The infuriating part was all the signals had been there if he hadn’t been so blindly arrogant about his own appeal to a Cinderella preschool teacher. Erin had dressed to bowl him over on Friday night and there’d not been the slightest hesitation over going to his castle. Even her serene silence in the car on the drive out to Bondi Beach should have telegraphed he was doing precisely what she’d wanted of him. Why bother with conversation when the game was well and truly on?
Then the way she’d taken over out on the balcony…
All the pleasure she’d given him was soured by the knowledge that she had only been interested in having a physical relationship, and only on her own terms, as well.
Her proud refusal to be indebted to him over a set of clothes, the sharp warning, You don’t own me, Peter, her evasion on the husband-list issue, the way she’d concentrated so much interest in horses and horse-racing, which could be of use to her as a writer—in fact, she’d obviously had some idea for a story yesterday afternoon—the whole encounter had been on her terms.
But the game was now up.
She’d closed the door on it and he wasn’t about to contest her decision. In his whole life, no one had ever made him feel this small. Totally insignificant.
He waited until she had to be clear of the apartment complex, taking a taxi to wherever she lived—another fact withheld from him—then got himself ready to go to the gym, needing an outlet for the volcano of aggressive energy, which he’d somehow kept capped while Erin was calmly going about her departure.
Two hours later, after a punishing workout, Peter was leaving the gym when his cell phone rang. His mother’s number on the screen reminded him of her luncheon invitation, which had completely slipped his mind. Cursing under his breath, he made the connection and offered his apology.
“Sorry, Mum. I should have got back to you before this. Can’t do lunch today. Erin is not available.”
“Oh!” A big sigh of disappointment. “I was so looking forward to meeting her. Can we arrange something else, Peter?”
He grimaced at the unwelcome suggestion though he probably should have anticipated it, given his mother’s interest in the author. “I can’t oblige on that, either. We had an argument this morning and it’s all off between us,” he said bluntly, not wanting to be pestered on the sore subject.
“Oh dear! Just when I thought you’d found someone really nice,” his mother said wistfully. “There’s so much heart in her stories…”
She hadn’t shown much heart to him!
“…and the way they’re told and illustrated,” his mother babbled on. “She has to have a beautiful mind to think of such things. You must have felt attracted to her, Peter. She looks beautiful on the outside, too. Why on earth would you let her go?”
“Mum, it’s a case of her letting me go. Okay?” he bit out, hating the necessity to spell that out.
“Why? What did you do to upset her?”
Like it was his fault!
Peter unclenched his teeth enough to say, “I really don’t want to go into this.”
“Was it the publicity? Didn’t she realise that being with you would attract media attention?”
He reached his car which was parked handily at the street kerb outside the gym. “I said I don’t want to go into this,” he repeated emphatically. “Bye, Mum.”
He broke the connection, tucked the small cell-phone in his shirt pocket, unlocked the BMW, sat himself in the driver’s seat and decided he didn’t want to go back to the apartment where memories of Erin were far too close. Yacht Club, he thought. Sailing might help get her out of his mind.
Over the next few weeks, Peter worked very hard at blocking Erin Lavelle out of his consciousness, pouring his energy into dealing with business during the day, carrying on with his usual social life at night, playing various sports at the weekend—squash, tennis, polo. He dismissed any questions about his relationship with her by saying Erin had wanted to know about horse-racing. End of story.
It was a lie—a self-protective lie.
And he felt uncomfortable with it.
Especially since he could not get her out of his mind.
He was blind to the attraction of any other woman. He didn’t want anyone else in his bed. His mother’s comment—beautiful inside and outside—began to haunt him, reminding him of all the things he’d liked about Erin. Maybe he’d made a mistake in reacting so negatively to what might have been a self-protective lie on her part. Hadn’t there been a moment in the park when he’d felt a strong reluctance to reveal his own identity?