“I’m sorry.”

His lips stroked hers erotically as he made the apology.

Mary tried to work up some indignation, but she couldn’t. She’d never been kissed like that before.

“It was wrong of me.” He ground out the words. “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I’d never done anything like that before?”

He was right. Mary didn’t believe that. Telling her such a bold-faced lie, while managing to look irresistibly anguished and angry with himself, required a lot of talent—and, unquestionably, a great deal of experience!

Did this carousing Boston playboy think his innocent act would really work for a man with such a notorious reputation? Did he think because she was an unsophisticated, small-town girl she’d be easy pickings?

Dare to dream…

Every woman has dreams—deep desires, all-consuming passions, or maybe just little everyday wishes! In this brand-new miniseries from Tender Romance® we’re delighted to present a series of fresh, lively and compelling stories by some of our most popular authors—all exploring the truth about what women really want.

Step into each heroine’s shoes as we get up close and personal with her most cherished dreams…big and small!

• Is she a high-flying executive…but all she wants is a baby?

• Has she met her ideal man—if only he wasn’t her new boss…?

• Is she about to marry, but is secretly in love with someone else?

• Or does she simply long to be slimmer, more glamorous, with a whole new wardrobe?

Whatever she wants, each heroine finds happiness on her own terms—and unexpected romance along the way. And she’s about to discover whether Mr. Right is the answer to her dreams—or if he has a few questions of his own!

Enjoy Surrender to a Playboy by Renee Roszel.

And look out for This Baby….#3756 by Caroline Anderson.

Surrender to a Playboy
Renee Roszel

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For Shirley Casey, Doug Shipe and Barbara Bancroft Richardson, fab folks who came when I yelled, “Help!”

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

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!”

CHAPTER TWO

TAGGART watched Mary O’Mara-of-the-smoky-eyes storm down the stairs. The air around him still sizzled with her rage, and he thought he could detect the faint aroma of charred ego. Now he knew how a tree felt when struck by lightning and left a smoldering stump.

Absently loosening his tie, he muttered, “That went well.” Being a lawyer, he was accustomed to adversarial relationships, but he hadn’t seen that one coming. And why not, idiot? Hadn’t she written letters for the past two years, pleading for Bonn to come, getting rejection after rejection? What kind of attitude did he think she’d have? Taggart was usually good at gauging people, sensing their sincerity or lack of it. Plainly, something in her smile or those smoky eyes had jammed his radar. That tongue-lashing he’d just been given had hit him like a two-by-four to the back of his skull.

“So far I’ve been greeted with suspicion, devotion and loathing.” He stuffed his hands into his slacks pockets, muttering, “Thanks a whole heap, Bonn, old buddy.”

He took the stairs two at a time. He had no desire to get coffee, but he’d told Miz Witty that’s what he was going to do, so he might as well. Maybe a strong cup of java would wash the taste of Miss O’Mara’s bone-jarring disgust out of his mouth.

At the bottom of the staircase, he swung toward the back of the house, assuming that’s where he’d find the kitchen. He was right. Upon entering, though, he was surprised to see Miss I-Hate-Your-Guts O’Mara along with another woman who stood on the opposite side of the kitchen, a heavy-boned blonde who appeared to be about his age. She was pretty, but not nearly as stunning as Mary.

When the blonde spotted him, she arched her penciled brows in triangles and gave him a thorough once-over. Miss O’Mara did exactly the opposite. She turned her back, her rigid spine and shoulders telegraphing her antagonism. He tried to shake off his aggravation at her transparent resentment at his intrusion. She knew he was getting coffee. Where did she think he would go for it, Brazil?

“Well, hello there.” The blonde turned away from the stove to fully face him. With a wooden stirring spoon in her hand, she crossed her arms over her ample bosom. She wore jeans, like Mary O’Mara, but hers were much tighter. Though she sported a man’s button-front shirt, the fasteners at her chest were no match for her voluptuousness, and had popped open. Glimpses of a red bra peeked from a gap in the cotton plaid. “So this is that bad boy we’ve been hearing about.” Whatever she’d been stirring with that wooden spoon was the color of tomato paste. A drop separated itself from the runny coating and spattered to the pine floor.

“Pauline, you’re dripping.” Mary pointed to the spoon.

The blonde continued to stare at Taggart, her expression designing. “Well, pardon me, but he’s the cutest thing that’s come into this kitchen in a long time.”

Taggart was startled by the woman’s unsubtle sexual overtures.

“For heaven’s sake, Pauline.” Mary stood at the sink where she’d apparently been getting a drink of water. She plunked down the tumbler, still half full, and walked across the kitchen to the cook. Her profile and demeanor were stiff, and she ignored Taggart with stanch determination. Taking the wooden spoon from the smirking blonde, she placed it on the spoon rest. “You’re dripping spaghetti sauce.”

The cook glanced at the floor. “Oops.” She shrugged, which only served to widen the breach in her shirt.

“Pauline!” Mary said in a half whisper as she cast a severe look in Taggart’s direction. “You’re undone.” She swiftly refastened the derelict buttons. “I’ll be in the basement if you need me.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Pauline fixed her gaze on Taggart.

Mary disappeared out the back of the kitchen into an alcove that looked like it led to a rear porch. The stairs to the basement must be there, too, but Taggart couldn’t see from his vantage point. All he knew was, even detesting him—rather Bonn—as Mary O’Mara did, her presence electrified a room. The loss of it made everything seem drab.

“Not to toot another woman’s horn, but I’ve never seen Mary so—so…” She scrunched up her face, snarled and made clawing gestures.

Taggart’s glance returned to Pauline. “So totally smitten?” he suggested sarcastically.

The cook looked momentarily confused, then laughed. “Yeah.” She smoothed back a blond wisp that had fallen from her casually swirled and clipped hair. “When Mary can afford it, she takes night school courses to become a nurse. And nurses are supposed to get along with sick people—crabby sick people. I always thought she was pretty easygoing. Until you came along, that is.”

So, Mary O’Mara could get along with anybody, except the one man she knew to be a self-centered playboy named Bonner Wittering. “Maybe she’d like me better if I came down with something,” he suggested, adding silently, preferably the Black Plague.

The cook laughed again. “You’re funny.” She winked. “Funny and cute. I like that in a man.”

He cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. He’d known other women like Pauline and sensed she was terribly insecure, at least where men were concerned. Through her wanton behavior, she was overcompensating, trying for “sex-kitten” but, instead, becoming a caricature.

She crossed the kitchen, holding out a hand. “I don’t think we’ve been officially introduced. I’m Pauline Bordo. Miz Witty and Ruby call me Cook, which I hate.” She winked again. “You can call me anytime.”

Bearing in mind her feelings of inadequacy, he forced himself to remain civil and accepted her hand. “I’m—Bonn.”

“Well, I know that. Everybody in town knows you’re here.”

Oh, great! Taggart grumbled inwardly. Bonn’s reputation had certainly preceded him. So far he’d experienced four very different attitudes—suspicion, devotion, loathing and, now, lust. He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out which dominated.

Glancing around he spotted the coffeemaker. Luckily it was half full. He indicated it with a nod. “I’m here for coffee. Miz Witty’s waiting for me.”

Pauline didn’t release his hand. “That’s too bad.” She shifted a shoulder toward the bubbling sauce on the stove. “I’m not a live-in like Ruby and Mary, so I’m usually free by seven.” She lifted her other hand and held his with both of hers. “Most nights I’m all dated up, but you whistle, handsome, and I’ll come runnin’. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Apparently nothing high-minded or saintly, he responded mentally. “I’ll keep your offer in mind.” He disengaged himself from her two-fisted grip, headed to the coffeepot, grabbed a mug from the shelf above, and made quick work of pouring coffee. The whole time he felt her eyes on him. When he turned she was exactly where he’d left her.

She grinned. “Nice butt.”

He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised by the comment, but he was. Barely containing his exasperation, he reminded himself she needed approval badly, poor thing. He would be polite if it killed him, but he would give her no hope of a romance in either word or deed.

Even so, he was supposed to be Bonner Wittering, the womanizing playboy. For the ruse to ring true he had to be somewhat glib. Without smiling, he lifted his coffee mug in a mock salute. “If I only had a dime for every time I’ve heard that.”

Her wicked laughter was bold, a lusty invitation. Even if he had been the charred tree stump Mary O’Mara made him feel like, he couldn’t have missed the fact that Pauline Bordo had a fixation on the “playboy” label that was part of the town’s folklore about their most infamous native son.

She planted her fists on her hips causing one of the shirt button that Mary had fastened to pop open. He wondered if she practiced that move to be able to undo buttons on demand. “You surprise me, handsome.”

Today hadn’t been one of his best, and except for meeting Miz Witty, it was getting worse by the minute. Working to retain his polite facade, he glanced at the door and took a step in that direction. “I surprise you?” he repeated.

She must have nodded, since he didn’t hear a response. “I figured I’d pitch and you’d catch, if you get my drift.”

He did. She was about as subtle as her red underwear. He felt a headache coming on and wouldn’t be surprised if the veins in his forehead were standing out like cords. He glanced in her direction.

“I’ve been pitching like a major leaguer, and you stand there like some cool-as-a-cucumber prince doing nothing but holding a cup of coffee.” She smiled slyly. “I have to hand it to you big city playboys. You really know how to play a fish!” She winked again. She’d done it so often in the past five minutes, it was beginning to look like a facial tic. “Okay, pretty man, I’ll play along. That smoldering I-don’t-care act of yours is makin’ me hot!”

She’d pegged the I-don’t-care part, but smoldering? Taggart had a hard time suppressing his irritation. He felt sorry for her, but there was a limit. Striding toward the exit, he quipped, “Then my job here is done.”

Pauline’s lusty guffaws trailed him down the hall.

Taggart hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep until the melodious warble of his cell phone woke him. Groggy, he fumbled in the darkness for the bedside table. After grabbing his travel alarm, then his billfold, he blundered into his cell. Flipping it open, he muttered, “Lancaster.”

“Wrong, Tag, old man. You’re not supposed to be using your real name,” came the familiar voice on the other end. “I hope nobody’s sleeping with you.”

Taggart couldn’t mistake Bonn’s voice. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Just the usual, a couple of supermodels.”

“Slow day?”

Taggart was strung tight, but Bonn’s joke had an effect. Even as aggravated as he was, he grunted out a half chuckle. “Maybe a little slow for Bonner Wittering, but I’m only pretending to be you. Why in Hades are you calling me at…” He squinted at the fluorescent dial on his travel alarm. “Nearly one-thirty in the morning? It must be, what? Almost three-thirty there?” He had a horrible thought and drew up on one elbow. “Tell me you’re not in jail!”

Bonner’s laughter rang through the phone. “Stop being an old woman. I’m a regular choirboy, sitting here in my condo watching a fascinating infomercial. Did you know you can buy a belt with electrodes that will exercise your abs while you sleep?”

Taggart didn’t need this right now. “Great. Order one and go to bed.”

Bonn laughed, his unquenchable good nature magically taking Taggart’s annoyance down another notch. “Okay, okay, I’ll get to the point,” he said. “I just wondered how it’s going. When you didn’t call, I decided I’d better check on you—see if they’d strung you up.”

Taggart swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. “I’m still breathing. But I have a feeling Mary O’Mara has a hanging on her agenda.”

There was a pause. “She’s an old busybody with a bad attitude. Ignore her.”

Taggart ran a hand through his hair. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Another pause. “I know it’ll be hard, with her right there underfoot.”

“Yeah. That, too,” Taggart muttered, pushing the memory of a pair of smoke-gray eyes from his mind.

“Huh?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, tell me about ol’ Miz Witty. She swallowed it, right? Hook, line and sinker?”

“I guess so.” Taggart hunched forward, resting a forearm on his thigh. “She’s not very deaf or blind. Was that your embroidery or Miss O’Mara’s?”

Another pause. “Miss? Is she a Miss?” Bonn asked, sounding like his playboy antenna was up and operational. “Is she pretty? Nah, probably one of those hateful, old-maid-types, right?”

Here we go again! “Try to focus, Bonn,” Taggart said, pained at the reminder of how very pretty—and, as far as he was concerned—hateful, she was. “Did you lie about the deaf and blind thing or was it Mary?”

“Okay, okay. Let’s see. I guess—maybe a little of both.” He chuckled, sounding sheepish. “You know my motto: life’s no fun if you can’t embellish.”

Taggart wished he could reach through the phone and throttle his friend, but he fought the urge. “You’re damn lucky it’s been a long time since she’s seen you.”

“But she really is sick, right? Mary told me she’d had a couple of strokes, and something else. I forget.”

“Pneumonia. She can’t walk, due to the strokes, but she seems to be on the mend. I’m no doctor, but she doesn’t look like a woman on her death bed. Personally, I’m glad, because she’s a nice lady.” He paused, then decided he had to add, “You’re a dirtbag for the way you’ve treated her.”

“Look, I know that,” Bonn said, sounding contrite. “I’m trying to make up for it, aren’t I?”

Taggart frowned, took the phone from his ear and stared at it, astonished at Bonn’s view of the situation. When he put the phone back to his ear, he grumbled, “You are sitting in your Boston condominium watching an infomercial about an electric belt. I am in Colorado, trying to make it up to her.”

“Sure, sure. You’re right,” Bonn said. “You’re doing—a lot. And I love you for it, bro.” His apologetic tone sounded sincere. “Remember, it’s her seventy-fifth birthday. That’s a milestone. She is in fragile health, and I am stuck here, a slave to my bail bondsman. None of that’s a lie. What you’re doing is above and beyond the call.”

“Yes, it is.” Taggart needed sleep, and didn’t want to start the same shopworn lecture over again, but by now it was such a reflex, he found himself saying, “You’ve got to start giving more thought to the consequences of your actions, Bonn, before you plunge in. If you’d only—”

The long, theatrical yawn he heard made Bonn’s boredom clear. “Yeah, yeah. I’m reading you loud and clear, Tag.” A pause. “Whoa, a new infomercial just started. Looks good. Something to do with women’s thighs—”

“Go to bed!” Taggart cut in. “And don’t call in the middle of the night for updates. If news of my murder doesn’t show up in the national headlines, assume I’m okay. Remember the adage, ‘No news is good news.”’ He snapped shut the phone and tossed it aside. “I hope that goes for you, too, Bonn,” he muttered, lying back.

Wide awake now, he laced his fingers beneath his head and stared into the darkness. He worried that infomercials about electric belts and thigh exercisers wouldn’t hold Bonn’s interest for long. He hoped his oldest friend would use his head for something beside scaffolding for the latest designer sunglasses.

Even as rash and immature as Bonn was, Taggart couldn’t picture his life without him. Sure he had his faults, but he was an eternal optimist, always laughing, generous to a fault.

Taggart threw an arm over his eyes, vivid pictures of the long past flashing into his mind. Visions of himself and Bonn spooled by, as they were at the age of nine when they’d been thrown together by happenstance.

Taggart had been sent away to the Swiss boarding school when his parents died in a freak bridge collapse. His guardian and only relative was a crotchety, seventy-year-old great-uncle, a United States Supreme Court Justice, who smelled of stale cigars and old paper. Justice Lancaster might have been a great legal mind, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to take in an orphaned child. Bonn, on the other hand, had been sent away because his parents couldn’t deal with their imaginative, uninhibited, prankster son who refused to conform to his father’s rigid, humorless temperament.

So, as young boys, Bonn and Taggart bonded in their loneliness. Taggart was Bonn’s strength and Bonn was Taggart’s exuberance. Bonn had always been able to make Taggart laugh, one of the few people who could. Being left alone at the remote school when the other boys went home for vacations and holiday breaks, Taggart was grateful for a friend who could bring humor to their abandonment. That’s why he had never minded Bonn leaning on him.

Now they were both thirty-five, and Bonn was still leaning, not only as his longtime friend, but also as a legal client. After so many years, Taggart had to admit if only to himself, it was starting to wear thin. Taggart knew always being there to snatch Bonn out of the frying pan before he got burned wasn’t helping him be a man, responsible for his own actions. The sad fact was, Bonn was an expert at manipulating Taggart with his humor and poor-pitiful-me act. Not to mention the inescapable coup de grace, when he reminded Taggart just who had introduced him to Annalisa, the love of his life.

Taggart experienced a gut punch of grief at the memory of his adored wife, lost five years ago in a fire at the hospital where she had been a pediatric surgeon. He still owed Bonn more than he could ever pay for Annalisa alone. Had it not been for his friend’s impulsiveness, making plans with both Taggart and Annalisa that fateful evening, then forgetting them, running off to New York on a whim as they waited at his apartment door, Taggart would never have met Annalisa. He wouldn’t now have the precious memory of three blissful years loving her.

Unable to deny the fact that for all the rest of his days he would owe Bonn for giving him Annalisa, here Taggart was, in the small Rocky Mountain town of Wittering, for nearly two weeks—pretending to be someone he wasn’t.

Taggart had been aware for some time that Miz Witty’s caregiver had been writing to Bonn, trying to shame him into a visit. For some reason her last letter managed to make him see the error of his ways. Unfortunately, fate had Bonn hip-deep in another brush with Boston’s legal system. This time it wasn’t the usual small stuff, like the time he hired the marimba band to serenade his latest girlfriend at three in the morning, getting him arrested for disturbing the peace. This time his trouble wasn’t simply an abundance of parking tickets or the occasional fistfight over a football team or a woman.

This time Bonn was implicated in a serious insider trading deal. Taggart felt sure Bonn had not meant to do anything criminal. His characteristic rashness and gullibility were at fault. Nevertheless, a trial date was set for late September, two months from now, and could end in serious jail time.

He lay there, his mind congested with the weight of the responsibility to save Bonn from his own foolishness, mixed with resentment at his friend for what they both were doing to Miz Witty.

With a low groan, he rolled to his stomach, any expectation of sleep he’d harbored proving to be crazed, wishful thinking.

Mary hadn’t slept well. Her loathing for Bonner Wittering kept her tossing and turning all night. Just having that self-seeking rat in the house made her skin crawl. She felt sick to her stomach knowing the only way she had finally, finally managed to get him to come to Wittering was to hint that his grandmother was considering writing him out of her will.

What a sleaze! Telling him about her strokes, her heart and her pneumonia hadn’t budged him, so she’d been forced to lie, big time. Mary was aware that Bonn had been writing to his grandmother for money. Apparently he’d nearly run through his own inheritance and started sweet-talking soft-hearted Miz Witty into paying for big chunks of his spend-thrift lifestyle.

When Mary accidentally stumbled across one of Bonn’s letters wheedling his grandmother for money, she’d known exactly what she would need to do to get him to visit—threaten him with The Will. It had worked. He’d flown out so fast her head still spun. And because her ploy worked so swiftly, making it clear Bonn cared more about his finances than his grandmother’s health, she despised him all the more.

Dragging herself up to sit, she stretched and yawned. Her glance fell on the framed picture on her bedside table. Even in her emotional turmoil, she managed a smile, kissed the tip of her finger and touched the face of her five-year-old, half sister Becca, a morning ritual, a silent prayer of sorts, thrown up to heaven. Mary’s fondest wish was that somehow, by some miracle, she could wrestle custody of Becca away from the child’s good-for-nothing father.

Sadly, miracles were hard to come by. Her spirits dipping again, she threw her legs over the side of the bed and stood, groggily pulling on her terry robe. She cinched up the sash and winced. What was she trying to do, slice herself in half? Loosening the belt, she stepped into her bedroom slippers and shuffled toward the bath. She heard water running. Ruby was up. Mary could always hear the water flowing through the pipes from the housekeeper’s attic bathroom, above hers.

Movement caught her eye and she shifted to glance toward the rustic pine dressing table, her reflection in the wavy mirror glowered back at her. She instinctively ran both hands through her tousled hair. She narrowed her eyes, then shuffled closer. “Are those dark circles under your eyes?” she muttered. They were! “Drat you, Bonner Wittering!” She shifted away from the bedraggled sight, opened her mouth to express an additional thought, then changed her mind. She would not voice a notion that was so wayward and irrelevant—that Bonner Wittering had no business being as handsome as he was.

She remembered her first impression, in Miz Witty’s room, when he’d turned to look at her. She’d been so dumbstruck she’d almost dropped the tray. His hawklike features were classically handsome, cunningly dramatic.

It was as though he knew just how to tilt his head, and organize his expression to appear slightly curious, vaguely troubled. She hated Bonn Wittering, yet her heart had taken a wild, mutinous leap of attraction. What did the man do, practice that look in front of a mirror to become just seductive enough—yet sincere enough—to dazzle and confuse the pants off a woman? She shook herself, not happy with the wording of that last thought.

Her reaction yesterday had been out of the blue, and it made her mad. When she’d lashed out at him at the top of the stairs she’d been as furious with herself as she was with him.

All night she’d struggled with her unwanted attraction for such an unworthy, self-centered jerk. This morning, she was adamant the sleepless hours had been well spent, exorcising the lewd demons from her body. She had trampled the worrisome delusion to dust. She might be exhausted, but she was back to loathing him with every sizzling, throbbing corpuscle of her being. She only hoped she would be able to avoid him for much of his stay. The idea of the need to smile at him and call him “Bonn” in any tone less than out-and-out revulsion was too painful to contemplate.

Her mind roved unaccountably to his eyes, the color of rich earth, framed by thick, dark lashes. They had been amazingly clear and candid, for a greedy, womanizing pig. But she supposed that’s how greedy, womanizing pigs were able to womanize. They could look like nice guys with nothing but the most honorable intentions. That’s what made them so dangerous!

She shoved open the bathroom door and froze, her body reacting before her mind grasped the truth. Standing there not two feet away, was the greedy, womanizing pig, himself—wearing nothing but a towel. Or maybe she should say, thank heaven he wore a towel!

Shaving cream covered one cheek and part of his jaw. As she stood there gripped by a bizarre paralysis, he stopped shaving and glanced her way. He didn’t appear shocked. Possibly a little surprised. But then womanizing pigs were no doubt accustomed to having women burst into their bathrooms.

Lowering the razor to water running in the sink, he returned his attention to what he was doing. “Good morning, Miss O’Mara.”

Lord, she’d forgotten both their bedrooms connected to the adjoining bath. Evidently she wasn’t as alert this morning as she should be. Unfortunately, it was all his fault! “Oh—I’m…” She couldn’t seem to form a coherent thought. For an out-and-out rat, he had a disturbingly masculine chest. So disturbing it could apparently rob women of the ability to think straight or even move. “I thought—I didn’t think…” Well, did you or didn’t you, nitwit? Get hold of yourself! She swallowed. “It’s six o’clock. I didn’t think you’d be up.” Get out. Close the door! What are you doing, planted in the doorway like a stupid pine tree?

He lifted his chin and shaved upward along his jaw. “Actually, I slept late.” He glanced her way as he rinsed the razor. “It’s eight o’clock in Boston.”

That surprised her. “I thought playboys slept till noon.”

“And you’re an expert on playboy behavior?”

Though she was having trouble getting her body to obey her, she worked on her stern expression. “Actually, my experience with playboys is limited to you,” she said. “Naturally, I’ve heard of your…” She groped for a single word that would encompass the disreputable rumors over the years, about his sexual delinquency and general wild living. “…exploits,” she said finally. “You must know the topic of Bonner Wittering would be popular gossip in a town bearing his name.” She paused, giving him a chance to respond. He merely carried on with his shaving. Annoyed by his disinclination to explain himself or at the very least express regret for his disgraceful behavior, she added, “However, it’s been these past two years, getting to know you through your letters, that my low opinion of playboys has been set in stone.”

“So, you judge all playboys by your estimation of me?” he asked, glancing her way.

She managed a shrug, gratified she could move her shoulders. She hoped the performance looked like utter indifference to his nearness. “Let’s just say getting to know you has ruined me for all other playboys.”

His lips twitched. “Why Miss O’Mara, are you flirting with me?”

She gasped. He was an incorrigible tease. “I’d rather cut off an arm!”

He broke eye contact and returned his attention to the mirror. “So, it’s not really playboys you hate,” he murmured. “It’s me.”

“If you’re an example of what constitutes a playboy, then it’s safe to say I’m not a fan of you—or any of your breed! Is that clear enough?”

“It seems fairly clear,” he said. After a pause, he added, “I’ll be out of your way in a minute.”

Somehow, she regained the use of her arms and jerkily indicated the sink. “I—was just going to brush my teeth.” Why did you tell him that? What does he care? Get—out—of—the—room!

He shifted his attention back to her. She wondered what was going through his mind. Nothing in his expression gave away his thoughts. He took a step back and indicated the sink with his razor. “Go ahead. I can see over your head.”

She stared, realizing after a half dozen precariously rapid heartbeats her jaw had dropped and her mouth was open. Did he really think she’d get in front of him and bend over the sink—with him wearing nothing but a towel?

He lifted his chin and began to shave again. “Go ahead, Miss O’Mara.” His lids slid to half mast, a clear indication he’d taken his eyes off the mirror and was watching her. “In case you’re worried, the Playboy Handbook expressly prohibits attacking women in the act of brushing their teeth.”

She winced slightly as if her flesh had been nipped. Did this guy read minds?

“Pretend I’m not even here.” As he dragged his razor across his cheek she thought she saw a muscle bulge there. Did it annoy him that she’d think he might attack her? Or did it bother him that she was probably not going to be a conquest.

Probably not? That didn’t sound like she was sure about it! She shook herself. Get with the program, Mary. You hate this man. She saw him standing there, heard him when he spoke, yet she didn’t see him, didn’t hear him. Her thoughts ebbed and flowed as though she were slipping in and out of consciousness.

Before she grasped what was happening, he doused his razor under running water, replaced it on the glass shelf below the mirror and rinsed his face. He took a bottle of aftershave off the shelf, spattered it into his palm, rubbed his hands together and splashed the aromatic liquid on his cheeks and square jaw. She watched, transfixed, experiencing the kindling of an odd yearning deep inside her. For what? Certainly not this—this sexy—No! No! I didn’t mean sexy, I meant selfish! This selfish reptile.

He replaced the cap on the bottle and set it aside then snagged her gaze. “It’s all yours, Miss O’Mara.” She stood there motionless, torn between wanting to look deeply into those hypnotic eyes and scratching them out. “I’ll just slither quietly away,” he said, with the vaguest hint of a bow.

After he left, Mary didn’t know how long she stood there, stock-still, trying to gather her fragmented thoughts. The bracing, woodsy scent of his aftershave lingered, turning her malfunctioning mind to slush.

After what seemed like an eternity she found herself able to move, and leaned heavily against the doorjamb. She ran her hands through her hair and grasped wads in her fists, furious for allowing herself to get—flustered. Yes, that was all it was. She’d been flustered. She hadn’t expected to see him, especially nearly naked. The situation had been embarrassing and—and flustering.

She inhaled several deep breaths for strength, reminding herself of what she knew better than her own name. The man was a human slug. “I hate you Bonner Wittering,” she whispered in a guttural snarl. “I will hate you until the end of time!”

CHAPTER THREE

TAGGART felt eligible for the Olympic Speed Eating race. One minute and twelve seconds had to be a record for consuming a stack of pancakes, a slab of ham, a tumbler of orange juice and a cup of coffee, which scalded the back of his throat.

The throat-scalding and the breakfast-bolting had been accomplished in a good cause. Otherwise, he might have found himself clasped in the embrace of the infatuated cook. Though aggravated and losing patience, Taggart was determined to remain sympathetic to Pauline’s brazen overcompensations for her feelings of inadequacy.

He’d managed to break free of her panting attentions for a temper-cooling stroll through the evergreen forest behind Miz Witty’s home, a shady cloister of low-growing pinyon pine, juniper, oak and towering ponderosas.

His hike over the rocky, forested landscape took him constantly upward. With every step he managed to rid himself of a little pent-up tension. He spotted a porcupine, a red fox and a mother deer with her fawn before emerging from the chill of the wood into a sun-drenched meadow. A clear, shallow brook meandered across the clearing, gurgling and sparkling in the sunshine for a dozen yards before tumbling back into the forest.

Beyond the meadow, past a steep chasm, the landscape was forbidding, yet stunningly beautiful, the earth, fractured and jagged. The timbered mountainside rising above the canyon was strewn with abandoned mining structures, no doubt part of the Wittering silver mining heritage. From what Bonn had told him over the years, savvy investing by several generations of Witterings, had multiplied the family’s wealth a hundredfold, allowing Bonn the existence of leisure and excess he lived.

That thought brought Taggart harshly back to the present and the reason he was here. Spotting an outcropping of rock among a stand of tall ferns at the edge of the wood, he leapt across the shallow brook, walked to the boulder and sat down.

He scanned the clearing, awash with midmorning sunshine. Masses of flowers bobbed in the stony field, giving a delicate blue-violet cast to patches of ground. Along the bubbling stream, dense colonies of taller, pale pink flowers held court.

He inhaled crisp, clean air, experiencing a sense of peace in the vast quiet. He couldn’t imagine why Bonn avoided his hometown with such a vengeance. Of course, Boston had a great deal to offer in convenience and comfort as well as historical significance, but this untouched wilderness held a grandeur far superior to mere convenience and creature comfort. Plus, its historical significance went back not merely a few hundred years, but eons.

He scanned the unbounded, cloudless sky. In this lofty realm a man could easily feel like Zeus himself, his thunderbolts cast aside, unnecessary amid such serenity. Truly, this sanctuary in the sky seemed too idyllic for mere mortals. He had the strangest sensation he’d been given a gift, just being allowed entry.

For the first time since arriving in Wittering, he didn’t feel resentful. How many times in his life had he truly felt serene? Certainly never in his high-powered, litigious career. He sat very still for a long time, drinking in the quiet, becoming one with the solitude. He felt like a man who had been lost in a desert, dying of thirst, then stumbling into an oasis awash with cool, life-giving water. The single difference between Taggart and that tragic wayfarer was that Taggart hadn’t been aware of the depth and breadth of the parched void inside him.

The realization was both shocking and compelling, sending his conflicting emotions into a bitter fight for supremacy. He told himself his life was exciting, filled with challenges. He had power, respect, money—was a big fish in a big pond. So, why then did he find being in this quiet spot on a remote mountain so significant, so potent, it made him doubt everything he was?

It’s the prehistoric cave dweller in you talking, his logical side insisted. Sure, it was tempting, this idea of getting away from everything. But it was a pipe dream. A man had to survive in the real world, make a living. “Hell,” he muttered, “Getting away from the rat race is what vacations are for.” He wasn’t sure he appreciated his term “rat race” but, since he’d been the one to think it, he let it pass without examination. Nobody’s job was perfect. Cave dwellers had to risk life and limb just to eat.

As careers went, his was as vital as it was profitable. His quandary, this unexpected emotional quagmire, was simple to explain. He was sleep-deprived, and a little disoriented—thrust into the position of suddenly being so loved, so loathed and so lusted after, all in one day. That could be hard on any man’s psyche.

He heard rustling and turned expecting to find another mother deer with her baby, or a fox, maybe an elk. Instead, he was astonished to see a being far more extraordinary, exotic and welcome, no matter how unwelcoming her reaction might be when she noticed him.

Her back to him, she walked along the edge of the brook as it took a turn into the sunny meadow. Spilling over the crook of her arm, an array of willowy, blue flower clusters bobbed with her every step. She knelt to pick a handful of the tall, pink flowers at the stream’s edge. Her dark hair fluttered and cavorted in the breeze, taunting him with come-ons he knew to be lies.

She rose, the move as graceful as any prima ballerina. Wearing hiking boots, jeans and a clingy, white turtleneck, she walked on. In full, bright sunlight, she paused before a bush, a riot of contrast with light green leaves and bright red berries. Using garden shears she snipped off several branches and added them to her bouquet.

Some of the flowers she carried were identical to those in the vase in his room. He’d seen several others he’d recognized in the plantings around the house. It hadn’t occurred to him that anyone would hike up a mountainside to gather wild-flowers, simply to decorate a home.

What an urban creature he’d become. Or was it more likely his status as a widower? Before Annalisa’s death, she had insisted on having fresh flowers in the house, year-round. They’d come from a Boston florist, not a mountain meadow, but those bouquets had been one of the subtle feminine touches in life he’d lost with his wife’s death. He’d stuffed the memories into a dark corner of his mind as he’d thrown himself into his law practice, his way of dealing with his grief. He experienced a melancholy jab at that realization. He didn’t want to forget, yet remembering held its own kind of pain.

Mary O’Mara seemed to be having trouble juggling her swelling bouquet and snipping the berry laden branches at the same time. As he watched, she dropped her gardening shears. He decided to quit feeling sorry for himself and be useful. He planned to offer her help, no matter how much she loathed him. He stood, recalling this morning when she’d barged into the bathroom, obviously not expecting to find him there.

She’d been horrified, aghast, dumbfounded—however he cared to label it, she had been far from happy. Even in her abhorrence, she’d been a stirring sight, her hair in charming disarray, her cheeks bright pink with shock and embarrassment. Her smoke-gray eyes dazzling, even glittering with antipathy.

She had such a troubling, gut-level effect on him, the sight of her standing there had been hard to deal with. It had taken every ounce of control not to slice off his nose. He’d known this trip would be two difficult weeks, but he hadn’t counted on the likes of Mary O’Mara, making his sticky situation one hell of a lot stickier.

He loved Annalisa and always would. This surprising attraction to Mary was hard to understand. He didn’t want to feel stirrings for another woman. When his wife died, he’d contented himself with the fact that he’d had his great love, been luckier than most men. Then Mary walked into his life. The beauty of the experience had been pure, blinding and profound. Her forced smile and white-hot hatred hadn’t dimmed or sullied its significance. He didn’t understand it, was bewildered by it, and tried to put it out of his mind.

He had enough to contend with right now. First, he wasn’t Bonn Wittering. And second, even if he were open to love, he couldn’t tell Mary the truth about who he was. She would be furious with the deceit and refuse to go along with lying to Miz Witty. He had no doubt that she would immediately inform her employer, and in the process break the elderly woman’s heart. In Mary’s position, he would probably do the same thing.

This troubling, uninvited attraction he felt for Miz Witty’s caregiver had to be ignored, killed. The deception had begun and must proceed as planned. He headed down the slope toward the brook, hiking up the sleeves of his beige v-neck shirt. Getting into character as the carefree Bonner Wittering, he called, “Need any help?”

Her body jerked at the sound of his voice, as though she’d been stung by a wasp. He heard her startled gasp. She spun around. Her eyes wide, she scanned the distance, quickly zeroing in on him. “You!” She closed her eyes for a split second, as though gathering her poise, then glared. “You scared the life out of me! What are you doing skulking around here?”

His hiking boots were waterproof so he waded through the shallow brook to where she stood. “I was looking around.” Bonn had undoubtedly seen all this as a child, so he added, “You know—for old times’ sake?” He indicated her burden. “Why don’t I hold those while you cut?”

She looked down at her bouquet and frowned, as though the idea of Bonn Wittering touching the flowers would contaminate them to the point where they’d wither and turn to dust. Her obvious disinclination to have him pollute her bouquet annoyed him, but he hid his feelings and knelt to retrieve her shears. “Or I could do the cutting. Just tell me what you want.”

She sucked in a quick breath, then exhaled as quickly. “Okay, I’d appreciate it very much if you’d go to Hades.”

He grunted a cynical chuckle. He’d laid himself wide open for that one. “Yeah, well—besides that.”

Her glance shifted to the shears he held, then to her armload of flowers. After a brief pause, she said, “I think I have enough.” She held out her hand. “Give me the shears. I need to get back to the house.”

He noticed her focus was on his neck, not his face. “No problem, Miss O’Mara.” He stuffed the gardening shears in the front, right pocket of his jeans. “I’m on my way back, and you’ve got enough to carry.”

Her glance flicked to his eyes. He could tell she was dismayed that he’d deposited the shears where she couldn’t get at them—unless she dived into his pants. He knew she’d rather be swallowed whole by a bear.

“Shall we go?” He took her arm.

She yanked away from his touch. “You have got to be kidding!”

He wasn’t surprised by her rejection and tried to tell himself he didn’t care. “Look, even a neglectful grandson can be a gentleman,” he said.

“Well, be one someplace else. If you’ll recall, Mr. Wittering, I told you to stay away from me.”

“If you’ll recall, Miss O’Mara,” he countered, “I don’t always do what I’m told.”

That remark got him a fiery glare. “You would brag about it!” She turned her back and stomped downhill toward the shady wood.

Taggart could tell she was determined to put distance between them. You can try to get away, he told her silently. But unless you break into a full run, you’re out of luck. He was quite a bit taller than she, his legs longer, making his stride impossible for her to outdistance as long as they were both walking. All through the forest, the ground was covered with pine needles and leaves, camouflaging potential hazards on the rock-strewn, uneven terrain. Running with her arms loaded down would be foolish.

He caught up to her in four easy strides. “What’s that perfume you have on? It smells like vanilla.” Actually he’d smelled it long before she arrived, but it was the only thing he could come up with at the moment besides the nagging question he hated wanting to ask. The one that went something like, May I kiss you to see if it’s as good as I think it would be?

“Ponderosa pine,” she said, her attention straight ahead. At least “Ponderosa Pine” is what he thought she said, since she’d spoken through thinned lips and gritted teeth.

“Pardon?” he asked, keeping his tone conversational.

“Sunshine makes their bark smell like vanilla.”

“Oh.” He watched her stern profile. “That’s interesting.”

She swerved around a lacy thicket of tall ferns. A winglike frond brushed one of the berry-laden branches off her bouquet. Either she didn’t notice or she didn’t plan to slow down enough to retrieve it. Taggart rescued it from the wagging frond. When he caught up with her he asked, “Are these berries poisonous?”

She glanced his way for a flash, then returned her attention to the maze of trees ahead. “Eat one and find out.”

He couldn’t repress a grin. “Okay.”

He plucked off one of the berries and, after a brief delay, popped it in his mouth, trusting her hatred for him stopped short of homicide. He chewed, startled to find the fruit tasted like lemonade. “It’s not bad.”

She didn’t respond.

“How long have I got before I keel over?”

She shifted to glower at him. “Sadly, they’re perfectly harmless.”

He found himself grinning again. “What a shame.”

He lay the branch on top of her bouquet, and she gathered it into her arms along with the others. “I’d have thought you’d know that.” She peered at him. “Having been born here.”

He experienced a prick of apprehension but covered with a nonchalant shrug. “It’s refreshing to discover you can be wrong.”

She stared hard at him for a couple of steps, but the terrain wasn’t the soft and gentle kind you could take your attention away from for too long without regretting it, so she snapped her focus forward.

“Remember, I was shipped off to boarding school at nine. A boy can forget a lot of details about a hometown he’s hardly visited in over a quarter of a century.”

“I’m sure!” she said. “Like the detail of his grandmother!”

He gave her a quick look, then returned his attention to the twisty trail. The mention of Miz Witty brought a question to his mind. “How is she today?”

“She’s fine,” Mary said, her tone clipped. “This is her bouquet. She’s eating breakfast now. As soon as she’s through she’ll want to bathe. Then we’ll do a little physical therapy for her leg.” She glanced his way, her expression defiant. “She’ll be ready for company about eleven.”

He absorbed that news. “Then tell her I’ll see her at eleven.”

Mary’s expression didn’t ease. He sensed rather than saw her relief.

He shook his head, marveling that she could so completely and utterly distrust him. “What did you think I’d do, visit her one evening then ignore her?”

“I wouldn’t put anything past you,” she said.

He looked ahead, glimpsing the house through the trees, which brought on another thought. “Please inform Pauline that I’ll be eating lunch with Miz Witty.”

Mary peered at him, clearly dubious. Of course, she didn’t know his problem with the oversexed cook. Even if he hadn’t enjoyed Miz Witty’s company, he would choose eating lunch with a pack of ravenous wolves over Pauline-the-winker.

“I usually eat lunch with Miz Witty,” she said after a pause.

He was surprised, but didn’t know why he should be. “I’ll be joining you, then,” he said, aware of the crimp that news put in her day.

She remained grimly mute as they hiked to the edge of the forest. The redwood steps leading to the back porch loomed ahead of them. Beyond that was the kitchen. Taggart had no intention of making that trip.

“Here.” He retrieved the garden shears from his pocket and held them out. “I think I’ll walk into town.”

She halted, glanced at him. Her attention trailed from his face to his hand and the shears he lifted toward her. Without comment, she took them and resumed her trek toward the back door.

“Me, too,” he said.

She stopped, turned, looking suspicious. “What?” He crossed his arms over his chest, taunting, “I enjoyed our stroll, too.” That would get a rise out of her.

Her eyes flashed and her cheeks reddened. “Mr. Wittering, we did not stroll, and whatever it was, I did not enjoy it.” Snapping her shoulders around she broke into a run across the lawn. He felt sure she’d longed to do that from the beginning.

“I’ll see you at lunch,” he called, his reward a half-step falter in her stride and a definite stiffening of her spine.

As he watched her flee, he pondered his behavior. He was surprised at himself for teasing her. It wasn’t like him. What obscure, insubordinate part of him was responsible for this aberrant behavior? Why was he teasing this woman—a woman who hated the man she believed him to be? What contrary force inside him was not only disregarding his own counsel to kill the attraction, but purposefully drawing out her passion in the form of hostility, simply to glimpse it?

He pivoted away to go around the house. Shaking his head at himself, he muttered, “What’s wrong with you, Lancaster?”

Mary feared her lips would be permanently frozen in the strained smile she’d been compelled to wear during lunch with Miz Witty and Bonn Wittering. The only good thing about it had been her employer’s delight. She looked ten years younger and happier than Mary had ever seen her. Which only made her desire to kick Bonn Wittering in the shins harder to resist. He’d been so careless of this wonderful woman’s feelings for so long.

And his shins were so near! He sat directly across from her at the oak card table. It would be a crime not to kick him, just once. Really hard.

“I’ll help clear the dishes.” A voice intruded on her spiteful fantasy. A male voice. She glanced across the table, situated in front of Miz Witty’s hearth. Mary had spent the last, endless hour confined there with Bonn and her boss, conversing over a meal of tuna salad, stuffed in a tomato, marinated asparagus tips, orange slices and hot tea. Mary had a feeling Bonn was accustomed to eating more for his midday meal, and felt a gush of satisfaction at that. Let him be hungry!

“Mary?” The man causing her so much stress stood up, aiming a painfully exhilarating smile her way.

She wondered if his face muscles were as tired from their farce as hers. “Yes?” she asked, continuing to pretend she didn’t think he was the most self-centered man on earth.

“I said I’d help clear the table.”

She nodded and placed her napkin beside her plate. “How—nice.” She stood and moved to Miz Witty’s side, affectionately squeezing her employer’s hand. “Is there anything I can get you?”

Miz Witty beamed, her normally pale cheeks rosier than Mary had seen them in their two-and-a-half years together, her eyes bright with contentment. “No dear. I’m going to read until tea time.” She removed her hand from Mary’s and patted the younger woman’s face. “Tell Cook the lunch was delicious, as usual.” She lowered her hands to the wheels of her wheelchair and began to back away from the table.

“May I help?”

Startled to hear the offer, Mary glanced at Bonn. He was certainly laying on the Sir Galahad act pretty thick! Why should she be surprised? Bonn Wittering had a lot to lose if his grandmother cut him out of her will. She was a wealthy woman, and Bonn was her only relative. If Mary’s suspicions were true, Bonn had run through his own inheritance and couldn’t afford to alienate his grandmother. Mary had no doubt that was the real reason he’d finally come back to Wittering.

Miz Witty beamed at her grandson. “That’s a very sweet offer, dear. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to sit by the window. It’s such a beautiful day.” She pointed to her bedside table. “My book is over there.”

Mary began to clear the table, working to ignore the man. She pursed her lips, gratified to know she could actually change her expression to one more suited to her real mood.

As she placed the last of the china and silverware on the serving tray, the man responsible for her grimness materialized beside her. “I’ll take that.”

Kick his shins now! she roared inwardly. But she knew she couldn’t, not even if Miz Witty weren’t in the room. Regretful, she stepped away and indicated the tray, piled with dirty dishes. Since her back was to Miz Witty she didn’t smile. For show, she added a lighthearted lilt to her voice. “Why, thank you so much, Bonn.” She gave him a look that shouted her desire to hurt him physically. The slight narrowing of his eyes told her he’d received her message.

He picked up the tray and walked toward the open bedroom door. Mary turned toward Miz Witty who watched them, smiling. The older woman waved her away. “Why don’t you and Bonn go for a walk, have a nice long visit. I’m sure he’d enjoy the company of a lovely young woman.”

Mary managed a grin, nodded at her employer but inwardly grumbled, Over my dead body! “What a—lovely idea.” Exiting the room, Mary rolled her eyes, grateful Bonn had already left and couldn’t have heard the detestable suggestion.

When Mary reached the bottom of the staircase, Bonn appeared so suddenly, they almost collided. He no longer held the tray. Taking a step back, she put distance between them. “You made quick work of leaving the dishes,” she said.

He didn’t smile. She couldn’t tell if the serious expression was annoyance at her for moving away—some kind of playboy-ego thing—or if he was as weary as she, forced to sustain a fake smile from eleven in the morning until one in the afternoon. She didn’t know why he should be weary of it. Womanizers surely had well-exercised smile muscles.

“Was I supposed to wash the dishes?” he asked.

She took another step back and found herself against the wall. She flattened herself there. “Uh—no. Pauline does the dishes.”

He nodded, eyeing her quietly. Nervous flutterings pricked at her chest. She swallowed. Staring into warm, earth-brown eyes that had an uncanny ability to seem so—so earnest, was confusing and disorienting. She tried to look away but the hypnotic effect of his gaze short-circuited her ability, highly disconcerting.

She wasn’t accustomed to feeling this strange, agitated dichotomy about people. About men. But this man confused, frustrated and disturbed her. She disliked him with all her heart, but the restless disquiet that tightened her chest wasn’t dislike. She wished it were. It was an uneasiness without a name, and she didn’t like it.

Finally, her nerves frayed and her breathing labored, she demanded hoarsely, “What are you looking at?”

Her fretful question furrowed his brow. He peered at her intently for another pair of heartbeats, then startled her by placing the flats of his hands on the wall on either side of her face. “Your lips,” he murmured.

Mary didn’t have time to react, or even to be sure she’d heard him right before his lips touched hers, then covered her mouth, making her senses spin. She experienced a lurch inside her, an unwelcome flood of excitement. His kiss was warm, slow and surprisingly gentle. Delicious sensations spiraled through her, heating the blood in her veins and making her heart pound.

His kiss didn’t demand, it caressed. Didn’t dominate, it delighted. His lips coaxed, pleasuring in their exploration. She felt transported on a soft and airy cloud as she drank in the honeyed sweetness.

He touched nothing but her mouth, yet that contact was so powerful her limbs grew numb. She felt drugged, couldn’t move, though she wanted to lift her arms and encircle his neck, pull him close. She wanted to hold him, feel his heartbeat against her own. But she’d lost the capacity to do anything but quiver helplessly, thrilling as pleasure radiated through her.

“I’m sorry.” His lips stroked hers erotically as he made the guttural apology—a taunting termination to his kiss. He pushed away from the wall. As he distanced himself, Mary could only stare, too dazed and breathless to react.

“Forgive me—I…” His voice hoarse, he shook his head, as though not sure what to say.

In the waiting silence she stared at his set features, clamped jaw and dark, seductive eyes. Blood pounded unmercifully in her head, making it hard to hear, hard to think. She tried to work up some indignation, but she couldn’t. She’d never been kissed like that before. She’d never even dreamed of being kissed like that!

“It was wrong of me,” he ground out. Looking tormented, he dragged a hand through his hair. “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I’ve never done anything like that before?”

She might not be hearing too well at the moment and she might not have all her faculties in tip-top condition, but she heard his question. And he was right. She didn’t believe that. Telling her such a bold-faced lie, while managing to look irresistibly anguished and angry with himself, required a lot of talent—and, unquestionably, a great deal of experience!

Did this carousing Boston playboy think his “I’ve-never-done-anything-like-that-before” act would really work for a man with such a notorious reputation—no matter how skillfully played? Did he think because she was an unsophisticated, small town girl she’d be easy pickings?

The fact that she so obviously despised him made her a challenge. A challenge! To him, kissing her had been nothing but a careless and cruel game. To her, it had been a mind-blowing excursion into a realm of sensual perfection she wished she’d never encountered. Struggling to hold back tears she refused to let him see, she fought to conquer her anger and hurt.

Pushing away from the wall, she edged toward the entrance to the dining room and her escape to the kitchen. “Who…” she croaked. Clearing her throat, she forced steel into her words. “Who am I to question your honesty?” she jeered.

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