“Try it on,” Jager said.

Her fingers trembled. A small moth seemed to be fluttering in her throat. Paige let the dress drop back into the nest of tissue on the couch. “No,” she said.

A frown appeared between his brows. “You don’t like it? Black suits you. Believe me, you’ll look great in that.”

Paige knew she would. His instinct was unerring. In that dress she could be certain no one would be looking at her face.

She would look like his mistress.

DAPHNE CLAIR lives in subtropical New Zealand with her Dutch-born husband. They have five children. At eight years old she embarked on her first novel, about taming a tiger. This epic never reached a publisher, but metamorphosed male tigers still prowl the pages of her romances, of which she has written over thirty for Harlequin Mills & Boon® and over fifty all told. Her other writing includes nonfiction, poetry and short stories, and she has won literary prizes in New Zealand and America.

His Trophy Mistress
Daphne Clair

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

THE bride and groom proceeded triumphantly down the aisle to the door of the church. Behind them Paige Camden, chief bridal attendant, kept her own smile in place and one eye on the five-year-old flower girl who seemed in danger of walking on the bride’s white satin train.

Paige bent to place a restraining hand on the child’s shoulder. As she straightened, casting an idle look at the nearer pews, her hazel eyes met a glittering jewel-green gaze that jerked her shoulders back and instantly eliminated her smile.

What the hell was Jager Jeffries doing at her sister’s wedding?

And still as stunningly handsome as ever. Those astonishing eyes under well-defined brows contrasted with naturally olive skin; the stubborn masculine mouth and proud warrior’s nose hinted at an unknown connection to some Maori ancestor.

The dark, luxuriantly waving hair was somewhat tamed by a surely expensive cut. An even more expensive suit hugged broad shoulders, tapered hips and long, muscular legs, its perfect fit and exquisite tailoring proclaiming how far the mature thirty-one-year-old had come from the wild young tearaway Paige had once known. And loved—with a passion so intense it was inevitably self-destructive, burning up in its own heat until only gray, dusty ashes remained.

“Paige?” The best man’s hand was on her arm. “Are you okay?” he murmured, bending toward her.

The bridal party had forged ahead and guests were pressing from behind.

“Yes,” Paige lied, resurrecting the smile. “I just stood on my dress, that’s all.”

She wrenched her gaze away from the piercing green one, unnecessarily shook out the violet floor-length skirt of her dress and stumbled forward, glad of the best man’s supporting arm.

They reached the steps and the sunshine pouring out of a clear late-winter Auckland sky. A photographer motioned them into place beside the happy couple.

Paige kept the smile all through the photo session, and was still wearing it when they arrived at the crowded reception and she took her assigned place at the main table.

By that time her jaw was aching and her nerves humming like fine, overtensioned wires. When the best man poured her a glass of ruby-red wine she grabbed it with a shaking hand and downed half of it before she realized she’d spilled a drop on her satin gown.

Surreptitiously she dipped a corner of a linen table napkin into the crystal glass of iced water before her and dabbed at the stain. The wine color faded, and she rubbed the spreading watermark with the dry part of the napkin. At least at a distance it would be less noticeable than the wine.

She fixed a glazed stare on the table before her, telling herself it was imagination that she could feel Jager’s gaze on her, that the hot prickling of sensation that assailed her skin was a by-product of long-buried memories that seeing him again had brought to the surface.

The succulent chicken and crisp salads on her plate might have been old rope and grass. She scarcely managed half a dozen mouthfuls, trusting the wine to stop them sticking in her throat.

Somehow she replied to her neighbors’ efforts at conversation, and raised her glass and applauded the speeches at the right moments. And finally, despite her limited vision without her glasses, was unable to resist the urge to sweep her gaze about the red-carpeted, white-pillared reception lounge with its gilded decor and lavish floral arrangements, and find out if Jager really was there.

He was.

He sat at one of the nearer tables, leaning back in his half-turned chair and looking infuriatingly relaxed. As if he’d been waiting for her to find him, he lifted his glass to her in a mocking little gesture and drank, his eyes holding hers. Although the people around him were just a blur to Paige, and he was slightly out of focus, she felt the full force of his eyes.

Her hand tightened around her own glass, but she didn’t return the silent toast, instead staring at him accusingly. How dare you! her eyes demanded. How dare you turn up at Maddie’s wedding and ruin the day for me?

He must have been invited. Not by Maddie—her sister would never have done that to her. So the invitation had come from Glen Provost, Maddie’s new husband, or his family. How did he know Glen? Was Maddie aware of the connection, whatever it was? Why hadn’t she warned Paige?

Jager replaced his glass on the white cloth. His long fingers twirled the fragile glass stem, and the corners of his mouth lifted in a faint smile while he continued to hold Paige’s eyes.

Who was staring back at him, she realized, like a rabbit at a snake.

For the second time that day she dragged her gaze from him. She could feel the increased beat of her heart against the low-cut, fitted bodice of her dress, that seemed too tight. Drawing in a deep breath, she saw the best man’s newly aroused interest in her bosom, his eyes first lingering, then in surprise flicking up to her face.

Not nearly as interesting, she mentally told him with grimly cynical humor. Her face would never be her fortune, not that she needed one, since she and Maddie were her father’s only heirs.

There was nothing particularly wrong with ordinary hazel-green eyes, an unremarkable no-nonsense nose and a clear but hardly milk-and-roses complexion. They just didn’t add up to the kind of eye-catching, man-snaring feminine prettiness that blessed her younger sister.

Maddie’s eyes were blue and wide, her mouth a classic full-lipped bow, her nose cutely retroussé. And her hair was a tumble of blond natural curls that Paige would have killed for if she hadn’t been so fond of her sister.

After years of trying to make hers curl, or fluff up, or even stay pinned in a style of any sort, Paige had despaired of persuading it to do anything but hang straight and fine, au naturel. Now she kept it neatly and boringly cropped to just below her ears, brushed it briskly to a satiny sheen every night, and after unsuccessfully experimenting with bleaches and rinses, allowed it to retain its own unexciting nut-brown color.

Long ago she had decided against competing with Maddie or any other pretty girl. Paige was plain and there was no point in pretending otherwise. She could just be thankful that she wasn’t downright ugly, and that her figure as well as her face was passable, even if neither was likely to launch any ships. In fact her measurements were the same as her sister’s, but Maddie had always seemed more rounded and ultra-feminine, perhaps because she was three inches shorter than Paige’s five-eight.

Maddie had never had to worry that she was turning into a giraffe at age twelve. Their mother had never advised Maddie that makeup couldn’t work miracles, and that discreetly enhancing her best features would be more effective than drawing attention to her face by using too much.

As the newlyweds cut the cake, Paige’s mother put an elegantly slim, diamond-ringed hand on her waist and hissed in her ear, “What’s Jager Jeffries doing here? Did you know he was coming?”

“No I didn’t,” Paige answered, scarcely moving her lips. “And I have no idea.”

Margaret Camden’s precisely reddened lips tightened. The blue eyes she had bequeathed to her younger daughter glittered with annoyance as she shook a head of artfully lightened curls. “I can’t believe that Glen’s family knows him!”

When the cake-cutting was completed and the bride and groom began circulating among the guests, Paige handed out wedding cake but stayed well away from the table where Jager sat, allowing the flower girl to deal with it. After returning the empty tray to the kitchen she retrieved her small makeup kit from her mother’s handbag and crossed the carpeted lobby to the ladies’ room.

She touched up the minimal color on her lips, checked that the subtle beige shadow on her eyelids was intact and the mascara that tipped her lashes hadn’t run, and put on her large, rimless spectacles. Now that the photographs and the formal part of the wedding were over there was no reason she shouldn’t wear them. It would have been nice to have contact lenses for occasions like this but, after painfully trying them several times in the past, Paige had accepted she was one of those people who just couldn’t tolerate them.

Coming back into the lobby, she wished she had left the glasses in her bag. Because Jager stood only a few feet from the door, and without the slight, comforting vagueness that her impaired natural vision had imparted, he was very clearly, very solidly, in her way.

She knew, with a sense of inevitability, that he was waiting for her. That he’d followed her. A shimmer of pleased anticipation passed over her, and she firmly repressed it.

For a second or two neither of them moved. Paige searched Jager’s face for some clue to his emotions, his intentions, but apart from the brilliance of his eyes he was giving nothing away.

Deciding to take the initiative, she ordered her lips to a smile—she’d had plenty of practice at that today—and said brightly, “Hello, Jager. This is a surprise! I didn’t know you knew Glen.”

“I don’t,” he answered, and at her flicker of surprise added, “not very well. It’s a long story.”

Which she didn’t want to hear. “I’m sure it’s an interesting one,” she said, “but it will have to wait for another time.”

Trying to look busy and purposeful, she attempted to pass him, but he reached out, closing his fingers around her arm. Her heart tripped over itself and her skin tingled.

“When?” His voice was low and gritty.

Something hot and disturbing happened in her midriff and began to spread throughout her body. Dismayed and disoriented by the force of it, she took a moment to make sure her voice was steady. “When what?”

“When can I see you?”

Warily she pulled away, and he let go. “Why do you want to see me?”

Thick black lashes momentarily hid his eyes. Then he looked away from her as if trying to distance himself. She saw the faint widening of his nostrils when he took a breath before looking back at her, his gaze curiously speculative. “To catch up,” he said abruptly. “For old times’ sake.”

Two women and a man came out of the reception room, chatting and laughing as they headed for the rest rooms. Jager cast them an impatient glance and shifted so they could pass, his gaze homing in again on Paige.

“That’s hardly necessary,” she said.

“Necessary?” He pushed his hands into his pockets, looking down at her under half-closed lids from his six feet two inches. Dropping his voice to the deep purr that had always made her toes curl, he said, “It isn’t necessary…but I’m curious. Aren’t you?”

Intensely. But also cautious. Getting involved with Jager again was the last thing she needed right now. Ever. “No,” she said baldly.

More people were trickling out of the lounge, some going outside, one group pausing to talk a few feet away. Jager ignored them. “Come on,” he chided. “I thought your family was all keen on being tremendously civilized.”

“Leave my family out of this!”

“Gladly.” His beautiful lips curled.

She couldn’t raise her voice here, but it trembled with anger. “I can’t imagine why you’d want to talk—all we ever did at the end was argue.”

Some spark of emotion lit his eyes, and a complicated expression crossed his face. “Not all,” he reminded her. “There was always a way to end the argument.” His lazy, explicit look invited her to remember…

Paige’s lips compressed. Sweet, sweet memories—they had tormented her for years. “You said you wanted to talk!”

His head cocked, his expression becoming bland in the extreme. “Have I suggested anything else?”

He hadn’t—not verbally. Paige felt wrong-footed, stuck for an answer.

Lights flickered on around them. In the big room the three-piece band her parents had hired struck up the wedding waltz.

“I have to go back,” Paige said. “They’re dancing.”

Jager stood aside but she knew he was right behind her as she returned to the lounge.

The center of the floor had been cleared and Maddie and Glen were circling alone. A number of people had congregated near the doorway. Without pushing and causing a stir, Paige couldn’t get through.

The music paused, and the Master of Ceremonies urged everyone onto the floor. Both sets of parents took up the invitation then, followed by several more couples.

The crowd at the door began to part, and Paige moved forward to skirt the edge of the dance floor.

An arm curved around her waist, urged her onto the polished boards.

“I can’t…” she protested, but already her feet were following Jager’s lead. “The best man…he’ll be looking for me.”

“He can find someone else,” Jager said ruthlessly. He took the makeup bag from her hand and dropped it onto the nearest table. “Dance with me, Paige.”

He wasn’t really giving her any choice unless she was to make a scene. He pulled her close, his other hand closing over hers and folding it against his chest. He’d opened his jacket and through the fine fabric of his white shirt she could feel the warmth of his skin, the faint beat of his heart. His scent enveloped her, familiar and strange at the same time.

A long time ago she had tried to teach him the proper steps that she’d learned at her exclusive girls’ school, but he’d grinned and just held her and swayed to the music, scarcely moving his feet. Holding her close, body to body. Close enough for him to lay his cheek against her hair. Close enough to kiss.

Paige’s eyes drifted shut. Memories washed over her and for just a few minutes she let them. She didn’t speak and neither did Jager. She just breathed him in, his warmth, his personal male aroma, and remembered how it had been when they were young and in love, when she had believed they could overcome her parents’ opposition, the differences in their backgrounds, lack of money, their own inexperience of life. Anything, so long as they had each other.

And of course like most young love it had come to nothing, all their dreams shattered into sharp, hurtful pieces against the cold, hard reality of the adult world.

She made a small sound—half sigh, half laugh—that should have been drowned by the music, and the chatter all around them, but Jager drew back a couple of inches and looked down at her. “What?” he queried.

A wry smile on her mouth, she said, “Nothing.”

He continued to look at her, his gaze unreadable. “Nothing,” he repeated. A gleam entered his half-closed eyes. “O-oh yeah?” For a moment his white teeth showed in a brief, blinding smile. Then his head went back and he laughed, a deeper, richer sound than she remembered from the days when he’d been scarcely more than a boy, but retaining the same uninhibited enjoyment.

Something caught at her throat, hot and thick, and an answering joyousness sang in her blood, a powerful echo of long-buried emotions.

Then he actually executed a few dance steps, quite expertly, taking her with him, holding her tight as she instinctively followed. She felt the power of his muscles as his thighs brushed against hers before he stopped, swinging her slightly off balance so she had to cling to his shoulder to stay upright.

They remained in an embrace that shut out everyone, everything. The laughter had left his face and he looked somber, the strong jaw clenched so that his beautiful mouth became uncompromising, his cheekbones more prominent. In the dark centers of his eyes Paige saw her own upturned face, and she was dimly aware that his hand had tightened on hers to the point of pain. Other sensations overrode the tiny hurt. Her breathing was shallow and quick, her throat tight, her body licked by a slow, languorous fire.

“Paige,” he said, almost wonderingly, as if he’d just realized who it was he held.

Her lips parted hesitantly. His name hovered on them, then escaped like a sigh.

And another voice—her mother’s, sharp and anxious—broke the moment. “Paige!”

She blinked at the interruption, instinctively trying to pull away from Jager, but he wasn’t giving an inch.

Her mother stood within her father’s arm. Henry appeared uncomfortable and annoyed, while his wife looked militant. “Blake is looking for you,” she told Paige. “This should be his dance.”

Blake? For a moment Paige’s memory balked. The best man. “I didn’t see him.” She had seen no one but Jager since he’d swept her onto the dance floor. She looked up at him. “I’d better…” Again she tried to move away.

She recognized the quick jut of his jaw, the “don’t push me” look in his eyes. But then he loosened his hold, dropping his hand from her tingling fingers although he still retained his grip on her waist, and allowed her to turn to her parents. Looking at them, he said politely, “How are you Mrs. Camden…Mr. Camden?”

Henry Camden nodded stiffly. Margaret said crisply, “We’re well, Jager, and Paige…as you can see, she’s fine.” She paused, giving her daughter a covertly anxious glance before turning to him again. “We didn’t expect to see you here.”

“It was kind of a last-minute invitation.”

“Really?” The chilly reply didn’t encourage elaboration and he didn’t offer it.

Henry’s mature male rumble was directed at Jager. “I hear you’ve been doing very well for yourself.”

Margaret looked at her husband in surprise. It was evidently the first she’d heard of it.

Jager said, “You do?”

“A bit of a highflier these days.”

“I get by.”

Henry gave a bark of reluctant laughter. “More than that, I’d say.”

“Would you?”

Margaret demanded, “What are you talking about, Henry?”

Instead of explaining, Henry looked around them and said, “We’re holding up the traffic here. If we’re going to talk, we should move.”

But the music stopped then, and other couples began walking off the floor.

Margaret shifted her gaze to Jager and said pointedly, “Paige has certain duties as her sister’s attendant.”

Jager inclined his head, and lifted both hands away from Paige. “I haven’t balled and chained her.” His eyes challenged her. His voice low, he asked, “Do you want to leave me, Paige?”

Echoes of the past rose, hauntingly. Had he meant to arouse them? “I do have things to do.” She hated the apologetic note in her voice. Trying to sound more assertive she said, “It’s been nice seeing you again, Jager.”

Her mother looked relieved and approving. Jager merely lifted one dark brow a fraction and grinned at Paige. A tight, feral grin that both teased and promised, telling her she couldn’t dismiss him so easily and it amused him that she’d even tried.

A shiver of apprehension spiraled about her spine. Jager had changed in the intervening years. Formidably self-assured instead of cocky and defensive, he carried a distinctly unsettling aura of sexual potency that had little to do with the height and good looks bequeathed by his unknown ancestors, and everything to do with how he saw himself as a man. The raw, brash, quicksilver sexuality had been replaced by tempered steel under the polished surface of a new sophistication. Which made him all the more dangerous if, as she suspected, he had learned to use it as a weapon.

Well, she had changed too, Paige told herself as she left his side to hunt down either her sister or the best man. She was no longer in thrall to teenage hormones and romantic fantasies. There was more to love than the seductive siren call of sex, more to life than falling head over heels into lust and expecting it to overcome all obstacles.

Paige no longer trusted feelings alone in her relationships. Having learned her lesson the hard way, she had determined a long time back that for the rest of her life her head would be the ruler of her heart.

She spied Maddie’s veil enveloping blond curls, and joined her sister, smiling at the people who had engaged the bridal couple in talk. Maddie slid a glance at her and gracefully extricated them both, heading for the room set aside for the newlyweds to change in later.

Closing the door, Maddie turned. “Are you all right? I’m sorry, Peg.” The childhood nickname slipped out. “I had no idea Jager would turn up. It’s the most incredible coincidence—you wouldn’t believe it!”

“Coincidence? Wasn’t he invited?”

“Glen invited him. He didn’t know…well, I’ve never mentioned Jager’s actual name to him, so how could he? The thing is, Jager’s kind of a long-lost relation.”

“Of Glen’s?”

Maddie nodded. “They’re half brothers.”

Paige’s mouth fell open. Her thoughts whirled, and the one dazzling, golden one that surfaced and burst out into words was, “Jager found his family!”

Maddie was giving her a peculiar look.

Slowly the implications sank in. Paige gulped, swallowed and made a connection. “Glen’s mother…?”

Her sister’s white-veiled head shook vehemently. “His father…and some girl he knew before he got engaged to Glen’s mother. Mrs. Provost doesn’t know yet…with the wedding and everything it’s not a good time for extra family stress. Mr. Provost asked the boys to keep it quiet until he gets around to telling her, but Glen wanted his new brother here for his wedding day. They’ve only met once or twice but they hit it off from the start, he said.”

Glen was an only child; Paige could imagine he’d have been intrigued at the advent of an unknown sibling. “How long ago?” It must be recent.

“A few weeks, I think. Glen only told me today. I had no idea until then, and I couldn’t get you alone before…I still haven’t said anything to him about you and Jager.” Maddie twisted her hands together. “Has it ruined the day for you?”

“Of course not!” It had been a stressful occasion anyway, fraught with old pain and regrets, but she’d weathered it for Maddie’s sake, and she would weather this too. No guilt and worry about Paige should be allowed to cloud Maddie’s happy day. “Both of us have put our youthful indiscretion far, far behind us. It’s quite fun,” she lied gaily, “seeing him again, catching up on things.”

His phrase, she realized, as Maddie looked doubtful, then relieved. “I guess it was all over years ago,” Maddie said hopefully. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

There wasn’t much she—or anyone—could do about it. “I’m fine, stop worrying, Mad. Hadn’t we better get back? Your husband will think you’ve left him already.”

“Never!” Maddie turned to the mirrored dressing table and the makeup container sitting on it. “My husband,” she repeated dreamily, fishing in the miniature hatbox and bringing out a lipstick. “Fancy me being an old married woman!” She began expertly applying the lipstick.

“Hardly old,” Paige argued. Maddie was twenty-five to her own twenty-nine. “But old enough to know what you’re doing, I guess. Which is more than I can say for my first venture into matrimony.”

In the mirror, Maddie threw her a sympathetic look, shook out a tissue and blotted her lips. Gorgeous lips, Paige noted abstractly. Pink perfection. Glen was a lucky man. Her sister was as sweet as she was pretty, without a malicious bone in her body.

Scrunching the tissue, Maddie said, “It wasn’t even a proper wedding, was it? I mean, it hardly counts, really.”

“No.” Paige’s voice was perfectly steady. “It doesn’t count at all.”

CHAPTER TWO

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.

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS a kiss that took her breath, her heart, her soul. She couldn’t think, couldn’t move, except to lift her arms and cling, as if she were drowning in the wine-dark sea of desire and he was her only hope of survival.

The blood running through her veins sang his name, her skin was licked by fire, her limbs turned to liquid flame. The taste of him was an intoxication, the hard length of his body against hers a ravishment.

She opened her mouth to him and he took swift advantage of the invitation, making the kiss deeper, unashamedly sensual, a merciless invasion of her senses.

His hand pushed aside the front of her robe and settled on her breast, his thumb and forefinger finding the budding center, making her moan with ecstasy and arch herself against him, triumphant when she recognized the thrust of his arousal pressing at the apex of her thighs.

She brought one hand down to his bared chest in imitation of his caress, reveling in the heat and slight dampness of his skin against her palm, once as familiar to her as her own body.

Then his mouth left hers and his arms lowered, lifting her. She gasped, clutching at his shoulders, and his lips closed over her breast. With an inarticulate cry of pleasure, she let her head fall back. Dizzy and disoriented, she was wholly given over to sensation.

She hardly realized he had swung them round until his mouth momentarily left her and they fell together onto the bed. Before she’d drawn breath he impatiently untied the belt of her robe and bared her body to his hot, questing gaze. She stared back at him boldly as his hands traversed her from neck to knee, rediscovering the shape of her breasts, her hips, her thighs. There was color on his lean cheekbones, and his fingers were unsteady, his eyes heavy-lidded and glowing with desire. That look had always filled her with wonder—wonder that she could do this to him. That he wanted her so much.

One hand slipped between her thighs, and the other left her to undo his belt. He stroked her softly until she was wild with need, then stood for a few seconds to shuck the remainder of his clothing and sheath himself. Watching, she was briefly thankful that he’d thought of it, then he was beside her, taking her again into his arms, answering her frantic, silent plea to let her take him in, to experience the whole of him, and at last, without equivocation or delay, filling her with himself, driving her to the pinnacle and beyond, to that nameless place where past and present and future didn’t exist, but only the blinding, transcendental moment.

While the world drifted back into focus Paige resisted opening her eyes. Her cheek rested on Jager’s shoulder, and her legs were still tangled with his, his arm warm around her.

He moved, and she held her breath, afraid he would leave, but he only settled closer, enfolding her again. He kissed her closed eyelids, then feathered more tiny kisses along her cheek, and down her neck to her shoulder. She smiled, and he kissed her lips, long and tenderly, with an underlying hint of passion. Against her mouth, he murmured, “Tissues?”

Paige gave a little laugh, and reached without looking for the drawer of the bedside table.

Eventually she had to open her eyes. Jager was on his way to the bathroom, giving her a heart stopping view of his naked back, but in minutes he returned. She said sleepily, “Turn off the light.”

He detoured to do it, then came back to her, drawing her again into his arms and pulling a sheet over them both. “That was to dream of,” he said. “But too damn quick.”

His palm spanning her belly, he teased her navel with his thumb, while his lips wandered along her shoulder, nuzzling and nibbling. Her eyelids fluttered down, and a deliciously lethargic pleasure rippled all the way to her toes. As Jager’s hands and his mouth pleasured and tantalized, she moved her body subtly under his ministrations, allowing him better access there, hinting that some attention would be appreciated here.

He had always been good at this, she thought, a hint of sadness penetrating the dreamy aura he was creating. A silent tear trembled at the corner of her eye and coursed into her hair.

Jager found the salty track with his lips, and murmured, “What? Crying?”

“No,” she denied, not wanting to think about what had been or what might have been, or what might still be. She turned her head and met his lips with hers, aligned her body with his, thrust her knee between his thighs, to blot out the thoughts, the memories.

Jager responded with a surge of passion, and when she opened herself to him again and welcomed him with a sigh of satisfaction, he came to her as deeply and completely as before, but until the moment when he shuddered uncontrollably against her, a muffled sound tearing from his throat, there was gentleness in him this time, a tender concern in his touch.

Afterward he didn’t leave her side, holding her close in his arms until she drifted into an exhausted, velvety sleep. Her last thought was that he’d be gone by morning, and her heart gave a small throbbing ache at the prospect.

When she woke a weak morning sun was streaming though the window. Jager, fully dressed but without tie or jacket, leaned on the window frame, watching her.

“Oh, God!” She closed her eyes again, hoping he was a figment of her imagination. Or perhaps she was still dreaming.

“I didn’t think I looked that bad,” he said.

Paige opened her eyes again. He was fingering his chin, his eyes both wary and amused. He’d shaved, and his hair was damp and sleek. He must have used her bathroom, borrowed a razor, and she hadn’t heard a thing. “You’ve been here all night?” she said.

A dark brow rose. “You don’t remember? I’m disappointed. Shall I tell you what we did?”

“I know what we did!” Foolishly, she felt her cheeks burn. “I thought you’d leave before…now.”

“You mean before your parents find out I’m here.”

Paige clamped her lips. It was what she’d meant. No point in restating the obvious.

Vaguely she recalled hearing a car, the sounds of her parents’ return, but she wasn’t sure when. She’d been too engrossed in Jager, in the pleasure he was giving her, to even care.

She felt at a distinct disadvantage, lying naked in bed while he stood there patently at ease, his arms loosely folded. Clutching at the sheet for modesty, she sat up and looked around for something to put on.

Jager moved, a little awkwardly, stooping to pick up the toweling robe from the floor. “Is this what you want?”

“Thank you.” She had to drop the sheet to take it and pull it on, and he didn’t turn away.

Kicking away the bedclothes, she swung her feet to the floor, belting the robe. When she stood up he was close by, only a foot or two from the bed, his hands now thrust into the pockets of his trousers. “You should have told me if you wanted me to leave,” he said.

“Would you have?”

“What the lady wants, the lady gets.” The mockery in his voice reminded her that last night she’d wanted him—desperately, recklessly. Without any thought of consequences and repercussions.

Well, this was what she’d got. She looked at the clock. She could hear sounds of stirring in the house. There was little hope of spiriting Jager out without being seen. Being caught trying would be more embarrassing than fronting up about his presence.

Maybe reading her thoughts, he said, “I could climb out the window, but the neighbors might notice.”

Paige said stiffly, “If you wait until I’m dressed, we’ll go downstairs and I’ll explain we were involved in an accident and you were slightly injured so…as my sister’s room was free, you stayed overnight.”

Momentarily his jaw tightened. “And I’m supposed to go along with that?”

Her gaze fell away as she said, “I hope you will.”

“I don’t suppose they’ll swallow it.” He paused. “Will they tell your husband? Will you?”

Her eyes swung back to him, wide with shock.

“What sort of man is he?” Jager queried harshly. “If he hurts you…” His hands clenched into fists, and his expression turned dangerous.

Paige took a moment to orient herself. “Do you think I’d have slept with you if…?” Stopping short, she swallowed and took a deep, sustaining breath. “You have no idea,” she said, gathering dignity to herself like a shield, “what you’re talking about. My husband died six months ago.”

For once she saw Jager rocked off balance. His expression went totally blank, his cheeks almost colorless. The firm, stubborn chin jerked up as if he’d been hit, and his body seemed to go rigid.

Before he could pull himself together, she’d marched across the carpet into the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

When she came out Jager had recovered his equilibrium, although he looked a trifle paler than usual. His eyes were shuttered, with the watchful, not-giving-anything-away look that he’d worn for much of the previous day. He had taken up a stance near the door to the passageway, his back to the frame, hands in his pockets.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” he asked her.

Paige was opening a drawer to pull out undies. “I was trying to when we crashed. When I realized you didn’t know.” She went to the built-in wardrobe and opened the double doors. They made an effective screen as she blindly reached for a pair of jeans and hauled them on.

“You didn’t say anything last night…here.”

Paige found a sweater and pulled it over her head. What was she supposed to have done? Paused in the middle of that mind-blowing lovemaking and said, By the way, did you know my husband died?

She adjusted the sweater over her hips. “The subject didn’t come up.”

Stepping out of the screening doors, she closed them with a snap. When she went to the dressing table she could see Jager behind her and to one side. She picked up a hairbrush and flicked it cursorily over her hair. Last night she’d omitted the customary fifty strokes, but with him watching she wasn’t inclined to make up for it now.

“We might as well go down,” she said, replacing the brush.

“And get it over with?”

Paige shrugged, on her way to the door.

His hand on the knob, Jager said, “I should say I’m sorry about your husband.”

That was an odd way of putting it, but he looked sober, even genuinely sympathetic. She nodded. “Thank you.”

For a long moment he stood just looking at her, his gaze probing and perhaps puzzled. Then he opened the door and waited for her to precede him.

Their appearing together in the breakfast room caused a distinct shock to her parents, but on the face of it they seemed to accept Paige’s explanation. At the mention of an accident her mother was more concerned with any likely injuries than where—or how— Jager had spent the night. She peered at Paige’s face anxiously. “You might have been scarred!”

“I’m not,” Paige pointed out. “We were lucky.”

She invited Jager to sit at the table, and offered him toast and coffee. Her mother, after a minute or two, switched to hostess mode and asked if he’d like bacon and eggs.

“No, thanks,” he answered. “Coffee and toast is fine.”

Her father turned to Jager. “You hurt your leg?” he asked gruffly.

Jager had come down behind Paige and she hadn’t noticed anything wrong. She looked at him. Was it an act to back up her story?

“Nothing’s broken,” Jager answered her father, just as he’d told her. “I’m a bit stiff after last night.” He glanced at Paige, and she looked hastily away. “I seem to have muscles I never knew about.”

“What about you, Paige?” Henry asked. “Perhaps we should take you to a doctor just in case.”

“I’m all right. The impact was mostly on the driver’s side.”

Jager had made sure of that, turning the wheel as far as he could before the other car hit. Startled by the thought, she looked at him. “Were you trying to save me?”

He looked back at her for a moment, then shrugged. “I was trying to save us both. Instinct took over.”

An instinct that put him directly into the path of an oncoming car? Paige curled her hand around the cup of coffee she’d poured for herself. He’d have done it for anyone, she guessed. Any woman, at least. A natural male reaction maybe, latent even in twenty-first century man.

“I’m grateful anyway.”

Her mother said, “I’m sure we all are.”

Jager’s mouth twitched at the corners as he turned to Margaret. “Thank you, but I don’t need gratitude, Mrs. Camden.” His tone, although perfectly courteous, implied he didn’t need anything—not from her nor her husband. “And Paige has already shown hers.” His eyes sought her apprehensive gaze and he continued smoothly, “She patched up my wounds, such as they were, and insisted I stay the night.”

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