One Tough Cookie (7 page)

He stared at her a moment, idly turning his beer bottle. "Sounds complicated. Do you put all your desires and urges under a microscope?"

"Most times."

"And does that analysis include one of our species' most basic urges?" he asked.

She glanced up at him through thick lashes.

"Sex," he said calmly in answer to her silent question.

Her sharp intake of breath told him he'd caught her off guard. Maybe he was pushing, but if he was right, this lady could take it.
Admit it, Monroe,
you like chipping away at her tough-girl act.
He didn't drop his eyes when her blue gaze bored into him. By the look of her, she was once again thinking about breaking his arm.

She took a deep breath before speaking. Then her gaze met his alight with determination—as if some momentous decision had been made.

He lifted his beer to his lips and waited.

"When the time comes," she said. "Yes. I'll put it under exactly that kind of microscope. Until now it hasn't been necessary."

Had she said what he thought she'd said? No way. It was his turn to be caught off guard. "You're telling me you're a—"

"Virgin. That's right. Almost twenty-seven and this the twenty-first century, no less. Amazing, wouldn't you say?"

"Amazing doesn't begin to say it." He couldn't grasp it. He was astonished that this beautiful, no,
outstanding,
woman was untouched, and he was equally stunned by her candor. It didn't occur to him not to believe her. Then he zeroed in on the last part of her remark.

"What did you mean when you said 'until now'?"

Her level, fire-lit blue eyes lifted to his. "Until you came along, I never had an
urge
strong enough to worry about. But if this one keeps growing like it is—under the microscope it goes. You can bet on it."

He opened his mouth, but ground it shut when he saw the waiter coming with their order. He was glad for the reprieve—because he had no idea what to say. A fantastic woman sits across from him in a crowded open-air cafe in sunny Spain and tells him that she's a virgin, has the hots for him, but doesn't like it. It refused to process. As did the reaction from behind his zipper. He blessed the creator of long white table cloths.

"Anything more,
Senor?"
asked the waiter.

Taylor looked over at Willy. She shook her head. "No, nothing more, thanks." He watched her poke and prod at her food.

"I hope you're not disappointed. This doesn't look that good." She tasted it. "The ham's a bit too salty." Her voice was perfectly neutral, as if they'd just segued from a conversation about the weather.

Still reeling her earlier remarks, he said nothing.

Sighing, she put down her fork. "Look, Monroe, I didn't mean to embarrass you. I know I have a strange way of dealing with emotions, but that's the way I am. You don't have to look as if you're about to offer me condolences. Virginity isn't terminal, you know. As a matter of fact, the cure—should I choose to accept it—is readily available. Too available, if you ask me."

He wasn't embarrassed, he was fascinated. "Is it, uh, a religious thing."

"No. It's
my
thing."

"Why would you tell something as personal as that to someone you barely know?"

"I know you well enough. I know you were coming on to me in the kitchen this morning and again on the beach. I know you'd have sex with me in a New York minute—excuse the pun—if I were to let you. You want to tell me I'm wrong?" She tore at a piece of bread and stared at him, daring him to be as honest as she was.

For the first time in this crazy conversation, Taylor had to laugh. This was bizarre. "Guilty as charged," he admitted, his smile lingering. "But can I make an addendum to that? It would definitely take longer than a New York minute."

To his surprise, Willy laughed, too. "See," she waved her fork, "you're doing it again, coming on to me. Trying to seduce me by telling me what a wonderful lover you'd be." She forked some food into her mouth. "It won't work, you know. It's been tried."

No doubt—probably a million times
. Ignoring his food, Taylor sat back in his chair. When things went haywire in business negotiations, he liked to recap—do a quick mental review of the situation—and right now, things were definitely haywire. Willy was right, he would have slept with her, made love to her. God, what living, breathing male wouldn't? But she made it sound so predictable, so—superficial that it bothered him.

He leaned forward. "How about straightening me out here? You don't ever want to take the
cure
for your virginity or you particularly don't want me to, uh, play doctor?"

She put down her fork. "If you're asking me if I ever want to have sex, the answer is a definite yes. For one thing, I want children. As for the second part of your question, I don't think so. I don't like the effect you have on me."

"The effect?" he echoed.

"You know, the whole fire ants in the belly feeling, rapid breathing, daydreaming, fluttering heart, that kind of thing."

Taylor took a calming breath. Talk about hearts! His own was ready to pound its way put of his chest cavity. He was hot and getting hotter by the minute, while Willy casually dipped more bread in what was left of her
migas.

"What about loss of appetite?" he asked wryly.

"That too," she agreed, popping the moist bread into her mouth. Her expression turned serious. "I don't think you're healthy for me, Taylor."

He liked the way she said his name, kind of soft and wondering like. "Oh, I don't know," he said after a moment. "Your reactions to me are healthy enough the way I see it. That
effect
you're describing is what makes the world go around. Most people revel in it. In fact, they spend their lives searching for it."

"Give it up, good lookin'." She smiled. " You're getting dangerously close to the line 'Please, babe, I'll make it good for you, I promise.' You won't sink to that, will you?" she chided.

Please, babe!
No way. Begging a woman wasn't his style nor had it ever been a necessity. "Actually, as it turns out, I don't plan to 'sink' at all. I came to Spain to talk to my brother. When that's done, I'll be gone. There's one thing you haven't put under your microscope, Willow." He watched her flinch at the name. "And that's the
effect
you have on me, which, as this conversation continues, is approaching zero."

She gave him a brilliant smile. "Great!" She looked across at his barely touched lunch. "If you don't want that, I'll eat it."

With a shake of his head and something that sounded suspiciously like a harrumph, he shoved the plate across the table. What had ever possessed him to think this woman was interesting,
fascinating,
or anything else—she was more fruitcake than cheesecake. Now all he had to do was convince his body of that and he'd be home free. The next few days waiting for Dan were going to be impossible.

Willy dug into the last of Taylor's
migas,
thankful their conversation was over. She'd been true to herself and set the rules. He knew she wasn't interested, and she'd pissed him off enough to make him retreat. Why didn't she feel more relieved? She should be glad that he was angry with her, that he was no longer interested. Something was wrong. For all her bravado, she couldn't eat another bite. She pushed back the plate.

"Ready to go?" she asked.

"More than ready. Impatient would be a better description." He stood up and tossed some bills on the table. He looked down at her. "Now where's that car of yours?"

The car was gone, definitely gone.

"Are you sure this is where you left it?" Taylor asked, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the sun and glancing up and down the street.

"Of course, I'm sure. Do you think I'd forget where I parked my car?"

Taylor glanced back at her. "From what you told me, it sounds more like it parked you."

She gave him her best glare.

"What I'm trying to say is that the night you got here it was dark and raining. You could be mistaken."

"I could, but I'm not. This is the street and that—" She nodded at a spot near a curbside palm tree "—is exactly where I parked it. I'd know Cissy's oil stains anywhere."

Taylor followed the direction of Willy's nod. There was a dark oil stain on the street. He leaned against his sleek Mercedes and looked back at her. "Cissy?"

"Cissy the Citroen." She gave him a I-dare-you-to-snicker-at-me" look. He dared.

"Then the only thing to do is file a missing person's report," he said with mock gravity. "Do you have any idea where we would do that?"

Willy ignored his sarcasm. "No. But I'll find out." She was feeling worse about the loss of her old car than she cared to admit, and that bothered her. It wasn't smart to get attached to things. Even cars. But damn it. She and Cissy had shared four years of European roads. The ugly little beast had been her only constant for thousands of miles, and despite her warts, she 'd miss her.
Get a grip, girl,
she told herself. The Citroen was not a
her.
It was a clunky, worn-out piece of automotive junk.

"You okay?" Taylor asked.

She ran a hand under her nose, sniffed, and raised her head. "Fine. Let's go. I think there's a police station somewhere off Lobatas, just north of here." When she turned toward the car, he put a hand on her shoulder.

"Maybe they'll find her," he said. "Sometimes you get lucky."

She shrugged from under his hand. "Maybe. It really doesn't matter. The old thing was on its last legs anyway. I've got nothing but good wishes for the genius who managed to drive the bucket of bolts away."

Taylor pretended to believe her, while Willy tried to ignore that he had recognized Cissy's gender.

By the time she'd answered the necessary questions at the police station it was late afternoon. Taylor was outside sitting on the steps when she came out. He stood up, and with her one step up, they were eye to eye.

"No luck?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Tough."

"Yeah... tough."

"Are you hungry, thirsty, tired, or what?"

Willy half-smiled. "None of the above."

"What then?" He gave her a quizzical look.

"Restless."

"A walk then?"

"A swim. Most of the sun worshipers will be gone now. Off to expensive rooms to tend their burns. And as I recall, you did buy some trunks today."

"A swim it is." He reached for her hand, lifting it away from her side. When she started to pull it back, he tightened his grip, cocked his dark head, and smiled. "Just a swim." His grip tightened again as he led her to his car. "And then dinner. While you were in there filling out endless forms, I was scouting the restaurants. There's an Italian place about three blocks from here. Looks promising. What do you say?"

"Italian? You come to Spain and you want to eat Italian food?"

"I'm a pasta freak. What can I say?" He dropped her hand and lifted his palms upward before opening the car door for her.

She turned to face him before getting in. "I'd say we finally found something we can agree on."

"Pasta, huh?"

"Pasta," she confirmed.

He chuckled and helped her into the car. "It's a start at least. Now, which way to the beach?"

Chapter 4

While Taylor changed, Willy stripped down to her bikini and stuffed her T-shirt and cotton pants in her tote. She was kneeling in the sand replaiting the bottom of her braid when he came out of the change tent. Her messing with her hair stopped, and she rested her hands on the top of her thighs to watch his approach.

He wore black trunks. A white towel was draped lopsidedly around his neck. She gulped. And what a body… He might be New York but his abs were pure California. The muscles in Willy's stomach knotted as her hands, damp hands, rubbed nervously over her thighs. And more irritating than anything she was holding her damn breath.

He stood over her. "How about we avoid the old 'last one in is a rotten egg' routine and hit the water together?"

Anxious to move—get out from under his green gaze—she jumped to her feet. "No way. I love that routine. It's tradition." She gave him a challenging look. "How long has it been since you've been the rotten egg?"

"Never."

"Never?"

"That's right."

"Well, consider your glory days to be over and prepare for defeat. But let's make it interesting. The win goes to whoever is farthest out after twenty strokes. Agreed?"

"Agreed. But let's make it thirty strokes. At least I'll be warmed up by then." The look he gave her was pure male arrogance. "If that's too much for you..."

"I think I can handle it. Thirty strokes it is." Willy rubbed her palms together in a gesture of confident anticipation, then snapped the towel away from his neck. After placing it in a straight starter line at their feet, she assumed a runner's stance and glanced up at him. "Ready?"

"You call it." He lined himself up beside her and trained his gaze on the Mediterranean water line.