One Tough Cookie (4 page)

She lifted the wooden spoon from the pot. Cupping her hand under the spoon, she blew on it before testing the hot savory liquid. Whatever happened, it was up to Dan to tell his brother about the cookbooks.

Dan told her to use his place until he got here—a week from tomorrow. In the meantime, she'd mind her business, test some recipes, and nurse the resident grouch. Not such a bad way to spend the next few days. Not for her anyway. She smiled to herself. She was pretty sure Dan's brother didn't feel the same.

* * *

Taylor had progressed from a low-grade fever to a high-grade temper. He was feeling better and beyond restless into tear-up-the-sheets-and-run territory. The three days in bed were an eternity, and tomorrow he would get up or die trying. Then there was Danny, who hadn't bothered to tell him he was going to be a week late. If his resolutely friendly nurse hadn't happened to mention it, he wouldn't have had a clue about Dan's change in plans.

Damned irresponsible....

Taylor tried to tamp down his bad humor. He was here. No point railing against it. Also no point in leaving. Not without Danny. Besides, if he was honest with himself, he knew he couldn't face a plane. Not yet.

His thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the bedroom door. When Willy stepped into the room, his irritation level tested the danger mark.

"Did you manage to make that call?" he barked, not waiting for her to reach his bedside. His voice was still hoarse and a few octaves lower than normal, but at least he could communicate.

"I did," Willy answered, closing the door with a well-placed foot. "And I don't know why you're fretting. Your partner, what's his name—"

"Paul. Paul Barnes. And I'm
not
fretting
."

"Right. Paul." She balanced the tray on his legs. "Anyway, he said he wasn't really expecting you back right away. He said he thought you were going to Vermont for a few days."

"I told him I canceled that."

She started to laugh and looked away.

"What?" He did not like the look in her eye.

"If you must know, he said for you to stay as long as you like. And anything I could do to improve your disposition would be much appreciated. He said the office staff would be forever in my debt if you returned a new man."

Taylor ground his teeth. It sounded exactly like Paul's warped sense of humor.

"What's this?" He eyed the bowl she'd placed in front of him. The pushy woman persisted in serving him exactly what she pleased. And what she pleased turned out to be the oddest assortment of fish and fowl he'd ever tasted. The chicken soup was the last and only recognizable food he'd eaten in days. But everything had been good. Better than good—just different. He stirred her latest concoction and gave her a pointed look.

"Sopa de ajo,
garlic soup. You'll like it. I promise," she answered, giving him an encouraging grin.

She'd said that with every meal she'd served him. And damned if she hadn't been right. But garlic soup? No way. He pushed it aside and picked up a piece of thick bread. He was hungry, and she brought him this gruel.

"Coward," she teased. "You're about the least adventuresome person I've ever met when it comes to food. Are you like that about everything?"

She sat on the edge of the bed, pulled one knee up, and faced him, nonchalantly reaching for his spoon and digging into his abandoned soup. He tried to glare her away, but she ignored him, took another spoonful of soup and studied him. She did a lot of that studying thing, he noticed.

Until now she'd come and gone with scarcely a word. She usually left the bedroom door open, and from what he could see she spent her time either cooking or writing. On every occasion, she'd glanced up to smile at him and ask him if there was anything he needed. Totally unreasonable of him, he knew, but damn it he was still pissed at her. Feeling better didn't take away the embarrassment of being physically bested by a woman.

"You should forget that first night, you know. I caught you by surprise. I couldn't have done it otherwise. Surprise is the main element in any attack. You know that."

His gaze shot to meet hers. Great. Now she was reading his thoughts. Trying to play nice. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Yes, you do. You've got a full-blown little boy pout going on there. I took you down and you can't get past it. The flu is healing faster than your bruised male ego." She tore an end from his bread and dipped it in the soup. "You can't hold it against me that I know how to defend myself, you know. I said I was sorry."

"You could have broken my arm."

"I could have but I didn't, did I?"

"No," he admitted. "You didn't." He paused and gave her a long, assessing look. "Could you have?
Broken
my arm?"

She stared back at him. "Yes."

He was interested. "Where did you learn that—that move you made on me? And better still, why?"

"I took a few self-defense lessons before I left home. I thought if I was going to kick around the world alone, I'd better learn to take care of myself."

Taylor figured she'd just given him the abridged version of the real story, but he let it pass. "I see." Without thinking, he picked up the spoon and ate some soup. The smile she gave him was pure gloat. Then she winked at him.

He pushed the soup away. "You're a real pain in the ass, you know that?"

She nodded. "Uh-huh. But don't worry, I'll grow on you. I'm really quite likable when you get to know me."

"Who says I want to—get to know you?"

She tilted her head and leaned toward him, a smile glinting in her eyes. "Why not? I'm a friend of Dan's. You're Dan's brother. Of course you want to. And I promise I won't feed you carpet lint ever again. Scout's honor.''

Unknowingly she'd moved from the shadow to be caught in a ray of sunlight coming from the high window over the bed. The light touched her with warmth—made her glow—filtered through the gold of her hair to highlight the planes and angles of her oval face, burnish her honey-colored skin. And her eyes were the darkest sexiest blue he'd ever seen. Almost violet. Taylor sucked in a breath.

She was beautiful. No. More than that. A total knockout.

First he'd thought her plain, then pretty, now beautiful.
Strange…
As were the low-level stirrings under the sheet. Suddenly, getting to know her sounded like a hell of an idea. But first there was one thing he needed to clarify.

"Just how good a friend of Dan's are you?" he asked pointedly, pinning her with his eyes.

Her friendly smile slipped when she grasped his double meaning, and she moved back into shadow. "Very good. He's a good guy. The best. Like I said, when I pass this way, he plays host."

"And you? What do you play?" He kept his gaze on her and casually stirred the now cool soup resting on his knees.

She gave him a hard stare, then stood and lifted the tray from his legs. Without a word she moved to the door. There she turned back. "Maybe I should have broken your arm." She paused. "Maybe I will yet."

The door closed with a dull thud and she was gone.

Nice going, Taylor. The woman buys you medicine, runs errands for you, feeds you like a sultan, and you insult her.
He owed her an apology. One leg was already on the floor when she marched back in the room.

"Don't bother." She stood with her hands on her hips.

He stared at her.

"Don't bother apologizing," she added. "When I, uh, twisted your arm, shoved your face into the floor, I hurt you, insulted your virility. Now that you've insulted my, uh, virtue or whatever. I say we're even. Agreed?"

"No insult intended. Just wanted to know where you and Dan stood with each other." And as to that hurt virility thing, a few rays of sun on her hair seemed to have healed it without a scar.

A frown drifted across her forehead. "Now you know—not that it's any of your business."

She was right and she was wrong. But now wasn't the time to tell her that. Instead, he held out his hand, and watched her move toward him. "Agreed," he said, as her fingers slid into his outstretched hand. On his fevered brow her hand had cooled, folded in his palm it warmed. Fired right into his chest.

She jerked her hand back, anchored it against her hip, and made a fist of it. "That's settled then. Now put those legs back up on the bed, good lookin', and—" She turned to leave. "I'll reheat the soup."

He watched her go, then did what he was told, got back on the bed. Stretching out, he put his hands behind his head and grinned. Maybe this waiting for his brother was going to work out just fine. Maybe a few more days in Spain was exactly what he needed.

* * *

When Willy woke up the next morning, she smelled coffee. She looked up from the sofa to see Taylor leaning in the kitchen doorway, drinking from a cracked mug, and watching her. Her hand, with no instruction from her brain, flew up to smooth her hair. He smiled and she cursed herself for the purely female gesture. Men read a lot into hair gestures, twirling, fluffing, flipping and all, or so she'd been told.

He lifted his mug. "Coffee?" he asked in his rough baritone. It sounded like a come-hither voice after the hithering, a voice for pillow talk and promises. She liked it.

"Great. But why are you out of bed? The doctor said five days at least. You're cheating." She stretched her legs over the side of the sofa and stood.

"I'm not cheating. I'm cured." He followed the sweep of her legs before raising his eyes to hers. "I think it was the garlic soup that did it."

"You look pale. I think you should go back to bed."

"I think I should shave." He ran a hand over his beard-darkened face and grimaced. "Three days of this is about my limit. Besides, I've had enough of that bed to last me a lifetime."

"Suit yourself, Monroe. It's your bod."
And a damned fine one it is,
she finished inwardly, admiring the curve of muscle in his arm. Even with a scruffy beard the man got a gold star. As she headed toward the kitchen, he remained standing in the narrow doorway, turning sideways to let her pass. When she was almost through, he reached his arm across the door and stopped her. Close enough to smell his coffee and peppermint scented breath, she straightened to her full height and waited. His nearness made her wary, but she gave him a direct gaze, hoping her nervousness didn't show.

"Willy," he said softly. "I'm sorry. For what I said yesterday and for being a rotten, ungrateful patient. You've been great. I didn't mean to take my frustration out on you."

"It's okay. Sick people are entitled to be grouchy," she mumbled. His green eyes were brighter today. Funny, she hadn't noticed those tiny gold flecks in them before.

They gazed at each other and a world of quiet fell into the small space that separated them.

"Are they entitled to anything else?" he asked, his raspy voice breezing across her cheek.

The air started to vibrate and Willy swallowed, forcing down the arc of nerves rippling through her midsection. She didn't like what he was doing to her. She also couldn't take her eyes off him. God, he was going to kiss her, she could feel it. It was in his eyes, in the tilt of his head, and his mouth was moving toward hers. With a deft movement, she skittered under his raised arm. She managed to pour herself some coffee without spilling it before turning to face him.

"'Entitled?'" Now there's a loaded word." She sounded casual enough and peered at him through the steam rising from her cup. "And you're right. You do need a shave."

He walked toward her. She tensed but held her ground. When he was close enough, he reached behind her for the coffeepot, brushing her arm in the process.
Too close, damn it. You're too close.
Her eyes flashed a warning as Taylor slowly refilled his mug and returned the pot to the burner, again brushing her arm. He gave her a teasing look, topped with a grin. "Why do I have the feeling I've just had a narrow escape?"

"Gee, I don't know, Monroe, but if I were you, I wouldn't press my luck."

Unperturbed, he chucked her softly under the chin and grinned. "For now I think I'll take your advice—about the shave at least."

* * *

While Taylor was in the bathroom, Willy put her bikini on under her baggy pants. Then, stuffing a large notebook in her canvas bag, she headed for the beach. It wasn't far from Dan's place, and it was obvious her patient could now look after himself. He looked healthy enough to her—a little too healthy. And she could use some time for herself.

Passing quickly through town, she headed for the small beach to the left of the port area. She scarcely glanced at the exclusive shops or luxury yachts forming an open loop on the waterfront. Yachts from all over the world moored at the elegant Puerto Banus, and as if agreeing to coordinate, both shops and boats were a clean, brilliant white.

She was early, but tourists were already taking up positions on the beach. By afternoon the women would be doffing their tops to indulge themselves in the strong Iberian sun. It was common practice along the Costa del Sol, and despite all the warnings about sun-damaged skin, she knew many of them wouldn't use sunscreen and would burn themselves raw.

Lifting her hand to shade her eyes, Willy scanned the clear azure waters of the Mediterranean, morning bright and softened with a light breeze. The sky was crystal—a perfect Spanish day.

She spread her towel and, without removing pants or T-shirt, sat cross-legged on it, and pulled out her notebook. She would work for, she glanced at her watch, two hours—then she would think about Taylor.

Twenty minutes later, she was staring vacantly at the sea. When the pen she was holding fell from her slack hand and rolled onto the sand, she gave a frustrated snort and tried again. She managed another unproductive ten minutes, but her efforts to concentrate proved useless.

She stretched out on the towel face down and rested her head over crossed arms. Her mind turned immediately to Taylor Monroe.
Was he the one?
she asked herself.
The dangerous one? Her ultimate test?