And Chantel realized that she’d made another blunder. A big one.
She nodded. And then grinned. A quiet, classy grin...she hoped. In a lowered voice, she said, with complete and utter honesty, “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that, Colin.” And then added, “Because neither do the Johnsons, and as you say, in our world you only know who’s who when you’ve lived among them for a while. Being new here...”
She broke off, hoping he’d get her point. “Anyway, I’m sorry if I offended you.”
“I’m finding it difficult to believe I took offense,” Colin told her with a slightly boyish grin. He sipped his wine, watching her as he did so. “I’ve always been the guy who could let boulders roll off his back without cracking a sweat. I don’t know what it is about you that has me acting so out of character...”
“Well, I hope you’ll understand, then, that I’m struggling with the same malaise...” She’d heard a woman use the word in one of the documentaries she’d watched about the rich and famous and had had to go look it up. “Please forgive anything I do that might appear out of character—it’s because I don’t quite know how to handle myself around you. I’m feeling a mixture of giddy excitement and complete discomfort all rolled into one.” Total honesty on that one. And a perfect cover for her, too.
* * *
COLIN WASN’T SURE if the blow to his head was figurative or if he’d somehow been in an accident that had been so severe he’d forgotten about it. Of course, as soon as he had the thought, he knew how ridiculous it was. Ludicrous, really. There was nothing wrong with his head.
It was something else that was out of kilter. Unbalanced.
“You’re knocking at walls that are miles thick,” he said aloud. And immediately wanted the words back. He was coming across like some kind of needy lecher who’d never been exposed to a beautiful woman before.
Like a man who didn’t know the ropes. Or how to respect boundaries.
“I’m sorry,” he said before she could respond. “I’m embarrassed by my behavior. Please, can we go back to the part where I pick you up from the hotel lobby, tell you you look beautiful and ask if you like fondue? I swear, I’ve been on a date before and do know the proper etiquette. Which I will show you if you’ll give me the chance.”
He was going to kiss her. Soon. Maybe within seconds. Before she agreed to go back...
Or...he’d kiss her good-night.
Either way, he was going to kiss her.
“Are you looking for an honest answer?”
The woman took his breath away. “Always.”
Anyone he’d ever been out with, everyone he’d ever been out with, would have taken this opportunity to escape speaking of embarrassing emotions, or getting too emotionally personal and moved on.
“Then no, I’d rather not go back.”
He had no idea what to do with that. The situation was becoming disturbingly familiar.
And delightfully different, too.
“My sister tells me that I’m known, among our female set, as a fun companion as long as my dates always wear sweaters.”
Her frown was cute. And drew attention to eyebrows that didn’t look fake. Neither drawn on, nor artfully waxed. They were shaped. Beautiful. But...unusual, now that he noticed them.
Striking. Like everything else about her.
He had a feeling that he could spend a lifetime with her and still not see all of the unique things about her...
“I don’t understand,” she said, drawing him back to the conversation.
“I’m apparently considered to be emotionally cold.” Slow to trust, he’d take that label. But cold? Not true at all. Still, the reputation served its purpose.
Until now.
“You are?” If she was playing with him, she was more of a master than anyone in his circle.
“I’ve actually been proud of that fact,” he admitted. “I’m rich and single. Which makes me an obvious choice for anyone looking for a husband. For herself. Or, in many cases, her daughter. Again, as I’m sure you know, business deals are made in the form of marriage. And a woman who’s grown up never having to lift a finger unless she chooses to is pretty driven to find a way to continue that lifestyle into adulthood. In order to do so, she has to find a husband rich enough to support her in the manner in which she wants to be kept.”
What in the hell was he doing? Saying?
It was to Chantel’s credit, a sign of the most elite and respectable upbringing, that she still appeared to be listening to him. And looked interested, too. It was an art, Julie had once said, a woman’s ability to look interested while bored to tears. She’d been speaking to their mother about their mother’s ability to always appear interested, when the best Julie could manage sometimes was to stay awake enough to keep her forehead out of her soup bowl.