husband or a
virile young lover, Colin supposed, but the fellows seated at the
table were so—so— Well, they weren’t suitable. The old ones were
too old, and the young ones were mere boys. He turned to look at
her, and the possibility that she might have a yen for a wealthy
old husband or a simpering young lover irked him. Surely she wasn’t
so conniving.
Besides, none of the men or boys dining with
them this evening would need such provocation as Brenda might, be
exciting by paying attention to Colin. If she crooked her little
finger, they’d all come running. She didn’t need Colin to achieve
success with any of them.
What could it be what could it be?
“Don’t forget,” she said, jarring him and
returning his attention to her, “we’ve got a date after dinner.
You’re going to tell me all about the Indians.”
The Indians. Honestly. She didn’t really
expect him to buy into that one, did she?
Nevertheless, he’d already committed
himself. He smiled. “Of course. The Indians.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate this.”
Right. Colin refrained from uttering a
sarcastic snort only with difficulty.
Chapter Four
Brenda was frustrated when she went upstairs
to bed that night. She neither liked nor was accustomed to feeling
this way. Oh, it was true she’d finagled Colin Peters into sitting
with her after dinner and discussing Indians, but their
conversation hadn’t satisfied her.
For one thing, he’d been remarkably
disinclined to speak with her at all. She’d detected his reluctance
clearly in the rigid lines of his body, his stilted manner of
speech, and in the way his lips pursed when she asked questions. It
was as if he found her not merely boring and stupid, but pesky as
well.
While Brenda was too sensible to be arrogant
about her looks—after all, they weren’t her fault—she wasn’t used
to men being as indifferent to her feminine charms as Colin seemed
to be. She’d spent most of her life marketing her looks, for
heaven’s sake, and, until Colin Peters came along, she’d been very
successful at it.
It had been an annoying evening. Oh, sure,
she’d learned a lot about the Gabrielino Indians, but she didn’t
want to know about them. She wanted to know about the Indians who
were supposed to take her character captive in Indian Love
Song .
When she’d told Colin so, he’d looked
aggrieved and superior and said there were no such Indians. She
didn’t believe him. She’d even argued with him about it, but he was
adamant. He even got huffy.
“Never, in all of the chronicles about
Indian culture that I’ve perused, have I read of such a thing,” he
said grimly. “And in all of the interviews I’ve conducted, I’ve
never heard of it, either.”
“But surely Indians took people
captive.”
“Of course they did.” He was getting
snappish.
“So why do you say that this particular
capture is incredible?”
“Because it is.”
“But why?”
“It’s utterly nonsensical.”
Which still didn’t tell her why the scenario
was so incredible and nonsensical. She’d been grateful when Martin
had turned up, because she’d been on the point of becoming almost
as testy as Colin. But Martin was a great gun, and he bought her
and Colin a drink, and they’d ended up being civil to each
other.
There was no doubt in the world that Colin
Peters puzzled her, though He was everything she’d ever wanted to
be herself. He was, as well, everything she could imagine ever
wanting in a man—and he apparently desired to have nothing
whatsoever to do with her.
Was it because she was an actress? Surely
not. Brenda had never met a man anywhere who wouldn’t have been as
happy as a cat in cream to have her on his arm. Men were so simple.
So predictable. So—so—so unutterably stupid about such things.
If she were stuck with an empty-headed,
brainless, ornament of a man, she’d be bored sick in a minute. But
she was a woman, and women were more sensible than men. Men
virile young lover, Colin supposed, but the fellows seated at the
table were so—so— Well, they weren’t suitable. The old ones were
too old, and the young ones were mere boys. He turned to look at
her, and the possibility that she might have a yen for a wealthy
old husband or a simpering young lover irked him. Surely she wasn’t
so conniving.
Besides, none of the men or boys dining with
them this evening would need such provocation as Brenda might, be
exciting by paying attention to Colin. If she crooked her little
finger, they’d all come running. She didn’t need Colin to achieve
success with any of them.
What could it be what could it be?
“Don’t forget,” she said, jarring him and
returning his attention to her, “we’ve got a date after dinner.
You’re going to tell me all about the Indians.”
The Indians. Honestly. She didn’t really
expect him to buy into that one, did she?
Nevertheless, he’d already committed
himself. He smiled. “Of course. The Indians.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate this.”
Right. Colin refrained from uttering a
sarcastic snort only with difficulty.
Chapter Four
Brenda was frustrated when she went upstairs
to bed that night. She neither liked nor was accustomed to feeling
this way. Oh, it was true she’d finagled Colin Peters into sitting
with her after dinner and discussing Indians, but their
conversation hadn’t satisfied her.
For one thing, he’d been remarkably
disinclined to speak with her at all. She’d detected his reluctance
clearly in the rigid lines of his body, his stilted manner of
speech, and in the way his lips pursed when she asked questions. It
was as if he found her not merely boring and stupid, but pesky as
well.
While Brenda was too sensible to be arrogant
about her looks—after all, they weren’t her fault—she wasn’t used
to men being as indifferent to her feminine charms as Colin seemed
to be. She’d spent most of her life marketing her looks, for
heaven’s sake, and, until Colin Peters came along, she’d been very
successful at it.
It had been an annoying evening. Oh, sure,
she’d learned a lot about the Gabrielino Indians, but she didn’t
want to know about them. She wanted to know about the Indians who
were supposed to take her character captive in Indian Love
Song .
When she’d told Colin so, he’d looked
aggrieved and superior and said there were no such Indians. She
didn’t believe him. She’d even argued with him about it, but he was
adamant. He even got huffy.
“Never, in all of the chronicles about
Indian culture that I’ve perused, have I read of such a thing,” he
said grimly. “And in all of the interviews I’ve conducted, I’ve
never heard of it, either.”
“But surely Indians took people
captive.”
“Of course they did.” He was getting
snappish.
“So why do you say that this particular
capture is incredible?”
“Because it is.”
“But why?”
“It’s utterly nonsensical.”
Which still didn’t tell her why the scenario
was so incredible and nonsensical. She’d been grateful when Martin
had turned up, because she’d been on the point of becoming almost
as testy as Colin. But Martin was a great gun, and he bought her
and Colin a drink, and they’d ended up being civil to each
other.
There was no doubt in the world that Colin
Peters puzzled her, though He was everything she’d ever wanted to
be herself. He was, as well, everything she could imagine ever
wanting in a man—and he apparently desired to have nothing
whatsoever to do with her.
Was it because she was an actress? Surely
not. Brenda had never met a man anywhere who wouldn’t have been as
happy as a cat in cream to have her on his arm. Men were so simple.
So predictable. So—so—so unutterably stupid about such things.
If she were stuck with an empty-headed,
brainless, ornament of a man, she’d be bored sick in a minute. But
she was a woman, and women were more sensible than men. Men
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