Surrender To A Playboy. Renee Roszel

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      CHAPTER TWO

      TAGGART watched Mary O’Mara-of-the-smoky-eyes storm down the stairs. The air around him still sizzled with her rage, and he thought he could detect the faint aroma of charred ego. Now he knew how a tree felt when struck by lightning and left a smoldering stump.

      Absently loosening his tie, he muttered, “That went well.” Being a lawyer, he was accustomed to adversarial relationships, but he hadn’t seen that one coming. And why not, idiot? Hadn’t she written letters for the past two years, pleading for Bonn to come, getting rejection after rejection? What kind of attitude did he think she’d have? Taggart was usually good at gauging people, sensing their sincerity or lack of it. Plainly, something in her smile or those smoky eyes had jammed his radar. That tongue-lashing he’d just been given had hit him like a two-by-four to the back of his skull.

      “So far I’ve been greeted with suspicion, devotion and loathing.” He stuffed his hands into his slacks pockets, muttering, “Thanks a whole heap, Bonn, old buddy.”

      He took the stairs two at a time. He had no desire to get coffee, but he’d told Miz Witty that’s what he was going to do, so he might as well. Maybe a strong cup of java would wash the taste of Miss O’Mara’s bone-jarring disgust out of his mouth.

      At the bottom of the staircase, he swung toward the back of the house, assuming that’s where he’d find the kitchen. He was right. Upon entering, though, he was surprised to see Miss I-Hate-Your-Guts O’Mara along with another woman who stood on the opposite side of the kitchen, a heavy-boned blonde who appeared to be about his age. She was pretty, but not nearly as stunning as Mary.

      When the blonde spotted him, she arched her penciled brows in triangles and gave him a thorough once-over. Miss O’Mara did exactly the opposite. She turned her back, her rigid spine and shoulders telegraphing her antagonism. He tried to shake off his aggravation at her transparent resentment at his intrusion. She knew he was getting coffee. Where did she think he would go for it, Brazil?

      “Well, hello there.” The blonde turned away from the stove to fully face him. With a wooden stirring spoon in her hand, she crossed her arms over her ample bosom. She wore jeans, like Mary O’Mara, but hers were much tighter. Though she sported a man’s button-front shirt, the fasteners at her chest were no match for her voluptuousness, and had popped open. Glimpses of a red bra peeked from a gap in the cotton plaid. “So this is that bad boy we’ve been hearing about.” Whatever she’d been stirring with that wooden spoon was the color of tomato paste. A drop separated itself from the runny coating and spattered to the pine floor.

      “Pauline, you’re dripping.” Mary pointed to the spoon.

      The blonde continued to stare at Taggart, her expression designing. “Well, pardon me, but he’s the cutest thing that’s come into this kitchen in a long time.”

      Taggart was startled by the woman’s unsubtle sexual overtures.

      “For heaven’s sake, Pauline.” Mary stood at the sink where she’d apparently been getting a drink of water. She plunked down the tumbler, still half full, and walked across the kitchen to the cook. Her profile and demeanor were stiff, and she ignored Taggart with stanch determination. Taking the wooden spoon from the smirking blonde, she placed it on the spoon rest. “You’re dripping spaghetti sauce.”

      The cook glanced at the floor. “Oops.” She shrugged, which only served to widen the breach in her shirt.

      “Pauline!” Mary said in a half whisper as she cast a severe look in Taggart’s direction. “You’re undone.” She swiftly refastened the derelict buttons. “I’ll be in the basement if you need me.”

      “Thanks, Mom.” Pauline fixed her gaze on Taggart.

      Mary disappeared out the back of the kitchen into an alcove that looked like it led to a rear porch. The stairs to the basement must be there, too, but Taggart couldn’t see from his vantage point. All he knew was, even detesting him—rather Bonn—as Mary O’Mara did, her presence electrified a room. The loss of it made everything seem drab.

      “Not to toot another woman’s horn, but I’ve never seen Mary so—so…” She scrunched up her face, snarled and made clawing gestures.

      Taggart’s glance returned to Pauline. “So totally smitten?” he suggested sarcastically.

      The cook looked momentarily confused, then laughed. “Yeah.” She smoothed back a blond wisp that had fallen from her casually swirled and clipped hair. “When Mary can afford it, she takes night school courses to become a nurse. And nurses are supposed to get along with sick people—crabby sick people. I always thought she was pretty easygoing. Until you came along, that is.”

      So, Mary O’Mara could get along with anybody, except the one man she knew to be a self-centered playboy named Bonner Wittering. “Maybe she’d like me better if I came down with something,” he suggested, adding silently, preferably the Black Plague.

      The cook laughed again. “You’re funny.” She winked. “Funny and cute. I like that in a man.”

      He cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. He’d known other women like Pauline and sensed she was terribly insecure, at least where men were concerned. Through her wanton behavior, she was overcompensating, trying for “sex-kitten” but, instead, becoming a caricature.

      She crossed the kitchen, holding out a hand. “I don’t think we’ve been officially introduced. I’m Pauline Bordo. Miz Witty and Ruby call me Cook, which I hate.” She winked again. “You can call me anytime.”

      Bearing in mind her feelings of inadequacy, he forced himself to remain civil and accepted her hand. “I’m—Bonn.”

      “Well, I know that. Everybody in town knows you’re here.”

      Oh, great! Taggart grumbled inwardly. Bonn’s reputation had certainly preceded him. So far he’d experienced four very different attitudes—suspicion, devotion, loathing and, now, lust. He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out which dominated.

      Glancing around he spotted the coffeemaker. Luckily it was half full. He indicated it with a nod. “I’m here for coffee. Miz Witty’s waiting for me.”

      Pauline didn’t release his hand. “That’s too bad.” She shifted a shoulder toward the bubbling sauce on the stove. “I’m not a live-in like Ruby and Mary, so I’m usually free by seven.” She lifted her other hand and held his with both of hers. “Most nights I’m all dated up, but you whistle, handsome, and I’ll come runnin’. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

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