One Tough Cookie (9 page)

"You're afraid of me, aren't you?"

"I'm not—" She stopped her denial midstream. A frown creased her forehead. "Yes. I am. Not
you
exactly, what you make me feel."

He put the tray beside him and reached for her hand. He pulled her to sit on the bed at his side. "You," he chucked her under her stubborn chin, "are certifiable. You know that, don't you? But I have this feeling you have some good reasons for believing the things you do. So, we'll talk—along with other things." He felt her stiffen.

"What other things?"

"Let's just say I have my agenda and you have yours."

"Does your agenda have anything to do with taking me to bed?"

"It might. It's a big part of our unfinished business. At least on my end." He ran his hand to her elbow and up her arm. Tempted to go further, he restrained himself. No unwanted passes, he promised himself.

"That's not exactly what I had in mind." She shivered and her voice took on a new tension. She looked worried, and for a minute, he thought she'd bolt for the door.

She surprised him again. A strange light came into her eyes, and she got up from the bed and walked to the window. For a time she stood there in silence with her back to him. When she faced him again, her words came out measured, cautious. More tentative than he'd ever seen her. "Okay, I'll consider that. Only consider, mind you. But I'll have to be sure how I feel about you. I want to—" She faltered.

"Make sure your first time is special," he said, "I promise you it will be."
Big words. Big mistake
.

She leveled him with a frigid stare. "You must have dug deep for that piece of trite, Monroe." She paused. "But just so you get it. This is not about it being
'special'
it's about me being sure it's what I want. That I can handle it. That I don't care for you too much. If I do—there'll be no lift-off. Got that?"

The next sound was the bedroom door slamming and after that the front door.

Now you're out on the street, girl, where do you go from here? Walk,
she told herself.
Walk, then walk some more.
She set off uphill away from the beach, grateful the rain had let up, although a glance at the sky said that might be temporary.

You probably just made the biggest damn mistake of all your twenty-six years, Willow Desmond,
she thought, quickening her step.
You know you're falling for the guy. And you know you don't want that. You promised yourself it would never happen.

You should run…

She shuddered when she remembered yesterday, her breasts tingling against the hard wall of Taylor's chest, his green eyes filled with a mysterious promise. Another shiver claimed her, and her step faltered. The hill was steeper here. Good. She needed the workout, needed to clear her head and think sensibly about this.

The trouble was she couldn't seem to define the problem. Had to be Taylor—the pompous, arrogant, self-satisfied ass. She pictured him bare chested in Dan's rumpled bed.
Make it special!
he'd said. She'd wanted to wipe that smile off his sexy mouth. She would have, too, if her stomach hadn't been doing aerobics. No, the problem wasn't with him, it was her. She was losing it. Plain and simple. She had to be if she was considering going to bed with a man as potent, as irresistible to her as Taylor Monroe. It wasn't in her plan, damn it.
He
wasn't in her plan.

She should have married Jerry. That's what she should have done. Jerry— She thought a minute, then shrugged. So she couldn't think of his last name right away. So what. He'd been a sweet guy, not too conventional, and she'd cared about him. His touch had…stirred her. Not thrilled her, like Taylor's, but at least she'd had a positive reaction. He was exactly what she was looking for—someone she could love without risking everything. With Taylor the risk was limitless.

Well, there was no point worrying it to death. She had to wait for Dan.

At the thought of Dan's phone call, a smile lit her face. The cookbook was a go, and she was anxious to get started. The publisher—and the tourist bureau—loved it, he'd said. On the basis of his photographs, and her recipes, they'd agreed to provide some initial funding. Spain would only be the beginning, she was sure of it. Once the first book was published, they'd move on. Portugal, Italy… And Russia! She hadn't been there yet. It would be hard, exciting work, and she couldn't wait.

Something else she couldn't wait for was seeing Taylor's face when Dan told him about the contract. That should take the wind out of him. Taylor Monroe would definitely be flying back to New York—alone. She sniffed, sloughing off a wave of sadness at the thought.

"Willow. Is that really you?"

At the sound of the familiar masculine voice, Willy turned. She met with an exuberant embrace.

"Peter! What a treat. I didn't know you were in Spain. What are you doing here?" She gave him a fierce hug.

"Absolutely nothing."

"You're on a vacation?" Willy cocked her head and smiled. "I don't believe it." Still gripping his hands, she pulled back to give him a closer look.

The attractive middle-aged man grinned. "Even agents take vacations, you know. We just don't tell our clients. They might think we're earning too much commission."

"Knowing you, you probably are,
bandido.
When you were representing me, I was sure of it." She stepped back again and gave him a measuring look. She held genuine affection for this man who had so carefully charted her career and protected her in those first years before the camera.
"No has cambiado nada, Pedro,"
she said sincerely.

"You haven't changed either, sweets. And you're as lovely as ever.
Bellisima!
I'll always remember the day your mother brought you to see me. You were what ... thirteen?"

"I was eleven and scared to death."

"What you were was a marvelous little girl with a face the camera was created for." He kissed her hand, then tucked it under his arm. "Now, can I buy you a coffee? It's a bit early for anything stronger, and we have a lot to catch up on. Tell me, are you working?"

They started across the street to a small cafe. "If you mean by working, am I modeling? The answer is no. I did some when I first arrived in Paris, but my last time in front of a camera was a year ago. I haven't missed it a bit."

"Maybe not, but it misses you. If you come back to New York before you get too old and wrinkled, I'll be happy to represent you."

"I'm already too old. Twenty-six is almost a senior citizen in this business, and you know it."

He stopped and took her chin in his cupped hand. Turning it this way and that, he frowned thoughtfully. "True, you are getting a bit long in the tooth... and your lips aren't quite full enough to be fashionable. But with a little surgery and a spot of collagen you could be brought to adequate condition." He pursed his lips in an effort to stop the grin from spreading across his face.

She pushed his hand away and laughed. "Thanks, I needed that. Now what about that coffee?"

Coffee led to lunch and the day was half over before Willy returned to the condo. Peter walked her back. He was standing at the door insisting she join him for dinner when Taylor arrived. Judging from the paper bag he was carrying, he'd been to the market. There was nothing else to do but introduce the two men. She didn't embellish on her relationship with Peter, simply referred to him as a longtime friend.

Peter, his usual gregarious self, immediately included Taylor in the dinner invitation. "I'm trying to cajole this pretty lady into joining me and my friends for dinner on their boat. Why don't you come along? Hell, the
Faux Pas
is big enough for an army. Nine, nine-thirty, okay with you?"

Taylor glanced at Willy, then answered. "Sounds fine. Good of you to invite me. If you're sure your friends won't mind, we'd be happy to come."

After giving them directions to the boat, and Willow another bear hug, Peter left.

Willy turned on Taylor, fuming. "Why on earth would you accept while I stood right behind Peter shaking my head and waving my hands like an idiot?"

Taylor handed Willy the bag, and put the key in the rusty lock. If he knew she was angry, he ignored it. "I'd like to meet your friends. The way I see it, it will help me to know you better."

"You just met my friend. Peter is it. I doubt I'll know another soul on that boat."

"Won't Peter's wife be there?" He gave her a green-eyed gaze.

"Peter doesn't have a wife. She's been dead ten years."

"I see."

Willow wondered exactly what it was he saw but she was too miffed to ask.

Without further comment, Taylor went to the kitchen and started to empty the paper bag into the refrigerator. When he finished, he leaned across the open fridge door and looked back at her. "So how does a waitress, who only works when she wants to pay the rent, meet a middle-aged man with a diamond on his finger valuable enough to end world hunger?" He cocked an eyebrow and added, "You are a puzzle, Willy. Maybe tonight I'll put together another piece."

"You—" she sputtered, then spun on her heel. "I'll be back at eight-thirty."

Taylor winced as the door slammed, then grinned.

Whistling, he snapped open a copy of
USA Today
and headed for the patio.

It was going to be an interesting—and informative—evening.

Chapter 5

It was closer to nine by the time Willy made it back to the condo. Taylor was beginning to think she wouldn't show up at all when she breezed in, hair a shambles and wearing the ever-present cotton drawstring pants and T-shirt.

"Sorry," she said, not looking it in the least. "Give me fifteen minutes."

"Show me a woman who can be ready in fifteen minutes and I'll marry her," Taylor answered wryly.

"Given that prospect, I'll take twenty." She grabbed her backpack and heading for the bathroom.

Damn. Wrong words—again.
"Can we have a truce for a couple of hours?" he said. "It seems to me if we both reined in our tongues, there's at least a chance we'll have a pleasant evening. What do you say?"

"I'd say good idea. Besides, if you keep irritating me, there's no way you're going to get me into bed. Right?"

Taylor couldn't help the smile that softened his mouth. "True. And I do have my reputation to uphold."

"Reputation? Oh, yes. Dan did tell me you were quite the ladies' man." She gave him a look as though she could scarcely believe it and continued on her way to the bathroom. This time she didn't slam the door.

He'd take that as good omen.

When he heard the shower, he settled in for a long wait. He glanced at his watch. Ten to nine.

Eighteen minutes later Willy opened the bathroom door and, accompanied by a steamy mist from her shower, stepped into the room.

She looked spectacular. Taylor was stunned that a woman could dive into a battered backpack and come out looking like the cover of a fashion magazine. Her blond hair was pulled straight back from her face into a long braid, and her body was sheathed in some stretchy black material that caressed every curve before stopping mid-thigh. And while the long sleeves and square neckline were demure and sophisticated, the designer had skipped the back altogether, letting the dress end in a sharp vee at the waist. He couldn't take his eyes off her. She gave him a cocky stare and reached for a tiny gold bag on a long, slender chain.

"That came out of your backpack?" he said.

She smoothed it over her hips and looked at him. "When you move around like I do, you learn to travel light. This thing doesn't take much room. It's practical."

"Hm-m."
Sexy, more like it.

"Surprised, aren't you?" she said. "Didn't think I could make it? Seventeen minutes should be just enough to save me from marriage. Think?" She was fastening gold hoops to her ears.

"It was eighteen, and you're right, I'm surprised—and impressed. You look great."

"Thanks. You don't look so bad yourself." She looked approvingly at his navy slacks and frost blue shirt. "Ready to go?" She bent down to slip on some strappy sandals, and the dress fell away to expose a bare shoulder. "I'd rather walk than take the car if it's okay with you."

"Fine." He coughed to clear his throat and pulled his gaze from her shoulder, where it seemed to have taken root. Her golden tan skin had the gleam of rich satin. "Walking's fine," he muttered.

She pulled the dress back into position. "You sound funny, Taylor. Is your throat still bothering you? Maybe you should take another pill."

"My throat's fine. Just some leftover roughness. Shall we go? We'll be late for dinner as it is."

Willy settled the chain of her bag on her shoulder. "Not likely. If you want to be late for dinner in Spain, you'd have to arrive at midnight. They won't start serving until ten at least."

* * *

They walked first in silence, adding words slowly as the dark background of condos and side streets gradually gave way to the casino and restaurant crowds jamming the elegant port. It was a soft, shimmery night, and the moon sat proudly in the night sky, a glittering satellite dominating its more distant cousins. Puerto Banus was alive with people. Music danced from the clubs, and the outdoor restaurants were bright with laughter and conversation.