His Trophy Mistress. Daphne Clair
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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.