High-Society Bachelor. Krista Thoren

      Cam had just put the silver-framed photo down when Deborah strode back into the room, a tablet of paper in hand.

      He liked the way she moved. It was one of the first things he’d noticed about her. She had a carefree, swingy kind of walk and the height to carry it off gracefully. She had to be five feet ten or so, with a slender, athletic build. Curves in all the right places. Dressed more classically, she would look elegant, but even in artsy clothes she was striking. Her bright blue tunic sweater and leggings accentuated her mile-long legs.

      Even though Deborah Clark was way too young for him, he enjoyed looking at her. As he’d assured himself several times, there was nothing wrong with that. But it bothered him a little to realize that he especially enjoyed looking at her now that he didn’t have to remind himself she was engaged, and he didn’t have to feel the familiar and illogical surge of irritation that the reminder always carried with it.

      The fact was that right from the beginning, he’d found it all too easy to watch Deborah. Her shapely body and streaky blond hair were eye-catching enough, but the lively intelligence in her eyes and the humor in her expression riveted his attention. Looking at her almost made him forget her flippant attitude, extreme chattiness and appalling taste in music. One thing was for sure: He would not be putting her in charge of the string quartet.

      In fact, he’d have to keep her on a tight leash with every aspect of the party planning, because although she wasn’t the doily type, tie-dye might not be far off the mark, and he wasn’t a fan of the neo-sixties look. He’d agreed to offer the planning job to Deborah based only on Barb’s assurances that the younger woman could produce elegant parties. His motherly administrative assistant had apparently added Deborah Clark to her collection of strays.

      Cam watched as Deborah finished jotting something down on her small pad of paper. A favor to Barb was one thing, but he was no martyr. Fortunately, and thanks to Deborah herself, he would reap the added benefit of a hostess for his party. An attractive one, too. Deborah might not fit his image of the ideal girlfriend, but she was easy on the eyes. Most importantly, she wasn’t going to make any demands on him during the evening. No expectations, no fits of fury, no sulking episodes. He’d be faced only with a cheerful, chatty female who would help him persuade little Heather Manders to exercise her teenage feminine wiles on someone else.

      “Sorry about the interruption,” Deborah said, looking up from her pad of paper. “But I always answer the phone during business hours since my company is home-based.”

      He nodded and focused his attention on the small, gray-striped cat that trotted behind her into the living room. “There’s a familiar face,” he commented, aware of mixed feelings. Although highly appealing, the animal reminded him of behavior he’d rather forget.

      A month ago, the cat had followed Cam from the hallway into his office, where the feline had promptly curled up on his desk and fallen asleep on a stack of legal documents, wrinkling the top one beyond redemption. When Barb had identified the cat, Cam had stalked upstairs to deliver the interloper, along with a few curt words he shouldn’t have come out with.

      It was true that the wrinkled original contract had to be completely redone. It was also true that a robe-clad Deborah had arrived at the door looking damp and tousled, with an innocent gaze that didn’t match her clothing. Still, Cam should have been polite.

      Furthermore, he didn’t want to analyze why so much of his annoyance with this girl seemed to have disappeared along with her engagement ring. Nothing about his reaction to her made any sense.

      Was she even twenty-one?

      “That’s Libby. I think she remembers you, too,” Deborah said now, as the cat twined herself around his ankles before jumping up into the wicker chair opposite the couch. The feline immediately settled into the cushions and went to sleep.

      “Interesting name for a cat,” Cam observed.

      “I named her after my roommate,” Deborah explained. “When Beth moved out, I replaced her with a cat. Sort of. Libby talks less and has a lot less energy than Beth, but she’s good company.” She turned back to look at Cam, and the dangly silver earrings she wore swung gently. “Let’s see, where were we?”

      “We were discussing the fact that you owe it to me to hostess my party.”

      She grimaced. “Okay. I agree I owe you one, but there must be some other way I can pay my debt.” She gave him a hopeful look. “I could walk your dog for a week.”

      “I don’t have a dog,” Cam told her.

      “Figures,” she muttered.

      “Look, why don’t you clue me in?” He steered her over to the couch, and she sat down without protesting. “What’s so terrible about hostessing my party?”

      Aside from the fact that being romantically linked with him horrified her so much she’d rather take her chances with a dog. Cam grimaced.

      Looking on the bright side, this situation was a nice change from being chased for his money. It was pretty damned ridiculous to be annoyed, especially since she wasn’t an appropriate romantic interest for him, anyway.

      For a long moment, it looked like Deborah was going to refuse to tell him anything. She sat there watching him with her big blue eyes. Finally, she gave a small shrug. “I don’t like parties.”

      Cam stared at her. “But you plan parties. That’s what you do for a living.”

      “Of course it is. That doesn’t mean I have to like going to them,” she explained, as if her line of reasoning made complete sense. His disbelief must have shown, because she sighed and continued. “I like the idea of parties, and I have fun planning them. I even enjoy the atmosphere if I’m working at an event. But going to a party, not having anything to do there, not knowing what to say—” She shook her head. “It’s the pits.” Her expression was eloquent.

      “But you’re so talkative,” Cam protested. “You’re a natural party girl.”

      She glared at him.

      “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said.

      “Don’t call me a girl, either,” she ordered. “I’m a woman.”

      He laughed.

      Her glare intensified.

      “Fine, you’re a woman,” Cam agreed. “A woman who, every time I see her, is chatting away to someone.” Not to him, of course. She didn’t chat with him. Probably because she didn’t like him. Perfectly logical, of course, since he hadn’t been very nice to her. In any case, she didn’t have to like him. She only had to agree to his plan.

      “I like talking one-on-one,” she said. “But I don’t like crowds of people, all of whom I’m expected to exchange meaningless chitchat with.” She gave him a determined look. “So let’s just agree that I’d be a disaster as your hostess.”

      He shook his head. “I don’t agree. You’ll do fine.” She would, too. It was only a party. They didn’t need to have anything in common in order to spend one evening together. He just hoped she would manage to look older than sixteen. Maybe he could add it into their contract.

      Deborah was staring at him. “Doesn’t it bother you at all that I don’t want to do this?”

      “I can live with it,” he assured her.

      She muttered something he didn’t catch.

      “You’re the one who started all this,” he reminded her again.

      “Yes, and I’m also the one who’s volunteered to make it up to you in other ways!” she snapped. Then her eyes flickered and her cheeks reddened, and Cameron realized her thoughts were moving along the same lines his were. That surprised him, coming from someone so innocent. She emitted purity like some women did perfume.

      “I could wash your car every week for a month,” she offered hastily. “You know, that fancy foreign silver thing