One Tough Cookie

by E C Sheedy

  Damn. Wrong words—again. "Can we have a truce for a couple of hours?" he said. "It seems to me if we both reined in our tongues, there's at least a chance we'll have a pleasant evening. What do you say?"

  "I'd say good idea. Besides, if you keep irritating me, there's no way you're going to get me into bed. Right?"

  Taylor couldn't help the smile that softened his mouth. "True. And I do have my reputation to uphold."

  "Reputation? Oh, yes. Dan did tell me you were quite the ladies' man." She gave him a look as though she could scarcely believe it and continued on her way to the bathroom. This time she didn't slam the door.

  He'd take that as good omen.

  When he heard the shower, he settled in for a long wait. He glanced at his watch. Ten to nine.

  Eighteen minutes later Willy opened the bathroom door and, accompanied by a steamy mist from her shower, stepped into the room.

  She looked spectacular. Taylor was stunned that a woman could dive into a battered backpack and come out looking like the cover of a fashion magazine. Her blond hair was pulled straight back from her face into a long braid, and her body was sheathed in some stretchy black material that caressed every curve before stopping mid-thigh. And while the long sleeves and square neckline were demure and sophisticated, the designer had skipped the back altogether, letting the dress end in a sharp vee at the waist. He couldn't take his eyes off her. She gave him a cocky stare and reached for a tiny gold bag on a long, slender chain.

  "That came out of your backpack?" he said.

  She smoothed it over her hips and looked at him. "When you move around like I do, you learn to travel light. This thing doesn't take much room. It's practical."

  "Hm-m." Sexy, more like it.

  "Surprised, aren't you?" she said. "Didn't think I could make it? Seventeen minutes should be just enough to save me from marriage. Think?" She was fastening gold hoops to her ears.

  "It was eighteen, and you're right, I'm surprised—and impressed. You look great."

  "Thanks. You don't look so bad yourself." She looked approvingly at his navy slacks and frost blue shirt. "Ready to go?" She bent down to slip on some strappy sandals, and the dress fell away to expose a bare shoulder. "I'd rather walk than take the car if it's okay with you."

  "Fine." He coughed to clear his throat and pulled his gaze from her shoulder, where it seemed to have taken root. Her golden tan skin had the gleam of rich satin. "Walking's fine," he muttered.

  She pulled the dress back into position. "You sound funny, Taylor. Is your throat still bothering you? Maybe you should take another pill."

  "My throat's fine. Just some leftover roughness. Shall we go? We'll be late for dinner as it is."

  Willy settled the chain of her bag on her shoulder. "Not likely. If you want to be late for dinner in Spain, you'd have to arrive at midnight. They won't start serving until ten at least."

  * * *

  They walked first in silence, adding words slowly as the dark background of condos and side streets gradually gave way to the casino and restaurant crowds jamming the elegant port. It was a soft, shimmery night, and the moon sat proudly in the night sky, a glittering satellite dominating its more distant cousins. Puerto Banus was alive with people. Music danced from the clubs, and the outdoor restaurants were bright with laughter and conversation.

  When they reached the docking area, they turned right to walk along the pier that was temporary home to the tall, graceful sailing vessels and sleek, powerful yachts. The Faux Pas, at well over a hundred feet long, and flying the French flag, was among the largest in port.

  When they came up to it at the end of the pier, Taylor whistled in admiration. "Now that is some kind of dinghy."

  "No doubt the lives of many valuable slaves were lost during its construction," Willy joked, then waved when she saw Peter moving through the crowd on the main deck of the yacht.

  He met them as they stepped aboard. "Willow. Taylor. Glad you could make it." He hugged Willy and offered a firm hand to Taylor. Then with the agility of one who'd attended a million such crowded affairs, he scooped two glasses of wine from a passing waiter. "For strength," he said, handing them to the new arrivals before taking Willy by the hand. "Now come and say hello to our host. Henri is anxious to see you."

  "Henri? Henri who?" Willy stopped in her tracks, hoping against hope she was wrong.

  "Henri Gagnaire. You remember him. He owns Gloire. You were in his first swimsuit edition—just before you became a nomad."

  Willy let Peter tow her along and cursed her bad luck.

  Henri Gagnaire. One of her most persistent would-be lovers. Henri had an insatiable appetite for women, and with his looks, money, and power—as the owner of one of France's most successful fashion magazines—he had ample opportunity to appease it. The only thing Henri Gagnaire lacked was the ability to understand the word no.

  She'd been nineteen when she'd met him, he'd been forty-four, and he'd pursued her off and on for two years, until, ironically, she disappeared into his own backyard, Paris, years ago. She sighed in resignation when she saw him over the heads of the party crowd. He was surrounded by women. Good. If I'm lucky he'll have forgotten all about me.

  Then he spotted her. She sighed. His arrogantly possessive smile told her Henri had forgotten nothing. Squaring her shoulders and pasting on a smile, she prayed for patience. This whole scene made her feel as though she'd gone back in time. Different crowd, but the bodies and faces were the same—tanned, beautiful and perfect. No doubt Henri tossed the imperfect ones overboard before he made port.

  You can get through this. It's just a party, nothing more. And Henri is ancient history.

  "Henri, look who's here." Peter turned Willy and Taylor over to his host and was immediately commandeered by a middle-aged woman who wanted him to meet her model daughter.

  Some things never changed, Willy thought, and wondered if her own mother had been quite so obvious in her attempts to further her early career. Probably not. Michelle Desmond would have made one phone call and that would have been enough. Reluctantly, Willow turned her eyes to Henri. Tall, slim, darkly tanned, and dressed head to foot in shipboard white, he was the GQ male personified. Any rough edges layered over with charm, manners, and a practiced charisma. He was wickedly attractive and knew it.

  "Willow, ma chere. It's been a long time. Far, far too long." Henri took both her hands in his and kissed each of them in turn before pulling her into his arms. She briefly allowed the familiarity, then pulled away.

  "Henri. Nice to see you again." She turned toward Taylor, suddenly—absurdly—pleased he was at her side. She quickly introduced him.

  Henri gave Taylor a cursory nod and immediately switched his attention back to Willy. "You're staying in Puerto Banus, Peter tells me. May I ask at what hotel?" His English was smooth, barely accented by his native French.

  But the same old Henri, still cutting straight to the chase. "I'm not exactly at a hotel," she said, switching quickly back to small talk. "But what about you? How have you been? I understand the magazine is doing as well as ever."

  "It would do better if you would once again grace its pages. I've missed you, ma chere. It has not been the same without you."

  Willy cast a knowing eye over the young lady attached like a limpet to his left arm and smiled back at him. "Not the same—but much more satisfying, I expect."

  He laughed. "You've changed, Willow. No longer the high-strung, frightened young colt, I see. You are more woman than when I saw you last. And the body, my sweet ..." His smile deepened as his eyes pawed, then wandered over her as though revisiting familiar territory. "The body is magnificent, as extraordinary as ever."

  To avoid Henri's overheated, insolent once-over, she turned to Taylor, "I'm starved. How about we make a full-scale assault on Henri's decadent buffet?"

  "Good idea," Taylor said, fixing his eyes on Henri. He added, "I haven't eaten since this morning. But I doubt even his buffet will beat your breakfast in bed, darling." He
took her hand and led her away.

  Willy should have been angry at his show of possessiveness. She wasn't. By the time they reached the overladen buffet table, she was giggling like a teenager. "You're good, Monroe. Well done."

  "That guy is a grade-A asshole."

  "True." Willy stabbed a piece of rare roast beef, then heaped her plate with salad. "But you didn't really lie. I did bring you breakfast in bed."

  "I think old Henri believes you brought me more than bacon and eggs."

  Her eyes danced. "He surely does."

  "And it doesn't bother you?" It was Taylor's turn to spear some roast beef. He added some herbed roasted potatoes.

  "Not one bit," she answered, lifting her free hand to point forward. "How about we try the front of the boat? We might find a quiet place to sit."

  "Lead on. But I think they call it the bow."

  "Whatever—so long as it's under-populated." All she wanted to do was get off this boat as quickly as possible. This was the life she'd left behind. For years there'd been a blur of parties like this one; she had no desire for a rerun. Small talk. Big talk. Business talk. All in the name of networking. This might be Taylor's scene, but it wasn't hers, not anymore.

  Taylor deftly maneuvered them through the crowd to a couple of empty chairs. When they were seated, he watched for a while as Willy played distractedly with her salad.

  "You don't want that, do you?" He indicated her plate.

  "No. Not really."

  He took the plate from her and placed it along with his own on a table a couple of feet away. He came back and offered her his hand. "Ready to go?"

  She gave him a grateful look. "More than ready."

  "Do you want to say good-bye to Peter?"

  "No. He said he'd come by before the boat leaves Puerto Banus. I'll see him then." She couldn't wait to leave, and she was endlessly thankful Taylor was sensitive enough to notice.

  "Come on, then, my unemployed waitress—with powerful, big shot friends—I'll buy you some real food. Good Italian pasta." Without waiting for a reply, he took her hand and they headed dockside.

  Taylor let Willy choose the restaurant, a tiny place on the less busy street behind the waterfront. After the waiter brought their wine and they'd placed their order, he sat back in his chair grateful for the chance to soak in the intriguing woman sitting across from him at the small table. When her upturned eyes met his across the full flame of the candle, he smiled. She smiled back, and for a long, quiet moment their smiles held. Then Willy's gaze slipped from his to the tablecloth.

  "Can I ask you something?" He leaned forward.

  Her look was wary. "I don't usually like questions that begin with that preamble, but considering you saved my butt—figuratively—by getting me off that boat, I'll give you one."

  "Do men often come on to you like that?"

  "You mean like Henri?"

  "'Zee body is as magnificent as ever, ma chere.'" He aped Henri's words, adding a bad French accent while twirling a fake mustache.

  She laughed. "You have to admit he has style. There aren't too many men who could say that line with a straight face. Take you, for instance, you're not nearly so creative."

  "He's an ass and you know it." Anger spiced his tone. "He talked about your... body like it was something separate. Distinct from you as a woman."

  "To him it is. Bodies are his business. You should pick up a copy of his magazine sometime. If nothing else, Henri is honest."

  "Transparent is a better word." He drank some wine. "Another question?"

  "Shoot."

  "Why did you tell me you were a waitress? An out-of-work waitress?"

  "Because that's what I am. Or at least that was the last job I had. I've also worked as a translator, picked oranges, washed dishes, done some cooking, and had a short-lived career as a cleaning woman. Before that I, uh, modeled. That's how I know Peter. Back in the day, he was my agent. Like I said, I've worked at a lot of things. Modeling was just one of them."

  "Why did you quit? It's obvious you didn't have to."

  "I wanted to. It was time. Past time. I'd been in front of a lens since I was eleven years old." She lifted her eyes from their intense scrutiny of her wineglass and fixed them on a point over Taylor's shoulder. "Cameras and compliments. Postures and promises. It's a peculiar profession, an unreal world combining both backbreaking work and out-of-this-world fantasy. I learned a lot, made an unconscionable amount of money—thanks to Peter—and finally burnt out. When I burnt out, I cut out. It's not a new story."

  "And it's not the whole story." Taylor gave her a challenging look. "Tell me."

  She met his eyes, took a sip of wine, seemed to think a bit, and continued, "I wasn't being true to myself, to the goals I'd set. Dan told me you're the most goal-oriented person he knows, so you must get that."

  He did, so he nodded and leaned back in his chair, waited for her to say more. But they were interrupted by the waiter.

  "Manicotti, Senor." He placed the plate of steaming pasta in front of Taylor. "And for the lady spaghetti ai frutti di mare. Will there be anything else?"

  Taylor shook his head, his eyes not leaving Willow's face. The waiter filled their wine glasses and disappeared.

  Willy started to talk again after he left. "When my dad walked out on my mother, I promised myself I'd never leave myself open to the kind of pain his leaving caused her. And me, I guess. I just never believed it would happen. They were so much in love… Anyway, I was convinced their marriage would beat the family odds, that it would last forever. It didn't." Willy glanced away, her attention seeming captured by a sharply etched memory. "The press had a field day. The disintegrating marriage of the beautiful Michelle Desmond and the guru of Wall Street, the Thomas A. Desmond, was an ink maker's dream."

  "You're Thomas Desmond's daughter?" Taylor was stunned. Damn, he should have pieced it together. You couldn't live in New York and not have heard about the Desmond divorce. It was messy, expensive, and took up more print space than three wars and ten celebrity meltdowns.

  "You know my father?" Willow cocked her head, but didn't look surprised. Taylor did, after all, work in the financial arena, and in that arena Thomas Desmond was a lion.

  "We've met—a couple of times. A year or so ago, he referred a couple of clients to me. I liked him."

  Taylor vividly remembered meeting Desmond. With the man's towering reputation on the street, Taylor had expected him to be distant, and egocentric. He wasn't. More like down-home friendly. So this was Tom Desmond's daughter? And she'd been spending her time picking fruit and washing dishes. Major mystery. Given she'd been afforded every opportunity, her doing basically nothing made no sense. He couldn't figure it. Unless she had the wanderlust gene. Like Danny. Like his father. The thought made him uncomfortable.

  "Then I don't have to tell you about the divorce," she went on. "And if you think it was painful and ugly in the press, I can assure you it was more so at home. It took my mother forever to get over it." She paused. "If in fact she has. He was the center of her universe, her life, her... everything. I don't think I can ever forgive what he did to her." A bitter laugh escaped her tense mouth. "The women in my family can pick them."

  "Pick what? What are you talking about?"

  "Men." She put down her fork and sat back in her chair. "Do you know there's not a successful marriage in the lot? My mother has two sisters, both divorced. One of them is on her third marriage. One of them has two daughters, both divorced. The other has one daughter who, though still married, admits it's on shaky ground. Sometimes, I honestly believe it's hereditary, passed on by some malicious little gene. Whatever, the odds are definitely against us." She stopped a moment. "Want to know what I think?"

  Taylor nodded.

  "I think that, aside from being too quick to walk down the aisle, the women in my family don't know how to live a life without a man in it. I think love—the feeling of it— overwhelms them. They count on it so much, expect so much from it, they're beat befo
re they start. But mostly I think they're... afraid."

  "Afraid? I'm not sure I know what you mean."

  Willow leaned in to the table, touched one index finger to the thumb of her other hand, and spoke ardently. "They're physically afraid and think they need a man to protect them. They're afraid of not being able to properly support themselves, and third—" She tapped her right index finger against its opposite middle finger. "—they're afraid to shape their own lives. In some weird way, they think it's easier to love a man than love themselves. And it's not only my family. I see it everywhere." She sat back.

  "Pretty hard on your own sex, don't you think?" Taylor stroked the stem of his wineglass, but his attention was riveted on her.

  She shrugged and lowered her eyes. "Maybe. But I've given it a lot of thought."

  "Uh-huh. The famous Willy Desmond microscope." Taylor gave her a faint smile while he was thinking over what she said. "I can understand the first two points," he said. "In both cases women do have the cards stacked against them. As a rule, men do have the upper hand physically and financially. But I don't think a woman, or a man for that matter, chooses a partner because they're afraid to shape their own lives. I think they choose a partner to enrich their lives. Lots of bad choices, sure. But people come in pairs. It's the way it is, and it's the way it always will be." His own words made him realize something, and he added, "So that's why you're floating around Europe—your parents' divorce?"

  Her retort was sharp. "I am not floating around Europe. I was trying to tell you—''

  "I don't know what you'd call it then. No visible means of support, no career, and no ambition to have one. And it seems no fixed address. You've been hanging around Puerto Banus as if you have all the time in the world. Sounds like floating to me." Taylor started back to his abandoned manicotti, knowing full well he was goading her and not sure why.

  "I came to Europe for a reason, and I'm in Puerto Banus for a reason. Neither of which is your business. And for your further information, I have an apartment in Madrid. And like I keep telling you, how I earn my living is my affair. Not yours." She stirred her fork wildly through her spaghetti.