The Pretense

Chapter 10

Harper smiled and gazed around Callum’s large living room. It held twice as many guests as it was intended to house and absently, she thought she felt as if she had just stepped into the pages of The Great Gatsby.

            Callum’s fiftieth birthday celebrations were in full swing and seemingly a roaring success: elegant women and debonair men were conversing and laughing with unbridled joy as if their lives were truly as beautiful as the party they were now attending. Some were already dancing to Callum’s fifties inspired music, while others had taken their beverages outside and were soaking up the balmy night, absently batting at the annoying insects that darted around as if they were trying to zap someone.

            It was a crowd Matteo would fit in – especially dressed as he was now, in a crisp blue shirt that hugged his wide shoulders and showcased his amazing eyes and tailored pants that hung perfectly from his lean hips.

            “You look like you’re at a funeral,” Matteo said wryly, his breath warm against her temple.

Harper sniffed in acknowledgement of his comment. She did felt as if she were at a funeral. Ever since they’d returned from the park, she had felt edgy and stressed at her sudden attack of blabbermouth. Trying to turn tables on him had been a dismal failure. As soon as she’d asked about him, he’d sprung up from the table as if an ant had crawled to his jeans.

“I’m boring,” he said, which loosely translated to conversation closed.

It had almost been a race to see who would make it to the car first. But he must have sensed her childish hurt at his rebuff because he’d glanced at her when they were in the car.

“Everything you could possibly want to know about me is on the internet.”

She scoffed. “The internet tells me superficial stuff, like how many races you’ve won and how many hearts you’ve broken.”

He’s seemed to get annoyed at that. “As I told Denver, if I had slept with as many women as the media proclaims, I’d have hardly enough time to enter a race – let alone win one. In fact, I rarely play with a woman during racing season and if I do, it’s very short lived.

Play? Can’t he think of a more dissociative term?

“Why?” Because you get bored easily?”

“There is that. But no, I usually don’t allow a woman to hand around long enough to bore me. Basically, women want more attention than I’m prepared to give them, so if I indulge it’s usually for a night or two.”

“That’s pretty shallow.”

He’d shrugged. “Not if the woman is after the same thing.”

“And how many are?”

“Not enough, it’s true. Most want more – hence my moratorium on limiting those intimacies during the season.”

“To make sure you don’t have to contend with any broken hearts that might wreck your concentration?” she’d said churlishly.

He’d smiled as if he hadn’t heard her censure. “Not much can wreck my concentration but a whiny woman can certainly do damage to a man’s eardrums.”

“No more than your whiny cars,” she’d shot back pithily. But then she’d grown curious. “Don’t you ever want more?”

“Racing gives me everything I need,” he’d said.

His unwavering confidence had pushed her to probe further.”So have you ever been in love?”

“Sure.” He’d glanced over at her and Harper remembered holding her breath. “My first love was a bright red 1975 Maserati Bora. She’s sexy as hell.”