“I’d be happy to accompany you to the races, but not as your doll,” she said determinedly.
“Doll?”
He didn’t like the description, but Erin couldn’t think of anything more apt. They weren’t “clicking” this morning. Maybe it was only fantasy that had brought about the “click” last night. Disappointment cramped her heart. She couldn’t stay in his bed if he didn’t respect the person she was.
“I can dress myself, Peter. I was just checking with you what would be suitable for the occasion.”
He grimaced, annoyed at not having read the stand she was making. The laser blue eyes softened with apologetic appeal. “I only meant to smooth the way, not offend you, Erin. I didn’t want you to feel out of place with the people who’ll be there.”
Protecting her?
The knots in her stomach loosened. That wasn’t so bad. But the means of doing it was unacceptable. And there could be another motive behind his intention to put her in designer clothes. “You think I might shame you in front of them?” she challenged, watching his eyes to see if she’d hit a chord of pride.
Cinderella was fine for the bedroom but not to be paraded out in public?
His chin lifted in dismissive scorn. “I wouldn’t care if you wear jeans.” A cynical mockery glittered in his eyes. “It’s the women who enjoy pecking other women apart. It didn’t seem like a good idea to subject you to that, but if you can let it float over your head…”
“Fine!” A joyous relief poured into a smile so wide Peter looked as though he was completely thrown by it. “What time is it?” she asked.
“Almost nine,” he answered somewhat absently.
“And what time do we have to be at the races?”
“About noon.”
“I can do it.” She hurled off the bedclothes, leapt out of bed and headed for a door, which stood ajar and obviously led to an ensuite bathroom. “Would you call me a taxi, Peter?” she tossed over her shoulder. “I’ll be showered and dressed, ready to go in fifteen minutes.”
“Go where?” He was on his feet, ready to take preventative action if he didn’t like her reply.
Definitely a warrior, Erin thought, happily revelling in the secure knowledge that Peter Ramsey was not about to accept an ending to their relationship at this point and didn’t care what anyone else thought of it.
“To David Jones in Elizabeth Street,” she instructed. It was the classiest department store in Sydney. A couple of hours’ shopping would see her dressed to the nines, nobody’s fool at Randwick Racecourse. “You can pick me up at the taxi rank outside the store at eleven-thirty.”
Peter’s whole body clenched with frustration as she walked towards the bathroom, her black silky bedmussed hair tumbling over her shoulders, the sexy curve of her spine drawing his gaze down to the even sexier derriere, its voluptuous sway reminding him of how provocatively exciting it had been last night. And the supple strength in those long legs…winding around him, inviting, inciting a possession which she now denied.
You don’t own me.
He’d meant to have her again this morning. The sight of her stretching so sensuously had paused him short of the bed, desire for her kicking in so strongly he was amazed by how deeply she stirred him. Then seeing her initial shock at the recollection of where she was, he’d thought a quick assurance that what they’d shared was not a one-night aberration on his part would please her. The hell of it was, he still wasn’t sure he’d recovered the ground he’d lost with the clothes issue.
You don’t own me.
The urge to stride into the bathroom and make her his again was burning through him—kiss her until passion exploded between them and she was happy for them to spend the whole day in bed together. Forget the damned horse and its maiden race! He didn’t want anything getting in the way of what he’d found with Erin Lavelle.
But his rational mind warned that sex might not hold her. His wealth wouldn’t hold her, either. There’d been no lure whatsoever in having designer gear freely showered on her. Quite the contrary. She hadn’t liked that idea one bit. Hadn’t even flirted with it for a moment. Erin Lavelle was up and running her way and that proud streak of independence in her was not about to bend.
Okay, so roll with her plan.
But no taxi.
He’d drive her to David Jones himself, talk with her on the way, make sure she wasn’t running out on him. Peter frowned over that thought as he strode into his dressing room to throw on some clothes. Women invariably hung onto him as long as they could. Why was he feeling a lack of confidence in Erin’s interest in him?