Willy turned on Taylor, fuming. "Why on earth would you accept while I stood right behind Peter shaking my head and waving my hands like an idiot?"
Taylor handed Willy the bag, and put the key in the rusty lock. If he knew she was angry, he ignored it. "I'd like to meet your friends. The way I see it, it will help me to know you better."
"You just met my friend. Peter is it. I doubt I'll know another soul on that boat."
"Won't Peter's wife be there?" He gave her a green-eyed gaze.
"Peter doesn't have a wife. She's been dead ten years."
"I see."
Willow wondered exactly what it was he saw but she was too miffed to ask.
Without further comment, Taylor went to the kitchen and started to empty the paper bag into the refrigerator. When he finished, he leaned across the open fridge door and looked back at her. "So how does a waitress, who only works when she wants to pay the rent, meet a middle-aged man with a diamond on his finger valuable enough to end world hunger?" He cocked an eyebrow and added, "You are a puzzle, Willy. Maybe tonight I'll put together another piece."
"You—" she sputtered, then spun on her heel. "I'll be back at eight-thirty."
Taylor winced as the door slammed, then grinned.
Whistling, he snapped open a copy of USA Today and headed for the patio.
It was going to be an interesting—and informative—evening.
Chapter 5
It was closer to nine by the time Willy made it back to the condo. Taylor was beginning to think she wouldn't show up at all when she breezed in, hair a shambles and wearing the ever-present cotton drawstring pants and T-shirt.
"Sorry," she said, not looking it in the least. "Give me fifteen minutes."
"Show me a woman who can be ready in fifteen minutes and I'll marry her," Taylor answered wryly.
"Given that prospect, I'll take twenty." She grabbed her backpack and heading for the bathroom.
