The Dating Game. Avril Tremayne
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David hooded his eyes and held his tongue. It was a tactic he’d found useful in getting people to talk—the stare and wait. And he was going to get her to talk to him if it killed him. He could talk a woman into anything if he set his mind to it. Out of anything, too.
Sure enough, within thirty seconds, she made an indistinct grumbling noise of surrender. ‘All right, yes, I was hiding. But now my cover’s blown, I guess I’ll … you know …’ Another shift from foot to foot as she looked past him towards the exit.
Nope. Not happening. ‘If you tell me who you’re hiding from, I’ll check if the coast is clear before you go back out there.’
‘It’s not a “who”, it’s an “it”,’ she said. ‘I was hiding in a generic sense. From the whole …’ waving the phone towards the door ‘… thing.’
‘You don’t like parties?’ he asked.
Up went the eyebrow. ‘Who doesn’t like parties?’
Again, he wanted to smile; again, he battled it back. The dimples had to be kept up his sleeve. So to speak. Emergency reserves. ‘So it’s this particular party that’s the problem?’
‘No. That is— I mean— It’s not about the party—at least not per se. It’s …’ She leaned in, as though she was about to get confidential and David waited hopefully … but suddenly she seemed to catch herself, and leaned out.
David took the lean-out to mean he was still the enemy. But he knew he had to be making headway if she could lean towards him in the first place without realizing she was doing it. ‘It’s …?’ he prompted.
‘It’s … a situation. I needed a bit of time alone to sort it out in my head.’
‘And have you sorted it out?’
Silence.
Which he took to mean ‘no’.
Sarah looked to the exit again, and then glanced behind her. His eyes followed hers, landing on the glittery little evening bag near the footstool. She tottered over to it on her insanely high heels and started to bend to pick it up—as awkwardly as she’d got to her feet minutes ago. She put out a hand towards the footstool, for support he guessed, but then pulled it back, with an ‘Oops.’
David moved lightning-fast to retrieve the bag in one low, easy swoop and held it out to her. ‘So your situation isn’t sorted.’
‘Yes and no,’ she admitted, taking the bag and slipping its chain strap over her shoulder.
‘Then I’ll help you sort it.’
She snorted. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Try me.’
Another glance at the exit had David shifting so his body blocked both her line of sight and the path to the door. She’d have to do a full-body-brush past him to get out. She wouldn’t want to do that—but he kind of hoped she’d try it.
‘Come on, Sarah, tell me why you’re crying.’
The look of startled dismay on her face was priceless. ‘I’m not,’ she said, and the blush rushed across her cheekbones again as her fingers went to the clasp of her bag.
‘Telling me, or crying?’
Fumbling with the clasp. ‘Either or, smarty-pants.’
‘Smarty-pants?’ He slapped a hand over his heart. ‘Ouch, that hurts.’
And there was the little choke in her throat as she caught another unexpected laugh. It reminded him of how much she’d been laughing out in the gallery as she crisscrossed the room like a hyperactive Miss Congeniality—right up until the moment Lane had introduced them, which was when things had gone south. But still, he’d bet she spent more time laughing than not, which meant it was time to switch tactics. Seduction was off the table; he’d try laughing her into accepting him.
‘But that’s not the best you can do, is it?’ he teased. ‘Smarty-pants?’
‘As a matter of fact, I can do a lot better than “smarty-pants”.’ She was leaning in again, the gaping bag seemingly forgotten. ‘I happen to have a thesaurus for a brain.’
‘So come on, I’m game. Lay some words on me,’ he invited. ‘I can take it.’
Her mouth started to open. He waited, intrigued …
But nope. She leaned back out and gave her head a firm shake. ‘The crying thing. I really don’t cry. Generally, I mean. But in this instance, there are extenuating circumstances.’
‘Which are?’
‘Not interesting.’
‘But they must be interesting if you don’t generally cry and yet you were crying.’ He looked at the phone in her hand. ‘Even more interesting is why you threw the phone.’
Eyebrow up. ‘This is a new Samsung Galaxy! I didn’t throw it.’
‘Does that mean an old Samsung Galaxy would have been fair game?’
‘I don’t know. Yes. Maybe. No!’
‘I see, multiple choice. So … what? Am I supposed to pick one?’
Another tiny choke. ‘If you must know—’
‘Yes, I do believe I must.’
‘—I was trying to sneak out without you knowing I was in here. Throwing a phone across a concrete floor kind of defeats that purpose.’
‘But if it were an old phone and I wasn’t here, you might have thrown it?’ he mused. ‘Interesting.’
‘Not interesting. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid! And I didn’t throw it, because I just don’t care enough to do that. I don’t care, I don’t—’
Another choke, but different this time. Not laughter. Tears. Sudden, gleaming tears. Well, tears didn’t scare him and wouldn’t deter him. He calmly slid a hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, extracted his handkerchief and held it out with exemplary sangfroid.
‘Why are you even carrying a handkerchief?’ she asked, blinking ferociously as she took it. ‘I mean, a real one—not one of those pretty pocket squares.’ She nodded at the red and grey scrap of silk peeking out of his left breast pocket.
‘I always carry a real handkerchief because you never know when you’re going to need a good cry,’ David said, straight-faced. ‘A pocket square is the equivalent of a new Samsung Galaxy in such situations. No snot allowed.’
And there was the choked-off laugh again, the tears gone like magic. ‘From the look of you, I’d say you haven’t got snot on anything since you popped out of the womb.’
‘Well, not often,’ he conceded, and watched her as she took a deep breath, resetting her equilibrium, and—damn!—looking towards the exit again before he could manoeuvre himself back into blocking position. ‘Are you going to tell me what happened, Sarah?’
‘Why do you want to know?’ she countered.
‘It’s what my ex-wife calls my White Knight Syndrome.’
‘That’s not a real condition!’
‘Sure it is. My ex-wife is a psychologist—she knows these things.’
‘What is it exactly?’
‘An inability to see a damsel in distress without wanting to throw her across the saddle of my trusty steed and gallop her out of trouble. Metaphorically speaking, since I don’t have a steed currently at my disposal.’ He gave her a small smile—enough for the dimples to twitch, because time was a-marching and he figured he’d better intensify his assault. ‘What can I say? I’m a nice