High-Society Bachelor. Krista Thoren
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problem was. He needed her, and she owed him her cooperation. Simple as that.
“This works out well,” Cam said, ignoring her last statement. “I thought I was going to have to go without a hostess for my party, but that little problem is solved now that I’ve suddenly acquired a girlfriend.” He put emphasis on the last few words.
Her expression told him she’d gotten his point, but Deborah shook her head. “I can’t be your hostess,” she repeated. “And I can’t imagine why you’d want me to, anyway, since it’s obvious you don’t approve of me.” Her gaze met his squarely, daring him to deny it.
Cam frowned. “What are you talking about?”
She snorted. “Frowns just like the one you’re wearing now, that’s what I’m talking about. I know disapproval when I see it, and that’s about all I’ve seen from you, ever since I met you.”
Cam stared at her. She was refreshingly honest. He ought to be able to return her honesty. He wanted to. But what could he say? Yeah, you’re right. I sure as hell disapproved of that engagement ring you were wearing. And I still disapprove of the ten years, minimum, difference in our ages.
No, he couldn’t say that. She would think he was chasing her, which couldn’t be further from the truth. After all, even without the age gap they were completely incompatible. And yet he was relieved—happy, even—to see the last of that damned ring.
He couldn’t explain what he didn’t understand himself.
Cam settled for a small slice of the truth. “That wasn’t disapproval. It was plain bad temper, and I’ve been meaning to apologize for it. Let’s just say something was bothering me and leave it at that.”
She looked stunned. Her eyes were wide, almost swallowing up her extremely innocent-looking face. “Okay,” she said finally. After another long pause she added, “But I still can’t be your hostess.” This time her voice held some regret.
“Yes, you can. Helping me out is the least you can do.” He fixed her with a long stare. “You owe me.”
She closed her eyes.
“Consider it a routine payment of a debt,” he advised, watching despair fill her expressive features. He smiled. Talk about melodrama. She had an obvious flair for it. And he should know, because he’d had enough drama from women to last him a lifetime.
“I don’t get it.” She opened her eyes again and gave him a look that was both exasperated and uncomprehending. “You’ve got tons of women to choose from. Why would you want me to hostess your party? People will think we’re…you know…together.” She waved a hand, making her aversion to the idea clear. But then she must have realized her response wasn’t flattering, because her cheeks pinkened.
“Like Marilyn does, for instance?” Cam asked with exaggerated politeness.
She shot him a quelling look. “I told you, that was a spur-of-the-moment impulse. One little slip doesn’t justify a larger deception. Anyway, as you yourself pointed out, the idea of us as a couple is implausible and idiotic.”
“I didn’t say it was implausible,” he argued. He wouldn’t have said that, because it wasn’t. Plenty of guys dated much younger girls. He just wasn’t one of them.
“And the only reason we find ourselves in an idiotic situation is that you didn’t give me a heads-up. You’re lucky I didn’t blow it,” Cam told her. In fact, he’d come close to it. But he’d recovered in time. Stunned as he was, he’d also found himself more intrigued than he’d been in a long time.
Much as he hated to admit it, he’d jumped at the excuse to go challenge her for an explanation.
Deborah’s head was bent as she examined her nails, which were perfectly groomed. Unvarnished and natural, like the girl herself. Then she looked up again. “You’re right. Thanks for not giving me away.”
“You’re welcome.” Cam eyed her mouth. She had a full lower lip that contributed a hint of sensuality to her fresh, girl-next-door good looks. He dragged his gaze away. She didn’t seem exactly crushed about her broken engagement. Was that another example of her refusal to take anything in life seriously? Or was it only pretense, an attempt at salvaging her pride? Either explanation seemed plausible, but only one explained the story she’d told Marilyn.
“For what it’s worth, I understand why you lied about having a boyfriend,” Cam told her.
She grimaced. “I prefer the word fibbed.”
“Fine. I know why you fibbed.”
She sent him a wary look that didn’t quite come off on a face as open and friendly as hers. “You do?”
“Sure.” He shrugged. “Her son ditched you and you looked for a face-saver. It’s a natural enough response. Egos are fragile things.”
That earned him a scowl that looked even stranger on her face. “First off, Mark did not ‘ditch’ me, at least not the way you make it sound. He’s too civilized for that. Second, my ego is sturdy enough, thank you very much. As I said, I was trying to put Marilyn’s mind to rest.”
Irritated that she wouldn’t come clean with him, Cam shot her a skeptical look. “Your ex-fiancé’s mother? Uh-huh. I’m sure the fact that what’s-hisname, your ex, would hear about your new boyfriend had nothing to do with it.” Why had he said that? He felt ridiculous, as if they were college kids arguing over Sunday night pizza.
He, at least, had left his college days far behind.
“That’s right, it had absolutely nothing to do with it.” She looked like she actually believed what she was saying. Her deep blue eyes were wide and indignant. Truthful.
“It doesn’t matter,” Cam said finally. “You’re better off without him, anyway. Don’t the surveys say single women are happier than married women?” Barb kept up on all the surveys, and she didn’t believe in sparing him any of the good news. The rest of the survey had claimed that married men were happier than single men.
He could still hear the triumph in Barb’s voice, but Cam knew the survey was wrong on that point. It was wrong for the simple reason that men were biologically predisposed to prefer variety. They had a natural instinct to run from entanglement. Marriage was only for those who’d lost the energy to run.
He planned to stay energetic for life.
Besides, he’d seen no evidence of marriage producing long-term happiness for either men or women. At best they tolerated each other and at worst, they ended up in bitter custody battles over children who could only sit there in misery, wanting to be anywhere but there, in the middle of all the shouting.
The phone rang. When Deborah excused herself to go get it, Cam found himself disappointed. Based on her track record, her facial expression and her long silence, he figured she’d probably had something memorable to say. And now he’d miss it. His encounters with Deborah always left him strangely invigorated, as if he were a newly revved-up engine.
Cam took advantage of her absence to glance around her living room. Except for the couch he was sitting on, the furniture was wicker, which wasn’t a favorite of his. It looked okay in this room, though, especially combined with lots of plants and a collection of brightly colored pillows. Two end tables painted with funky designs flanked the couch. The scarcity of furniture made him suspect that Deborah’s apartment had been furnished on a tight budget. But she’d done a creative job of it. The best features of the room were the large stone fireplace and the hardwood floors.
He could hear Deborah’s voice, a distant murmur as she talked on the phone in the kitchen. She had a clear, pleasant voice that suited her. Books and other collectibles told a lot about a person, so he got up and went over to look at her bookshelves.
She had political thrillers, which was a surprise. He recognized a couple of his own favorite authors. A few mystery novels, some romantic comedies and a variety of nonfiction titles rounded