Page 68 of Resist

Lucy waves, and I return it before facing him. His cheeks are still flushed from his run, his hair is in angry waves from the sweat slowly drying in it, and his brow is furrowed as if he’s trying to understand where I’m coming from.

“It’s nothing,” I say.

“Uh-oh, no. You don’t get to say it’s nothing after you just went into silent mode with me.”

“I said it’s nothing.”

He purses his lips and shakes his head. “‘It’s been over a week.’ Were those your words?” he presses.

“Just drop it. I shouldn’t have expected—anything.”

And yes, now I sound like a psycho, crazy person. First, I hate the man’s guts, and now all of a sudden I want him to call me.

“You think I was playing you, don’t you?”

“No,” I lie despite the race-car driver’s implied comments coming back to me.

“You think I was ignoring you so you’d wonder and wait and want.”

“Not hardly. I don’t give you that much credit.”

“There you go again,” he says. “Every time I hit too close to home with you—anything about you—you insult me. Nice try, Vaughn, but that’s not going to work.”

“I don’t need to be psychoanalyzed.”

“And I don’t need to be insulted.” He leans in closer as I watch Lucy, his mouth near my ear. “I maneuver chess pieces all day long in court. I know their every move and how each one will affect the other. I play with them, toy with them, and then when I spot a weakness, I make my move. But outside of court, I couldn’t care less. Hell, if I played games as well as you’re insinuating—that I avoided you to make you want me—I’d be awesome at relationships. But I’m not . . . so obviously, I don’t play games, Vaughn. I never even try to, and that’s part of my downfall when it comes to dating. People only want honesty when it suits their agenda. Every other time they want you to play the game, and hell if I’ll ever do that.”

I want to believe him. The conviction in his tone. The dark threat underlying it that I’ve insulted him.

But I return to what I know. To dodge and avert. To turning the heat back to him. “So is that why you use a service?”

His chuckle is a low warning that he’s noticed the change of topics . . . back to him. I wait to see if he answers the question or uses my own tactic back on me.

I watch him, and his face lights up when he waves to Lucy and then falls when he turns to look at me. “I use a service, Vaughn, because it’s easiest for everyone in the long run. No mess. No complications.”

“No attachment.”

“Sure.”

And I hate the nonchalance in his tone. I hate that all of a sudden I want to matter.

“How often have you used one?”

“What is this, twenty questions?” he asks, and I smile sweetly at him.

“You were the one who was pissed off when you didn’t know the answers. Turnabout’s fair play.” He eyes me, curious but not happy with being on the other end of the inquisition. “Look who you’re speaking to . . . it’s not like I’m going to judge you because you have.” I shrug to make my point, even though inside I’m suddenly wanting him to lie to me and tell me Wicked Ways is the first one he’s used. That the number of women he’s been with can be counted on one hand.

But even I’m not that much of a masochist to ask a question like that of a wealthy, handsome man like him.

And sounding just like I feel, he blows out a breath and lets the silence fall between us before he answers.

“I’ve used a service a few times over the years.” He lifts his eyebrows but doesn’t look my way. “In my line of work, it’s important that I reflect a certain image.”

“What? The divorce lawyer who has a woman but who isn’t married?” I ask, knowing it sounds ridiculous.

“Yes. Men who are going through a divorce want to feel like I understand, like I can relate.”

“And you being in a happily ever after marriage mars that for them?” I can understand what he’s saying, but at the same time . . . don’t completely buy it.