Surrender To A Playboy. Renee Roszel
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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.”
Apparently nothing high-minded or saintly, he responded mentally. “I’ll keep your offer in mind.” He disengaged himself from her two-fisted grip, headed to the coffeepot, grabbed a mug from the shelf above, and made quick work of pouring coffee. The whole time he felt her eyes on him. When he turned she was exactly where he’d left her.
She grinned. “Nice butt.”
He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised by the comment, but he was. Barely containing his exasperation, he reminded himself she needed approval badly, poor thing. He would be polite if it killed him, but he would give her no hope of a romance in either word or deed.
Even so, he was supposed to be Bonner Wittering, the womanizing playboy. For the ruse to ring true he had to be somewhat glib. Without smiling, he lifted his coffee mug in a mock salute. “If I only had a dime for every time I’ve heard that.”
Her wicked laughter was bold, a lusty invitation. Even if he had been the charred tree stump Mary O’Mara made him feel like, he couldn’t have missed the fact that Pauline Bordo had a fixation on the “playboy” label that was part of the town’s folklore about their most infamous native son.
She planted her fists on her hips causing one of the shirt button that Mary had fastened to pop open. He wondered if she practiced that move to be able to undo buttons on demand. “You surprise me, handsome.”
Today hadn’t been one of his best, and except for meeting Miz Witty, it was getting worse by the minute. Working to retain his polite facade, he glanced at the door and took a step in that direction. “I surprise you?” he repeated.
She must have nodded, since he didn’t hear a response. “I figured I’d pitch and you’d catch, if you get my drift.”
He did. She was about as subtle as her red underwear. He felt a headache coming on and wouldn’t be surprised if the veins in his forehead were standing out like cords. He glanced in her direction.
“I’ve been pitching like a major leaguer, and you stand there like some cool-as-a-cucumber prince doing nothing but holding a cup of coffee.” She smiled slyly. “I have to hand it to you big city playboys. You really know how to play a fish!” She winked again. She’d done it so often in the past five minutes, it was beginning to look like a facial tic. “Okay, pretty man, I’ll play along. That smoldering I-don’t-care act of yours is makin’ me hot!”
She’d pegged the I-don’t-care part, but smoldering? Taggart had a hard time suppressing his irritation. He felt sorry for her, but there was a limit. Striding toward the exit, he quipped, “Then my job here is done.”
Pauline’s lusty guffaws trailed him down the hall.
Taggart hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep until the melodious warble of his cell phone woke him. Groggy, he fumbled in the darkness for the bedside table.