“And even if you were interested, for whatever kinky reasons of your own, I’m not, and I take offense at your presumption that I would be. I’m sick of your juvenile innuendos and asinine suggestions. I find them in the poorest of taste. I wasn’t put here on earth for your amusement, and I resent your thinking I was. If you think I can be washed overboard by your charm, by your good looks, or by your trite come-on lines, think again.”
She planted her hands on her hips and glared up at him. “Where do you get off, making a toy out of a human being? You think of me only as a game to keep you occupied while you’re here. Well, forget it. If it weren’t for the fact that I like Ruby and don’t want to hurt her feelings, I wouldn’t even speak to you for the remainder of your stay. In summation, Mr. Gamblin, I think you’re a class-A jerk.”
She slammed the door in his face before he had time to utter a single word. She felt better than she had in months. Lord, it felt good to tell him off! At last she had vented a frustration with male attitudes that had been building for years. Rana had found that men fell into three categories. There were those who were so intimidated by her beauty and success that they considered her unapproachable. Even if she sent signals that she might be interested, they didn’t respond, because they simply couldn’t or wouldn’t compete with her.
Then there were those who dared to ask her out, but treated her like a fragile piece of porcelain, an objet d’art that might break if they didn’t handle her with kid gloves. How could she ever develop a relationship with a man who considered her too perfect to touch?
Men who fell into the third category were the most prevalent and the most irritating. These were the ones who used her to decorate themselves. Since Rana was often photographed by paparazzi avid for candid shots of heron the streets of New York, leaving a restaurant, entering a party, in the park eating an ice-cream cone-her escort also got the rewards of the free publicity she generated.
She had been courted by numerous politicians, rock stars, and businessmen, all of whom wanted to benefit from a well-publicized romance with Rana.
This type of man was the most manipulative and the most hurtful. He was the kind who saw nothing but her face and body and had little or no regard for the feelings of the woman inside the dazzling exterior. He used and used and used with malicious selfishness.
In a different but equally selfish way, Trent Gamblin was using “Ana” Ramsey. She was plain. She was pitiful. She was alone. No doubt he had decided to give the lonely spinster some kicks while he was in residence, give her something to liven up her colorless existence, give her something to write about in her diary, give her something to cherish and remember for all the lonesome years to come.
At the same time he would amuse himself. It would be a novelty to romance a woman so drastically different from the kind he usually had affairs with. It would be something to tell the boys in the locker room about when he returned. “Hey, guys, you can’t believe how desperate she was for some lovin’.”
How unconscionably selfish could one man be?
But Rana knew from experience that there was no limit to the extremes people would go to when using other people.
So tonight Rana had defended her alter ego, Miss Ramsey, with a vengeance. It was a triumph over any man who had ever used any woman, beautiful or plain, simply because it suited him and she was convenient.
When she fell asleep, she felt cleansed. Why hadn’t she developed that kind of backbone years ago? Why, after years of heartache and disillusionment, was she just now learning that the world wouldn’t come to an end if she stood up for herself?
The next morning she was coming out of her bathroom, yawning and stretching, when the note was slipped under her door. Her arms, extended high above her head, froze there for a moment. She lowered them slowly and swallowed the next yawn as she stared at the single sheet of folded paper. She actually considered ignoring it. But her curiosity got the better of her. She crept forward and picked it up.
You‘re absolutely right. I behaved like a class-A jerk.
I’m sorry. We can either sign a mutually agreeable
truce, smoke a peace pipe, or go jogging together. I opt
for the latter. I’d take it as a sign of forgiveness if
you’d join me. Please.
It wasn’t signed, but then, how many people had she called a jerk lately? And that dark, heavy, masculine scrawl could only belong to one person.
In spite of her anger with him last night, she smiled. She refolded the note and went to the open window. She stared out, not really seeing the dew-sparkled grass or the landscape that simmered with the promise of another hot, muggy day.
He had had the good grace to offer an apology. Could she do less than accept it?
It was very early. The sun was just coming up, and the outdoors smelled new and fresh. A run on the beach would feel good. The exercise would limber up her body and her mind, so that when she settled down to work today, the creative juices would be flowing.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she flew to her closet and took out jogging clothes. She dressed, hastily tied her shoes on, put on her glasses, and rushed to open the door of her apartment before he gave up and left without her.
He was waiting quietly in the hallway, contemplating the toe of his worn running shoe. His dark gaze strayed from his shoe to her.
“Hi.” His voice was wary.
“Good morning.”
He took her attire as a good sign. She was wearing a gray sweat suit-as ill-fitting and baggy as everything else she owned-running shoes, and an Astros baseball cap. Trent tried to imagine a scenario in which he would whip off her glasses and she would shake her head and become a stunning sexpot, as the plain librarians in B movies always turned out to be. He sincerely doubted such a metamorphosis was possible in this instance.
“Ready to run?” he asked.
“It looks like a great morning for it. Not too humid.”
“Compared to what?” he asked, wiping his brow, which was already damp with perspiration.
“Compared to a Brazilian rain forest.”
He grinned, and nodded toward the stairs. “After you. And I give you fair warning, that’s the last head start you’ll get today.”
They decided to drive the several blocks to the beach. He frowned at the choking, sputtering, clanking noise her used compact car made when she started it, but he went along with her suggestion to take it. The salty mist at the beach couldn’t do much damage to its paint job.
They began their workout by doing some stretches. He was amazed to find her so agile and graceful as she methodically went about the warm-up procedure. She could bend at the waist and touch the ground flat-handed without groaning and grimacing. He wished she weren’t so covered up. The gray sweat suit was really ghastly, but he could tell that no matter how it was shaped, her body was supple.
“So are we friends?” he asked as he executed some deep knee bends.
Rana diverted her eyes from his muscular thighs. “Do you want to be friends?”
He spread his feet wide and bent at the waist, walking his hands backward along the ground between his legs. “I want to be friends.” When he came up, his face was flushed; she didn’t know if it was from exertion or embarrassment.
“Then I guess we’re friends,” she said, smiling.
He nodded, but he was gently gnawing the inside of his jaw in what appeared to be perplexity. His brows were furrowed. “Maybe you should know something first.”
“What?”
“I’ve never been friends with a woman before.”
They stared at each other for a long, telling while. The beach was deserted at this time of morning. It wasn’t yet time for young mothers to bring out their children for a few hours’ diversion from the household routine, or for teenagers to cluster in groups and share tubes of tanning lotion and blasting radios, or for families on vacation to open up picnic baskets and argue over the day’s agenda of activities.