One Tough Cookie (8 page)

"On your mark, get set... GO!" Willy shouted the last word and streaked for the sea, determined to make good on her boast.

In seconds they were in the water. When Willy's head came up after the thirty strokes, she looked for Taylor. If she'd won, she knew it was by a hairs-breadth. She looked back toward the beach but couldn't see him. Where was the man?

He came up from behind her with the grace of a dolphin, wrapping strong arms around her waist and spinning her to face him. "So? Are you prepared to eat a side order of crow with your pasta?"

He was gloating and enjoying every minute of it. The gloating didn't bother her, but his hands, resting lightly on her waist, did. Pulling from his hold, she backstroked a safe distance before looking at him. "You're not going to be an insufferable winner are you? Lording it over me every chance you get?"

With two easy strokes he was even with her, his hands again on her waist. "Maybe. I kind of like the idea of having something to lord over you. It's about time, don't you think?" When she started to move away again, he pulled her to him, deftly aligning her body against his.

When Willy's hands pressed against his chest in a silent but impotent plea for distance, he responded with a terse command. "Don't." And his grasp on her tightened.

"Taylor..." Her protest was weak, halting.

Their faces were inches apart. She watched, mesmerized, as a bead of water fell from his hair. Bronzed by the setting sun, the droplet forged a shiny trail down his cheek before stopping at the corner of his mouth to form a golden bead. She shook her head and looked at him. His eyes were dazzling—covetous, feasting on her openly and without apology.

"Taylor—"

"You said that."

"Let's go back, I'm getting... cold."

"No you're not. You're getting hot. And so am I." His gaze settled on her mouth, and she heard him drag air into his lungs. "I have to do it, you know," he said.

"Have to do what?"
Dumbass. You know exactly what he has to do. And you want it. Oh, boy, do you want it.

"I have to kiss that glorious mouth of yours."

"Why?" she whispered. She knew the answer to that question, too, but she was slipping out of it, caught up in a whole new sensation, some kind of weird, soft and gooey melting going on inside her.

He grinned. "Because it's there."

At the first brush of his lips, she stilled in his arms. The fingers of her hands curled in his chest hair, and even the evening cool waters of the Mediterranean couldn't stop the heat eddying and swirling under her skin.

I don't want this.
Yet her hands moved upward, shaping themselves to his neck, then upward again to the back of his head. He deepened the kiss, slanting his mouth to hers, his tongue probing, insisting, seeking entry with a sensual murmur.

This is a bad idea…
Yet her lips parted, her tongue tasting his, tasting him for the first time. His thigh slipped between her legs and she straddled it, sliding up to his hard heat, pulled toward it by a force new and unknown to her. She rocked against him, twisted her hands in his thick dark hair.

She could drown in this man.

When water surged up her nose and over her head, she realized that's exactly what she was doing. And Taylor was going down with her. Sputtering and gasping for air, they broke the water's surface together.

"That was crazy.
You're
crazy," Willy coughed out. "We could have drowned."

He shook his head and ran his hand through his hair, starting from his forehead. "Died of need, maybe."

Willy glared at him, angry at him, yes, but even more angry with herself. Why did she kiss him—like that? It would have been so easy to stop it. Damn it! She hadn't even tried. Without another word, she swam away from him, using strokes powered by fury to take her quickly to shore. Taylor wasn't far behind.

She snatched up a towel and was rubbing herself dry when he reached her. Her movements were brisk and angry. He watched her a moment, then reached for his own towel, drying his face before speaking. "It was just a kiss, Willow." He spoke the words softly.

"Don't call me—"

"Okay. Okay. Willy then. It was still just a kiss. I'm sorry if it upset you."

"No, you're not. You're proud of yourself. That's what you are. Isn't that the basic male reaction when a woman's defenses are bridged?" She rammed her legs into her cotton pants, cursing the snarled drawstring. That tied, she yanked her T-shirt over her head and turned to storm up the beach. One quick jerk from Taylor's hand brought her back to face him. His fingers lashed tight around her waist.

Willy knew it would be a simple matter to break his grip. She'd trained to do exactly that, but she waited instead, eyes fixed on the sand, chest heaving.

"You're a little bit crazy, did you know that? Like I said, it was only a kiss. A meeting of lips. You're a beautiful, desirable woman and I... I'm not made of stone, and neither, it seems, are you."

"That's just it. I'm not. For a minute back there, I wanted you—no—needed you." She turned back to face him. "Don't you understand? I don't plan to either
want
or
need
you, Monroe. I especially don't want to love you, or anyone like you. It would be too... dangerous."

"Love! Who the hell said anything about love? It was a kiss, just a kiss, for God's sake. Don't tell me you haven't been kissed before?"

She gave him a harshly assessing look. "Sure it was just a kiss. And for your information I've been kissed plenty of times, but I never felt anything like that." She let out a long sigh. "Can't you understand? I want to lead my life my way. I don't want it infected with stupid, mind-sucking desire."

"Infected?"
He looked baffled.

"Yes. Infected. I—" She stopped. She couldn't expect him to understand. What man would understand a woman who had spent the last four years of her life meticulously building defenses, immunizing herself against loving too much? At this moment, captured by Taylor's oddly speculative gaze, she wasn't sure she understood it herself. And she didn't want to explain, not now, in time and space alive with frightening emotions. She wanted to get away, to think—and she wanted him to let go of her wrist. She tugged and his grip tightened.

Willy's voice lowered an octave, and she gave him a threatening stare. "Let me go. Now."

"And how the hell do you plan on getting back to the condo? We came in my car in case you've forgotten."

"I've been managing to get around for a lot of years now. I'm sure I can manage without your fancy car." She tugged on her hand.

"I won't have you hitchhiking. I'll drive you." His words were diamond hard, and his fingers tensed around her wrist.

"Damn! If you're not the most arr—" She stopped, closed her eyes, and took a calming breath. When she looked back to him, her expression was icily stubborn. "Understand this, Mister Taylor
Stanley
Monroe, if I wanted to hitchhike, I would. But I don't happen to be a fool. For your information I plan on taking a cab. And right now you and ten good men couldn't make me get in your car. Can I make it any plainer?"

He took a long moment to consider her words, then abruptly released her. She spun away from him and headed up the beach.

Taylor stood with his hands on his hips, making no move to follow her. The hard set of her shoulders was eloquent. It was Garbo time. The lady wanted to be alone. For that matter so did he. He had a few random thoughts of his own to put in order. Draping the towel around his neck, he sat down and faced the water.

Willow Desmond, he admitted to himself, was unique, an awkward ingénue one minute and a perceptive, intelligent woman the next. A strong, dangerously wary female with the simmering wildness of a tame tiger. Soft and savage. The combination was compelling. Erotic. His groin tightened when he remembered her pulsing against his thigh, hot and wanting. He swore and stood up.

He strongly suspected Willy hadn't developed her body to gratify a man's desire but as protection against it. No one would take from her what she wasn't prepared to give. Still a virgin,, for God's sake. Amazing. Intriguing. Too damned intriguing. Telling himself innocents weren't his style, he headed for the changing room.

He hadn't come to Spain to get tied up with a woman, any woman. He pulled on his shirt, combed his hair with his fingers, and strode up the beach.

In no hurry to return to the condo, he decided to wander a while.
You're going to get yourself completely under control,
he told himself. There would be no more passes made at the resident virgin. When Dan came home, he would talk to him, accomplish what he came for, and head home ASAP. Willow would be nothing but a memory. Better for her and better for him. She'd didn't want to be messed with. Fair enough. He could handle that.

Now if he could only forget the way she felt, slick with the Mediterranean, plastered against his chest, he'd be fine. He cursed softly. What was the word she used?
Infected,
that was it. Good word, he thought. He definitely had a fever. Thinking that the cooling night air would lower it, he started walking.

* * *

It was after midnight when he let himself back into the condo. Light slivered through the partially opened bathroom door. With luck he'd make it to bed without waking her. And tomorrow he'd insist she take the bedroom. He had the feeling there'd be more nights ahead requiring some midnight strolls.

He was at the bedroom door when she spoke.

"Taylor?" Her voice was low and sleep filled.

"Yes. It's me. Sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep."
And fast, because I need to put this door between us ASAP.
Christ he was hard at the sound of her voice. So much for long walks.

"That's okay. I tried to wait up for you."

"Why?" His eyes were growing accustomed to the dimly lit room, and he watched as she pulled herself to a sitting position. Sleepily pushing some stray hair behind her ear, she looked up at him.

"Dan called. He's going to be a couple of days late."

"You're kidding." Taylor groaned. Damn his brother's irresponsible hide.

"I told him you wouldn't be happy."

Understatement of the year.

She went on. "He says he has important news, and that he wants you to wait."

"I'll bet he does."
What I should do is make plane reservations. Get the hell out of Dodge.
Then he glanced at the sleepy woman on the sofa. Hell, he didn't want to go. Sure he wanted to straighten things out with Dan, but honesty forced him to admit that his brother's life-style choices were fast becoming secondary to this... unfinished business between him and Willy. But not tonight. There was nothing he could do about either of them tonight.

"Taylor." Her voice was fuller now, sensible and awake. "Please stay. It's important to Dan. Really. If I'm, uh, getting on your nerves, I can find somewhere else to stay."

Wracked by pain unique to the male species, he grumbled, "It's not my nerves you're getting on, Willow. Now go back to sleep."

* * *

Taylor woke the next morning to the sound of soft rain and muttered curses. At least he thought they were curses. Only a Spaniard would know for sure.

A couple of minutes later, his door opened and Willy walked in carrying a huge breakfast tray. She gave him a bright—slightly forced?—smile and headed for his bed.

"What are you doing?" he said. "I told you I feel fine. You don't have to do this anymore." He indicated the full tray. Add to that a smiling, congenial Willy was the last thing he expected this morning. The woman was a changeling.

"Along with breakfast in bed, I'm trying to make amends. I was an uptight prude yesterday. I overreacted to your kiss—"

"Our kiss," he corrected.

"Whatever," she airily agreed. "Anyway, this totally American breakfast is a peace offering." She waved her hand over the perfectly fried eggs and bacon before adding, "Now I'm not foolish enough to suggest we become friends. There's too much sexual pull between us for that, but I think we could at least try to understand each other."

"You mean me understand you, don't you? From what you said yesterday I gather you're satisfied that you've already got a clear angle on me. I'm your run-of-the-mill oversexed male looking for a quick conquest. Remember?"

Her smile slipped a little at that, and he continued to eye her warily. Never had he met a woman who strove so hard for the upper hand. He bit into a piece of hot buttered toast. It melted in his mouth. "You bake this?" When he lifted his piece of toast, she nodded absently. "Good. Better than good."

"Thanks, but we're not talking about bread. We're talking about… about unfinished business between you and me."

He took another bite of the toast and swallowed it a little too fast, surprised her thoughts were a mirror of his own. He played dumb. "What unfinished business?"

"You're trying to wear innocence, Monroe, and it doesn't suit you. You know exactly what I mean." She sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up a piece of crisp bacon from his plate. "I'd like to talk,
really talk,
with you, Taylor."

"Yeah, well, I'd like to kiss,
really kiss,
you." He took another frustrated bite on his toast.

She got to her feet. "See, that's exactly what I mean. How can we get over this... this
thing
if we don't talk about it. Dan will be here in a few days, and it's important that we're—"

"We're what?"

"In control of things before he gets here."

Taylor stopped eating and studied her. Her expression was anxious, maybe even a bit fearful. "It's important that
you're
in control, you mean. As for me, I don't mind letting go once in a while. Especially in bed."

"You're going to be…difficult, aren't you?"

"Probably."

She looked genuinely dismayed.

He put down his toast.

"You honestly believe we can talk away what's happening between us?"

"It's possible. If not, I'll at least have been true to myself. I live by my rules. You need to understand that. Rejecting you isn't a whim. I'm not being…capricious. I tried to tell you before. I don't live a life—or want one—that responds to raw need. I make choices, select options, and—"