Surrender To A Playboy. Renee Roszel

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