One Tough Cookie (20 page)

"Ouch! Damn it!" Willy exclaimed in a loud whisper.

"Here let me get that," he said, extending his long arm over Willy's head.

"All I did was reach for a glass. Damn those two little street gangsters. If I ever see them again..." She glanced up at Taylor and grinned mischievously. "How about we go out and see if we can find them? Give
them
a bruise or two?"

Taylor gave her an incredulous look. "When and if I want to tangle with muggers, I can find my quota in NY. I don't go looking for trouble and neither should you."

It was Willy's turn for surprise. He was as stern and sober as an old brick jailhouse. "Hey, I was kidding. Lighten up."

Without answering, he ran cold water over a tea towel, wrung it out, and folded it into a compress. Gently he pressed the cool cloth to her injury. The softness of his touch belied the expression on his face. He looked as though he could spit nails.

"Taylor, what's the matter with you?"

"You're what's the matter with me." She started to pull away. "Hold still," he commanded, increasing the pressure on the compress.

"Ouch!"

"Sorry." He eased the pressure. "It would be nice if Dan had a real refrigerator. You know, the kind that makes ice," he said sarcastically.

Willy turned to study him. His eyes were fixed on the damp cloth he held against her side. "You can't be mad about tonight, can you? It wasn't my fault we were targets for a couple of street toughs. To them we're tourists. It happens."

He glowered—beautifully, she thought, then it came to her. "You're mad because I defended myself, because I didn't need you to do it for me. That's it, isn't it?"

"No! That's not it." He threw the towel in the sink.

She made a quick gesture toward the bedroom. "Sh-h. If you're going to yell, you'll have to do it quietly." She folded her arms and leaned against the counter, shifting slightly when her welt complained. "If that's not it, then what is? You've been prickly since we got back to the apartment."

"I guess you might say having such a firsthand display of your hard-won skills unnerved me. When you told me about what you've done, the self-defense lessons, giving away your money, continually starting over to avoid attachments, I don't think I really understood what it meant—to you or to me." He gave her a long, curious look. "It's worked, hasn't it. Willy? You've learned to defend your heart with the same icy skill you defend your body. You weren't even scared out there tonight."

"Of course I was scared! I was terrified—for both of us. I just refused to let it show." Willy swallowed and the muscles in her throat tightened. "It bothers you? That I've learned to take care of myself, that my head rules my heart?"

Taylor ran a hand through his hair. "Honestly? I'm not sure what bothers me. Tonight, I was proud—God, I was grateful!—you could defend yourself. You've worked hard to become what you are, strong, free, independent—"

"And now your male pride can't handle it. Better a woman clinging to you—all needy and wanting, right?" Anger met fear in Willy's chest, creating a fist of tension. She inhaled long and deep, her eyes locked on Taylor.

"When in doubt, blame it on gender," he said. "The infamous male pride. That's a cop-out and you know it. Just a damned weak lob from a poorly defended position."

Willy lifted her chin.

Taylor's voice lowered a tone. "I don't think it's a crime—or a weakness—to want to be loved, and needed, by the woman I care about. And I don't think it has a damn thing to do with pride, male or female." He shook his head at her stubborn expression. "Love is about trusting, taking risks. And more than that, it's about real, forever kind of commitment. It's looking out for each other, emotionally and physically over the long haul. It's letting go once in a while—admitting and sharing weaknesses as well as strengths."

Taylor's words moved her, touched her in that deep, icy place called her heart. She was loosening, slipping into the words.
No way. Not ever.
She closed her eyes against the thawing behind her lids, tensed her mouth, and said, "Lord, you're old-fashioned, Taylor." She raised dry eyes to his. "And for your information, I don't want or need looking after—and I'm not big into sharing."

His green eyes darkened, saddened. "Yeah," he drawled. "So you told me. I guess until now I didn't believe you."

* * *

An hour later, Taylor shifted his long body in another vain effort to find a position even close to comfortable. It didn't help when his shoulder fired up pain at every turn. The damned kid had bruised him to the bone.

And there was Willow's soft breathing. The woman was sleeping like a played-out puppy. And why wouldn't she? he thought ruefully. Everything was right in her structured world, the fortress walls were strong and the drawbridge was up. Willow Desmond was invincible. Just the way she liked it.

He'd been crazy to think she'd do anything to compromise her independent life-style. Independence wasn't merely a goal to Willy—it was an all-consuming cause. She pursued it with the fervor of a zealot. He put his good arm behind his head and turned to look at her. He couldn't make out details, but he could see she was sprawled, loose limbed, face down on the sofa. A sliver of porch light tattooed a triangle on her bare calf. She was in almost exactly the same position she'd been in the night they'd met.

Suddenly agitated, he threw off his blanket and stood up. He yanked on pants and a shirt and headed for the door. The truth of it was, he couldn't stand to be in the same room with Willy and not have her in his arms. His body ached for her. Ached for a woman who neither needed nor wanted anything he would offer, least of all his love. Which had no value to her. He stepped out into the cool night air and gripped the balcony railing.
To hell with it…
The day after tomorrow he'd be going home—alone. As for Willow, she'd survive. He wasn't sure about himself.

Willow stared at the door long after it closed behind Taylor. Her eyes burned with unshed tears, and her throat strained against her efforts to breathe rhythmically. It was time to pull back. Even Taylor knew it. She could see it in his eyes, sense it in his cool behavior.

So be it. She would not, could not turn herself inside out for him. One more day and he'd be gone. When he was, she'd simply repair whatever emotional damage he'd left and move on. She'd done it a thousand times before; she could do it again. No sweat.

Love be damned. It was nothing but a cold, ruthless deceiver selling promises and empty visions. Willow threw an arm over her face and couldn't stop the convulsing in her chest.

Whether she liked it or not, that cold, ruthless deceiver had sold another broken dream.

Chapter 11

"I know I promised, but I only need a few more months, Taylor. I've already got funding from the Spanish tourist people, but they say it will take a while for the money to come through. I—"

Dan's voice came to Willy through the door to the balcony. She blinked her eyes and looked out the window. The sun was barely up.

"A damn cookbook! God, what next, Dan?"

At the sound of Taylor's voice, Willy set to alert.

"Not just
one
cookbook. A whole series. And in full color," Dan said excitedly. "And not just an ordinary cookbook either. Along with the authentic Spanish recipes, there will be a full-scale pictorial of Spain's landscape and countryside. If it works—and there's not a reason in the world why it won't, Willy and I plan to propose the same idea to other tourist organizations throughout Europe."

There was a long silence before Taylor answered.

"Sounds like you'll be doing a lot of traveling," Taylor said in a dry voice. "And that's what you want?"

"Yes. I'm not made for the financial business and you know it. I'm just not the drudge type, you know, nine to five, wandering around in a three-piece suit with a calculator. I mean it's okay if that's how you want to live your life, but I'll take a miss."

"Thanks."

"Oh shit… You know what I mean."

"Forget it." There was another long pause before Taylor spoke again. "And Willy? Willy wants this as much as you do?"

"Maybe more. The whole thing was her idea in the first place. I just latched on to it. The recipes are all hers. I think the woman has been in a thousand kitchens in the past few years. And she's very committed once she sets her mind to something. I don't think I could have anyone better to work with."

"I think you're right."

"So? You'll loan me the money?"

This time the pause was the longest yet.

"Why not?" Taylor finally answered. "One of us might as well get what we want. But no more monthly checks. I'll put a fixed sum in the bank to cover the next six months and that's it. When it's done, it's done."

When Dan spoke again, his voice was hesitant. "No strings then. No lectures. You'll leave Willy and me to do our thing?"

"No strings... you and Willow are on your own."

"Remember, it's just a loan. I'll pay you back. Every nickel plus interest."

"Yeah? And who's going to show you how to calculate the interest, little bro? Somebody in a three-piece suit with a calculator?"

Elena stepped out of the bedroom, looking contentedly disheveled. "Where's Dan?" she asked.

Willy nodded toward the balcony and Elena headed for the door. Both men turned to greet her.

Willy got up from the sofa, grabbed her rumpled clothes, and went to the bathroom. She didn't want Taylor to know she'd heard them. She closed the door behind her and leaned heavily against it, blinking hard. Everything was working out beautifully, she told herself. Dan and she would do the book, Taylor would leave them both alone, and—

She tried to stop the quaking, the mad dizziness sweeping through her. Her lips curved into a tight smile; she had the urge to giggle, to cry, to scream. She bit down hard on her knuckle, crushed her clothes to her chest, and slid down the door to sit in a sorrowful heap on the floor.

Everything was just too goddamn wonderful for words.

* * *

"Willy, what are you doing in there? Homesteading?" Elena rapped lightly on the door. "The guys are making breakfast. You interested?"

"I'll just be a minute." She gave her face another splash of water, dried it, and gave herself a long, hard look in the mirror. So she looked like first cousin to a gargoyle. Who cared? With a shrug she opened the door. The smell of burned toast filtered up her nose. She headed for the kitchen, trying not to notice Elena's curious gaze. Hadn't the woman seen a gargoyle before? She sniffed.

"Saved by the expert," Danny exclaimed, looking immensely pleased with himself.

"No way, hot shot, I'm just here waiting for service. Carry on." She hoisted herself up to sit on the counter. When her banged up side issued a pain warning, she refused to wince. Now wasn't the time to show weakness.

Dan had a dish towel wrapped around his middle and was waving a spatula. The tiny kitchen area was a shambles. Willy eyed the frying pan—the edges of the eggs looked like black lace. She couldn't stop herself from reaching over and turning the gas down.

"Are you frying those eggs or tanning them?" she quipped, pleased that her tone was light. So far she'd avoided looking at Taylor, who was busy pouring coffee. But one glance in his direction and her stomach jerked and tanked. No way was it going to be easy re-creating the smart-talking, sassy woman who didn't give a damn.

"Good morning." Taylor put a cup of steaming coffee in her hands, then used an index finger to lift her chin. Looking into her burnt out eyes, he said, "Sleep well?"

"Like a top," she lied. "You?"

"Like a babe," he lied back.

Without preamble he bent his head and brushed his lips across hers. "You look like hell," he whispered in her ear before pulling back to take a sip of his coffee and stare down at her.

"Thanks," she strummed from some taut vocal cord.

Dan had stopped what he was doing to gape unabashedly, first at one, then the other.

"Close your mouth, Dan," Willy said. He snapped it shut, grinning as he turned back to the stove.

"Can I help?" Elena asked from the doorway. She was wearing a minuscule pair of satin shorts with a hot pink bustier. She looked spectacular. Willy, glad to have the spotlight off her, jumped from the counter. This time she winced when her side issued a sharp complaint. She had to move, get busy. Taylor was still looking at her. She couldn't read his expression and didn't want to try. She turned to Elena.

"Why don't you toss out those eggs Dan's been mauling and we'll start over?"

"Okay," the beautiful woman said agreeably. "It's about time I learned to cook anyway."

Willy lifted disbelieving eyes. "You can't cook?"

An apologetic look on Elena's face was her answer.

Willy sighed and gestured toward the stove. "Well, you can't do any worse than Dan. Just try for edible, okay?" She glanced at Taylor. "Think you can man the toaster?"

He nodded, and she quickly shifted her gaze from his. "Dan?" she said.

When Dan whipped the dish towel from his waist and saluted smartly, Willy had to smile. "How about setting the table? I think the farther you are from the stove, the better off we'll all be."