One Tough Cookie (6 page)

"You tell me."

Willy restrained the urge to chop him across his vulnerable Adam's apple. "If you must know, I'm a waitress. I pay my own way. I always have." It wasn't a complete lie. Waiting tables was the last job she'd held, one of many jobs she taken since she'd left the States. There'd been no more modeling, thank heavens. The job she'd met Dan on had been her last, and she'd only done that one as a favor to a friend.

Taylor considered that. He looked dubious. "And where exactly do you do this, uh, waitressing?"

"Here and there," she replied with admirable airiness.

"And only when the rent's due, right?"

"Something like that." She reached for the towel he was sitting on, gave it a tug. "Now if you're finished fishing for my life story, I'd tike to get going."

The exasperating man didn't budge. "How about taking me shopping?"

"Shopping... what in heaven's name for?"

He stood to let her fold the towel and plucked at his white dress shirt. "Some clothes. If I'm going to be here awhile, I might as well be comfortable."

"You want me to help you shop for clothes?"

He reached down to pick up her tote bag. "I want
you
to help me with the language. You probably noticed my Spanish is nonexistent."

Willy laughed. "You and ninety percent of the people on the Costa del Sol. Don't worry. You'll have no trouble communicating your desire to spend money. This is a tourist area. Most of the store owners can sell in ten languages." She stuffed her notebook and towel in the tote and started to turn away.

"Maybe so, but I'd like your company." He bent to pick up his shoes.

Willy turned back to look at him, watching his face as she considered his request. "Now why would I want to spend my time with a sarcastic, meddling, rude..."

"Self-satisfied ass?" he finished for her, his lips twisting to an easy smile.

"Exactly."

"Curiosity? Good manners? Sportsmanship? Challenge? Think of it. We could spend the whole afternoon exchanging insults—really hone our skills. And I'll throw in lunch. Isn't that an irresistible offer?"

Willy raised an eyebrow and gave him a sidelong glance. She thought about her main rule. Always face your feelings head on. No evasions, no lies, and no denial. Maybe it was time to explore those feelings, find out why, for the first time in years, she had the overwhelming urge to run away from a problem instead of solve it. Because one thing was sure, this man was a problem.

She nodded suddenly. "Okay. Why not? I've got nothing better to do."

"What a charming acceptance."

"You didn't ask for charm. You asked for company."

"True enough. So where do we start?" He offered her a hand as they started up the beach. She ignored it.

"Marbella. It's just a few miles from here. There're shops there. You can get what you need, and I can pick up my car."

"Your car?"

"I had to leave it there the night I arrived. I was planning to go back the next day, but I got drafted into playing nursemaid instead." She hoped she was properly sarcastic.

He grinned at her, showing his even white teeth. "And here I thought you'd agreed to come with me because I was irresistible."

Willy glared at him. "You are," she said, her tone carrying a large amount of disgust. "And you damn well know it."

* * *

Willy liked Marbella, one of the few towns on the busy Costa del Sol that still boasted some traditional Spanish architecture. Like a proper senora, she held the high ground with pride, curling up and away from the sprawl of beach stalls and street merchants crowding the shore area. The real class was in the hills, she seemed to sniff—and the real money.

The spacious villas dotting Marbella's hills were home to movie stars, millionaires, and not a few oil sheiks. And while it took serious cash to enjoy everything the chic seaside town offered, if you bypassed the expensive boutiques and designer dens, the sundrenched beach was still free and inviting.

Willy took Taylor to a men's shop two blocks from the beach, hoping it would have everything he needed. Her idea was that if it did, the shopping expedition wouldn't take too long. Taylor's company made her edgy, and she didn't like the feeling, didn't like it at all. When he disappeared into a changing room, she fished around for something else to occupy her mind. She thought about her car.

It wasn't one of her better ideas to abandon it for so long. But then, who would want a beat-up Citroen that needed a mechanical genius to start it? Someone could break into it, of course, but she'd been smart enough not to leave any valuables behind. What really mattered, her notes and recipes, was safe at Dan's place. Everything would be fine, she told herself, glancing up at Taylor, who was now following the clerk to the cash register. One look at him and the edginess returned. Among other things, he was carrying a green sweater.

"Why on earth would you buy a wool sweater? You're in Spain. It's June. It's eighty-five degrees," Willy announced as though those three facts must have escaped him.

"I'm in Spain for a week. I
live
in New York. I'll use it there."

"A touch of cashmere to accent your Hugo Boss wardrobe. Right?" Willy hadn't missed the fine tailoring or the name on Taylor's suits. Definitely upscale. The man was probably as vain as a peacock.

He gave her a look that was both quizzical and annoyed. What he didn't give her was a response. She'd been baiting him since they'd reached Marbella, and she knew it. First comments about his rented car, a Mercedes, then a couple of more smart cracks abut his work. He'd hated that, she could tell. She was spoiling for a fight and knew it. But he'd started it—with his sarcastic inquiries into how she made her living.

"Will that be everything,
Senor?"
the clerk asked when Taylor added the sweater to the neatly folded stack of clothes on the counter.

"Yes, thanks." Taylor gave Willy a sidelong glance and turned his attention to the business of payment.

Willy stood and paced, anxious to get the shopping over with. She was grateful Taylor wasn't wasting any time on it. He knew exactly what he wanted, some light pants, cotton shirts, and shorts. He also bought swim trunks. The cashmere sweater was his only whim. Mission accomplished, and the whole exercise had taken under an hour. She couldn't complain. Right now, Taylor was wearing a pale green shirt and tan slacks, and despite being New York pale, he was a sight she was finding it difficult to turn her eyes from. Although the store was warm, that wasn't the heat that was making her tense and prickly.

"If that's it, can we get out of here?" she asked.

"Sure. Let's go. I'm starved, and I did promise lunch. You pick the spot."

* * *

A few minutes later they sat facing each other over a tiny round table. The place was jammed. Unless Willy was mistaken, they'd added tables since she'd been here last. Luckily they'd been given a quiet one in a corner. As she looked around, she couldn't hide her disappointment. Romero's had definitely changed. Willy let out a small sigh.

Taylor caught the sigh. "Problem?"

"Not really. It's just this place isn't what it used to be." She lifted her chin to point at the yellowing walls and dull red curtains that hung in the windows. One of them was torn. "It used to be white, bright, and cheerful. Good food, good service—good everything. Now look at it."

He followed her glance. "We could go somewhere else."

She bristled. "Why? Isn't this place good enough for you?"

"I was thinking of you. Not me. You're the one who's bit—, complaining. This place is fine. Just
dandy
."

"Good!"

"El menu, Senor, Senorita?"
A young blond waiter appeared beside Willy.

"Si, gracias.''
Willy almost snatched the menu from the waiter's hand.

"Yes, thanks," Taylor growled as he reached for his.

The waiter immediately switched to English. "Would you care for a drink,
Senor?
And perhaps something for the lady?"

Taylor gave Willy a questioning nod.

"
Cola,
por favor
."

"A beer, please," Taylor added.

After the waiter left, a drift of a smile started a play across her mouth. She looked down, tried to stop its spread by compressing her lips. It wasn't a laugh that finally escaped her mouth, more a giggle. When she lifted her head and looked across the table, she found answering amusement in Taylor's eyes.

"Pretty dumb, huh?" she asked.

"You mean us sniping at each other like a pair of old marrieds. Yeah, I'd say dumb."

Willy gave him an appraising scan, her expression both quizzical and wary. "I didn't mean to snap. But there's something about you that brings out the beast in me."

"Maybe because I haven't exactly been Prince Charming this past while. But if we're going to spend the next few days together, how about detente? That way we won't have to kill each other before Danny gets here."

"No more needles about what I do—or don't do—for a living?" she asked, toying with her fork.

Taylor raised his right hand. "Promise."

Her expression turned impish. "And you'll eat my cooking without complaint."

"Garlic soup and all?" he asked, feigning reluctance.

"Especially the garlic soup."

"Done. Now it's my turn. No more pinning me to the floor."

She crossed her heart.

"And no more slurs about how I make my living."

"I didn't—"

"Not in so many words maybe, but you have a way, my Willy, of letting your feelings be known."

"I'm not
your
Willy, good lookin'." She bridled. This wasn't going to work—especially when his slightest smile gave her the warm fuzzies. And
His
Willy? No that wouldn't do at all.

"And I'm not 'good lookin' ' as you insist on calling me. Or Monroe for that matter. Last time I checked, my name—my first name—was still Taylor."

The waiter interrupted to bring them their drinks. Neither picked them up.

"Taylor
Stanley
Monroe," she repeated, purposefully accenting his second name. Dan said he hated it. "I've heard the name from Dan often enough not to forget it."

Taylor visibly winced. "Any chance you could forget the Stanley part?
Wilhelmina?"

Willy grinned. "Nice try, good—
Taylor,
but that's not my name."

"So, what is it then? Let me see. Willette, Willa, Wilma, Willabelle—"

"Stop. Please! My name is Willow. Willow Marie Desmond. Satisfied?"

"Willow," he repeated softly. "Nice. Very nice." He gave her a long, satisfied look and a smile of pure seduction.

The sudden landslide in her chest upset the rhythm of her breathing. And those weren't butterflies in her tummy—they were bumblebees. Reaching for the menu, she said, "Glad you like it. Can we eat now?" She turned her attention to the approaching waiter.

Taylor nodded but his eyes were slower than hers to acknowledge the waiter. His thoughts were elsewhere.

Willy Desmond fascinated him, irritated him, entranced him, frustrated him, and completely enthralled him. God, when he'd seen her and her friend come up that beach, he'd damn near lost it. Along with every other red-blooded male within twenty miles, he guessed. They'd looked like every man's gift from Neptune. Elena alone was a stunner, and he could easily see what Dan had raved about in his last email, but Willy... Willy took his breath away. Her long, slim body was as close to perfection as he'd ever seen. It was a trained, intriguingly muscled body, masking strength and power under enticing feminine curves. No wonder she'd learned self-defense. She had a lot to protect.

Everything about Willy Desmond said "Don't mess with me." What he wondered was why. Maybe in the next few days he could find out. Maybe he'd start right now. He lifted his head from the menu and caught the eyes of his lunch partner.

"What are you having?" he asked.

"I think I'll try the
migas."
At his questioning expression, she added, "It's kind of a mixture of things, mostly dried bread, chunks of ham, maybe vegetables. Garlic." She smiled. "It's one of the oldest dishes in Spain, and it's good—if it's made well."

"We'll make it two then." When the waiter left, Taylor settled back in the chair. "You seem to know a lot about food."

"A little."

"More than a little, I think. You left your notebook open on the beach. Recipes?" He took a long pull on his beer as his eyes met hers.

For a moment she looked annoyed, then shrugged it off. "I collect them. Kind of a hobby. I started when I first came to Europe."

"When was that?"

"Four years ago."

"You've been here four years? What about your family? You don't miss them?"

"Sometimes. But there's email—and Mother and I keep in touch, and I have a couple of cousins that like an excuse to come across the Atlantic occasionally."

"Still, it must get lonely, bumping around by yourself." Somehow her answer didn't satisfy him.

"Lonely is a state of mind. You deal with it."

"How?" he asked.

"Like you control other parts of your life, with effort and discipline."

He nodded. He'd built his life using both, but for him effort and discipline meant roots, substance. Willy was like a leaf in the wind, shifting from place to place without aim or purpose. "Maybe a better question is why. If you're lonely and you have the option of being close to your family, why not go home?"

"Because you shouldn't be driven to rash acts by something as untrustworthy as emotion."

"It would be a '
rash act
' to go home?" He was mystified and his tone conveyed it.

She sighed in exasperation, as though he were a child who wouldn't or couldn't understand a complex truth.

She went on. "It would be rash if I did it for the wrong reasons. If I go home because I
want
to and not because I need to, it would be acceptable. Motivation is everything. I like to think things through, that's all."