Читать книгу Surrender To A Playboy - Renee Roszel - Страница 10

TAGGART could not believe what he’d done. He’d actually kissed Mary O’Mara. Blindsided her. And himself! Naturally she wouldn’t believe him when he said he’d never done anything like that before. After all, he was Bonner Whitney Wittering the Fourth, womanizing ne’er-do-well. At least he was as far as Wittering, Colorado was concerned.

Taggart eyed the dusty rose wall beside the staircase where, only a moment ago, he’d trapped Mary O’Mara’s face between his hands. He couldn’t get her shocked expression out of his head—her complexion winsomely high, eyes flashing with hostility and hurt. Why this woman? What was it about her that had the power to touch him at a level no other human being on earth had been able to reach—since Annalisa?

How different the two women were. Like night and day. Dr. Annalisa Wayne Lancaster, well-born pediatric surgeon, brilliant, sophisticated, ever gracious. Then, there was Mary O’Mara, nursemaid, a blunt, country girl who had probably never been farther from Wittering than Denver, just over an hour away by car.

Even so, the life flashing in her eyes fascinated and mesmerized him. The spirit and passion she exhibited in her devotion to Bonn’s grandmother, impressed and inspired him. The women he’d dated since Annalisa’s death had been from Boston society or highly educated professionals: doctors, professors, several executives, even one congresswoman.

Then there was Lee Stanton, a partner in his law firm. They’d had a six-month affair that had ended in early spring. He regretted getting involved with Lee, considering he had to see her at work every day. Especially since she refused to believe their affair was over.

None of these other women, with all their breeding and education, could compare to Mary O’Mara when it came to how she made him feel. He peered toward the front door, deciding he should make himself scarce for a while, give Mary some space. He headed outside onto the porch, angry with himself. “Kissing her is no damn way to kill an attraction, idiot!” he gritted out.

When it came to love, he’d fallen quick and hard. He’d been fortunate with Annalisa. She’d fallen quick and hard, too. All the others since his wife’s death had meant nothing, just bouts of loneliness temporarily deflected. Not love. Never love. Never again. Annalisa’s memory was too precious.

Hustling down the steps to the gravel drive, he muttered, “You were lucky in love once, my friend. Don’t get greedy. You’ve kissed her. It’s out of your system. Now move on.” Unfortunately, he couldn’t “move on” from Wittering for ten more days.

His mood grim, he thrust his hands in his pockets and strode down the serpentine, sloping drive to the blacktop road leading to town, an easy half-mile walk. He’d already been there once today. It was his own fault that he had no choice but to go again. He needed to move and keep moving. If things kept going the way they had so far on this trip, he would get to know the town intimately—out of necessity, to keep his distance from Mary O’Mara and her magnetic lips.

He heard the ding-ding of the approaching trolley’s bell as it proceeded along its route around town. Taggart ignored it, ignored the people clustered at the trolley stop, and leapt across the tracks. He needed to walk or he would explode with fury at his impulsiveness. He’d behaved more like his rash, thrill-seeking friend and client, Bonn Wittering, than Taggart Jerod Lancaster. Ordinarily he was so careful, so adamant about preparing for any possibility before he acted, his law partners kiddingly referred to him as “The Boy Scout.”

He blew out an exhale through gritted teeth. “You’re an attorney, not a method actor!” he muttered, trekking downhill toward Wittering’s main street. “Don’t get carried away with the act.”

He tried to get his mind off Mary and the kiss by taking in the scenery. Wittering was typical of many villages nestled in the Rockies, surrounded on all sides by snowcapped behemoths and accessible only by cliff-hugging highways that leap-frogged steep divides. His trek took him past quaint, century-old homes of painted siding and native stone, nestled side-by-side with contemporary stucco, redwood and log houses, one or two as new as the spring thaw.

A stack of condominiums was under construction, amid an evergreen thicket, the staccato sound of nail guns drowning out the high, wild scream of an eagle, the gentle babble of a tumbling creek and the whisper of wind through tall, skinny pines.

Further down, beyond the cascading homes, the structures became small businesses that spilled onto Center Street. A mile-long stretch of shops and homey restaurants, Wittering’s main thoroughfare invited tourists and residents alike to enjoy their rustic, cozy ambience.

Taggart walked toward the main boulevard, paying little heed to the side street shops. Suddenly someone exited a store directly in front of him and he couldn’t avoid a collision. In a mental flash, he realized he’d run into a woman, and she was falling. Instinctively, he grabbed her by the shoulders to halt her tumble. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have been more care—”

The woman he’d collided with cleared long, dark hair out of her eyes and looked up at him. He could tell by the near-smile on her face she’d been about to say something like “No problem,” or “I’m fine.” But when she recognized him, her expression mutated into a glower. He released her, since the anger in her eyes made her desire to be free of his contaminating touch quite clear. After some brief, knife-sharp eye contact, she dropped her attention to the sidewalk. His gaze followed hers down to notice a package he’d obviously knocked from her hand. He bent to retrieve it just as she did, his fingers closing over hers.

“I have it,” she said, in a tone that meant “Don’t touch me!”

He let her go and straightened. “I’m sorry, Mary,” he repeated, meaning it. “I didn’t see you.” He had no idea she would be in town. She must have dashed through the kitchen, out the back door, then struck out toward town in a dead run.