by E C Sheedy
"So serious," she chided. "Does that mean you're ready for question and answer period?"
"Give me your best shot. My life's an open book."
"Okay, then." Willy raised her half-empty glass of champagne. "Fill 'er up." When Taylor obliged, she began, "First I want to know about you and Danny."
"That's a pretty open-ended question."
"He says you raised him. True?"
"False. Our mother raised him. I just kind of helped out. He probably feels that way because being older by ten years, I had to take on a bit more responsibility than he did. Like baby-sitting while our mother worked."
"When did you find time to baby-sit? Didn't you have a morning paper route and a job cleaning the drugstore after school? And didn't you start managing your mom's paycheck along with your own when you were fourteen or so?" Willy sipped her champagne and watched Taylor's face turn sober.
"You and Dan have been busy, haven't you?" He shrugged. "So I had a natural financial sense. I used it. Somebody had to."
"Why?"
He gave her a long look. "With all the conversations you and Dan have obviously had, you have to know that we were on our own, that our father cut out when I was twelve."
"That's not how Dan tells it. He says your mom booted him."
Taylor looked at her across his glass. "Depends on your point of view. I'd say she gave him an ultimatum. 'Keep a job or keep away.' And he made his choice. He took off. To wander the world, write the great American novel or something like that. He never came back, and never sent a nickel of financial support."
"And you stepped in to fill the gap."
"I did what I thought was right."
"And you still do."
His forehead creased slightly. "And that's a bad thing?"
"No." Willy blew some suds from her nose. "I just mean that in some ways you're exactly as Dan described. Hardworking, organized, responsible, in control—"
"Authoritative, power hungry, demanding." He brought his face closer to hers. "Right?" He'd heard Danny's opinion often enough to recite it verbatim.
Willy couldn't help but laugh. "Right."
"And not a trait on the list that you admire."
"I didn't say that."
"So why did you list them with the same enthusiasm a saint would cite the seven deadly sins. Your body language speaks volumes, Willow." He didn't smile but his amazing green eyes lit with amusement. "And here I thought I was such an admirable guy." He braced himself on the tub, one hand on either side, and leaned toward her. "And while we're on the subject of body language." He smoothed back the damp hair lying against her throat and caressed her neck. "Mine is just itching to speak. Interested?"
"Maybe," she answered. Reaching up to take his face between her hands, she kissed him, ran her tongue along his lower lip. "But I think you'd be much more comfortable in here with me."
She gave one quick tug and with no real grip on the slippery sides of the tub, Taylor was down and under. Water sluiced over the tub's rim to the floor and he came up to the sound of Willy's laughter. He shoved his hair off his face, tried to spit out the bitter taste of soap and musk, and gave her an ominous glare. As ominous as could be managed given the swell of delectable breasts teasing from just below the water.
"You're not an easy woman to seduce. Did you know that? How's a guy supposed to keep his game on and stay cool after damn near being drowned in a bathtub?" He braced both hands on the bottom of the tub and looked down at her, ignoring the hank of wet hair that fell over his forehead.
"I don't like 'cool,' anyway."
"What do you like?"
Willy smoothed his wet hair back and met his eyes, her expression cautious but strangely serious. "I like you, good lookin'. I like you a whole lot."
Taylor's smile faded. "And that makes you unhappy."
She didn't answer, instead she twined her fingers in his wet hair and looked at him, her eyes a question mark, as if she were scanning his soul for an answer she already knew she wouldn't like. After a moment, she closed her eyes, let out a labored breath, and leaned her forehead against his.
"What am I going to do about you? This thing that's happening between us, I don't want it. I don't need it. It... scares me. It really does."
"Willy—" He wanted to say the right thing, but first he had to get past the lump lodged in his throat. What she'd said—I like you—set him off stride, froze his vocal cords, and morphed him into an tongue-tied boy living his first crush.
She shook her head, put a finger on his mouth. "No. I don't want you to say anything." She gave him a quick, hard kiss and with mercurial swiftness changed the subject. "The water's cold. Let's get out of here."
Taylor moved back and she sprang from the tub as if it had acidified. He followed her out. She was right, the water was cold. But right now it could be cryogenic and he'd still be in a fever.
* * *
Damn. Damn. Damn. Why does he have to be so nice, so much fun, so easy to get along with? And why did he have to have a morning paper route and be every mother's dream of a son? It wasn't fair. Better she concentrate on the man, not the boy. The man was seductive, sexy, and blazingly sure of himself. Everything about him said love me, trust me, depend on me.
Hah!
He was a devil, come to tempt her, test her resolve—with his hard body, expert hands, and those killer green eyes.
She snatched a towel from the rack, hastily tied it around herself, and headed for the bedroom. Less than an hour ago she'd been thinking how she was in control, how it would be just fine when Taylor left for home and she'd be alone again. Now here she was, a hot mess, who'd been so focused on not falling in love she'd been blindsided. Nobody warned her about falling in like.
She wasn't aware Taylor had entered the room until his arms slipped around her and draw her back to his chest. She lifted her head, then with a sigh leaned back against his shoulder. Through slanted eyes, she saw them both framed in the cracked mirror over Dan's dresser. Taylor's hair was combed back, the soft light coming in from the open bedroom door giving it a gentle gleam. Like her, he was wrapped in a towel. He kissed her shoulder, then lifted his head to see her eyes in the mirror.
"Want to tell me what spooked you?"
She closed her eyes again, debated whether to answer him. She knew what happened to women who exposed their vulnerabilities. Her family was full of them, hurting and alone. But was honesty always vulnerability? She wasn't sure. But because honest was what she was most comfortable with, she answered, "You spooked me, Taylor. I'm not sure what I think about this... about us. I'm afraid I can't handle it. I don't want to miss you when you go. Can you understand that?"
He kissed her neck and ran his hands down her sides. "You think too much. I don't want to miss you, either, but I will. You don't have to be afraid of what you feel for me, Willow. I'll never hurt you." His hands retraced their path upward, softly molding themselves over her breasts, then coming to rest at the knot holding her towel.
Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly. The thought skimmed across her mind but couldn't fight the sensuous magic of his hands.
He undid the knot in her towel and pulled it away. Again their eyes met in the ancient mirror, hers wide, touched by passion and a trace of fear, his sure, darkened with desire and promise. There were to be no more games.
His hands cupped her breasts, and as he watched her face, his fingers played sexual havoc with her nipples. Her breath labored for release, and she clasped his hands, drawing them closer, tighter.
He dropped his head to her shoulder, and nipped the cords of her neck, her ear lobe. One hand rubbed downward to the moist heat at the juncture of her legs. His fingers stroked, caressed, urged her body to ease and open. His breath was hot and rasping across her skin. "I want you, Willy. I need you."
A need every sinew, muscle, and fiber in her body poised to satisfy, even as it shut down her brain, her incessant thinking.
He was her lover and he wanted her. It was enough.
It was everything.
* * *
Restless and edgy, Taylor padded barefoot to the kitchen.
He'd always known his own mind and he knew it now—without doubt. Willow Desmond was part of him. He wanted her in his life to stay, but the lady still had serious reservations. If he'd thought making love to her would bind her to him, he'd been wrong. They were great in bed together, but still she held herself back, giving her body yes, but little else. He wanted more.
Small muscles in his groin tightened when the image of her, sprawled across the bed in the next room, formed in his mind. The image also brought a smile. Willy was definitely a bed hog, so they'd need to get one hell of a big bed.
You're getting a bit ahead of yourself, Monroe. Right now the lady's commitment to you is minus zero—like it is to everything else in her nomadic life.
And what stuck in his head like a burr was that he had no clear idea how to change that.
He opened the fridge, got out some bottled water.
Not ready to go back to bed, he took the water, and went to stand by an open window. It was almost two o'clock, but the lights from the port still colored the night sky above the neighboring buildings. A few seconds later, a pair of soft, strong hands rested on his shoulders, then began a steady, kneading motion.
"Nice," he said, taking a deep breath.
"Can't sleep?" Willy asked, continuing to work her fingers over his taut shoulders.
"Not when a certain blonde takes up all the bed." She ran her fingers up through his hair, and he rolled his head back into her hands. God, it felt good.
"Sorry, I'm used to sleeping alone. Sharing is new to me." She massaged his shoulders, his lower neck.
"No problem." He closed his eyes briefly. "Where did you learn to do that? It feels terrific."
"Japan. If you're a good boy, one day I'll give you the full treatment and stomp around on your back for a while."
He knew she was smiling.
"Sounds painful."
They allowed silence to claim the room as Taylor leaned over the sink and Willy continued to soothe his muscles. He could feel her thumbs working out the knot at the base of his neck. When the massage evolved into a caress, he turned to face her. Taking her face in his hands, he searched it. He could see the desire in her eyes and felt his chest expand, his heartbeat quicken. Would the wanting for this woman never stop? He steeled himself. Down boy, he told himself and ran his hands down her arms to her elbows. He planned to let go but couldn't. She looked at him quizzically.
"Just how many countries have you been in?"
"You want to talk geography? Now?" She ran her hand palm flat up his chest. He stopped it at his heart and waited for her answer. She lifted one shoulder, then dropped it. "Last count about forty-seven, I guess."
"Is it enough?"
"Enough?" she repeated.
"I mean is it over, or near over, the traveling part of your life?"
She dropped her hand from his chest and moved toward the sink. Once there she leaned against it and crossed her arms. "Almost. Although I think there's something like another hundred and fifty or so left."
Her cryptic reply didn't satisfy him. "That's not exactly an answer."
"Why the sudden interest in my itinerary?"
"Because I want to understand. What keeps you drifting around?"
"Drifting," she repeated and for a moment looked annoyed, then her gaze steadied on him. "I guess in fairness it does kind of look like I'm drifting." She almost smiled. "You really hate that idea, don't you?"
"I don't understand it. Can you explain? Maybe get into the why of it?"
"I've tried to, but you keep cutting me off." She uncrossed her arms and headed for the fridge. He stopped her by grasping her arm.
"Not this time. I'm all ears."
She studied him a moment. "Then I'll give you the nutshell version. You already know about my family, the rotten marriages, my parents' celebrated divorce.'' She pulled her arm from his grasp and opened the fridge. Taylor waited while she poured some orange juice, closed the fridge door, and leaned against it. "I was twenty-two when that happened and from what I could see was headed down exactly the same path taken so disastrously by my aunts, cousins, and mother. I was a pretty, insecure, self-centered dimwit making a temporary living doing something I hated until the right man came along. The right man being handsome, rich, and powerful, by the way. From the time I was eleven years old, my mother told me a smart girl learned to capitalize on the gifts she'd been given. In our family that meant our looks—and our bodies. Oh, and a few good connections helped, too."
"Like Peter?" Taylor asked.
She nodded. "Like Peter."
After taking a sip of orange juice, she went on, "You might not believe this, but back then I was pretty timid. I sensed I wasn't in the right…place in my life, but I didn't have the courage to do anything about it. So I went with the flow, until my parents' divorce." She paused. "It was so…crazy. To get away from the craziness—and the press—I rented a place in Maine and went away—alone." She looked oddly embarrassed. "Would you believe that was the first time I'd been anywhere by myself? I was scared witless."
Absently, she stroked her glass before going on, "That was when I realized something was seriously wrong with my life. Somehow it was all about fear. Fear of being alone. Fear of not being able to make it on my own. Fear of making my own decisions. Fear that I'd never be happy with myself, by myself. So I did something about it." She finished the orange juice and put the glass in the sink.
"Such as?" he prodded.
"You're probably going to think this is kind of weird."
"Try me."
She took a breath. "I decided to let all that fear come out. Face it down. Before leaving the States, I dealt with the physical thing. I was always terrified to walk down the street by myself. Even being home alone in a fully secured house, I was nervous. I started to train, to lift weights—Mother was, of course, horrified. She was sure it was the end of my modeling career. Then I studied self-defense—and got good at it."
"That I can personally attest to." He gave her a wry smile.
She smiled back. "Then I went to Paris by myself, rented an apartment, and got a job—washing dishes at a neighborhood bistro. I was so lonely, so lost, I cried myself to sleep for a year." She lifted her head defiantly. "But I didn't run home. I had to learn to live alone, to cope emotionally. When Paris got too comfortable for me, I moved on. Each new place was a new test. The next step was harder."
He raised a questioning brow.
"The money thing. I still had savings. Like I told you, I made a great deal of money modeling, and I managed to save a lot of it. That money was my last security blanket. It had to go. So I gave it away to a children's hospital in Romania." She laughed now. "I learned being broke isn't the end of the world. There's always work, always a way to earn your daily bread—and I actually came to enjoy the challenge. I met a million wonderful people, and I can put my head down and sleep like a baby no matter where I am. So you see, what looks like drifting to you was a plan for me. I wanted to get as far away from New York as possible. Define life on my own terms. And I think I did. Someone once said, there are two roads to success, have more or want less. I chose the latter. Life's a lot easier that way."
Taylor was silent, couldn't do anything but stare at her. Her words tumbled around in his head, evoking a thousand responses ranging from admiration to a particularly male kind of fear. What could he give a woman who wanted nothing, learned to live with nothing, and reveled in it?
"Let me get this straight. For the past four years you've been bumping around the world to prove you don't need anybody or anything. That you can get by without friends, family, money, or love?" He gave her a direct look. "Did I miss anything?"
Her eyes became wary. "No."
"And you did all this to avoid a relationship, what you were sure would be the ultimate pain of a broken marriage?" He couldn't keep a trace of incredulity from
his tone.
"Given the family history, I'd say my logic was pretty sound, wouldn't you? Add to that, I had no intention of falling into a marriage because I needed someone, anyone, to take care of me. Someone I'd grow so dependent on that by the time he leaves, I've forgotten how to pump gas in my car."
"And you have no intention of loving anyone enough to let him hurt you." He waited for her answer.
It was a curt nod.
He ignored the twist of pain in his gut. "So after all your hard work, all your sacrifices, you're still afraid. Not to mention you've become selfish, hard, and obsessive."
"Don't hold anything back, good lookin'. Let me know exactly what you think." Her tight lips and use of her odious nickname for him told Taylor he's just set himself back to square one, but he pressed on.
"Obsessive because your emotional vision is impaired. Your focus is so tight it's cramped your thinking. What you did was great, admirable in its way, but as an ongoing style of life..." He shook his head, then went on, "Hard, because I can see the calluses growing on your heart. And finally—selfish. You abandoned your family, Willow. For one, your mother who probably needed you after the pain of her divorce. You might even have spared some compassion for a father who—"
"—walked out with one of my colleagues, a model—a year younger than me. A father who shattered my mother's life, then kicked the pieces aside on the way to another woman's arms. A father—"
"—who betrayed you! That's what hurts the most, isn't it? That's why you won't forgive him."
Willy gave him a cold, unblinking stare. If he'd hit a nerve, she didn't let it show. "Spare me the platitudes and the cut-rate psychology. I can't forgive him any more than you can forgive your dad for being an unrepentant wanderer.
"And while we're talking obsessive, let's pull back one of your curtains. Who's still accumulating—obsessively—to make up for what he considers a deprived youth? Who's using financial strings to control his brother? Telling him he knows best what he should do with his life? Who believes he holds copyright on all the smug, neat little answers on how people should live? At least I keep my nose in my own business."