Surrender To A Playboy. Renee Roszel

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СКАЧАТЬ youthful-looking woman, even days away from her seventy-fifth birthday. Her white, silk dressing gown frothed with lace at the neck and wrists.

      She held out her arms, looking like a human-size China doll, come to life. “My Bonny!” Those brown eyes grew liquid with what Taggart knew were tears of joy. He was struck with an urge to be transported telepathically back to Boston for an instant, just to kick Bonn in his backside for neglecting this fragile-looking doll of a woman. Without further hesitation, he moved across the Persian rug and leaned over the bed, allowing her to take him in her embrace. He held her gently, inhaling her scent, talcum powder and French milled soap.

      “It’s good to see you, Miz Witty,” he murmured against her cool cheek. “You’re looking marvelous.” He’d seen her picture among the few Bonn kept. She was older by at least a decade than the photograph he remembered, and from what Bonn had said about her failing health, Taggart was surprised she looked so well. As for being blind and deaf, well, she certainly wasn’t blind. She didn’t even seem to need glasses. He wasn’t sure about her hearing, yet. But she’d apparently heard his knock, which hadn’t been particularly loud. “How are you?” he asked in his normal voice, a test to see if she could hear him.

      “Just wonderful. My right leg is still too weak for me to stand, since my last stroke, and the pneumonia wasn’t a cake-walk, but I’m getting stronger every day.” She grasped his upper arms and held him just far enough away to look at him up close. Smiling, she scanned his face. With great difficulty Taggart held on to his pleasant expression. Did she see well enough to realize he wasn’t Bonn? He experienced a creeping unease spiced with another bout of irritation. A part of him almost hoped she wasn’t fooled. He hated the lie.

      She touched his cheek, her small, cool hand fondly caressing. “You’re even more handsome than I remember.”

      He shifted uneasily, not sure how to answer.

      A slight cough or throat-clearing from somewhere behind him caught his attention. He turned. A striking woman stood not far away, her attention focused on Miz Witty. She wore blue jeans, a pink T-shirt and sneakers. In her hands she carried a tray containing a china teapot, matching cup and saucer and a plate of toast. He straightened, surprised at her almost magical appearance. He hadn’t heard her come in.

      “Oh, Bonny, darling,” Miz Witty said, “this is my live-in health care provider, Mary O’Mara. Mary, this is my grandson, Bonner.”

      The woman with the tray shifted her attention to him, nodded and smiled politely. “How do you do, Mr. Wittering.” Her voice was soft and on the sexy side of husky. She moved forward, hardly making a sound. She almost seemed to float. Taggart found himself staring, watching the graceful economy of her movements.

      Her hair was long and loose, straight and black, parted in the middle. The shiny, undulating curtain swayed with every step she took, brushing each side of her face in turn—left, right, left, right. Watching her hair sway, nuzzling those rosy cheeks in alternating beats, was strangely hypnotic.

      When she reached him she looked directly into his face, her eyes a striking shade of gray-brown—like smoke. They seemed to flash, as though a lightning storm raged beneath the dusky veil. “Please, excuse me, Mr. Wittering,” she said, her husky tone as gracious as her smile.

      He belatedly realized he was in her way, and stepped aside, feeling like a simpleton. “Pardon me.”

      “Absolutely no problem,” she murmured, turning her pretty face away to attend to Miz Witty. “We’re out of orange marmalade,” she said, removing the silver lid from a dainty, cut-crystal container. “I hope strawberry jam is all right.”

      “Perfect! Delightful!” Miz Witty’s light laugh tinkled like a bell. Taggart felt her cool fingers entwine with his. “Nothing could bother me today.” She squeezed his fingers affectionately. “I’m so happy, I could burst. My Bonny has come home, at last.”

      Taggart tore his gaze from the young woman to look at Miz Witty. Tears welled in her eyes. His gut twisting with guilt, he gently squeezed her fingers in return, but was unable to conjure a smile.

      “I’m so glad you’re happy,” Mary O’Mara said, her attention shifting to Taggart. She smiled. The beauty of it touched something inside him that he hadn’t believed could be touched, ever again. Not after his Annalisa died.

      He wasn’t a man who smiled much, but he found himself on the brink as he took in this raven-haired woman with the smoky eyes. “I hope you enjoy your visit, Mr. Wittering,” she said. Her throaty voice was only a whisper, yet it rang loud and long in his head.

      “Call me Bonn,” he said, feeling like a tongue-tied schoolboy.

      “Thank you.” She broke eye contact to face Miz Witty. “Can I get you anything else?”

      “No, dear. Go relax for a while.” The older woman poured tea into her cup, then paused. Her brows dipped in a thoughtful frown. “Oh—where are my manners?” She shifted to face Taggart. “Bonny, sweetheart, would you like some tea? Perhaps a snack after your long trip?” Without letting him respond she waved a negating hand. “Of course, you would.” She faced Mary. “Dear, please ask Cook for another plate of toast and more tea.”

      “Right away,” Mary said with a smile as she turned to go.

      “If you’ve got coffee…” Taggart broke in, experiencing a prick of disappointment that she was leaving. “I’ll serve myself and bring it back here. I’m not hungry.”

      Mary looked at Taggart. “Don’t trouble yourself, sir. I’ll get it.”

      “Absolutely not.” He turned to Miz Witty. “I’ll be right back.” He was having trouble with the idea of seeing Mary O’Mara walk away.

      Miz Witty smiled and took up her teacup. “That’s very gentlemanly of you, Bonny.” Sipping she beamed at Mary, then added, “He’s truly a treasure.”

      The young woman smiled at her employer, nodded and shifted to leave, her sneakers soundless as she glided away. Taggart followed her out the door, closing it as he left. Her scent drifted back to him, light and floral, seeming to beckon.

      Suddenly, Taggart found it essential to see those eyes again, experience the invigorating warmth of her smile. He had not been gripped by such an unexpected need since that night he’d met Annalisa, and he’d never expected to experience anything even vaguely as intoxicating, ever again. He and Annalisa had fallen in love the night they’d met. They were married three weeks later, so the courtship lasted about as long as it took for them to eat dinner. By dessert they’d been engaged.

      For a long time after his wife’s death he hadn’t dated at all. After three years, his friends finally convinced him to get out, meet women. Since then he hadn’t been a monk, but he wasn’t a playboy like Bonn.

      His work kept him busy. If the truth were known, he was more accustomed to being pursued than pursuing. That’s why, when he saw Mary O’Mara, the sense of urgency that overtook him was startling, even strangely disturbing. Where had the dour, guarded Taggart Lancaster suddenly gone? He’d never been the sort to chase females down. Certainly, he’d never experienced such a strong craving to speak to a woman since Annalisa’s death. He’d never even imagined he would.

      “Mary?” He caught up with her, “May I call you Mary?” he asked with a smile. “So you’re the Mary who wrote those letters to—me.”

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