Krista Thoren - High-Society Bachelor

Deborah felt a smile tug at the corners of her lips. Besides amusement, there was relief, pure and simple. With the exception of one last booking in March, and her own wedding, sometime in the distant future when she was very, very positive that her fiancé wasn’t going to jilt her, she hoped to plan no more weddings as long as she lived.

“Fine, you’re not getting married,” she agreed. “And you’re not having a kids’ party. So what kind of event are we talking about?”

“A dinner party. A dinner dance, in fact. January thirtieth, seven-thirty. Sixty people, mostly business acquaintances.” He ticked off the details with the air of someone who knew what he was doing and was never indecisive. “Something simple but elegant. Hors d’oeuvre, buffet service, dessert trays. Modern but conservative décor, probably silver and burgundy.”

Deborah blinked. “And you want me to plan the event?” Assuming there was any planning left to be done.

“Right. Is there a problem with that?” he asked.

She thought about it. “Probably not.” He had just handed her a golden opportunity, because this party sounded like exactly the type of event she wanted to specialize in. And since she’d been trying, so far unsuccessfully, to take her business in that direction, she shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Still…

“Why?” Deborah asked, unable to stop herself. “Why are you asking me, I mean?”

For a second he looked like he was going to say something, but then he raised a brow instead. “Why shouldn’t I?”

She could think of several reasons. Every time they met she got the impression he thought she was too talkative, too casual, too flippant, too unsophisticated and a whole lot of other toos. Of course, she herself knew that wasn’t true, but then she wasn’t him—a certified Type A personality who took himself and life way too seriously. Compared to him, she was downright frivolous.

“You don’t know my work,” Deborah pointed out. “For all you know, my event décor features plastic fruit, fringed table cloths and doilies.”

“You don’t seem like the doily type,” he said. “In any case, I’ll have final approval over everything.”

Not exactly a strong vote of confidence. But it didn’t matter. She really couldn’t afford to turn down this opportunity.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” Deborah said. She told him her fee percentage and, when he nodded, she added, “Once we hash out the details, I’ll write you up a proposal. I’ve also got a contract we can fill out.”

“Good.” He looked satisfied rather than surprised, but before Deborah could decide whether or not she was annoyed that he’d apparently been so sure she would be available to plan the event, he held up a hand. “Oh, yes. I’ll need one other thing.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“A hostess for my party.”

Deborah frowned. “That’s not part of the normal service.”

“I realize that, but you can do it for me, can’t you?” He gave her a confident smile that told her he fully expected her to agree.

Deborah eyed him without enthusiasm. She should have known that coming to a business agreement with this man wouldn’t be easy. Most clients were more than satisfied if she threw in a free cake or pizza with the deal, but not him. Oh, no. Nothing so simple for him. He expected her to come up with a hostess for his party. Not an easy task.

And his confident smile made her want to grit her teeth. He probably used that smile on women all the time. It probably worked, too.

Well, it wouldn’t work on her.

“I can throw in a server with the deal, but that’s the best I can do,” she told him finally.

He gave her a small, amused smile. “I’m not asking for this as a freebie in a business negotiation. I’m asking for it because you owe me a favor.”

Deborah looked up at him. He had her there. “Yes, I suppose I do. Okay, I’ll find you a hostess—”

“No.” He shook his head. “I told you, this isn’t a business issue. I’m asking for a personal favor.”

Deborah met his gaze and then, suddenly, light dawned. She felt herself flush. He must think she was a complete idiot to be so slow catching on. Her only excuse was that this had to be the worst idea she’d heard in a long time.

“Wait a minute. You’re not suggesting I…” She couldn’t finish. The thought was too awful.

“Yes, I am,” said Cameron Lyle. “I want you to be my hostess.”

Deborah did not look happy. That fact alone was noteworthy, since Cameron hadn’t seen her any other way in the short time he’d known her.

During that time she’d met each of his complaints with a cheerful calm and a chatty reply that kept him off-balance. Amused, too, in spite of his irritation. Even during the past month, when she’d apparently been recovering from her fiancé’s rejection, Cam would never have guessed it by seeing or talking to her. When their paths crossed, she was often deep in conversation with a neighbor, gesturing with an enthusiasm that echoed in her lively blue eyes. She always seemed about to smile.

Except for right now. Right now she looked like she’d rather be doing anything else than having this conversation.

“No.” She shoved a hand through her thick blond hair. “I can’t be your hostess.”

Cam blinked. He wasn’t prepared for a refusal at all, let alone such an abrupt one. What was the matter with her?

He gave a mental shrug. He couldn’t afford to wonder what Deborah’s 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.