Suzanne Brockmann - Team Ten 10 - Taylor's Temptation

by Suzanne Brockmann

  She laughed at him, right in his face. "Yeah, in your dreams."

  "If you're going to act like a child—unable to control yourself—"

  "What are you going to do?" she countered hotly. "Tie me up?"

  "Yes, dammit, if I have to!" Bobby heard himself shouting. He was shouting at her. Bellowing. As loudly as he shouted in mock fury at the SEAL candidates going through BUD/S training back in Coronado. Except there was nothing mock about his fury now.

  She wasn't in danger. Not now. He could see the protestors, and up close they were a far-less-dangerous-looking bunch than he'd imagined them to be. There were only eight of them, and six were women—two quite elderly.

  But that was moot. She'd completely ignored his warning, and if she did that in Tulgeria, she could end up very dead very fast.

  "Go on," she shouted back at him, standing like a boxer on the balls of her feet, as if she were ready to go a few rounds. "Tie me up. I dare you to try!" As if she honestly thought she could actually beat him in a physical fight.

  As if she truly believed he would ever actually raise a hand against her or any other woman.

  No, he'd never fight her. But there were other ways to win.

  Bobby picked her up. He tossed her over his good shoulder, her stomach pressed against him, her head and arms dangling down his back. It was laughably easy to do, but once he got her there, she didn't stay still. She wriggled and kicked and howled and punched ineffectively at his butt and the backs of his legs. She was a big woman, and he wrenched his bad shoulder holding her in place, but it wasn't that that slowed him.

  No, what made him falter was the fact that her T-shirt had gapped and he was holding her in place on his shoulder with his hand against the smooth bare skin of her back. He was holding her legs in place—keeping her from kicking him—with a hand against the silkiness of her upper thighs.

  He was touching her in places he shouldn't be touching her. Places he'd been dying to touch her for years. But he didn't put her down. He just kept carrying her down the sidewalk, back toward the truck that was double parked in front of the center.

  His hair was completely down, loose around his face, and she caught some of it with one of her flailing hands, Caught and yanked, hard enough to make his eyes tear.

  "Ouch! God!" That was it. As soon as he got back to his room, he was shaving his head.

  "Let! Me! Go!"

  "You dared me," he reminded her, swearing again as she gave his hair another pull.

  "I didn't think you were man enough to actually do it!"

  Oh, ouch. That stung far worse than getting his hair pulled.

  "Help!" she shrieked. "Someone help! Mrs. O'Hal-laran!"

  Mrs. who...?

  "Excuse me, young man..."

  Just like that, Bobby's path to the truck was blocked by the protestors.

  One of the elderly women stood directly in front of him now, brandishing her sign as if it were a cross and he were a vampire. "What do you think you're doing?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at him from behind her thick glasses.

  Take Back the Night, the sign said. Neighborhood Safety Council.

  "He's being a jerk, Mrs. O'Hallaran," Colleen answered for him. "A complete idiotic, stupid, male-chauvinist jerk. Put me down, jerk!"

  "I know this young lady from church," the elderly woman—Mrs. O'Hallaran—told him, her lips pursed in disapproval, "and I'm certain she doesn't deserve the indignity of your roughhousing, sir."

  Colleen punched him in the back as she kneed him as hard as she could. She caught him in the stomach, but he knew she'd been aiming much lower. She'd wanted to bring him to his knees. "Put me down!"

  "Colleen, do you want us to call the police?" one of the two men asked.

  She knew these people. And they knew her—by name. From church, the old lady had said. Colleen had never even remotely been in danger.

  Somehow that only served to make him even more mad.

  She could have told him she knew them, instead of letting him think...

  He put her down. She straightened her shirt, hastily pulling it back down over her exposed stomach, giving him a glimpse of her belly button, God help him.

  She ran her fingers quickly through her hair, and as she did, she gave him a look and a smile that was just a little too smug, as if she'd won and he'd lost.

  He forced himself to stop thinking about her belly button and glared at her. "This is just some kind of game to you, isn't it?"

  "No," she said, glaring back, "this is my life. I'm a woman, not a child, and I don't need to ask anyone's permission before I 'so much as lift my finger,' thank you very much."

  "So you just do whatever you want. You just walk around, doing whatever you want, kissing whoever you want, whenever you want—" Bobby shut himself up. What the hell did that have to do with this?

  Everything.

  She'd scared him, yes, by not telling him why she was so confident the protestors didn't pose a threat, and that fear had morphed into anger. And he'd also been angry, sure, that she'd completely ignored his warning.

  But, really, most of his anger came from that kiss she'd given him, less than an hour ago, in front of her apartment building.

  That incredible kiss that had completely turned him upside down and inside out and...

  And made him want far more than he could take.

  Worse and worse, now that he'd blurted it out, she knew where his anger had come from, too.

  "I'm sorry," she said quietly, reaching up to push his hair back from his face.

  He stepped away from her, unable to bear the softness

  of her touch, praying for a miracle, praying for Wes suddenly to appear. His personal guardian angel, walking down the sidewalk, toward them, with that unmistakable Skelly swagger.

  Colleen had mercy on him, and didn't stand there, staring at him with chagrin and pity in her luminous blue-green eyes. God, she was beautiful.

  And, God, he was so pathetic.

  He'd actually shouted at her. When was the last time he'd raised his voice in genuine anger?

  He couldn't remember.

  She'd turned back to the protestors and was talking to them now. "Did John Morrison tell you to come down here with these signs?"

  They looked at each other.

  As Bobby watched, Colleen spoke to them, telling them about the center, reassuring them that it would be an improvement to the neighborhood. This wasn't an abortion clinic. They wouldn't be handing out copious handfuls of free needles or condoms. They would provide HIV testing and counseling. They would provide AIDS education classes and workshops.

  She invited them inside, to introduce them to the staff and give them a tour of the facility, while Bobby stayed outside with the truck.

  A parking spot opened up down the street, and as he was parallel parking the beast, the truck's phone rang. It was Rene, the coordinator from the Relief Aid office, wondering where they were. She had ten volunteers ready to unpack the truck. Should they wait or should she let them take an early lunch?

  Bobby promised that Colleen would call her right back. He was a half a block away from the center when he saw the protestors take their signs and go home. Knowing Colleen, she'd talked half of them into volunteering at the cen-

  ter. The other half had probably donated money to the cause.

  She came out and met him halfway. "I don't know why John Morrison is so determined to cause trouble. I guess I should be glad he only sent protestors this time, instead of throwing cinder blocks through the front windows again.”

  "Again?" Bobby walked her more swiftly toward the truck, wanting her safely inside the cab and out of this wretched neighborhood. "He did that before?"

  "Twice," she told him. "Of course, he got neighborhood kids to do the dirty work, so we can't prove he was behind it. You know, I find it a little ironic that the man owns a bar. And his place is not some upscale hangout... it's a dive. People go there to get seriously tanked or to connect with one of the girls from the
local 'escort service,' which is really just a euphemism for Hookers R Us. I'm sure Morrison gets a cut of whatever money exchanges hands in his back room, the sleaze, and we're a threat to the neighborhood...? What's he afraid of?"

  "Where's his bar?" Bobby asked.

  She gave him an address that meant nothing to him. But with a map he'd find it easily enough.

  He handed her the keys. "Call Rene on the cell phone and tell her you're on your way."

  She tried to swallow her surprise. "You're not coming?"

  He shook his head, unable to meet her eyes for more than the briefest fraction of a second.

  "Oh," she said.

  It was the way she said it, as if trying to hide her disappointment that made him try to explain. "I need to take some time to..." What? Hide from her? Yes. Run away? Absolutely. Pray that he'd last another two and a half days until Wes arrived?

  "Look, it's all right," she said. "You don't need to—"

  "You're driving me crazy," he told her. "Every time I

  turn around, I find myself kissing you. I can't seem to be able to stop."

  "You're the only one of us who sees that as a bad thing."

  "I'm scared to death to be alone with you," he admitted. "I don't trust myself to be able to keep the distance I need to keep."

  She didn't step toward him. She didn't move. She didn't say anything. She just looked at him and let him see her wanting him. He had to take a step back to keep himself from taking a step forward, and then another step and another, and pulling her into his arms and...

  "I've got to..." he said. "Go..."

  He turned away. Turned back.

  She still didn't say anything. She just waited. Standing there, wanting him.

  It was the middle of the day, on the sidewalk of a busy city street. Did she really think he'd do something as crazy as kiss her?

  Ah, God, he wanted to kiss her.

  A goodbye kiss. Just one last time. He wanted to do it, to kiss her again, knowing this time that it would, indeed, be the last time.

  He wanted—desperately—for her to kiss him the way she'd kissed him in the darkness of the backstreet off Harvard Square. So lightly. So sweetly. So perfectly.

  Just one more time like that.

  Yeah, like hell he could kiss her just one more time. If he so much as touched her again, they were both going to go up in flames.

  “Get in the truck," he somehow managed to tell her. “Please."

  For one awful moment he was certain she was going to reach for him. But then she turned and unlocked the door to the truck. "You know, we're going to have to talk about

  that 'obey' thing," she said. "Because if you don't lighten up, I'm going to recommend that we don't accept your admiral's protection. We don't have to, you know."

  Oh, yes, they did. But Bobby kept his mouth shut. He didn't say another word as she climbed into the truck from the passenger's side, as she slid behind the wheel and started the big engine.

  As he watched, she maneuvered the truck onto the street and, with a cloud of exhaust, drove away.

  Two and a half more days.

  How the hell was he going to survive?

  Chapter

  Colleen cleaned out her refrigerator.

  She washed the bathroom floor and checked her e-mail.

  She called the center's main office to find out the status of Andrea Barker, who'd been attacked just outside her home. There was no change, she was told. The woman was still in a coma.

  By :, Bobby still hadn't called.

  By :, Colleen had picked up the phone once or twice, but each time talked herself out of calling his hotel.

  Finally, at :, the apartment building front door buzzer rang.

  Colleen leaned on the intercom. "Bobby?"

  "Uh, no." The male voice that came back was one she

  didn't know. "Actually, I'm looking for Ashley DeWitt?" "I'm sorry," Colleen said. "She's not here."

  "Look, I drove up from New York. I know she was

  coming here and... Hold on a sec," the voice said. There was a long silence, and then a knock directly on

  her apartment door.

  Colleen looked out through the peephole. Brad. Had to be. He was tall and slender, with dark-blond hair and a yacht-club face. She opened the door with the chain still on and gave him a very pointedly raised eyebrow.

  "Hi," he said, trying to smile. He looked awful. Like he hadn't slept in about a week. "Sorry, someone was coming out, so I came in."

  "You mean, you sneaked in."

  He gave up on the smile. “You must be Colleen, Ash's roommate. I'm Brad—the idiot who should be taken out and shot."

  Colleen looked into his Paul-Newman-blue eyes and saw his pain. This was a man who was used to getting everything he wanted through his good looks and charisma. He was used to being Mr. Special, to winning, to being envied by half of the world and wanted by the other half.

  But he'd blown it, big-time, with Ashley, and right now he hated himself.

  She shut the door to remove the chain. When she opened it again, she stepped back to let him inside. He was wearing a dark business suit that was rumpled to the point of ruin-as if he'd had it on during that entire week he hadn't been sleeping.

  He needed a shave, too.

  "She's really not here," Colleen told him as he followed her into the living room. "She went to visit her aunt on Martha's Vineyard. Don't bother asking, because I don't know the details. Her aunt rents a different house each summer. I think it's in Edgartown this year, but I'm not sure."

  "But she was here. God, I can smell her perfume." He sat down, heavily, on the sofa, and for one awful moment Colleen was certain that he was going to start to cry.

  Somehow he managed not to. If this was an act, he deserved an Oscar.

  "Do you know when she'll be back?" he asked.

  Colleen shook her head. "No."

  "Is this your place or hers?" He was looking around the living room, taking in the watercolors on the walls, the art prints, the batik-patterned curtains, the comfortable, secondhand furniture.

  "Most of this stuff is mine," Colleen told him. "Although the curtains are Ashley's. She's a secret flower child, you know. Beneath those designer suits is a woman who's longing to wear tie-dyed T-shirts."

  "Did she, uh, tell you what I did?" Brad asked.

  "Yup."

  He cleared his throat. "Do you think..." He had to start again. "Do you think she'll ever forgive me?"

  "No," Colleen said.

  Brad nodded. "Yeah," he said. "I don't think she will, either." He stood up. "The ferry to the Vineyard is out of Woods Hole, right?"

  "Brad, she went there because she doesn't want to see you. What you did was unconscionable."

  "So what do you recommend I do?" he asked her. "Give up?" His hands were shaking as if he'd had too much coffee on the drive up from New York. Or as if he were going into withdrawal without Ashley around.

  Colleen shook her head. "No," she said. "Don't give up. Don't ever give up." She looked at the telephone—it still wasn't ringing. Bobby wasn't calling. That left only one alternative. She had to call him. Because she wasn't going to give up, either.

  She followed Brad to the door.

  "I quit my job," he told her. "You know, working for her father. If Ashley calls, will you tell her that?"

  "If she calls," Colleen said, “I’ll tell her you were here. And then, if she asks, I'll tell her what you said. But only if she asks."

  "Fair enough."

  "What should I tell her if she asks where you are?"

  He started down the stairs. "Edgartown. Tell her I'm in Edgartown, too."

  Bobby stared at the phone as it rang, knowing it was Colleen on the other end. Had to be. Who else would call him here? Maybe Wes, who had called earlier and left a message.

  It rang again.

  Bobby quickly did the math, figuring out the time difference.... No, it definitely wasn't Wes. Had to be Colleen.

  A third tim
e. Once more and the voice mail system would click on.

  He reached for it as it began to ring that final time, silently cursing himself. "Taylor."

  "Hi, it's me."

  "Yeah," he said. "I figured."

  "And yet you picked it up, anyway. How brave of you."

  "What's happening?" he asked, trying to pretend that everything was fine, that he hadn't kissed her—again—and then spent the entire afternoon and evening wishing he was kissing her again.

  "Nothing," Colleen said. "I was just wondering what you were up to all day."

  "This and that." Mostly things he didn't want to tell her. That when he wasn't busy lusting after her, he'd been checking out John Morrison, for one. From what Bobby could tell from the locals, Morrison was mostly pathetic, Although, in his experience, pathetic men could be dangerous, too. Mostly to people they perceived to be weaker than they were. Like women. "Is your door locked?"

  Colleen lowered her voice seductively. "Is yours?"

  Oh, God. "This isn't a joke, Colleen," he said, working hard to keep his voice even. Calm. It wasn't easy. Inside

  he was ready to fly off the handle, to shout at her again. "A woman you work with was attacked—"

  "Yes, my door is locked," she said. "But if someone really wants in, they can get in, since my windows are all open wide. And don't ask me to close and lock them, because it's hot tonight."

  It was. Very hot. Even here in his air-conditioned hotel room.

  Funny, but it had seemed nice and cool right up until a few minutes ago. When the phone rang.

  He'd showered earlier in an attempt to chill out, but his hair, still down around his shoulders, was starting to stick to his neck again. As soon as he got off the phone with Colleen, he'd put it into a ponytail.

  Shoot, maybe he'd take another shower. A nice, freezing-cold one this time.