One Tough Cookie (16 page)

"I mean is it over, or near over, the traveling part of your life?"

She dropped her hand from his chest and moved toward the sink. Once there she leaned against it and crossed her arms. "Almost. Although I think there's something like another hundred and fifty or so left."

Her cryptic reply didn't satisfy him. "That's not exactly an answer."

"Why the sudden interest in my itinerary?"

"Because I want to understand. What keeps you drifting around?"

"Drifting," she repeated and for a moment looked annoyed, then her gaze steadied on him. "I guess in fairness it does kind of look like I'm drifting." She almost smiled. "You really hate that idea, don't you?"

"I don't understand it. Can you explain? Maybe get into the why of it?"

"I've tried to, but you keep cutting me off." She uncrossed her arms and headed for the fridge. He stopped her by grasping her arm.

"Not this time. I'm all ears."

She studied him a moment. "Then I'll give you the nutshell version. You already know about my family, the rotten marriages, my parents'
celebrated
divorce.'' She pulled her arm from his grasp and opened the fridge. Taylor waited while she poured some orange juice, closed the fridge door, and leaned against it. "I was twenty-two when that happened and from what I could see was headed down exactly the same path taken so disastrously by my aunts, cousins, and mother. I was a pretty, insecure, self-centered dimwit making a temporary living doing something I hated until the right man came along. The right man being handsome, rich, and powerful, by the way. From the time I was eleven years old, my mother told me a smart girl learned to capitalize on the gifts she'd been given. In our family that meant our looks—and our bodies. Oh, and a few good connections helped, too."

"Like Peter?" Taylor asked.

She nodded. "Like Peter."

After taking a sip of orange juice, she went on, "You might not believe this, but back then I was pretty timid. I sensed I wasn't in the right…place in my life, but I didn't have the courage to do anything about it. So I went with the flow, until my parents' divorce." She paused. "It was so…crazy. To get away from the craziness—and the press—I rented a place in Maine and went away—alone." She looked oddly embarrassed. "Would you believe that was the first time I'd been
anywhere
by myself? I was scared witless."

Absently, she stroked her glass before going on, "That was when I realized something was seriously wrong with my life. Somehow it was all about fear. Fear of being alone. Fear of not being able to make it on my own. Fear of making my own decisions. Fear that I'd never be happy with myself,
by myself
. So I
did
something about it." She finished the orange juice and put the glass in the sink.

"Such as?" he prodded.

"You're probably going to think this is kind of weird."

"Try me."

She took a breath. "I decided to let all that fear come out. Face it down. Before leaving the States, I dealt with the physical thing. I was always terrified to walk down the street by myself. Even being home alone in a fully secured house, I was nervous. I started to train, to lift weights—Mother was, of course, horrified. She was sure it was the end of my modeling career. Then I studied self-defense—and got good at it."

"That I can personally attest to." He gave her a wry smile.

She smiled back. "Then I went to Paris by myself, rented an apartment, and got a job—washing dishes at a neighborhood bistro. I was so lonely, so lost, I cried myself to sleep for a year." She lifted her head defiantly. "But I didn't run home. I
had
to learn to live alone, to cope emotionally. When Paris got too comfortable for me, I moved on. Each new place was a new test. The next step was harder."

He raised a questioning brow.

"The money thing. I still had savings. Like I told you, I made a great deal of money modeling, and I managed to save a lot of it. That money was my last security blanket. It had to go. So I gave it away to a children's hospital in Romania." She laughed now. "I learned being broke isn't the end of the world. There's always work, always a way to earn your daily bread—and I actually came to enjoy the challenge. I met a million wonderful people, and I can put my head down and sleep like a baby no matter where I am. So you see, what looks like drifting to you was a plan for me. I wanted to get as far away from New York as possible. Define life on my own terms. And I think I did. Someone once said, there are two roads to success, have more or want less. I chose the latter. Life's a lot easier that way."

Taylor was silent, couldn't do anything but stare at her. Her words tumbled around in his head, evoking a thousand responses ranging from admiration to a particularly male kind of fear. What could he give a woman who wanted nothing, learned to live with nothing, and reveled in it?

"Let me get this straight. For the past four years you've been bumping around the world to prove you don't need anybody or anything. That you can get by without friends, family, money, or love?" He gave her a direct look. "Did I miss anything?"

Her eyes became wary. "No."

"And you did all this to avoid a relationship, what you were sure would be the ultimate pain of a broken marriage?" He couldn't keep a trace of incredulity from his tone.

"Given the family history, I'd say my logic was pretty sound, wouldn't you? Add to that, I had no intention of falling into a marriage because I needed someone, anyone, to take care of me. Someone I'd grow so dependent on that by the time he leaves, I've forgotten how to pump gas in my car."

"And you have no intention of loving anyone enough to let him hurt you." He waited for her answer.

It was a curt nod.

He ignored the twist of pain in his gut. "So after all your hard work, all your sacrifices, you're still afraid. Not to mention you've become selfish, hard, and obsessive."

"Don't hold anything back, good lookin'. Let me know exactly what you think." Her tight lips and use of her odious nickname for him told Taylor he's just set himself back to square one, but he pressed on.

"Obsessive because your emotional vision is impaired. Your focus is so tight it's cramped your thinking. What you did was great, admirable in its way, but as an ongoing style of life..." He shook his head, then went on, "Hard, because I can see the calluses growing on your heart. And finally—selfish. You abandoned your family, Willow. For one, your mother who probably needed you after the pain of her divorce. You might even have spared some compassion for a father who—"

"—walked out with one of my colleagues, a model—a year younger than me. A father who shattered my mother's life, then kicked the pieces aside on the way to another woman's arms. A father—"

"—who betrayed
you!
That's what hurts the most, isn't it? That's why you won't forgive him."

Willy gave him a cold, unblinking stare. If he'd hit a nerve, she didn't let it show. "Spare me the platitudes and the cut-rate psychology. I can't forgive him any more than you can forgive your dad for being an unrepentant wanderer.

"And while we're talking obsessive, let's pull back one of your curtains. Who's still accumulating—obsessively—to make up for what he considers a deprived youth? Who's using financial strings to control his brother? Telling him he knows best what he should do with his life? Who believes he holds copyright on all the smug, neat little answers on how people
should
live? At least I keep my nose in my own business."

Willy's eyes were bright with battle. She was breathing hard. Taylor raked a shaking hand through his hair and turned to face the window. He took a long breath before looking at her again. He had a formidable temper, and he wasn't about to lose it no matter how much she baited him. Besides, the stubborn, defiant woman in front of him was more than a little right. Maybe they both still had a drop or two of youthful poison in them.

"You still didn't answer my question." He managed a calm, modulated voice.

"What question?"

"Is it over? The traveling around? Have you accomplished what you set out to do?"

She gave him a stubborn, suspicious look. "Almost."

It was her original answer, repeated, which meant they'd come full circle; Willow on one side of the small kitchen, he on the other. That left only one thing left to say. And, after tonight's conversation, Taylor knew there would never be a right time, so it might as well be now. He walked to where she was standing and took her loosely in his arms.

"Then I'm about to seriously complicate your life, impose a hardship on you that just might be more than even you can handle." He paused, took a breath. "I love you, Willow. And I think we should make some plans. Plans to spend more time together—maybe even a lifetime." When she stiffened and started to pull away from him, he held on. "Stay right where you are and don't say a word. I'm not asking for an answer this second. But I am asking that you think about it—maybe put it under that microscope of yours for the next few days. Will you do that?" He pulled her to him.

After a long—very long—pause, she nodded into his shoulder and cursed. "Damn you, Taylor Monroe. Damn you."

Chapter 9

A bright Spanish sun poured through the high window over the bed. Willow, on her back, one arm under her head, watched dust dance along its rays like dull bits of silver in an endless minuet. Taylor's deep, rhythmic breathing seemed to be keeping time.

It was getting late, but she didn't bother turning her head to look at the bedside clock—her thoughts were on the man in bed beside her, his arm lying possessively across her middle. In a few short days, he'd managed to throw her into the eye of an emotional hurricane. She was angry, agitated, and utterly confused, and it was all his fault. He'd brought up the L word. Love. Every woman's Achilles' heel. She should have told him then and there she wanted no part of it?

But you didn't, did you crazy woman?

She'd done just the opposite, promised to consider his hare-brained proposal. And her mind hadn't stopped clicking and whirring since. And she'd made love with the man, slept with him, bonded with him in a way she'd avoided for years. What a mess.

She rolled her eyes heavenward, then closed them tight.
I'll work it out, somehow, I'll work it out, but you're not going to be happy about it, Monroe. Not happy at all.

She denied the sudden need to turn and look at the man beside her. He wasn't the man for her. And when she found the right words, she'd tell him. She bit on her lower lip to fight the emotional pain searing its way through her soul.

When she heard the soft rap on the front door, she sat up and reached for Dan's robe. Probably Rosa with another message from Dan. Taylor turned over, then rolled to reclaim the warm space left by her body. Grateful he didn't wake up, Willow silently left the bed to answer the door.

"Peter, what are you doing here so early?" She tightened the belt on her robe and raked her right hand through her hair—even drummed up a smile.

"Early? It's nearly ten. And I came for some coffee and conversation. The
Faux Pas
is sailing in a couple of hours, and I wanted to speak to you before I left." He lifted his hands palms up. "So, can I come in, or should I just stand here and pretend I've never seen you in dishabille before?"

"I'm sorry." She stepped back from the door. "Come in. I was about to start some coffee."

Peter stepped across the threshold and glanced around. "Nice place you've got here. What exactly do you call the decorating style? Early Spanish gauche?"

Willy's lips curled. "It grows on you."

"God. I hope not." He moved to one of the walls covered with Dan's photographs. "Now these... these are good." He stepped back and tilted his head. "Extraordinary in fact. Who's the photographer?"

"They belong to the guy who lives here. Dan Monroe. You met his brother the other night. Tell you what, you have a good look while I put on the coffee." Willy headed for the kitchen. Peter, after another long look at the photographs, followed.

"Has he taken any of you?"

"Dan? A few. We worked together on a job a few months ago. I think they're in the drawer over there—under the lamp." She directed him with a quick head movement as she measured coffee into the pot. Peter walked back into the living room and opened the drawer.

He had the photographs of her spread over the coffee table when she came in with coffee and cups.

"This is a real waste. You know that, don't you?" Peter took the cup she offered with one hand and indicated the pictures with the other.

"Don't start, okay?"

"I'm your agent. If I don't tell you what I think is right, who will?"

"Ex-agent." She corrected him, sipping her hot coffee and sinking back into the sofa.

"Willow. Listen to me. You've done your time, proved your point. Whatever in hell it was. Don't you think it's time you came back to the real world?"

"Unreal world, you mean. And no. No, I don't."

She let out a long sigh and had a feeling of déjà vu. Was this going to be a repeat of last night's conversation—confrontation—with Taylor? "I hope you didn't come here with your golden tongue to coerce me into working again, Peter, because it's not going to work. I've got, as the saying goes, other fish to fry."