Surrender to a Playboy
Автор
Renee Roszel
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CHAPTER ONE
THE moment Taggart Lancaster stepped out of his rental car he would become an impostor—a black sheep and prodigal son—returning home after an absence of sixteen years.
Taggart stared out through the windshield at the elegant Victorian home with its wooden gingerbread and angled bay windows, a russet jewel in a setting of evergreen. Clutching the steering wheel, his knuckles white with tension, he cursed himself. What was he doing? What had possessed him to agree to such a wild stunt?
His gaze drifted over the turreted and steeply gabled roof. Moody and silent, he took in the high-country beauty of the American Rocky Mountains, an unspoiled wilderness of piney forests, striated cliffs, steep divides and rainbowed waterfalls. Distant, snowcapped peaks loomed in all directions, soaring into a boundless summer sky.
Bonner Wittering, Taggart’s oldest friend and most time-consuming legal client, had said Colorado’s Rockies were beautiful. Taggart was reminded of the Swiss Alps, and the remote boarding school, where they both grew up. A wave of nostalgia washed over him and he fought it off. That “we-two-against-the-world” baggage is what got him into this mess.
He did need a vacation, though. That had been another of Bonner’s arguments. The way things stood, Bonner couldn’t come, couldn’t leave Boston as a condition of his bail. Due to the fact that Bonn owned a condo in Paris, the court felt he represented a flight risk.
As Bonner’s lawyer, Taggart knew how unamused bail bondsmen were when one of their clients jumped bail. As an officer of the court, Taggart couldn’t allow Bonner to leave town. Which Bonn swore was exactly what he’d do if given no other choice.
Taggart shook his head, muttering, “I must be nuts.” Nobody else on earth could have talked him into such a bizarre plan. But Taggart and Bonn were closer than most real brothers. Unfortunately for Taggart’s argument against the plan, they actually did look enough alike to be mistaken for siblings.
“Bonn, old buddy, I can’t decide who’s the bigger fool,” he groused. “You, for being such a gullible boob, or me, for agreeing to this—this idiocy.”
He spent another interminable moment strangling the leather-swathed steering wheel. “It’s no crime to do a favor for a friend,” he muttered. “You’re just here to make a sick old lady happy.” He flexed his fingers to relieve cramped muscles. “So move! Get out of the blasted car!” Shoving his misgivings aside, he sucked in a deep breath and flung open the door.
Gravel crunched beneath his polished wing tips as he stepped out onto the drive.
The charade had begun.
He grabbed his suitcase from the car trunk, strode across the drive and up the wooden steps to the wraparound porch. His footfalls echoed on redwood, sounding like threatening thunder. For the thousandth time he shook off nagging misgivings for agreeing to Bonner’s plea. Banging out some of his frustration on the heavy lion’s head knocker, he announced his arrival with the finesse of a machine gun.
“She won’t be able to tell you’re not Bonn,” he mumbled. “He was nineteen the last time he was here. People change. Besides, she’s practically blind and deaf.” Even if she weren’t, he and Bonn both had black hair, brown eyes and were approximately the same height, though at six-three Taggart was an inch taller. They were equally athletic and hit the gym several times a week for their regular racquetball game and weight training. They both played basketball in an amateur league. Besides their physical likeness, Taggart knew Bonner’s history as well as he knew his own. He could do this favor for his friend—cheer an ailing grandmother whose fondest wish was to see her only living relative—just once more.
He winced. Well, she would believe he was her relative. That would make her happy, and that’s what counted.
The front door opened to reveal a well-rounded, solid woman in a floral print dress. She looked to be in her mid-forties with a sprinkling of gray in her short, curly mop of brown hair. The expression she wore on her square face and small, plain features, was polite, but cool. “Mr. Wittering?” she queried in a tone that didn’t sound like she’d been looking forward to meeting him.
Taggart nodded. “I’m a little late. My flight…” He let it drop. Delayed flights were more the norm than the exception.
“Yes, we checked.”
Taggart sensed there had been a moment of alarm in the Wittering household. Had they suspected Bonn had once again decided to disappoint his grandmother in favor of some new, impromptu escapade? The thought made him annoyed with himself for not easing their minds with a phone call. But the delay had only been an hour, and he’d made up time on the road. He supposed the truth was, he’d had his mind on his own dementia, agreeing to play out this little drama. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have phoned.”
“That would have been nice,” she said, snappishly. Taggart didn’t blame her for her attitude. On the contrary, he took pity on the woman, possibly the caregiver who’d doggedly written to Bonn, begging him to visit his grandmother. She clearly cared for her employer and was fiercely protective of her feelings.
“I’d like to see my grandmother as soon as possible,” he said, assuming a repentant grandson would.
The woman’s expression eased slightly, the taut slash that was her mouth softening but not quite curving into a smile. “After I show you to your room, I’ll let Miz Witty know you’re anxious to see her.”
Ah, yes, Miz Witty. That’s what Bonn always called her.
The woman waved him forward and stepped out of his way. “I’m Mrs. Kent, the housekeeper. Everybody calls me Ruby.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Ruby.” He followed her through the foyer to the stairs. He didn’t have much time to look around, but his impression was of furnishings that were a blend of modern with antiques; ceramic pottery and art abounded. He guessed they were original pieces collected over the years.
The place had a homey, welcoming feel, smelling of furniture polish and what he could only describe as—women—the scent left lingering in the air from flower arranging, scented baths and candles. His home had once smelled very much like this, until Annalisa—
“This is your room, Mr. Wittering,” Ruby said, interrupting his melancholy reverie. She halted at the top of the stairs and opened a door.
“Call me—Bonn.” He looked away, made a pained face at the sour taste that lie left in his mouth. Get used to it, Tag, he counseled himself. You’re going to be Bonner Wittering for the next two weeks.
“If you insist—Bonn,” she said as he shifted to face her again. “Miz Witty’s room is across the hall toward the back of the house. I’ll let her know you’ve arrived. Take a few minutes to freshen up, then go see her.”
“Thank you, Ruby.” He moved past her into a sunny room, obviously intended to make a guest both comfortable and at ease. The furnishings were influenced by the Shaker tradition of simplicity, left natural with a hand-rubbed oil finish. Bright rag rugs dotted the pine planks. In front of the lace-swathed window, a colorful bouquet of fresh flowers and greenery sat on a drop-leaf table, filling the room with sweetness.
He set down his bag and turned to the housekeeper to compliment the accommodations, but she no longer stood in the doorway. He peered out into the hall to glimpse her as she disappeared into to Miz Witty’s room, no doubt to make the big announcement—the prodigal has returned!
Or so they thought.
Taggart decided to give Miz Witty a few minutes to prepare for his arrival, so he unpacked his suitcase and put away his things. He opted not to change out of his business suit, though he didn’t recall Bonn ever wearing one, except when he’d been best man at Taggart’s wedding to Annalisa, and, then, three years later—at her funeral. But Miz Witty wouldn’t know how Bonn dressed. The last time she’d seen him, he’d surely been wearing a suit. After all it had been Bonn’s parents’ funeral, after their tragic deaths in an avalanche while they’d been cross-country skiing.
He ran a hand through his hair, not so much to move it out of his eyes, but to give his aggravation and frustration an outlet. Putting a fist through the wall didn’t seem like the best plan.
Catching his scowl in the dresser mirror, he adjusted his expression and left the room. It was time. He’d put it off long enough. He walked to Miz Witty’s door and knocked. The “Come in,” he heard had a melodious ring to it, as though the person speaking were exhilarated. He swatted down a fresh surge of self-loathing and turned the knob, pushing open the door.
His attention went immediately to the centerpiece of the room, a large bed with a tall, ornately carved headboard and shorter but equally ornate footboard. The bedspread was a fusion of white silk, lace and brocade, giving the impression of a wintertime landscape. In the midst of all that snowy finery, reclining against a multitude of pillows, lounged a petite, queenlike woman with ivory skin and a smile so reminiscent of Bonn’s it gave Taggart pause. Her eyes were large and iron-brown, her bone structure classic. Powder-white hair crowned her head in a groomed mound of wispy curls. Taggart thought she was an attractive, youthful-looking woman, even days away from her seventy-fifth birthday. Her white, silk dressing gown frothed with lace at the neck and wrists.
She held out her arms, looking like a human-size China doll, come to life. “My Bonny!” Those brown eyes grew liquid with what Taggart knew were tears of joy. He was struck with an urge to be transported telepathically back to Boston for an instant, just to kick Bonn in his backside for neglecting this fragile-looking doll of a woman. Without further hesitation, he moved across the Persian rug and leaned over the bed, allowing her to take him in her embrace. He held her gently, inhaling her scent, talcum powder and French milled soap.
“It’s good to see you, Miz Witty,” he murmured against her cool cheek. “You’re looking marvelous.” He’d seen her picture among the few Bonn kept. She was older by at least a decade than the photograph he remembered, and from what Bonn had said about her failing health, Taggart was surprised she looked so well. As for being blind and deaf, well, she certainly wasn’t blind. She didn’t even seem to need glasses. He wasn’t sure about her hearing, yet. But she’d apparently heard his knock, which hadn’t been particularly loud. “How are you?” he asked in his normal voice, a test to see if she could hear him.
“Just wonderful. My right leg is still too weak for me to stand, since my last stroke, and the pneumonia wasn’t a cake-walk, but I’m getting stronger every day.” She grasped his upper arms and held him just far enough away to look at him up close. Smiling, she scanned his face. With great difficulty Taggart held on to his pleasant expression. Did she see well enough to realize he wasn’t Bonn? He experienced a creeping unease spiced with another bout of irritation. A part of him almost hoped she wasn’t fooled. He hated the lie.
She touched his cheek, her small, cool hand fondly caressing. “You’re even more handsome than I remember.”
He shifted uneasily, not sure how to answer.
A slight cough or throat-clearing from somewhere behind him caught his attention. He turned. A striking woman stood not far away, her attention focused on Miz Witty. She wore blue jeans, a pink T-shirt and sneakers. In her hands she carried a tray containing a china teapot, matching cup and saucer and a plate of toast. He straightened, surprised at her almost magical appearance. He hadn’t heard her come in.
“Oh, Bonny, darling,” Miz Witty said, “this is my live-in health care provider, Mary O’Mara. Mary, this is my grandson, Bonner.”
The woman with the tray shifted her attention to him, nodded and smiled politely. “How do you do, Mr. Wittering.” Her voice was soft and on the sexy side of husky. She moved forward, hardly making a sound. She almost seemed to float. Taggart found himself staring, watching the graceful economy of her movements.
Her hair was long and loose, straight and black, parted in the middle. The shiny, undulating curtain swayed with every step she took, brushing each side of her face in turn—left, right, left, right. Watching her hair sway, nuzzling those rosy cheeks in alternating beats, was strangely hypnotic.
When she reached him she looked directly into his face, her eyes a striking shade of gray-brown—like smoke. They seemed to flash, as though a lightning storm raged beneath the dusky veil. “Please, excuse me, Mr. Wittering,” she said, her husky tone as gracious as her smile.
He belatedly realized he was in her way, and stepped aside, feeling like a simpleton. “Pardon me.”
“Absolutely no problem,” she murmured, turning her pretty face away to attend to Miz Witty. “We’re out of orange marmalade,” she said, removing the silver lid from a dainty, cut-crystal container. “I hope strawberry jam is all right.”
“Perfect! Delightful!” Miz Witty’s light laugh tinkled like a bell. Taggart felt her cool fingers entwine with his. “Nothing could bother me today.” She squeezed his fingers affectionately. “I’m so happy, I could burst. My Bonny has come home, at last.”
Taggart tore his gaze from the young woman to look at Miz Witty. Tears welled in her eyes. His gut twisting with guilt, he gently squeezed her fingers in return, but was unable to conjure a smile.
“I’m so glad you’re happy,” Mary O’Mara said, her attention shifting to Taggart. She smiled. The beauty of it touched something inside him that he hadn’t believed could be touched, ever again. Not after his Annalisa died.
He wasn’t a man who smiled much, but he found himself on the brink as he took in this raven-haired woman with the smoky eyes. “I hope you enjoy your visit, Mr. Wittering,” she said. Her throaty voice was only a whisper, yet it rang loud and long in his head.
“Call me Bonn,” he said, feeling like a tongue-tied schoolboy.
“Thank you.” She broke eye contact to face Miz Witty. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No, dear. Go relax for a while.” The older woman poured tea into her cup, then paused. Her brows dipped in a thoughtful frown. “Oh—where are my manners?” She shifted to face Taggart. “Bonny, sweetheart, would you like some tea? Perhaps a snack after your long trip?” Without letting him respond she waved a negating hand. “Of course, you would.” She faced Mary. “Dear, please ask Cook for another plate of toast and more tea.”
“Right away,” Mary said with a smile as she turned to go.
“If you’ve got coffee…” Taggart broke in, experiencing a prick of disappointment that she was leaving. “I’ll serve myself and bring it back here. I’m not hungry.”
Mary looked at Taggart. “Don’t trouble yourself, sir. I’ll get it.”
“Absolutely not.” He turned to Miz Witty. “I’ll be right back.” He was having trouble with the idea of seeing Mary O’Mara walk away.
Miz Witty smiled and took up her teacup. “That’s very gentlemanly of you, Bonny.” Sipping she beamed at Mary, then added, “He’s truly a treasure.”
The young woman smiled at her employer, nodded and shifted to leave, her sneakers soundless as she glided away. Taggart followed her out the door, closing it as he left. Her scent drifted back to him, light and floral, seeming to beckon.
Suddenly, Taggart found it essential to see those eyes again, experience the invigorating warmth of her smile. He had not been gripped by such an unexpected need since that night he’d met Annalisa, and he’d never expected to experience anything even vaguely as intoxicating, ever again. He and Annalisa had fallen in love the night they’d met. They were married three weeks later, so the courtship lasted about as long as it took for them to eat dinner. By dessert they’d been engaged.
For a long time after his wife’s death he hadn’t dated at all. After three years, his friends finally convinced him to get out, meet women. Since then he hadn’t been a monk, but he wasn’t a playboy like Bonn.
His work kept him busy. If the truth were known, he was more accustomed to being pursued than pursuing. That’s why, when he saw Mary O’Mara, the sense of urgency that overtook him was startling, even strangely disturbing. Where had the dour, guarded Taggart Lancaster suddenly gone? He’d never been the sort to chase females down. Certainly, he’d never experienced such a strong craving to speak to a woman since Annalisa’s death. He’d never even imagined he would.
“Mary?” He caught up with her, “May I call you Mary?” he asked with a smile. “So you’re the Mary who wrote those letters to—me.”
At the head of the stairs she halted abruptly and shifted to face him. Those beautiful eyes he’d so badly wanted to gaze into again staggered him with their shocking transformation. Her stare was withering, her eyes flaring with fury and malice.
“Yes, I am that Mary.” That sexy voice he’d wanted to hear again had become low and hard-edged. “How dare you neglect that wonderful woman for so many years, you—you selfish snake!”
Taggart stood there, speechless. Her metamorphosis from sweet to spiteful had been so swift and fierce, he was caught completely off guard.
“For Miz Witty’s sake,” she went on in a deadly whisper, “When you and I are in the same room with her, I will be polite and pretend to find you less than thoroughly repulsive. I will call you Bonn in her presence, if that is her wish, and I will try not to spit in your eye when you call me Mary. But otherwise, Mr. Wittering,” she hissed, “stay out of my way!”
