Читать книгу His Trophy Mistress - Daphne Clair - Страница 7

JAGER didn’t approach her again, but while Paige dutifully danced with the best man and then others, she was continually aware of him, leaning against a wall with arms folded or prowling the periphery of the room, exchanging a few words here and there with other guests, and for several minutes talking with Glen and Maddie.

When the bride and groom left, Paige kept her hands at her sides as Maddie tossed her bouquet into the crowd of well-wishers, allowing an excited young girl to catch it.

She was looking forward to slipping away now her duties were over. She couldn’t have turned down Maddie’s tentative request to attend her, hedged about with anxious assurances that Maddie would understand if she didn’t want to. But now she felt drained and tired, with an incipient headache beating at her temples.

She sought out her mother and said quietly, “Do you mind if I go on home now? I’m not needed anymore.”

“Of course, dear.” Margaret searched her face. “Your father and I have to stay until everyone’s gone, but I’m sure Blake would drive you…” Margaret looked around for the best man.

“No, give me my purse and I’ll call a taxi. There’s a phone in the lobby.”

“Well…if you’re sure.”

“Yes. I’ll see you in the morning.” Paige leaned down and kissed her mother’s cheek. “It was a lovely wedding.”

“Yes, wasn’t it?” Margaret glowed. At least this time she’d launched a daughter into matrimony in style.

In the lobby Paige found a card pinned above the phone with the number of a taxi company printed on it, and was dialing the final digit when a lean, strong hand came over her shoulder and pressed down the bar, leaving the dial tone humming in her ear.

“You don’t need them,” Jager’s voice said. “I’ll take you home.”

Her hand tightened on the receiver. She didn’t turn. “Thank you,” she said, “but I’d prefer a cab.”

“Why? My car’s right outside.”

Why? She couldn’t think of an answer that didn’t sound either unnecessarily rude or like an overreaction.

He lifted his hand and gently removed the receiver from her grasp, replacing it in the cradle. Belatedly she said, “I wouldn’t want to take you out of your way…”

He didn’t even bother to reply to that, already steering her toward the doors that swished open at their approach. “Where are you staying?”

“With my parents.” She waited for some caustic remark, but all he said was, “The car’s over here.”

It was long and shiny, a dark navy-blue, she guessed, though it was difficult to tell at night.

The interior was spacious and the upholstery was real, soft leather.

Unless he was living beyond his means Jager had come up in the world. Her father had said something about him apparently doing well.

He slid into the seat beside her and buckled up his safety belt. When he turned the key in the ignition she scarcely heard the engine start, but they were soon gliding out of the car park.

“So,” he said, “you came home for your sister’s wedding. Last I heard you were living in New York.”

“Yes.” Paige shifted uneasily in the leather seat. “And you…? What are you doing now?”

He spared her a glance. “I run a telecommunications business, providing systems for industry.”

“Is it a big business?”

“Big enough.” He shrugged. “We’re expanding all the time, increasing staff numbers.”

“It sounds…interesting.”

“It’s challenging. New technologies are being invented and refined all the time. We have to stay a jump ahead, deciding which innovations are a flash in the pan and which will become industry standards.”

“It sounds risky?”

“I’ve built a solid enough base that we can afford the odd risk. So far I haven’t been wrong.”

“You must be proud of yourself.”

He seemed to ponder that. “Pride is what goes before a fall, isn’t it?”

“Are you afraid of falling?”

He laughed, with that new, somehow disturbing male confidence. “Not anymore. Are you?”

She looked away from him, not answering.

He gave her a second or two, then said quite soberly, “I learned a long time ago, no matter how hard the fall, I can survive. And I never make the same mistake twice.”

“It seems like a sound philosophy.” She’d survived too. And she had no intention of scaling any heights again with him.

He said, “I heard you got married in America.”

“Yes.”

“Did your parents approve?”

“Yes, actually.” They had come to the wedding, given their blessing.

“But you’re alone now.”

She didn’t want his sympathy. Even less did she want to bare her feelings to him, of all people. To take the conversation away from herself she asked, “Are you married?”

The first question that had come to mind, but immediately she regretted asking. It could lead to a minefield.

“Like I said,” he replied, “I never make the same mistake twice.”

“Marriage isn’t always a mistake,” she said.

It left him an opening, she realized, and was thankful that he didn’t take it. He gunned the motor and the car leaped forward before he lifted his foot slightly and the engine settled back into its subdued growl. When he spoke again his voice was remote and cool. “I suppose you can’t wait to get back to…America.”

Evasively she answered, “I’ll be spending some time with my family.”

“How much time…days, weeks?” He paused. “Months?”

“I’m not sure.”

He flashed a glance at her. “He must be pretty accommodating…your husband.”

Her thoughts skittering, she realized Jager didn’t know…

Why should he? Her mouth dried, and her throat ached. She stared through the windscreen with wide-open eyes until they stung and she had to blink. “My husband—”

She didn’t see the other car until it was right in front of them—it seemed to have come from nowhere, the headlights blinding, so close that her voice broke off in a choked scream and she raised her arms before her face, knowing that despite Jager’s frantic wrench at the wheel, accompanied by a sharp, shocking expletive, there was no way he could avoid a collision.

A horrified sense of inevitability mixed with cold, stark terror, and the awareness that maybe this was how—and when—she was going to die.

With Jager, said a clear inner voice, and the thought carried with it both tearing grief and a strange, fleeting sensation of gladness.

The heavy thump and screech of metal on metal filled her ears and the impact jolted her against the seat belt. She was vaguely aware of the windscreen, glimpsed between her shielding arms, going white and opaque, then it disappeared and the two cars, locked together, slid across the road in a slow, agonizing waltz until they came to a jarring halt against a building.

Daring to lower her arms, Paige heard Jager’s voice, seemingly somewhere in the far distance. “Paige—Paige! Are you all right?”

His hand gripped her shoulder, and by the light of a street lamp she saw his face, a deathly color, with dark thin trickles of moisture running from his forehead, his cheeks and his eyes blazing.

“You’re bleeding,” she said, raising an unsteady hand to touch one of the small rivulets, wanting suddenly to cry. She couldn’t bear the thought of him being disfigured.

“Never mind that,” he said impatiently. “Are you hurt?” His hands slid from her shoulders down her arms, and he swore vehemently. “You’re bleeding too.”

She was, from several tiny glass nicks on her bare forearms. “It’s nothing.” She moved her legs, found them whole and unhurt. “I’m all right. Are you?”

“Nothing broken.”

In the background someone was yelling. Car doors slammed and then a face peered into the space left by the broken windscreen. “The police and ambulance are on their way,” said a male voice. “Anyone hurt in there?”

“We’re okay,” Jager answered. “Can you get the passenger door open? My side’s too badly damaged.”

Ambulance staff checked them both and told them they were lucky, but to contact an emergency medical service if they experienced delayed symptoms.

The other driver, miraculously walking, though groggy and with a broken arm, was taken to hospital. While the police were noncommittal when they breath-tested Jager and took statements from both him and Paige, it was fairly obvious the injured man had been drinking.

Within half an hour the cars had been dragged away and the police offered to take Paige and Jager home.

Jager gave them Paige’s parents’ address and climbed into the car beside her. He handed her purse to her and she realized he’d retrieved it from the wreckage.

When the car drew up outside the house he got out and helped her to the pavement, and said to the driver, “Thanks a lot. We appreciate the lift.”

He had his arm around her and was urging her to the gateway as the police car pulled away from the kerb.

“Don’t you want them to take you home?” she said. “You don’t need to come in with me.”

“It doesn’t look like your parents are in yet. I’m not leaving you alone.”

The garden lights were on—they were on an automatic timer—but the house was in darkness.

When she drew out the key Jager took it from her and opened the door, closing it behind them as he accompanied her into the wide entryway. He found the light switch and she said, “The burglar alarm. You have to press that yellow button on the key-tag.”

He found it and then handed the key on its electronic tag back to her. She felt a trickle of moisture on her forehead and lifted a hand to find the source, wincing as her fingers encountered something sharp. She stared at the tiny droplet of blood on her finger. “I’ve got glass in my hair.”

Jager had regained some of his normal color, but his eyes were darkened in the center, the irises now more gray than green, his mouth tight as he surveyed her. “We need a bathroom,” he said, “to clean up.”

There was one off her room, shared with the bedroom that had been her sister’s when they both lived at home. “Come upstairs,” she offered. It was the least she could do.

Jager’s face was streaked with blood too, and there were red spots on his shirt. His hair was ruffled out of its sleek styling, speckled with sparkling fragments of glass.

He followed her up the wide marble staircase, carpeted in the middle so that their footsteps were silent.

The door to her room was open. Paige swiftly crossed to the bathroom, switching on the light. White and merciless, it shone on shiny decorative tiles and a glass-enclosed shower, bold gold-plated taps and big fluffy towels.

She took a towel and facecloth from a pile on a shelf, handing a set to Jager. “You’d better wash your face.”

While he did so she opened one of the mirrored cupboards, grimacing at her pale reflection, with a smear of blood across the forehead.

As Jager dried himself she turned with a comb in her hand, holding it out to him. “Wait. I’ll get something to catch the glass.” If they used one of the towels the slivers would be caught in the pile.

In the bedroom she removed a pillowcase, leaving the covers rumpled, and hurried back to spread it on the bathroom floor. “Now you can comb the glass out of your hair.”

“You first.” He reached out, lifted her spectacles from her nose and placed them on the marble counter. Before she could protest his hand curled around her nape, warm and compelling.

“I can do my own.”

“You can’t see it,” he replied calmly. “Bend forward a bit, honey. You don’t want glass down your cleavage.”

The casual endearment had caught her unawares, sending a soft warmth through her. Afraid he’d read the heat in her cheeks, and maybe something in her eyes that she didn’t want him to see, she bowed her head.

His fingers slid gently through her hair from nape to crown, followed by the stroke of the comb. Fragments of glass made a tiny pattering on the pillowcase. He combed carefully though the fine strands, then gave a muttered exclamation, and she felt a prickle of pain.

“This might hurt,” he said tersely. She held her breath, and bit her lip against a sudden sting.

“There.” He dropped a bloodied sliver on the pillowcase. “It was embedded, but I think I’ve got it all. Don’t move.”

He grabbed a facecloth and ran cold water on it, then she felt the coolness pressed to the place where the glass had pierced the skin. “It’s bleeding a bit,” he said, “but it wasn’t deep.”

“You’re bleeding more than I am.” He’d taken the full force of the shattered windscreen, too busy fighting for both their lives to even try to protect himself as she had done.

“It’s nothing. Just a few nicks.” He lifted the cloth. “That’s better. Do you have some disinfectant?”

“Not necessary.” She lifted her head. “I’m fine, really.”

“Really.” He sounded as if he didn’t believe her. His free hand caught her chin, a frown of concentration on his brow. “You didn’t get any in your face.”

“No.” She stepped back, but now he took her hand, and led her to the wide basin. “We haven’t finished yet.” He put in the plug and turned on a tap with one hand, still holding her in a firm grip with the other.

“Look, I—”

“Shh,” he admonished. “Hold still.”

He gently wiped the remaining blood from her forehead and bathed her arms, washing away the red streaks, leaving only tiny puncture wounds. “You were lucky,” he said. “We both were.”

The water had turned pale pink and he let it out, reached for one of the towels and patted her skin dry. “You’ll want to change.” He was eyeing her ruined dress—streaked with blood, and torn where she’d caught it on something as they were helped out of the car.

Paige recalled worrying about the wine stain, seemingly aeons ago, and thought how little it mattered. They might both have been killed.

She shivered, remembering the horrible, stark fear of those few moments when the world seemed about to end for her. And for Jager.

His hands closed over her arms. “It’s all right. You’re all right.”

“I know.” But her voice was unsteady and she couldn’t stop trembling. She supposed shock was setting in.

Jager drew her toward him, but then he stopped and cursed under his breath, looking down at his bloodied clothes. “Can you get out of that dress by yourself?” he asked her.

Paige nodded jerkily. But she didn’t move, and the tremors that racked her were getting worse.

“Here.” He turned her, and she felt the zipper at the back of the ruined dress being opened, all the way to the end of her spine. Then the dress was lifted away from her shoulders and it slithered to her feet, leaving her in a mauve half-cup bra, matching bikini briefs and a pair of lace-topped stockings that were snagged and laddered.

“Step out of it,” Jager said.

Like an automaton she obeyed, lifting one foot from the tangled satin of the dress. Her shoe caught in the folds and she lost her balance, kicking off the other shoe in an effort to regain it.

Jager’s hands closed about her arms, swung her around to face him, and her hand momentarily flattened against his chest.

Her startled eyes met his, and her trembling abruptly stopped.

The particles of glass caught in the blackness of his hair sparkled like a scattering of diamonds, and his eyes had the sheen of polished jade. The flawless male skin was marked by small wounds, one trickling a thin line of blood onto his cheekbone.

Unconsciously Paige touched her tongue to her upper lip, bringing Jager’s gaze to her mouth. Another tremor shook her body, and his head jerked up a fraction. His hands tightened but he kept the few inches space between them. “Have you got something warm to put on?” he asked her, his voice low and rough.

Paige blinked, nodded.

“Then go and do it,” he ordered. “I’ll clean up in here.” He gave her a little push. “Go on.”

She did, dragging a thick terry-cloth robe from her wardrobe. When Jager pulled the bathroom door wide and entered the bedroom she was tying the sash at her waist, clumsily because her hands were shaking. Her torn stockings lay on the bed.

The light no longer picked up glints from his hair. He must have combed out the glass. And he’d taken off his jacket—and his shirt. To wash out the bloodstains, she supposed. “I tossed the glass in the waste bin,” he said. “And the pillowcase into the clothes basket. What do you want to do with this?” He had her dress in his hands.

“Leave it.” She was trying to be calm and controlled, but little shivers kept attacking her in waves. Despite the heavy toweling wrap she felt cold. Her gaze went to the dress in his hands. “I’ll have to throw it out.”

A faint, knowing contempt touched his mouth, and she said defensively, “It’s ruined.” It might be a waste but the dress was beyond repair.

He looked down at the crushed and stained fabric. “Pity. You looked marvelous in it.”

He began folding it, clumsy but careful.

She had never looked marvelous in anything. She’d looked good in it, Paige knew—as good as she ever would. But it was silly to feel a pleased glow at the compliment.

The shiny fabric slipped in his hands, his attempt at folding coming to grief.

“It doesn’t matter,” Paige said, unaccountably irritated. “Give it to me.”

She crossed to him and took the dress from him and into the bathroom, where she shoved the thing willy-nilly into the rubbish container in the corner, slamming the lid back on.

Jager’s shirt was spread across the heated towel rail, damp in patches. She couldn’t see his jacket, and supposed he’d hung it on the hook behind the door.

When she turned he was standing in the doorway, watching her.

Defensively she folded her arms across herself as she made her way back into the bedroom. Jager stood aside but as she passed him she caught a whiff of his skin-scent, bringing back unbearably powerful, poignant memories. Warm nights and a warm bed, and Jager’s warm raw-silk nakedness under her hands, against her own heated skin…

Hurriedly she moved away from him, and turned to find him looking at the ruined stockings lying on the bed, but then he lifted his eyes and they seemed to be searching for something in hers.

She should look away. Instead she found her gaze wandering to his mouth, a mouth made for temptation, for seduction. A mouth that could wreak magic on a woman’s body. And his broad chest, a masculine perfection where her hands had once roamed at will, where she’d lain her cheek against his heart after making love. Her eyes reached the discreet silver buckle of the belt that snugged his dark trousers to his slim waist, and her heartbeat quickened.

She didn’t have her glasses on, she reminded herself. Any flaws would be mercifully invisible to her. No man could possibly look as good as Jager did right now.

“Enjoying yourself?”

His voice brought her back with a start to what she was doing.

She tried to brazen it out. “Just checking. I would have thought you’d at least have bruises.”

He flexed his right shoulder and shifted his leg, apparently testing. “I may have, tomorrow.” He grimaced.

“You were hurt! Why didn’t you tell the ambulance officers?”

“It’s nothing. They gave me a pretty thorough going-over.”

“They’re not doctors.”

“I’m fine.” He swung the arm to show her. “See?”

Unconvinced, but conscious of how much worse it might have been, she shivered again. “You might have been killed.”

“So might you.” He looked grim suddenly. “You’re still cold. Maybe you should have a warm shower and get into bed.”

“With you here?”

“I won’t join you—unless I’m invited.”

“You’re not invited!”

He folded his arms across that splendid chest, and looked regretful. “I thought not. But don’t let me stop you.” As she hesitated, he said, “This is no time to be prudish, Paige. It’ll be at least fifteen minutes before my shirt is dry. You might as well use the time—unless you’d rather spend it talking to me.”

No, she wouldn’t…would she? Paige plumped for the lesser evil. “All right,” she mumbled, and made for the bathroom.

The shower felt good. Wincing at the tender spot where Jager had dug glass from her scalp, she washed her hair. Five minutes with the hair dryer left it shining and soft, and she put her undies into the clothes basket and pulled the terry gown back on, because she hadn’t thought to bring anything else into the bathroom with her.

She fingered Jager’s shirt and lifted it from the towel rail, switched on the hair dryer again to play it over the remaining dampness, then returned to the bedroom with the shirt in her hand. “It’s dry,” she told him.

“Thanks.” He’d been lounging on the bed, his head propped on the pillows. The sight gave her a start; he looked so much at home, as if he belonged there.

He stood up and stretched out his hand for the shirt, but then, as if he couldn’t help it, his hand bypassed the shirt and touched her hair, stroked its newly washed sleekness, and his thumb traced the outline of her ear.

Paige’s heart stopped. She forgot to breathe. Couldn’t speak. Her eyelids fell of their own accord, before she jerked them open. “What are you doing?”

His hand had come to a stop, a hank of her hair trapped in his fist. “Where’s your husband?” His voice was deep and indistinct, and his jewel-eyes glittered into hers. “Damn him, why isn’t he here looking after you?”

The unexpected question widened her eyes, and her lips parted on a caught breath. Obscure anger shook her. “I’m a grown woman, Jager. I don’t need a man to look after me.” Never mind that Jager had done just that tonight, very competently, for which until this moment she’d been grateful. “And as for my husband,” she added huskily, and took a deep breath, “he…Aidan’s…”

“Not here,” Jager said harshly. And then his other arm came around her body, crushing her against him, and his mouth on hers smothered the words she was trying to say, sent her thoughts spinning into deep space and made her forget everything except his kiss.