Renee Roszel - Surrender To A Playboy

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?