Krista Thoren - High-Society Bachelor

But she shouldn’t be thinking about that, or about any of the various disturbing images that came to mind. She should be thinking only about getting through this party. Afterward, her contact level with him would be back to the usual hello. It would involve no fun at all.

And definitely no R-rated fun.

THE NEXT MORNING, Deborah took her paperwork down to Cameron. When Barb Metzen, his plump, middle-aged assistant, showed her into his office, he was sitting at his massive cherry desk. Today he wore a charcoal suit. Reading glasses perched on his nose. For some reason, they made him look even more attractive. Distinguished, in fact. His dark hair gleamed in the sunlight that slanted through the window.

He smiled at her, and Deborah felt an unwelcome little jolt hit her spine.

“I’ve got your proposal ready. And I need you to sign the contract.” How annoying to find herself rushing into speech. She accepted a chair. “After you look it over, of course.”

He ignored the papers. He was looking her over instead, his gaze traveling slowly from her ponytail to her bright floral sweatshirt to her red leggings and back up again. As usual, the intensity of his green eyes started a slow heat in her middle.

Deborah decided to go on the offensive. “So how come you don’t have a hostess for this party?”

He raised a brow. “I do. You’re not backing out, are you?”

“I meant from before,” she told him. “I don’t understand why you’re having to come up with someone right now, at the eleventh hour.” She should have thought of that right away. She probably would have, too, if she hadn’t been so dismayed and generally shaken by his request.

“I did have a hostess,” Cameron admitted. “She canceled.” He took a few sips from the huge coffee mug on his desk. Then he twirled a pencil, watching it closely. He looked more uncomfortable than she’d ever seen him.

Sudden suspicion hit her. “You mean she ditched you?”

Cameron looked up but said nothing. His gaze wasn’t encouraging.

Deborah fought a smile. “She did, didn’t she?” It wasn’t nice to bait him, but this was too good not to follow up. Besides, what about all the grief Mr. High-and-Mighty had given her? Was still giving her, for that matter?

“Touché.” He sent her a wry nod. “Yes, you could say she ditched me.”

“Why?”

He looked surprised by her question, and at first she thought he was going to ignore it. Then he shrugged. “I guess she figured out I meant what I said, and she wasn’t going to get what she wanted.”

“Which was…?” None of this was any of her business, of course, but his opinion of her was already somewhere between iffy and unfavorable, so she might as well satisfy her curiosity.

“Marriage,” Cameron said. Then he cleared his throat and glanced down at the papers she’d brought, as if he’d only just seen them. In cats, that kind of look indicated embarrassment. With this man, who knew?

“So in fact you’re the one who broke up with her.”

He frowned but didn’t answer.

“She’s the redhead?” Deborah asked before she could stop herself.

He stared at her.

Her cheeks felt suddenly warm. “I think I saw you with a redhead one time,” she mumbled. Why couldn’t she learn to keep a lid on it?

“I see. No, that was somebody before her.” A hint of red crept into his tanned cheeks.

Deborah nodded. Even if she hadn’t been fully aware of his reputation, she wouldn’t have needed to ask if he’d been the one to break off that relationship and if so, why. His expression told the whole story. It told her one other thing, loud and clear: This man was a menace to women.

Deborah gave him a long, measuring look. “I get it. You’re one of those.”

“One of those what?” He frowned again, more vigorously this time. His dark brows almost met over the bridge of his nose. He looked more like the man she’d watched from a safe distance, the man who frowned at the least little thing she said or did.

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.”