His Trophy Mistress. Daphne Clair
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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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