few seconds, then got herself together again in time to be coherent. “Well, yes, it is. You see, this is a matter of such importance—”
He stopped her with a rude word. He was angry with himself, angry with her. The way she’d barged into his life a few nights before had affected him more than he wanted to admit. He told himself it was just her femaleness that had sent him into a tailspin for a couple of days.
It could have been any woman, anyone at all. Despite everything, he did feel a real lack of the feminine presence in his life. He missed having someone around who put flowers in a glass and plunked them in the middle of the table at breakfast. He missed the flow of shiny hair spilling over a smooth, silky shoulder, the soft pout of red, swollen lips, the cheerful voice that sounded like sunshine, the way a pair of breasts filled out a sweater and pulled the fabric in that tightly entrancing way that just knocked him out. All these things shouted femininity to him. Having a woman around made daily existence softer, more colorful, more dramatic. He missed that.
But such things were part of a life that was closed to him now. Finding Isabella on his property had just brought that home to him and made the loss fresh again. He needed to forget all about her.
And he’d managed over the last few days to practically obliterate her from his consciousness. He’d done it deliberately, piece by piece, setting up work schedules andexercise routines that demanded more of his attention and time, until he fell exhausted into bed at night and slept like a drugged beast. He’d done everything he could think of to make his life new and challenging in order to keep his mind from going where he didn’t need it to go.
Now here she was with her provocative voice and her urgent requests, stirring up things he didn’t want stirred. That made him angry, even though a part of him knew that the anger was a direct attempt to stave off temptation.
“Tell me the truth,” he demanded. “How did you get this number?”
She drew her breath in. “I found it.”
The sheer audacity of that answer took him by surprise and he nearly laughed out loud. But he held it back and managed to ask with a straight face, “Where?”
“In the trash.”
He shook his head. Did she really think he was going to buy that one? “Isabella, please. That doesn’t make any sense.”
She sighed. “Life doesn’t make any sense. Hadn’t you noticed?”
“Don’t try to throw sand in my eyes with ridiculous philosophical musings,” he warned her, thoroughly annoyed. “This is a very basic problem. It doesn’t need an esoteric response. You found my number. I want to know how so that it doesn’t happen again.”
“I’ve told you the truth,” she insisted, sounding earnest. “It was in my trash.”
So she wasn’t going to tell him. That only strengthened his convictions. If she couldn’t respond truthfully to a simple question, he didn’t need her complicating his life any longer. Best to cut all ties as quickly as possible. Prolonging this would only make things worse for him and his peace of mind.
“I don’t know how you got this number,” he told her gruffly, “but it hardly matters. I’ll get it changed right away.”
She drew her breath in. “All so you can avoid any calls from me?” she asked, her voice sounding shocked.
“Yes,” he said stoutly.
She didn’t understand. But that was for the best. If she ever tumbled to the truth—that she affected him as no one else had in years—his situation would be that much more precarious.
“Why do you hate me?” she asked, aghast.
“I don’t hate you.” He groaned softly, closing his eyes. “That’s just the problem,” he muttered under his breath.
“What?” she said.
He gritted his teeth and expelled a long line of swear words in an obscure dialect, just because it made him feel better. This woman was driving him around the bend. And that was odd. He didn’t