One Tough Cookie

by E C Sheedy

  "That makes sense, Dan," she muttered to her absent host. When she closed the cupboard door, she caught a glimpse of herself in its glass door.

  "Yuck," she said aloud, rubbing at one dirty cheek and poking at the pale scratch under her eye. Taylor isn't the only one in need of a shower. When the rubbing didn't improve things, she glanced at her hands. They were mottled with oil stains from fooling with her carburetor. She didn't know beans about cars and supposed it was time she did. She sighed in resignation. You have to learn, Willy, whether you want to or not. There's nothing self-sufficient about a woman who can't change her own oil.

  Hoping she hadn't done any real damage under the hood of her old Citroen, she hatched a plan to go back to Marbella tomorrow to arrange for repairs. After scrubbing her hands with dish detergent, she headed for the bedroom, cough syrup in hand.

  When Taylor opened the door, she was waiting for him. He was rubbing his dark hair with a tiny hand towel. A larger one was draped like a sarong low on his hips. Before stepping out of the bathroom, he dropped the hand towel and forked both hands through his wet hair, drawing it back from his high forehead. When he spotted her, his relaxed expression twisted instantly into a scowl, but even that didn't make her lower her eyes.

  Willy stared openly. The word wow bubbled invisibly over her head like a cartoon caption. His wide shoulders were slick with steam, and the hair on his chest was damp and silky. Her gaze followed the hair down over taut abdominals to where it tapered at the top of the towel. When she looked up, it was into his cool, green eyes. Stern, stubborn eyes like sharp cut emeralds. The scowl was his only imperfection. A distant warning sounded and a worried frown flitted across her determinedly friendly face. Trouble…

  "I found some cough syrup. It should help." She offered the half-full bottle to him. He nodded, mouthed the word thanks, and turned abruptly away from her.

  Okay, long on looks, short on charm, Willy thought, going back to the sofa. She debated trying to get more rest and decided against it, opting for a shower instead. She retrieved fresh underwear, cotton drawstring pants, and a T-shirt from her pack and headed for the bathroom. The tiny bathroom had two doors, one into the bedroom and another to the living room. The door to the bedroom was firmly closed.

  After her shower, she considered checking on her ailing roommate but thought better of it. If he wasn't asleep, she'd only make him madder than he already was. Instead she set about tidying up the apartment. God knows, it needed it. Post-cleanup, she inventoried the cupboards and made a list. It looked as though she'd be cooking for two.

  It was close to eleven when she got back from the market. An hour later there was still no sign of Taylor, and she started to worry. Maybe he was sicker than she thought. When there was no response to her soft knock on the door, she cracked it open and peeked in.

  He was sleeping on his stomach with his head burrowed deep into a punched up pillow. The sheet, tangled between his thighs, managed to cover only one leg and one lean buttock. Willy sucked in a breath and averted her eyes, surprised at the heat forming a tight band around her neck.

  She couldn't be embarrassed. She had no inhibitions about the human body. So why the schoolgirl blush? She couldn't figure. But she did know that he'd be severely irritated if he woke up and found her staring at him.

  She turned to go, but his soft moan stopped her. When he started to roll onto his back, she clenched her eyelids. When he moaned again, she took a breath and opened one eye. Stupid woman, she berated herself, the man might need you, and there's not much you can do with your eyes closed. Still she was relieved when she saw that the sheet had rolled with him, twisting protectively around his lower body.

  Willy was left looking at a broad muscled chest. His eyes opened on her, looking glazed and unfocused; she stepped to the side of the bed.

  "Are you okay? Can I get you something?" she asked.

  He pointed to the empty water glass on the night table. Willy nodded and went to fill it. He looked sick—real sick. Now she was super worried. She brought him the water, and he propped himself on one elbow to drink it, then fell heavily back on the bed. When he put an arm across his eyes to cut the light coming in from the window, Willy closed the curtains before going to sit on the side of the bed.

  She chewed nervously on her lower lip, then lifted his arm away from his forehead to replace it with her palm.

  He was burning up. When the chills started again, she pulled a blanket over him, refilled his water glass, and left.

  Chapter 2

  Taylor woke in a haze. He remembered Willy's cool, soft hand pressed against his forehead, had heard the door close. He swallowed painfully. She was probably miles away by now. By that stricken look in her eyes when she'd felt his fever, he'd scared her. No doubt she had better things to do than look after a sick man. Dan's friends were never big on accepting responsibility.

  He turned his woozy aching head toward the bedside clock. Almost three. That was all that registered before his eyes closed and he was back in a rocky, drifting sleep.

  The sound of rapid-fire Spanish woke him minutes later. The door opened, and Willy came in followed by a man. Nice of you to knock, he thought irritably.

  "This is Doctor Ortiz, Taylor. I thought he should look at you." She gave him a worried once over.

  What the hell was she looking for? The plague? Open sores? And he didn't need a damn doctor. He needed rest.

  When the doctor started to ask him questions in Spanish, he glared peevishly at the tall, pretty girl standing at his side, an impatient lift of his brows telling her he didn't understand.

  Pretty? She wasn't pretty last night. Must be the fever. I'm hallucinating.

  Briefly he closed his eyes to block her image. When he opened them, she was frowning at him—but she was still pretty. More than pretty—seriously hot. Definitely the fever.

  Willy translated the doctor's questions, and Taylor answered, grateful the guy's queries required only a shake or nod of his head.

  When Ortiz left, Willy came back to the room carrying a pen and paper. She sat on the edge of the bed.

  "According to the good doctor, you've been hit with a double whammy. Flu and laryngitis. The good news is, you'll live." She smiled. "But it will take a few days for you to completely recover. He's given me a prescription for you. Something to ease your throat, I think. For the rest, he says there's not much he can do. Just that you should stay in bed and rest."

  I could have told you that, he grumbled inwardly. She smoothed the hair back from his forehead and looked down at him. Her hand was sure, strong, and soothingly icy. "I'm going to la farmacia, the drugstore, now. Is there anything you want before I go?" She handed him the pen and paper. A flush of heat rapidly replaced the cool imprint of her hand.

  He took the pen and wrote, "Sweats." Even his damned hand was shaky when he pointed to his suitcase. If he didn't get to the bathroom soon, his bladder was going to burst. And he didn't want to get anymore naked with this woman than he already had. Might if he thought it would rattle her, but that didn't look likely. Willy Desmond looked cool enough to handle anything from plague epidemics to berserk sumo wrestlers. She'd sure as hell handled him last night. He watched her bend over and go through his things.

  Great butt… Jesus, Monroe, get a grip. You're dying here, remember.

  "These?" She held up some gray sweat bottoms.

  When he nodded, she gestured at his case. "Anything else?" Her eyes questioned his.

  He shook a negative, and she put the sweats in his outstretched hand and grinned.

  "Need help getting them on?" she said, adopting a studied straight face.

  It would serve her right if he threw back the covers and took her challenge. But he wasn't up for juvenile games. He scowled at her instead. She laughed and raised her palms.

  "Kidding, just kidding. Color me gone. But I'll be back in a few minutes."

  At the door she turned back. "The doctor said you're a bit run-down, and that's probably why t
his bug is hitting you so hard." She stopped and gave him what could only be called a once-over. "Although I have to say, you look pretty good to me. A bit frail, maybe, but I'm sure that's only temporary."

  Frail!

  Her brows knit briefly before she went on. "What you need is some good hot soup. I've always wanted to make chicken soup for a sicky. It looks like I finally have my chance." With that she stepped through the door.

  Sicky!

  The woman was nuts. He swung his feet to the floor, then shoved them into the sweats. A minor case of flu. A little mind over matter, and he'd be up in a few hours. In one determined motion he stood up—sat down just as fast. He closed his eyes and used two fingers to press the bridge of his nose as a wave of nausea overwhelmed him. He beat it back and, careful to move more slowly, stood beside the bed.

  He'd taken one wobbly step and she was back, poking her face around the edge of the door. A damn knock or two would be nice.

  "Do you have any money?" she asked.

  He stared at her with zero comprehension.

  "For the prescription—and the chicken. I used all the cash I had for the cleaning stuff and some other food. Can't make chicken soup from air, you know."

  He wanted to tell her what she could do with her chicken soup—but his head was crazy and his voice didn't work. He managed to pick up his wallet from the bedside table and toss it her way.

  She caught it easily, but hesitated. "You want me to go through your wallet?"

  What he wanted was for her to get out of here so he could get to the bathroom. His head spun and he shook it—mistake. He had to close his eyes against a strobe-light dizzy attack.

  She got to him as his knees buckled. Putting her arms around his bare upper torso, she lowered him back to the bed. Her breasts pressed hard against his naked chest as she strained to ease his movement down.

  "It's okay, good lookin'," she murmured close to his ear, "I've got you."

  He clutched the sides of the mattress and sucked in some air. Then he felt her arm slip back under his shoulder. She was lifting him. God, the woman was treating him like a world-class wimp, the before character in a get-fit add.

  "Come on, I think I know where you were heading," she said. "Just lean on me until you get your balance back."

  He had no choice but to accept her help. Letting his arm rest heavily across her shoulders, he got to his feet, slowly, very slowly. The dizziness was gone, but to be on the safe side, he let her support him as far as the bathroom door. Once there, he lifted his arm from her shoulder, grasped the door frame, and stumbled in. She closed the door behind him.

  He was sure she'd be waiting for him when he came out, but she was gone. Some nurse, he thought, heading unsteadily back to the bedroom. I could have passed out in there, cracked my head open. Then where would I be? He halted midway to the bedroom. Listen to yourself, Monroe, griping like you were her problem, and worse, feeling sorry for yourself. Telling himself he was ten kinds of fool, he fell back on the bed like a sack of sand.

  Bug, you may be tiny, but you damn well brought me to my knees—just like my bossy, blond nurse. You're both lethal.

  And why wasn't Danny here yet? Stifling a prickle of impatience, he fell immediately into a restless sleep.

  * * *

  When Willy came back from the drugstore, the first thing she did was check on her reluctant roommate. Sleeping—which was good. She'd had enough of Lord Grouch for awhile.

  She decided to make the soup before waking him to give him the medicine. Best to let ailing sleeping dogs lie, otherwise they tended to bite. Especially Monroe.

  She'd heard him come out of the bathroom before she'd left, staying in the kitchen in case he needed her. He hadn't—and she was glad. She didn't want to get too close to him again. She wasn't ready. Touching him, the heat of his body, hard and tense against her breasts, had startled her senses and evoked some unruly—and unwanted—responses. Best she keep her distance.

  The family godfather. The controller. She repeated Dan's description of Taylor, idly stirring the chicken stock she'd set to simmer.

  She clearly remembered the dimly lit tapas bar not far from Madrid's Plaza Mayor. It was where their dream was born, hers and Dan's. They'd sat for hours, talking, laughing, planning the book. They'd also discussed Taylor.

  "My brother believes in a place for everyone and everyone in their place. According to him, I'm not in mine. He has an overdeveloped sense of responsibility—enough for both of us." He'd laughed at that. "Taylor's the kind of guy who considers every move. His eye never leaves the horizon. When he sets his mind to something, the set is rock hard. He never gives up."

  There was pride in Dan's voice and frustration. "I just wish to hell he'd give up on me. Let me lead my life—my way. He's determined I come back to New York, work in that hellish consulting business." Dan had stopped then and stared into the dark beer he'd been swirling in the bottom of his glass. "Him and his damned checks," he repeated, his smile sheepish. "Can't live with 'em and can't eat without 'em."

  Whenever Dan got a job or sold some photographs, he sent the checks back, but Willy knew that not too many of them had gone back recently. Dan was stone broke.

  She wasn't exactly rolling in green herself, but she could hold out until their project was complete. And if she did run out of money, she'd do what was necessary. She knew how to look after herself. The reason she'd left the States in the first place, was to be on her own, needing no one, depending only on herself. If this project with Dan didn't work out, she'd simply move on. New starts were a specialty of hers. Dan may be dependent on his brother, but Willy depended on no man.

  A shaft of worry penetrated her positive ramblings. She knew the concept of pairing her cooking skills with Dan's incredible photography for a series of cookbooks was a good one, but did she want this project too much? The thought alarmed her. She hadn't set a long-term goal for years now. Could she handle the disappointment if it didn't pan out? She pushed the idea away. No sense borrowing trouble from tomorrow. Still it worried her that her dream rested in the almighty Taylor Monroe's hands.

  She lifted the wooden spoon from the pot. Cupping her hand under the spoon, she blew on it before testing the hot savory liquid. Whatever happened, it was up to Dan to tell his brother about the cookbooks.

  Dan told her to use his place until he got here—a week from tomorrow. In the meantime, she'd mind her business, test some recipes, and nurse the resident grouch. Not such a bad way to spend the next few days. Not for her anyway. She smiled to herself. She was pretty sure Dan's brother didn't feel the same.

  * * *

  Taylor had progressed from a low-grade fever to a high-grade temper. He was feeling better and beyond restless into tear-up-the-sheets-and-run territory. The three days in bed were an eternity, and tomorrow he would get up or die trying. Then there was Danny, who hadn't bothered to tell him he was going to be a week late. If his resolutely friendly nurse hadn't happened to mention it, he wouldn't have had a clue about Dan's change in plans.

  Damned irresponsible....

  Taylor tried to tamp down his bad humor. He was here. No point railing against it. Also no point in leaving. Not without Danny. Besides, if he was honest with himself, he knew he couldn't face a plane. Not yet.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the bedroom door. When Willy stepped into the room, his irritation level tested the danger mark.

  "Did you manage to make that call?" he barked, not waiting for her to reach his bedside. His voice was still hoarse and a few octaves lower than normal, but at least he could communicate.

  "I did," Willy answered, closing the door with a well-placed foot. "And I don't know why you're fretting. Your partner, what's his name—"

  "Paul. Paul Barnes. And I'm not fretting."

  "Right. Paul." She balanced the tray on his legs. "Anyway, he said he wasn't really expecting you back right away. He said he thought you were going to Vermont for a few days."

  "I told
him I canceled that."

  She started to laugh and looked away.

  "What?" He did not like the look in her eye.

  "If you must know, he said for you to stay as long as you like. And anything I could do to improve your disposition would be much appreciated. He said the office staff would be forever in my debt if you returned a new man."

  Taylor ground his teeth. It sounded exactly like Paul's warped sense of humor.

  "What's this?" He eyed the bowl she'd placed in front of him. The pushy woman persisted in serving him exactly what she pleased. And what she pleased turned out to be the oddest assortment of fish and fowl he'd ever tasted. The chicken soup was the last and only recognizable food he'd eaten in days. But everything had been good. Better than good—just different. He stirred her latest concoction and gave her a pointed look.

  "Sopa de ajo, garlic soup. You'll like it. I promise," she answered, giving him an encouraging grin.

  She'd said that with every meal she'd served him. And damned if she hadn't been right. But garlic soup? No way. He pushed it aside and picked up a piece of thick bread. He was hungry, and she brought him this gruel.

  "Coward," she teased. "You're about the least adventuresome person I've ever met when it comes to food. Are you like that about everything?"

  She sat on the edge of the bed, pulled one knee up, and faced him, nonchalantly reaching for his spoon and digging into his abandoned soup. He tried to glare her away, but she ignored him, took another spoonful of soup and studied him. She did a lot of that studying thing, he noticed.

  Until now she'd come and gone with scarcely a word. She usually left the bedroom door open, and from what he could see she spent her time either cooking or writing. On every occasion, she'd glanced up to smile at him and ask him if there was anything he needed. Totally unreasonable of him, he knew, but damn it he was still pissed at her. Feeling better didn't take away the embarrassment of being physically bested by a woman.