The Dating Game

by Avril Tremayne

  Simple, really. And if only her mother wasn’t out of reach cruising the Mediterranean and could give her a little reassurance, she’d feel very comfortable in her approach. At least she knew she wasn’t betraying Lane if all she was doing was siphoning David’s expertise, even if her craven avoidance of Lane’s calm voicemail requests to ‘give me a call when you get a moment’ suggested otherwise.

  Erica’s less calm demands for updates were easier to ignore and delete, thanks to the sheer panic they induced in her:

  ‘I know something’s going on, Sarah, and I’m trying not to jump to conclusions but radio silence at your end isn’t helping.’

  ‘Lane can’t work out why you’re so upset with her—you have to call her and get it off your chest so we can all move forward.’

  ‘We need you, Sarah, to make sense of your brother.’

  ‘Sarah, pick the fuck up.’

  How she wished she’d done what David had suggested and upfront told the girls what she was planning to do right from the start. But it was too late now, too awkward. And truthfully, even the night she and David had made the deal something hadn’t felt quite right about it. It hadn’t felt … innocent enough to share—even though David had assured her it was. No matter how many ways Sarah positioned her relationship with David in her mind, there’d been something about him that had twisted her insides. The way he’d made her laugh despite herself, the shock of being in his arms, his knowing eyes, the stir of danger that had swirled in her as she left the art gallery storeroom with him … There was something about those things had made her feel guilty even before she’d done anything to feel guilty about.

  And since then, she had done something to make her feel guilty. She’d kissed him, and introduced him to Erica under false pretences, and … and dreamed about him and thought about him in ways she knew were wrong. Ways that had stopped her from accepting a date with a perfect long-term romantic prospect.

  No, she couldn’t call Erica, couldn’t explain it to Lane. Not until she’d proved to herself that the thing with David really was one hundred per cent above board. She would do that tonight by being the perfect artist’s muse while demonstrating that she’d taken all his man-hunting suggestions on board.

  As the SydneyScape Apartments elevator zoomed skywards at one minute to eight, Sarah told herself she would impress the hell out of David on both counts. Not that he’d necessarily show he was impressed. With all that ennui clinging to him like a velvet cloak, he was bound to present as his usual urbane, unflappable, amused, sophisticated self.

  The elevator stopped and she composed her limbs for a stately walk along the corridor to David’s apartment. But as she stepped into the corridor, one look at David framed in his doorway had Sarah remembering the artistic intensity that had overtaken him at the conclusion of last week’s painting session. He was rumpled and unshaven, shoeless, wearing slightly tattered jeans and a faded T-shirt. He exuded neither the milk of human kindness nor the humour she’d come to expect of him. In fact, he was looking Byronically temperamental. Attractive but not exactly welcoming.

  She walked towards him, serene on the outside but quaking on the inside, silently reciting: don’t talk too much; be still; don’t be too polite; don’t always agree with him; no snits, tears or tantrums, even if he says something that makes you angry; no punching, slapping, kicking or stabbing—as if he’d ever let me get near enough!

  He held the door open for her, and when they were inside, he just stood there. Irritated, testy, sullen, and … and something else. He looked … unhappy. A strange combination of emotions that couldn’t possibly have anything to do with her, so what had happened?

  ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘No, why?’ he growled.

  ‘You look … I don’t know … grumpy.’

  His eyebrows lowered threateningly. ‘I’m not grumpy.’

  ‘Because if it’s the text message thing from Saturday night, I’m sorry I didn’t respond. But believe me, it wasn’t really what you’d call a pertinent question. When I expla—’

  ‘I don’t care if you respond to my texts or not.’

  ‘So should I not bother adding it to the rulebook—no ignoring texts from Dreamboat David?’

  ‘You can add it right after the first rule about not talking too much.’

  ‘Or maybe right before the one about not punching you,’ she said, with a big dollop of sweetness to compensate for her flare of exasperation.

  David’s response was to stomp over to the door that led to the bedroom wing and jerk it open. ‘Your dress is in the room across from the bathroom,’ he said.

  ‘Fine,’ Sarah said, flinging up her hands. She stalked past him, and the door closed behind her with what could only be described as a controlled slam.

  What was that she’d been telling herself in the elevator about David being his usual urbane, unflappable, amused, sophisticated self? A giggle started to erupt, and she moved quickly away from the door and along the hall lest David hear her and take exception in his current unamused state.

  The way David did ‘grumpy’ was surprising. As though he was both bewildered and displeased by his own bad mood. It made him less perfect. More accessible. A little bit adorable, even. It made her want to pat his hand, and ruffle his hair, and tell him everything was going to be all right. It didn’t quite fit with the image of David Bennett: sex god.

  On the subject of which … Was the room she was about to enter David’s bedroom? Until tonight, she would have expected his bedroom to have a heart-shaped bed with black satin sheets, a mirrored ceiling and a shelf of sex toys. But now, she was picturing something tamer.

  The moment she opened the door, however, she knew this wasn’t his room. There was very little art on the walls, and it had an unused feel, like a rarely occupied spare bedroom. No decorative additions, no en suite bathroom.

  As she changed clothes and shoes, she wondered who used the room. It couldn’t be his hordes of one-night stands, because if they’d slept here, it would have looked like the bedroom equivalent of Heathrow Airport!

  She looked around, hoping for clues, but there was nothing. Except, perhaps, what was behind the mirrored doors of the wardrobe …?

  Which David, as a self-professed aficionado of human females, had to know she’d be compelled to open so …

  She slid the doors open to find not the left-behind negligees and party-frocks she might have expected, but a selection of women’s suits and a row of sedate leather pumps. She moved closer, examining the suits. All the same size, all a similar style. Shoes all the one size, too. Which indicated one regular female visitor. Still on the scene? Yes, she thought so, given one of the suits was current season.

  She tried to remember if she’d seen evidence of this mystery woman in the bathroom across the hall when she’d changed in there last week, but couldn’t. Of course, she hadn’t been looking last week. But this week …?

  Well, there was no use pretending she wasn’t a girl on a mission and it wasn’t as though she didn’t have to check her hair and make-up for the portrait, so without troubling her conscience with futile soul-searching Sarah carried her make-up purse across the hall.

  Within two minutes, she’d unearthed a state-of-the-art hairdryer; shampoo and conditioner (for ‘distressed hair’—oh dear!); gel, mousse and wax (yep, someone’s hair needed more than a little taming!); a criminally expensive facial moisturizer (overpriced); and a bottle of expensive eau de parfum (a scent she’d always thought was cloying).

  There was the evidence!

  But what did it mean?

  Had it been left by the business suit owner? Or by assorted women, who either expected to be asked back or wanted an excuse to call in if they weren’t?

  Sarah pictured herself trying that little manoeuvre.

  Just stopping by for my shoes, David—I forgot them last time I was here.

  Just wondering if you’ve seen my x, y, z.
r />   Just wondering if I left …

  ‘Ugh,’ she said, pulling a face at her reflection. ‘Just wondering if I left my brain at home! Seriously, Sarah? Seriously? We are not launching an assault on Mount Everest, remember?’

  A quick smooth of her hair, an extra coat of mascara to get her eyelashes as long, thick and black as possible, and she was making her way along the hallway, determined to pose with grace and poise and silence and stillness.

  But she only managed to take one step into the living room before David barked at her, ‘Stop! Stay there!’

  The command was so peremptory, she recoiled, banging her funny bone against the doorjamb.

  ‘Ouch,’ she complained, rubbing her elbow.

  David’s only reaction was to point to her left. ‘Turn your head and look at the painting above that cabinet and just … stand there.’ He muttered something else that Sarah thought contained the word ‘shoes’.

  She looked down at her feet, and got a snapped out, ‘Don’t move,’ for her trouble.

  Be still, she reminded herself, and forced every bit of muscle, sinew and bone into immobility. She even tried to keep her chest from rising and falling with her breaths, to the point where she thought she might asphyxiate herself.

  She was therefore a little surprised, two minutes later, when David burst out with, ‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Huh?’ she asked, mystified.

  ‘Have you been taxidermized?’

  ‘I’m being still!’

  His irritation practically leapt across the room and slapped her in the head. ‘There’s a difference between being still and being still.’

  She snorted. ‘Yeah, like that makes sense.’

  ‘Loosen up. Wiggle your fingers. Shrug your shoulders. Move your head the way you’re always doing.’

  ‘Move my head? I don’t move my head!’

  ‘You’re always moving your head.’ He moved his own head to show her—angling it one way, then the other, then backwards, forwards. ‘You’re like a freaking bird tracking its prey. And don’t get me started on the way you walk.’

  She drew herself up. ‘It’s not actually possible to walk and be still simultaneously.’

  ‘Yes but there’s walking and there’s walking.’

  ‘So we’re doing the Pinot Noir thing?’

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘There are Pinot Noirs and then there are Pinot Noirs? There’s still and then there’s still? There’s walking and then there’s walking? You know, that thing that makes you an insufferable … insufferable …’

  ‘Are you calling me a prick? Oh no, that’s right, you don’t swear, good little girl that you are.’

  ‘Let’s get back to still and still, walking and walking,’ she said, through pinched lips.

  ‘Let’s, because the truth is, you get them both wrong.’

  ‘Oh! You are so grumpy today!’

  ‘I’m. Not. Grumpy.’

  ‘Yes. You. Are.’

  ‘I just don’t like you being still.’ The words grumbled out of him, as though he grudged them their existence.

  ‘Okaaay,’ she said. ‘Then I’ll move. I’ll … I don’t know … walk around the room.’

  ‘Except you don’t walk, you bounce.’

  ‘So un-bounce me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Un-bounce me,’ she repeated. ‘I’m going to walk around the room while you tell me how I should be walking.’

  ‘That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.’

  ‘David, that’s not even the stupidest thing I’ve heard in the past minute! Now come on, you’re supposed to be teaching me how to become more desirable, so if my walk is undesirable, fix it.’

  David’s temper seemed to be hanging by a thread as he looked at her. And then, swearing under his breath, he advanced on the couch. ‘Right. Maybe if I do this, I can stop worrying about you going arse over tit every time you’re out in public.’

  No stalking off in a snit, she reminded herself, and watched with bitten tongue as David pushed the couch, then the coffee table, out of the way, opening out the floor space. Next, he grabbed an armful of cushions and placed them in different spots on the floor. Two table lamps and a ceramic vase followed. He then folded one of the rugs into a bulky strip.

  Her eyes lit up. ‘It’s an obstacle course!’

  ‘It is.’ He drew the course in the air with his finger, explaining, ‘Step over the cushions, weave around the lamps and the vase—first in one direction, then the other. The rug will give you a different surface to walk on.’

  ‘This is going to be fun,’ Sarah said, and meant it.

  ‘Just try not to break your neck,’ he sniped, before flicking his hand out. ‘Come on, what are you waiting for?’

  Swallowing hard on a giggle she felt sure would be tantrum-inducing, Sarah started walking the track. Weaving, stepping, traversing and reversing—all under David’s frowning observation as he gave her terse instructions. ‘Change direction.’ ‘More sway to your hips.’ ‘Slow down.’ ‘Don’t swing your arms so much.’ ‘Do you know what “sway” means?’ ‘Keep your head still.’ ‘Glide, don’t bounce.’ ‘Relax your shoulders.’ ‘Your hips should be swaying, swaaay-iiing.’

  ‘In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have hips to sway.’

  ‘I’m sure that dweeb you were with Saturday night would say otherwise,’ David said. ‘Even if they are just a couple of razor-edged bones.’

  ‘I was wondering when we were going to get around to discussing Brandon.’

  ‘Brandon? He looked more like a Herbert.’

  ‘Brandon, who was your choice. And a good choice, actually, because he is very sweet and smart. A gentleman, too. And no, he did not have a problem with my hips, or with the way I walked.’

  ‘Which you’re still not doing right. Sway, don’t jounce.’

  Sarah stopped. ‘I have a suggestion,’ she said, fixing David with a steely eye. ‘Why don’t you come over here, put your hands on my hips, walk behind me and feel the way I move. If you reposition me as I walk, I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it faster.’

  ‘Not necessary.’

  ‘What’s wrong? Scared these razor bones of mine will slice off a thumb?’

  ‘I can see better from here.’

  ‘Sorry, but you’ve complained about the way I move my hips one time too many, so you’re just going to have to suck it up, get over here, and show me how to sway. I’m not moving until you do. It’s in the rulebook, David—guys don’t like girls who agree with them on everything, remember? So I’m not agreeing with you on this.’

  He closed his eyes as though in pain. And then: ‘Fine,’ he said through clenched teeth. Swearing under his breath again, he came straight for her, glowering.

  ‘Gump-er-ama,’ she said in a sing-song voice.

  ‘For the last time, I’m not grumpy!’

  ‘Two blinks tells me you are. Irritable, cantankerous, petulant, crabby.’

  ‘You’re just … doing my head in.’ And with that mini-explosion, David spun her so fast she almost toppled.

  ‘That was not my fault,’ she said, as he grabbed her hips and held her steady.

  Sudden silence. And then Sarah heard David suck in a breath as his hands tightened. Her heart started to thud.

  ‘Step,’ he said, and Sarah took a step forward. ‘So … Brandon.’

  ‘Brandon,’ she repeated, and that seductive smell that clung to David was suddenly making her dizzy.

  ‘Step,’ he said, and waited until she’d moved. ‘When you said he was a gentleman, what did that mean? Did he kiss you?’

  ‘No.’ Swallow past the sudden dryness in her throat.

  ‘Step,’ he said, and this time, when they stopped, he was closer to her. ‘Did he touch you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Step, Sarah.’ Step. Stop. They were at the French doors now, looking out at the
night, but seeing their reflections in the glass. ‘Did you want him to?’

  ‘No.’ She was wide-eyed, lips slightly parted; David’s face was starkly serious.

  ‘Are you seeing him again?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’ She could sense the pounding of his heart, in unison with hers. She closed her eyes, enjoying the steady drum of it. He started to ease his tight hold on her hips. Don’t let me go, she wanted to say—but he wasn’t letting go; instead, one hand was sliding up to her rib cage, the other moving down until it was low on her belly.

  She opened her eyes so she could see his hands on her, reflected in the glass. David eased her slowly back, until his chest was hard and warm against her back, his erection pressing into her. An ache jumped to vibrant life between her legs. She felt damp there, and hot, and shifted her legs, opening them slightly, wordlessly inviting him in.

  His eyes dropped to where his hand rested on her belly, jaw hardening, nostrils flaring. She wanted that hand of his to slide down, to cup her, press there. Oh, what would it take to get him to touch her there? ‘David,’ she said, and heard the plea in it; it was only a breath removed from a moan.

  ‘Why aren’t you going to see him again?’

  ‘His ex. He wants her back. Rulebook. People who talk about their exes …’

  ‘Is that the only reason?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘I didn’t want him to touch me. Not like that. Not like … this.’

  He exhaled, long and slow. And then his hands moved to her hips again. He eased her forward. Turned her to face him. Let her go.

  Dazed, Sarah blinked up at him.

  He reached out to trace one of her eyebrows with his finger. ‘Don’t change the way you walk, Sarah.’

  She couldn’t believe her ears for a moment. He’d just turned her to mush, without even kissing her, and now he was touching her eyebrow like that was some consolation prize and talking about her walk? A timely reminder that she was not scaling Everest. She twitched her head to dislodge his finger. ‘Then why did we just go through that?’