Avril Tremayne – The Dating Game (страница 11)

She realized with a start that she’d picked up her mother’s favourite snow dome—of Rome’s Trevi Fountain—and was giving it a too-frenzied shake. Ha! As though shaking the snow around ever did anything to change the world inside! However manic the shake, the snow still settled to reveal the same idyll. Was that a reflection of her life? Did she need shaking up? Were her insides static? Or maybe there was something significant about the fact that she’d chosen the Trevi Fountain for this abuse? Some deep-seated aversion to her mother’s latest beau, perhaps?

O-kay—that was all a bit deep and disturbing. Which is what happened when she was left to her own devices, without her mother or Lane or Erica to bounce things off. And since her mother was on the other side of the world and there was no way could she talk to Erica or Lane just at the moment without revealing her David Bennett perfidy, it was time to pack away the second-guessing for the night.

She was going to soak her dissatisfaction away in her cedar hot tub, purpose built for her minuscule bathroom (and who cared that David Bennett wouldn’t fit in it without having to break two leg bones?) and then go to bed and forget about David until next Wednesday.

Unfortunately, as she started to drift off to sleep, an image of David, arms circling her in the storeroom, slid into her brain like a serpent that had been biding its time to strike.

She sat up, snapping on the bedside light, hoping the sudden brightness would dispel it, but the picture seemed entrenched. She supposed the miracle would have been if she hadn’t thought of that particular moment once she was in bed. His erection wasn’t exactly a forgettable entity—not at that size!

She’d just bet David knew she was thinking of it, too. It’s not as if he’d been trying to hide it. Not that she believed for a second his state of arousal had anything to do with her specifically. The way Lane had described him, he was the type to always be ready. It meant no more than that tossed-out suggestion of his that they have sex. Nothing more than a bargaining chip—I’ll have sex with you if you pose for my portrait. Arrogant sod!

She giggled suddenly, remembering how he’d described himself: Yes, I’m an egomaniac, a boaster, a narcissist. He had a sense of humour, at least. Which only made him more dangerous.

She gave her pillow a thump, turned off the bedside lamp, and yanked the covers up.

No way was David lying in bed agonizing over everything she’d said and done and thought during the evening. He’d be too busy with Anthea. His hands travelling over Anthea’s balloon boobs. Whispering sex words to her, preparing to plunge into her …

Sarah sat up abruptly and switched the bedside light on again, because the image in her head was wrong. It wasn’t Anthea in bed with David, it was her. Her heart was racing, her muscles were tense, and there was a heavy, pulsing ache between her thighs that made her want to touch herself … and think about David touching her.

This had to stop! Aside from the fact that fantasising about him was disgustingly disloyal, she had more important things to think about. Like Saturday night. She turned off the bedside lamp and determinedly dragged Craig’s face into focus in her badly behaved brain. Craig kissing her … her, sliding her fingers into his hair …

Really, Craig’s hair was a little too long; David was right about that. And it needed a good brush. Although she was fairly certain she’d seen a flake of dandruff on his shoulder at the gallery, and who knew what other dandruff flakes a thorough brushing might dislodge? Perhaps that was why he didn’t brush it?

She sat up and turned on the bedside light again. ‘Really?’ she said out loud. ‘So buy him some anti-dandruff shampoo!’

Off went the bedside lamp again—and at that exact moment, a sound like the clash of cymbals pierced the air and she jumped half out of her skin with a strangled scream. What the—?

Oh! Her phone, in its usual place on her bedside table beside the on-again-off-again lamp, had lit up. Except her phone had never clashed like cymbals before.

She snapped on the bedside light again. One quick glance at the phone told her the clash of cymbals denoted the arrival of a text from David. Or, as he’d listed himself in her contact list, Dreamboat David.

She wanted to laugh, but found herself strangely breathless. Her fingers trembled as she opened the message. She was wildly curious about what he might say … and a little bit apprehensive. But the message turned out to be prosaic:

Address for next Wednesday. SydneyScape Apartments #3011

Before she could start tapping out a response, the cymbals clashed again, making her jump before she could stop herself. She was going to have to change that tone to something less heart-attack-inducing. A job for tomorrow. But for now, she opened the text.

Be there or be square

She was smiling as she composed her own text, but the cymbals clashed once more and a new text popped onto the screen before she could send it:

Or maybe a circle, a triangle and some rectangles

Again, she started tapping out a text, only for the cymbals to clash:

Sorry—cubist joke

Sarah gave up at that point and sent him a simple nerd emoji.

As she slid back under the covers, it occurred to her that if David was texting her, he mustn’t be in bed with Anthea. Not that Sarah cared. It was just a stray thought.

She was still smiling as she drifted into sleep.

CHAPTER FIVE

Five seconds after hitting the intercom outside the glass doors of SydneyScape Apartments, Sarah found herself in an impressive marble lobby. Spying a desk manned by a well-dressed concierge, she headed in that direction, only to be forestalled by the concierge’s regal wave in the direction of the elevators. As she veered obediently, the concierge picked up the phone on his desk—calling David to announce her arrival, Sarah guessed.

The elevator doors glided silently open; Sarah stepped in; they glided silently closed. After a hushed ascent, the elevator stopped with an almost non-existent whoosh at the thirtieth floor, disgorging her onto a plush beige carpet that muffled any hint of a footfall.

She felt a laugh bubbling up in reaction to the almost unnatural silence … until the sight of David leaning against the doorframe of his apartment along the corridor immobilized everything about her, even her vocal cords. All she could do was stare. He was wearing well-worn jeans and a T-shirt that fitted him like a second skin, and he looked even more delectable than he’d looked in a suit. She couldn’t quite believe that she’d had the nerve to make a deal with this handsome, poised, intimidatingly perfect man.

And then he smiled, and Sarah found herself walking, Pied Piper style, towards him.

‘What’s in the suit bag?’ he asked, when she reached him.

‘What I’m wearing,’ she said, sounding a little too breathless for her liking. She cleared her throat. ‘For the painting. It wasn’t an easy decision to make.’

He stepped into the apartment, holding the door open for her. ‘No? Why so hard?’

‘Well, it’s a portrait.’

‘Yeees.’

‘And I want to look … historic. I first thought maybe a business suit, but that seemed kind of boring. Next, I went for a day dress—one with poppies, very cheerful—but who wants to be quite that casual on canvas?’ She stepped over the threshold. ‘I also tried on a basic black ensemble, but it smacked a little too much of a crime writer’s publicity shot, so, I … I … Oh!’ As she took in the big, airy room.

Bright, exotic rugs scattered across dark wooden floorboards. A couch in a deep, velvety orange. There was a low wooden coffee table, two cabinets holding intriguing treasures and several tables topped with quirky artefacts. The walls were covered with modern paintings of different styles and sizes. There were two groupings of Aboriginal spirit poles in earthy colours each side of French doors that opened onto a deck, through which Sarah could see a beautifully lit sculpture soaring skywards, the twinkling lights of the city almost close enough to touch, and the Sydney Harbour Bridge in the distance. There were doors at either end of the room. Sarah guessed one led to the kitchen and dining room; the other to the bedrooms and bathrooms.

‘Uh-oh, you’ve stopped talking!’ David said, laying the suit bag across the couch. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Your apartment,’ she answered, and then laughed as the rest of what he’d said hit her. ‘Oh, you! I don’t talk all the time, you know.’

‘Well, I haven’t slept with you, so I can’t say what happens then.’

‘Ha-ha-ha.’

‘So what’s wrong with my apartment?’

‘It’s just not what I expected.’

‘What did you expect?’

‘Something a little more Don Juan, only modern.’

‘The mind boggles at what a modern Don-Juan-style apartment would look like.’

‘To start with, it would have nude etchings!’ she said smartly.

‘I’m never going to live down those etchings, am I? Thank God I’m not painting you naked or you’d have me pegged as a dirty old man.’

‘Actually, how old are you?’