The Dating Game Page 3

  ‘That sounds like an obfuscation to me. Only an hour ago, I saw you look at Lane in that … that way. And an hour isn’t exactly past tense!’

  ‘I may well have looked at her in that “way” an hour ago. But fifty-nine minutes ago, she introduced me to your brother Adam, and it became very clear to me that nobody except him was going to be seeing her naked from now on.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ she said darkly—and she was looking at him like he was the enemy again. Ah well, one step forward, two steps back.

  ‘If you want to talk about people looking at each other in a certain “way”, let’s talk about the way your brother looked at me,’ he said. ‘Like he was visualizing tearing me limb from limb with his teeth.’ He gave an extravagant shudder. ‘I have the strongest objection to being gnawed on by jealous men.’

  She looked at him for the longest time, and then said, ‘What if I told you Lane likes you better?’

  ‘I’d say you’re wrong.’

  ‘What if I’m right?’

  ‘You’re not.’

  ‘They—Adam and Lane—have a very specific relationship.’

  ‘Which has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘It might have something to do with you.’

  ‘It doesn’t.’

  She made a huffing sound. ‘Look, can you give me something to work with here?’

  Something to work with? One step forward. ‘All right. I’ll say to you that whatever the case, however Lane feels about Adam, or about me, I’m no longer interested in her.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because that would complicate things between you and me.’

  She pursed her lips, looking uncertain. ‘You mean …? What do you mean? That painting me is better than having sex with Lane?’

  ‘I haven’t done either yet, so that’s impossible to answer.’

  ‘Aha! You said “yet”! That’s a prevarication.’

  ‘Obfuscation. Prevarication. You’re a tough nut to crack, thesaurus girl. I’ll tell you what. If you’re going to be obsessed with my sex life, there’s an easy solution: have sex with me yourself.’

  She gaped at him. ‘You— I— That—’

  ‘That way, I won’t have the energy to think about Lane, and Lane can concentrate on Adam, and all four of us will be happy.’

  ‘How do you know I’ll be happy?’

  He gave her his best sultry smile. ‘Because I know.’ Pause, while he let that sink in. ‘So, how about it? Will sex with me get you over the line?’

  She was laughing, but it was more like a splutter of disbelief. ‘Thanks, but I can have sex any day of the week.’

  ‘Enough people in like with you, enough people to have sex with. Geez. What’s the missing ingredient?’

  ‘Never you mind.’

  ‘Tell me the missing ingredient and I’ll get it for you. I’ll get you anything, if you’ll agree to let me paint you. Whatever you want.’

  ‘Whatever I want,’ she repeated slowly. Her tongue came out to touch the perfect cupid’s bow of her top lip. One, two, three seconds. And then she popped her tongue back in and took a breath. ‘Whatever I want?’ A question this time.

  ‘Whatever you want.’

  ‘It’s a very simple thing, really.’

  ‘Name it, and it’s yours.’

  ‘I want you to break my curse.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘I see,’ David said—so calmly, Sarah wondered what it would take to freak him out. A zombie apocalypse?

  ‘You said you’d do whatever I wanted, and that’s what I want.’

  ‘The thing is, my experience of curse breaking is a trifle limited. What are we talking about? Stealing nail clippings? Burning hair? Sticking pins in effigies? Dancing around cauldrons? Eye of newt and toe of frog? That kind of thing?’

  She laughed—couldn’t help it. ‘Not quite that.’

  ‘You relieve my mind.’

  ‘More White Knight Syndrome, less black magic.’

  ‘So, I’m saving you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘Spinsterhood.’

  ‘You want to get married?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do.’

  ‘In that case, there’s a problem,’ he said, all apologetic. ‘I’m not the marrying kind. It’s a been-there-done-that kind of thing for me.’

  Sarah stared at him for a moment, not comprehending. And then: ‘Oh, I don’t want to marry you. No, no, no, no!’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No! Aside from anything else, I couldn’t do that to Lane.’

  ‘I’m very slow this evening, it seems. So let’s leave Lane out of where she doesn’t belong, and perhaps you could simply give me the specifics of what you want me to do.’

  ‘Okay, specifically, I want you to analyse why I keep getting dumped, and teach me how to stop getting dumped.’

  ‘Getting dumped is the curse I have to break?’

  ‘Yes. Tonight was the straw that broke the camel’s back.’

  ‘You got dumped tonight?’

  ‘It’s why I was crying. Although I wasn’t crying over him, you understand.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘It’s just that the time frame from the start of a relationship to the finish is shrinking. It used to happen at the three-week mark, and that was bad enough! Really, really bad enough. But then three weeks became two, and two weeks became one, and now this last one? Six days. Six discouraging, disappointing, depressing days! How much abbreviation can a girl take? Soon I’ll be the one-night stand girl, and I will die if that happens!’

  ‘I can see how dying after a one-night stand would make marriage difficult, but I’m not sure a divorced man is the advocate you need.’

  ‘I regard the fact you’ve been married as valuable augmentary experience. It gives you an extra insight.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve got insight into marriage all right.’

  ‘And into women. I mean, you know a lot about women, don’t you?’

  ‘There’s no way I can answer that without sounding like an egomaniac.’

  She giggled. ‘You do know using the word “egomaniac” unprompted in association with yourself on that subject basically gives the game away, don’t you?’

  ‘Damn, you got me. Yes, I’m an egomaniac, a boaster, a narcissist.’ He gave a what-can-I-say? shrug. ‘And I do, in fact, know women.’

  ‘I’ll bet you know men, too.’

  ‘Not in the biblical sense, I assure you.’

  ‘Stop making me laugh! I mean you know what men like when it comes to women.’

  ‘Thank God! I thought you were going to start talking about facials and eyelash tints again.’

  ‘Not all gay guys do that stuff, you know, and not all straight guys don’t. Talk about stereotyping! But if I promise not to ever mention your eyelashes again, will you help me?’

  ‘Will you let me paint you?’

  ‘I’ll even pose naked—that’s how desperate I am.’

  ‘Naked will not be required.’

  ‘Okay, not naked. To tell you the truth, that’s a relief.’ She leaned towards him and lowered her voice, despite them being the only two people in the room. ‘I’m not what you’d call Rubenesque.’

  He leaned in too. ‘That’s okay—I’m not Rubens. Nevertheless, I’d prefer you to keep your clothes on.’

  She straightened and thrust out her hand. ‘Then we have a deal?’

  He took her hand, but instead of shaking it he turned it palm up, examining it as he rubbed his thumb across the base of her fingers. ‘The only mistake you’re making is choosing the wrong guys. You do know that, don’t you?’

  ‘There can’t be that many wrong guys in the world,’ she said, and peered at her palm. What was so interesting about it? Nothing that she could see, although something about the movement of his thumb was disturbing. So much so, she found her fingers curling up over
his thumb to stop it.

  ‘I’m starting to think there are a lot of very stupid ones,’ he said softly.

  ‘I suppose you’ve never been dumped,’ she said.

  ‘Kelly Greaves when I was fifteen. Janet Clarke when I was … How old was I? Eighteen? Yes, eighteen. And then …’ He trailed off.

  ‘And then?’

  He let go of her hand. ‘Rebel, when I was twenty-five.’

  ‘Rebel …’ Sarah realized she still had her hand held out, and dropped it, rubbing it surreptitiously against her thigh to try and stop its strange prickling. ‘Unusual name.’

  ‘Unusual woman.’

  ‘What about Margaret, who says you’re so “nice”? Because you know “nice” is how they describe you right before they dump you.’

  ‘Margaret and I weren’t a dumping in either direction. We were a parting of the ways—or in today’s parlance, a conscious uncoupling.’

  ‘So basically you’ve been dumped three times in your whole life, whereas I’ve been dumped three times in the past two months?’

  ‘Er …’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Well, let me tell you something: it’s no fun. I’ve been dumped in person, over the phone, in quiet corners, at large gatherings, at home, from abroad, and now by text.’

  ‘Text?’

  ‘Text! Next time it happens, I’ll probably find out via Facebook. And if that happens, I’ll be entering a nunnery and taking a vow of silence.’

  ‘Yeah, I think the vow of silence might actually kill you.’

  ‘And how will you live with that on your conscience, knowing you could have helped me to— Wait! What? Are you saying I talk too much?’

  ‘Weeeell …’

  Long, staring moment. ‘Oh my God, you’re right, I do! You know, Adam’s tried to tell me that but he’s my brother so it doesn’t count. The truth is, though, that I even talked to Clarence—’ gesturing to the bronze head on the shelf ‘—when I was in here on my own.’ She beamed at David, delighted. ‘See? You’re already helping me! I believe you when you say I talk too much!’

  He started laughing. He was also shaking his head.

  ‘Please, David, help me.’

  He looked down into her face, and the laughter faded. He lifted his hand, touched his index finger to her right eyebrow, tracing it all the way down to the little black dot at the end. Half-laugh, half-sigh. ‘What the hell.’

  ‘You mean you’ll do it?’

  ‘I’ll do it. Sign me up.’

  Squealing, she launched herself at him.

  David stiffened as her arms came around him, but it was only for a fraction of a second—and then his arms were circling her, tightening, bringing her harder against him. She heard, felt, him breathe in once, deeply, then slowly out. She became aware of the scratch of his jacket against her cheek. A waft of scent, dark and unsafe. A flood of warmth transferring from him to her. And then, the other feeling, the hardness of him against her belly.

  The shock of it had her arching into him, head tipping back, eyes colliding with his—only where hers, she just knew, were wide and awed, his were narrowed and watchful, as though gauging her reaction to him. The alertness of that look, while she’d been all about the heat and sensation, reminded her that David Bennett was a man who knew women very, very well. She’d have to be on her guard. The plan was to use him, not fall for him.

  ‘Right, then,’ she said, pulling out of his arms and readjusting the strap of her now slightly squashed evening bag. ‘That’s a perfect example of something that needs to be fixed. The way I flew at you just then. Too impulsive.’

  ‘Really? Because I kind of liked it.’

  ‘Yes, I could tell,’ she said dryly.

  ‘You sure I can’t persuade you to have sex with me instead of all this other stuff?’

  ‘Tempted as I am, sex isn’t that missing ingredient you promised to get for me. I can use you much more effectively as my … What would you call it? My male girlfriend?’

  ‘Er … no. Do not use the word “girlfriend” to describe me!’

  ‘For a man who doesn’t look like he’d have any insecurities about his sexuality, you really are touchy.’

  ‘Keep mining that vein and I’ll be forced to prove that I certainly don’t have any insecurities in that area. And very few inhibitions if it comes to that.’

  ‘Fine. If you’re going to be super sensitive about it, how about wingman?’

  ‘Better.’

  ‘So, wingman, back to the way I flew at you a minute ago. You need to train me out of being so impetuous, or at least help me camouflage it.’ She pursed her lips, looking him up and down. ‘I need a little bit of what you’ve got going on yourself.’

  ‘Which is what, exactly?’

  ‘Ennui. It’s quite irresistible to women, as I’m sure you know.’

  ‘Ennui?’

  ‘A languorous kind of world-weariness. It’s like you’re chronically bored, and yet amused at the same time. Probably by all of us poor fools trying to be the one to shock you out of your ennui.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say I’m bored at the moment,’ he said mildly. ‘And I urge you not to try to shock me out of whatever it is I am. It won’t work.’

  ‘Yes, I like that about you. Your unshockability.’

  ‘On the other hand, I might shock you.’

  ‘Oh, I’m quite sure you will, and I’m looking forward to it. I don’t get shocked nearly enough to suit me.’

  ‘I hope you still feel that way when I say something that makes you furious. I don’t want you stalking off in a snit when I’m only doing what you asked me to.’

  ‘I generally don’t stalk off in a snit.’

  ‘And no punching, slapping, kicking or stabbing me, either.’

  ‘No punching, slapping, kicking, stabbing,’ she said, giggling at the absurdity of it. ‘Should I be writing these down? I mean, is it going to turn into some giant manifesto?’

  ‘Depends how hopeless a case you are. Which reminds me—how long is it going to take? We need to set a time limit. Because I’m warning you now, I’m not hanging around for ever to walk you down the aisle.’

  ‘For one thing, I have a father for that. For another, I don’t want to get married right this second. Marriage is a longer-term goal. For now, I’ll be happy to have a relationship that lasts longer than three weeks. Three weeks and one day will suffice.’

  ‘Three weeks and one day from when? First date? First kiss? First sexual encounter?’

  ‘Three weeks and one day from … the first date, I think. How will that fit with your painting?’

  ‘That’ll work. Let’s aim for mutual satisfaction in six weeks’ time. My painting will be finished by then, and if you haven’t already nailed your guy, you’ll at least be on your way to relationship bliss. Does that sound fair?’

  ‘Sounds very fair.’

  ‘We’ll meet every Wednesday at my apartment—say, 8:00 p.m. You’ll pose, and I’ll simultaneously preach at you while dissecting your dating efforts. But since we’re both here now, I’ll do a bonus round for you and start my expert tutelage straight away. Here’s something for the manifesto: how to deal with guys who dump girls by text message. Unlock your phone and hand it over so I can respond to that text. And if I find you’ve already sent something mealy-mouthed, I’m going to … Well, I don’t know what I’m going to do, but it won’t be pleasant.’

  ‘I don’t generally do mealy-mouthed,’ she said, digging around in her evening bag. ‘In fact, there was a guy—DeWayne Callaghan, if you ever come across him, feel free to spit on him—who wrote something disgusting about Lane on Facebook once, and I favoured him with such an excoriating critique of his post he was begging for mercy within a minute—sadly, before I had the chance to raise the subject of his own critical failing.’

  He was regarding her with a fascinated eye. ‘Which was …?’

  �
�Premature ejaculation, and how I would have loved to share that all over social media,’ she said, then sighed as she brought out the phone. ‘Ah well, lost opportunities.’

  ‘Good to know that premature ejaculation is not excused,’ David said, through twitching lips.

  ‘Nevertheless, I’ll delete what I started so you have a clean slate to work with. Aaaand … here.’ She passed the phone to David. ‘What are you going to say?’

  ‘I need to read his message first.’ He looked down at the phone. ‘Good God! Lusty Liam? Really?’

  ‘A misnomer, as it turns out, because he was not lusty. More like Lousy Liam, to be brutally honest. Mind you, there was a Randy Rob who wasn’t randy and a Sexy Sam who wasn’t sexy, as well as a—’

  ‘Spare me! No, I mean it, spare me!’ He dipped his head and read the message. Shook his head. ‘Good Lord, you really can pick ’em.’

  ‘You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.’

  ‘Don’t worry, bluebell, if there’s a guy out there for you, we’ll find him.’

  ‘Bluebell?’

  ‘Would you prefer rhododendron? What about hydrangea? Agapanthus?’

  ‘Fine!’ she surrendered, laughing. ‘Bluebell it is.’

  ‘It’s an eye thing. They’re that colour.’

  ‘What do I call you, then?’ She peered into his eyes. ‘What colour are your eyes?’

  ‘Bluebell is taken, aside from being way too girly—and remember, do not mention my eyelashes.’

  ‘Yes your eyes are very blue,’ she said, but as she looked more closely, more intently, she saw they were the most amazingly dark, swirling, drowning indigo. And something about them, framed in those dark lashes and staring right at her, made her heart do a butterfly-like flutter in her chest.

  ‘They’re the colour of a bruise,’ David said, looking away from her suddenly. ‘So you can call me Bruiser—a good alpha male name.’

  ‘Alpha? A-ha.’

  ‘Remember, my eyelashes are not tinted, brat.’

  ‘But it’s not very romantic. Bruiser.’

  ‘Neither am I—just for the record. Now come on, it’s time to text.’

  ‘What am I going to say?’

  ‘Depends.’