chest.
Swallowing a sigh of regret, while repressing a surge of desire for myriad things, physical and emotional, Sandra schooled her lips into a coolly remote smile.
“Dinner’s ready,” she said, in a hard-fought tone devoid of inflection.
He frowned, but said only, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You can pour the wine,” she said, turning to open the oven door. “I’ll bring the food.”
Blaming the heat radiating from the oven for the sting in her eyes, Sandra mentally shored up her defenses, and grabbing pot holders, bent to the chore.
He had lost her.
Cameron had known it from the moment he walked into the kitchen endless hours ago.
It was late. He was tired. And he felt literally sick to his stomach. The feeling owed nothing to the delicious meal Sandra had prepared, or to the several glasses of wine he had consumed with the meal.
She hadn’t even finished the first glass he had poured for her.
She bad closed him out.
During the twenty or so minutes required for him to shower, shave and dress, Sandra had erected a barrier between them, an invisible yet impenetrable wall of resistance he had been unable to breach.
And Cameron had tried with every fiber of his being to tear down that barrier.
During dinner, and afterward, right up until she bade him a cool good-night, he had tried everything he could think of: conversation, humor, charm—what little he possessed—everything short of begging, to draw the warm woman from her cold shell of assumed indifference.
And Cameron believed Sandra’s indifference was assumed; he had to believe it, because he couldn’t bear to contemplate anything else.
Why?
What had he done wrong?
What terrible sin had he committed?
Why had she raised a shield against him?
Those tormenting questions were the direct cause of the roiling sensation sickening Cameron.
Twice. He had been rejected twice, and both times just as he was falling in love.
No.
Cameron shook his head. No. The first time hadn’t felt anywhere near this painful. That had been nothing, nothing, compared to the sick sense of loss he was now suffering through.
And, try as he would, he could not convince himself that Sandra’s sudden about-face had surfaced as a direct result of his accusing her of childishness and militant feminism.
No. It was more than that, deeper than that.
But. what?
Something in him.
The thought was unpalatable. Cameron didn’t want to examine it, let alone accept it.
But there it was, entrenched in his consciousness, stabbing into his mind.
Something in him? Some essence, objectionable to the opposite sex, that he displayed?
Hell. Cameron raked stiff fingers through already wildly disheveled hair. He had had affairs with women other than the two he had unfortunately fallen for. And those other females hadn’t shown signs of eventual objection to some offending essence within him.
In point of fact, it had been quite the contrary. More than one of those females had given unmistakable signals of desiring a deeper involvement with him.
So go figure.
Cameron moved his shoulders against his bed of sofa cushions in a half shrug. His advice to himself was excellent; too bad he couldn’t follow it.
How in hell did a mere man proceed in figuring out the mind of a woman?
Talk to his mother?
Cameron was swept by an impulse to do just that. He immediately quashed the impulse with a self-taunting, Get real, Wolfe.
He was pushing forty, for Pete’s sake, long past the age to solicit maternal advice on the proper course to steer on the rocky road to love. Besides, although he felt certain the indomitable Maddy would proffer the advice, his mother would likely laugh herself silly first. So scratch that idea.
His brothers? Hmm. That idea had merit. If he was reading the signs correctly, they appeared to be having little difficulty with the opposite sex.
But, appearances were often deceptive, he mused. Of course, there was a way of ascertaining the answer. He
Swallowing a sigh of regret, while repressing a surge of desire for myriad things, physical and emotional, Sandra schooled her lips into a coolly remote smile.
“Dinner’s ready,” she said, in a hard-fought tone devoid of inflection.
He frowned, but said only, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You can pour the wine,” she said, turning to open the oven door. “I’ll bring the food.”
Blaming the heat radiating from the oven for the sting in her eyes, Sandra mentally shored up her defenses, and grabbing pot holders, bent to the chore.
He had lost her.
Cameron had known it from the moment he walked into the kitchen endless hours ago.
It was late. He was tired. And he felt literally sick to his stomach. The feeling owed nothing to the delicious meal Sandra had prepared, or to the several glasses of wine he had consumed with the meal.
She hadn’t even finished the first glass he had poured for her.
She bad closed him out.
During the twenty or so minutes required for him to shower, shave and dress, Sandra had erected a barrier between them, an invisible yet impenetrable wall of resistance he had been unable to breach.
And Cameron had tried with every fiber of his being to tear down that barrier.
During dinner, and afterward, right up until she bade him a cool good-night, he had tried everything he could think of: conversation, humor, charm—what little he possessed—everything short of begging, to draw the warm woman from her cold shell of assumed indifference.
And Cameron believed Sandra’s indifference was assumed; he had to believe it, because he couldn’t bear to contemplate anything else.
Why?
What had he done wrong?
What terrible sin had he committed?
Why had she raised a shield against him?
Those tormenting questions were the direct cause of the roiling sensation sickening Cameron.
Twice. He had been rejected twice, and both times just as he was falling in love.
No.
Cameron shook his head. No. The first time hadn’t felt anywhere near this painful. That had been nothing, nothing, compared to the sick sense of loss he was now suffering through.
And, try as he would, he could not convince himself that Sandra’s sudden about-face had surfaced as a direct result of his accusing her of childishness and militant feminism.
No. It was more than that, deeper than that.
But. what?
Something in him.
The thought was unpalatable. Cameron didn’t want to examine it, let alone accept it.
But there it was, entrenched in his consciousness, stabbing into his mind.
Something in him? Some essence, objectionable to the opposite sex, that he displayed?
Hell. Cameron raked stiff fingers through already wildly disheveled hair. He had had affairs with women other than the two he had unfortunately fallen for. And those other females hadn’t shown signs of eventual objection to some offending essence within him.
In point of fact, it had been quite the contrary. More than one of those females had given unmistakable signals of desiring a deeper involvement with him.
So go figure.
Cameron moved his shoulders against his bed of sofa cushions in a half shrug. His advice to himself was excellent; too bad he couldn’t follow it.
How in hell did a mere man proceed in figuring out the mind of a woman?
Talk to his mother?
Cameron was swept by an impulse to do just that. He immediately quashed the impulse with a self-taunting, Get real, Wolfe.
He was pushing forty, for Pete’s sake, long past the age to solicit maternal advice on the proper course to steer on the rocky road to love. Besides, although he felt certain the indomitable Maddy would proffer the advice, his mother would likely laugh herself silly first. So scratch that idea.
His brothers? Hmm. That idea had merit. If he was reading the signs correctly, they appeared to be having little difficulty with the opposite sex.
But, appearances were often deceptive, he mused. Of course, there was a way of ascertaining the answer. He
Similar Books
My Guardian Angel
Sylvie Weil
Sanctuary (Family Justice Book 3)
Suzanne Halliday
The Nightingale Circus
Ioana Visan
Miss Lindel's Love
Cynthia Bailey Pratt
Dead Awakenings
Rebekah R. Ganiere
Mercy
David L Lindsey
The Laird's Forbidden Lady
Ann Lethbridge
Goddess Sacrifice
M.W. Muse
Yasmine
Eli Amir
A Dreadful Murder
Minette Walters