Krista Thoren - High-Society Bachelor

Too bad, because yesterday he’d been an actual human being, and aside from dumping women right and left, he’d seemed almost likeable.

“You know, if you’re not careful, all that frowning is going to give you deep wrinkles,” Deborah warned. She had no idea if he was the type to worry about wrinkles, but in any case, the look on his face was priceless.

“You should smile more,” she told him. “Frowning isn’t good for you, but smiling is. Did you know that? Smiling makes you feel happier, which lowers your stress level and keeps your heart healthier. In fact—”

“What am I one of?” he demanded again, his face a strange mixture of affront, curiosity and reluctance, as if he was asking the question against his better judgment.

Deborah shrugged. “Well, I don’t know this for sure, of course. It’s just a guess. But it seems to me like you’re one of those afraid-to-make-a-commitment guys.” Thanks to Mark, she could now see one coming a mile away.

His frown darkened. “I am not. What a load of nonsense.”

She eyed him. “You know, you sound really stressed. I bet that’s not the first mug of coffee you’ve had today, is it?”

His expression answered her.

“That mug must hold three cups, at least. Caffeine is another stress inducer.”

He folded his arms over his chest. “Is that right?”

“Absolutely. You really should consider cutting back.”

“Or maybe throwing you out of my office, which would also relieve my stress level,” he pointed out.

She laughed. “Really? Okay, fair enough. It was rude of me to come in here and point out your commitment problems.”

He shrugged. “Actually, it doesn’t matter. Your analysis is incorrect, anyway.”

“Fine,” she said, and waved a hand with airy unconcern. “I’m sure you’re right. You’re not commitment phobic. Any year now you’ll take the plunge and after all, you’re only, what, thirty-five?”

He ignored the question. “And what makes you an expert on all this female psychobabble stuff?”

Deborah shrugged. She could tell him she’d majored in psychology, which might make him sit up and pay attention. But since no amount of creative math could turn foreign languages plus education into psychology, she contented herself with giving him a Mona Lisa smile. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“Maybe not yesterday, but pretty damned close,” he muttered.

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re too young to know much about men or relationships.”

Deborah raised her brows at him in imitation of his own habit. “I’m twenty-seven, and that’s a very pompous thing to say.” Why was she surprised?

“Twenty-seven?” Shock showed in the bottle-green eyes.

“Yes. How old are you?” Would he tell her? Not that she really cared how old he was, of course. Cameron Lyle didn’t interest her. But she deserved to know his age since he knew hers. It was the principle of the thing.

“Thirty-one,” he said. “Are you sure you’re twenty-seven?” He looked her over, his gaze lingering on her face.

No prizes for guessing what he saw. Blue eyes, slightly rounded pink cheeks and wisps of blond hair escaping from her ponytail. Nothing special. Definitely not a sophisticated picture, either. She was getting tired of comments about not looking her age.

“You look barely out of college,” he added, still looking stunned.

Several pithy retorts came to mind, but with great effort Deborah ignored them all. “We were talking about you,” she reminded him.

“Maybe we were, but we’re not anymore. You know absolutely nothing about the situation.” Cameron sent her a steely-eyed glance that said she wasn’t getting any more information out of him. “You’re just feeling hostile toward men right now, and you’re taking it out on me.”

“I’m not feeling hostile.” Relieved was the word. It was scary how close she’d come to marrying Mark.

Cameron raised a brow. “Yes, you are. You’re also highly annoyed that you’re stuck going to my party.”

Deborah pulled a face. That part she couldn’t deny.

He chuckled. “Cheer up. I’ll take you shopping and we’ll find you a dress that will make the whole ordeal bearable for you.”

She frowned. “Shopping?” She shouldn’t be so horrified. No doubt there were many things that would be more awful than a shopping trip with this man.

Major surgery and death were the first two that came to mind.

Any shopping she and Cameron Lyle did together would entail nonstop arguments. If she paid any attention to his opinions, she’d wind up with the world’s most tasteful and most boring dress, one that would put her into a coma as soon as she saw herself in the mirror.

“Yes, shopping,” he said. “I know a good boutique just up the street.”

Rags to Riches. Stella’s shop. Deborah winced. The gossips would have a field day. It didn’t bear thinking about.

“No shopping,” she said. “I don’t need a dress, and even if I did, I certainly wouldn’t need you to help me pick it out.” Did he want to make sure she matched the napkins?

“I’m sure you wouldn’t. And I guess I could reimburse you later, but using my credit card seems easier.”

He planned to pay? Shock kept her silent for several seconds, but then she swallowed the anger that rose in her throat. Why was she surprised he was the type who liked throwing his money around?

“You’re not paying for my dress.” Deborah said it slowly and succinctly, so there would be no ambiguity.

He looked surprised. “Why not? You’re hostessing my party for me. Consider this one of the job’s perks. I assure you, I can easily afford it.”

“That’s not the point,” she said tightly. How many different ways could this man find to insult her? No wonder her sense of humor took a hike every time he opened his mouth.

She met his gaze and Deborah could see that he honestly had no idea he was insulting her. Men! She could see it right now. There she’d be, parading in front of him in evening dresses, each more skimpy than the last. Watching his gaze move slowly over her. Standing next to him while he paid for one of them. Just like one of his interchangeable girlfriends.

Every nerve in her body twitched. “No.”

Cameron’s formidable jaw set. “Anybody ever tell you how stubborn you are?”

“All the time, when I was a teenager.”

You’re so stubborn, Deborah. She could still hear her father’s voice, filled with exasperation.

And hear herself, slamming her bedroom door.

“Most women would jump at the chance to buy a new dress,” Cameron pointed out.

“I’m not most women.” And she was definitely not his woman. Buying her a dress would probably mean nothing to Cameron, but Deborah knew how she would feel.

Bought. Owned.

“Don’t forget, you’ll need to look older than Heather,” he pointed out. “I take it you have a suitable dress?” He looked doubtful, leaving her to wonder how he thought she’d define the word suitable.

Deborah suspected she knew the answer to that question. Cameron imagined her to be an artsy, naïve type who thought dangly earrings were the height of sophistication. The rise of his brows and the slow progress of his gaze over her sweatshirt and leggings confirmed her suspicions. He probably figured she’d show up in tiered ruffles looking like his date for the prom.

Deborah sent him a bland smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep my ruffled pink-and-orange floral in the closet.”

The look on his face made her smile all the way back to her apartment.

Everything Cam knew about Deborah Clark made one fact stunningly clear.

Unengaged or not, she was still off-limits to him.

Cam stood outside her apartment door and took in her well-scrubbed, fresh girl-next-door look. This girl—woman—did not have much experience with men.

For once she wasn’t wearing her usual uniform of leggings paired with a long, baggy and very bright top. Today she wore a black suit that contrasted well with her golden hair. Even though it followed her curves faithfully, the suit itself was conservative enough. Combined as it was with pumps and tasteful hoop earrings, it would be at home in any of the city’s office buildings.

Except for the fuchsia blouse she wore with it. Startling in color and design, the blouse was pure Deborah, a splash of individuality in the midst of conformity.

Her blouse made him want to smile, and so did her hair. She wore her usual ponytail, except that today she’d put one of those scrunched-up fabric things around it. But if she thought a black hair accessory made for a more sophisticated look, he had news for her, because in spite of her business gear, Deborah still looked about sixteen. Cute—very cute…

“Hi,” Cam said after a long pause.

Her gaze met his and he thought he saw a small flicker of awareness in the bright blue depths, but he couldn’t tell, because she gave him only a brief glance before striding over to her desk and rummaging through it. “I’ll be right with you. I’m running a little late this morning.” Her voice had a brisk, electric quality to it, as if she was primed and ready for action.

“I guess you have somewhere else you need to be,” he observed in the most neutral tones he could come up with. He was stating the obvious, of course, since he had never seen her in a suit before.

“Only at lunchtime. I’ve still got an hour.” Deborah stopped rummaging through her desk and took a folder out of the filing cabinet in the corner of her living room. Her movements were quick and decisive.

Cam heard a faint sound and turned his head toward it. In stark contrast to her owner’s energized appearance, Libby lay stretched out on the sofa, fast asleep. The cat’s white belly rose and fell in a slow, gentle rhythm.

Cam’s gaze returned to Deborah. Everything about her seemed sharper, more focused. She crackled with electricity.

Whatever this lunch was about, it meant a lot to her.

What could be so important to Deborah Clark, who seemed to take nothing seriously? He had no idea. But judging from her business dress, it had something to do with work.

Work. The reason he was here.

“Why don’t you show me what you have so far?” Cam kept his gaze away from her gracefully crossed legs.

The party was still nearly two weeks away, which allowed him plenty of time to troubleshoot. Also, it was not a crucial business function, so there was a margin for error. Just as long as error didn’t turn into disaster. Making sure that didn’t happen was, of course, why he was here.

Deborah handed him a folder. “I still think you should consider a more interesting décor than a few floral arrangements, but if you’re sure that’s all you want.…”

“I’m sure.” Cam flipped through the folder and felt his amazement grow with every page. He suppressed a whistle.

She’d done a hell of a lot in a short time period. She’d done it well, too, judging by the very organized looking checklists, detailed vendor information and the variety of menu suggestions she included. It was all there, in what seemed to him the minutest of details.

Her chuckle made him look up. Cam found her amused eyes on him, and he realized his surprise must be obvious. To cover his discomfort, he lifted a brow in polite inquiry.

“Go ahead and admit it. You’re floored I can make lists. I assure you, it’s a common reaction. Especially from people who don’t know me very well.” Her smile was gentle but pointed, tinged faintly with challenge.