Best of Virgins Bundle

by Cathy Williams

  A month later, Paige staggered out of bed and struggled into her clothes before tiptoeing past Sherry’s firmly closed door. Brodie’s chickenpox was now a dim memory, and although he’d graduated to sleeping right through the night, she didn’t want to disturb either him or his mother.

  Paige glanced at her watch. He usually didn’t stir until the shift worker next door slammed his car door and revved out of the car park. She had a bit more than an hour to do her part-time job and pick up the newspaper so she could scan the situations vacant.

  She fought back a clutch of panic; although she wasn’t any closer to finding a job, she could now claim the dole. However, that wouldn’t be enough to pay Sherry back for the last three weeks’ rent, so Paige was now walking two dogs every morning from Monday to Friday.

  It helped, but not enough. If she couldn’t get a job, she’d have to leave; Sherry couldn’t afford to keep supporting her, even if she did look after Brodie in return. Her own dreams had been put on hold; she wasn’t going to shatter Sherry’s.

  Her charges, a large German Shepherd and a vigorous Jack Russell, welcomed her with their usual seething energy; once in the park she threw a ball for them to scrap over.

  When they’d worked off most of their high spirits they set off along the riverbank, the Jack Russell making eager forays into the scrub after rabbits, the gentler German Shepherd bitch at Paige’s heel, except for occasional side trips when a particularly exciting smell seduced her.

  Fortunately they kept her busy enough supervising so that her brain couldn’t wander in forbidden directions. As swiftly as he’d appeared Marc had dropped out of her life. A note the day after they’d met had explained that he’d been called overseas on business and he was hers, Marc.

  Not that she’d expected to see him again, but she’d been furious with herself for the terrible desolation that had swept over her. He meant nothing to her, and he couldn’t have made it more obvious that she meant nothing to him.

  Which was just the way she’d expected things to be.

  The wind, cooled by thousands of miles of southern ocean, pounced onto her, flattening the thin material of her jersey against her skin. She firmed her mouth against a shiver. Unfortunately, her recovery from the shock of his arrival wasn’t helped by his appearance every night in her dreams.

  The sudden alertness of the bigger dog, followed almost immediately by an aggressive fusillade of barking from the smaller, swivelled her head around. A man was striding towards her from the direction of the road, his long legs covering the ground with rapid efficiency.

  Pulses leaping, she faltered, then stopped. Tall, dark and dominant, it could only be Marc. Talk about the devil…!

  For one horribly embarrassing moment she found herself wishing she’d worn something better than threadbare jeans and an elderly jersey that matched the colour of her eyes but had long since seen off its better days.

  Then embarrassment was banished by a disturbing jolt of energy that jump-started both her heart and her breathing.

  So much for getting over it, a small inner voice jeered silently.

  ‘Sit,’ she said sharply as the dogs danced protectively around her. When they’d obeyed she turned to face the man striding towards her, shoulders squared, jaw jutting at a deliberate angle.

  Her stomach contracted as though expecting a blow. He wasn’t smiling, but she sensed a leashed satisfaction behind the impassive mask of his face. It was unfair that the sun should bronze his aquiline features with such besotted accuracy. Goaded, she lifted her head so high her neck muscles began to protest, and directed a carefully cool gaze at him.

  He said, ‘Are you all right?’ When she stared blankly at him, he said, ‘Sherry said you’d had the flu. What the hell are you doing walking dogs on these cold mornings?’

  Rallying her defences, Paige returned, ‘I’m better now.’

  ‘You don’t look it,’ he said bluntly, surveying her with a hard blue gaze. ‘You’re pale and you’ve got great dark circles under your eyes.’

  When he’d first met her she’d been a glowing, sensuously vibrant girl, her warmth reflected in her skin and dark honey hair, in the green-gold depths of her large, black-lashed eyes. A month ago she’d been tired, but now—now, he thought forcefully, she looked like a woman whose reserves had been plundered too often—fragile, strained and exhausted. An inconvenient protectiveness stirred to life in him, followed by a deep, uncompromising anger.

  ‘It was a nasty virus, but I’m feeling a hundred per cent better than I did this time last week,’ she said stiffly, and clenched her teeth on another shiver.

  ‘You shouldn’t be out in this cold wind.’

  He stripped off his jacket and, before she realised what he was doing, slung it around her shoulders, turning her to wrap it around her. The body heat still clinging to the leather enveloped her, bringing a rapid lick of fire scorching up through her skin.

  ‘I don’t—’ she muttered, trying to shrug the jacket from her shoulders.

  Hard hands clamped it on. He said in a voice that sent shocks charging through her veins, ‘If you don’t keep it on, I’ll pick you up and carry you back to the car.’

  Even if she hadn’t glanced into his unyielding face, she’d have known by the tone of his voice that he meant it. And the jacket was wonderfully warm, faintly scented with a fragrance that was as natural as his warmth.

  Awkwardly, she muttered, ‘Thanks. What are you doing here?’ She stopped, the colour fading as she met eyes as cold and blue as polar ice.

  He’d met Sherry.

  Her gaze slid sideways. Then she rallied. ‘I hope you didn’t wake Sherry and Brodie.’

  ‘They were already awake,’ he said indifferently. ‘I’m glad to see Brodie is over his chickenpox.’

  Baffled, she said, ‘He’s fine. Why did you come back?’

  ‘I told you last time. We have things to discuss.’ The silky note in his voice tightened her skin.

  ‘And I told you we have nothing to discuss,’ she returned, her voice cold and remote, her eyes hard. ‘We belong to different worlds.’

  ‘If you believe that you’re deliberately deluding yourself. But you don’t believe that.’ His words were cool and deliberate, at odds with the formidable aura he projected.

  The Jack Russell growled.

  Paige said sweetly, ‘Tiger is an attack dog.’

  Correctly judging the smaller dog to be the natural pack leader, Marc held out an authoritative hand, letting it and then the German Shepherd sniff his fingers.

  To Paige’s irritation it was obvious that they accepted him as an Alpha male. After polite nasal inspections of the hems of his trouser legs, both sat down and panted cheerfully at him, tongues lolling.

  He read Paige’s expression correctly. Still in that smooth tone, he said, ‘I like dogs; I have one of my own. Why did you deliberately let me think Brodie was yours?’

  Paige shook her head. ‘You didn’t ask,’ she pointed out, hoping her low voice hid the clammy pool of dismay beneath her ribs.

  She didn’t want him here, especially not in Napier, but even somewhere in the same country was too close. Why didn’t he go back to the château in France, or the huge New York apartment, or the gracious Georgian house in London—anywhere but New Zealand?

  He was too much, and the reactions she’d managed to ignore during the past month had exploded into life again.

  ‘Why do he and his mother live with you?’ For a moment she considered telling him to mind his own business, but he said satirically, ‘I’m sure that if I offered Sherry a big enough sum of money she’d tell me.’

  ‘How lucky you are to be overbearingly rich and famous,’ she purred, her wits revitalised by another swift surge of adrenaline.

  At this rate she’d overdose on it, but she’d shaken off the lethargy and depression that had followed her bout with the flu. Why had it taken this man, one she despised, to make her feel alive again?

  ‘It’s one of the perks,’
he agreed without shame. ‘Well?’

  Marc decided that the insolent composure with which she met his lifted brows was a challenge in itself—one he was finding it more and more hard to resist.

  She said with delicate scorn, ‘Offer Sherry money to tell you, then. She needs it.’

  Marc almost smiled. He never knew what she was going to say; the unexpectedness of her reactions was refreshing and intriguing. ‘Why did you let me think that you were a stripper?’

  ‘Because it was none of your business whether I was a stripper—or even a horrible example,’ she returned crisply.

  He frowned, recalling Lauren’s teasing question in the foyer of the hotel. ‘She didn’t know you could hear.’

  ‘I know. It’s a quirk of acoustics.’ Paige shrugged and called the restless dogs to heel. ‘It doesn’t matter—she’s entitled to her opinion, even though she’s pretty quick to judge.’

  True, but he hadn’t come to talk about Lauren. ‘Last time I was here something blew up and I had to leave before I’d planned to. It took longer than I expected, but I always intended to come back. We do need to talk, Paige.’

  ‘No.’

  Marc noted absolute determination in her slender spine, straight and strong as steel reinforcing. This, he thought, with the relish he usually brought to boardroom battles, was going to be a fight—one he’d enjoy winning.

  Which meant taking her by surprise. She was braced for battle, so he said, ‘I’m calling this off. You’re not making much of a fist of hiding those shivers.’

  He whistled at the dogs. Maddeningly, both frisked towards him as if pulled by invisible strings. Made temporarily witless by such highhanded tactics, Paige even passed over the leashes when he held out a peremptory hand for them, watching with increasing resentment as he hooked on each dog with efficiency and speed.

  Determined not to give in so easily, Paige glanced at her watch. ‘It’s time we turned back, anyway,’ she said, knowing it was surrender. Whether she wanted to go back or not, Marc was the one in control here.

  White teeth flashed in an ironic smile. ‘I’ll go with you.’

  ‘The dogs are my responsibility.’ She held out her hand for the leashes.

  Nodding, he gave them to her, then set off beside her, his tall, lean, graceful body shielding her from the sharp nip of the wind. Not that much got through his jacket, but his consideration made her melt inside.

  It wasn’t personal, she told herself scornfully. He’d do it for any woman.

  Her senses seemed to have sharpened; the sun beat more warmly on her skin and the grass glowed iridescently green, while she was sure she hadn’t ever noticed the faint, evocative perfume of some flowering plant before. Even the birds called with a more seductive sweetness.

  Stop it! she commanded her traitorous body. Last week had been the second anniversary of Juliette’s death; if he’d thought about her at all he could have found her any time in those two years. He’d have only needed to tell someone, Find this woman, and it would have been done.

  But he hadn’t done it. Keep that in mind, she told herself grimly.

  After a few steps she asked, ‘Where’s your car?’

  Walking beside him was boosting this terrifying, tantalising tension. She needed to stride out briskly and clear her mind of the fumes of desire summoned by the heady chemistry of his smile.

  ‘Over by the road.’ He nodded at a shape in the distance.

  Baffled, she tamped down her anger and decided to make the best of the situation. ‘All right, tell me whatever it is you want to—now.’

  ‘Very well.’ He sounded amused, but the humour left his voice with his next words. ‘Juliette left you a legacy.’

  She stopped abruptly. ‘What?’

  Long fingers around her elbow urged her on. ‘In her will she left you a box. I don’t know what it is. She also left you a sum of money.’

  ‘I see,’ she said colourlessly.

  She pulled free of his grip, but she thought she could still feel the imprint of his fingers traced in molten outline on her skin. Oh, yes, right through your jersey and shirt, she scoffed, struggling to keep her equilibrium in a world suddenly tumbled off its axis.

  ‘It’s very kind of you, but you didn’t have to come all the way here to tell me about Juliette’s legacy,’ she returned with crisp brevity. ‘You can post the box to me. And I don’t want any money. Give it to charity.’

  ‘Ungracious as well as stubborn,’ he observed in a pleasant tone that barely hid his contempt.

  She stiffened. ‘I’m not—I didn’t mean to sound like that.’ He waited in aloof silence until she finished lamely, ‘I assume the box is a memento. I’d like that very much. But not money.’

  ‘One comes with the other, I’m afraid,’ he said flatly. ‘And there are conditions.’

  One simmering glance at his unyielding face told her he wasn’t going to move on this. And that she wasn’t going to like the conditions. ‘What are they?’ she asked, forcing the words out between her gritted teeth.

  ‘Come to breakfast with me and I’ll tell you.’

  ‘Why can’t you tell me here?’

  He lifted his brows. ‘Because you’re already cold,’ he pointed out. ‘You’re shivering, and your lips are starting to turn blue. And because Juliette’s bequest deserves more than a few words exchanged in a park. I’d have thought you felt the same. Although you didn’t see anything of each other in the last few years of her life, I know she kept in touch; I think in many ways you were her best friend. Is it too much to ask that you give me time to tell you about this?’

  She went white. ‘That’s unfair and manipulative,’ she flung back at him.

  His broad shoulders lifted. ‘The truth can’t be manipulation,’ he said, without giving an inch.

  After a short hesitation she muttered, ‘Oh, all right. I have to drop the dogs off, but I’ll be at the flat in twenty minutes.’

  ‘I’ll take you and the dogs back,’ he said implacably.

  And, in spite of everything she could say, ten minutes saw both dogs transported to their home and Paige back at the flat.

  When she emerged from the quickest shower she’d ever had, she could hear conversation in the living room—or rather she heard Sherry laughing over Marc’s deep tones. Biting her lip, she took down a pair of chocolate-brown trousers and topped them with a corduroy shirt in a shade of spicy red that flattered her hair and her skin. Because the shower hadn’t been able to warm her completely, she wore a creamy-white turtleneck beneath the shirt.

  Lipstick gave her pale face a bit of warmth, but she still felt like something discovered under a stone—no fit state to have breakfast with Marc Corbett.

  And, she thought masochistically, about as far removed from his original companion as anyone could be. In fact, the woman’s scarf had probably cost more than her entire wardrobe was worth.

  Not that Paige cared.

  Yet she went out with a cake-mixer churning in her stomach and had to force her face into an expression of cool disinterest as she came through the door.

  Marc’s vitality hit her like a blow to the solar plexus.

  His uncomfortably perceptive eyes blazed and his mouth relaxed into a smile that held more than a hint of mockery. Casual though his clothes were, Paige recognised the superb tailoring that covered broad shoulders and long legs with loving fidelity.

  He was—overpowering. The first time she’d met him she’d sensed the heat that smouldered behind the cool restraints of his will power—sensed it and been scared by it.

  It was still there, and she was still afraid.

  But she was more afraid of the excitement infiltrating her body, heating into a subtle arousal, as they said their goodbyes to Sherry and went out to the car.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ONCE in the passenger’s seat, Paige pasted a brittle skin over her turbulent emotions. ‘It’s going to be a glorious day when this wind dies down.’

  ‘How long is it since you’ve
had the flu?’

  So much for the cheering effect of a bright shirt and some lipstick. ‘Surely I don’t look that bad?’ she retorted.

  And immediately clamped her lips in disbelief. Oh, what an opening! Marc took it, too, examining her from the top of her head to the hands that linked so tensely in her lap.

  ‘You look as though you haven’t fully recovered,’ he said calmly, twisting the key. The engine purred into life, soft as the sound of luxury—yet, like its driver, it reeked of dangerous, barely curbed power. ‘Sherry told me that you wouldn’t let her call the doctor.’

  ‘Doctors can’t do anything for viruses,’ she returned, wishing her flatmate had kept her mouth shut.

  Efficiently backing the car out, Marc said with a touch of irritation, ‘They can prescribe medication for any complications.’

  ‘I didn’t have any. It was just plain old ordinary flu—nasty, like flu always is, but I’ve recovered.’

  After a stiletto-sharp, disbelieving glance, he commented, ‘It’s good to see little Brodie looking so much better.’

  Welcoming a neutral subject, Paige said, ‘The medication worked fast; he didn’t have another convulsion and you guessed right—he was much better the next day.’

  The big car moved smoothly out onto the street. A few hundred metres later, Marc said coolly, ‘I gather you’ve been looking after him while Sherry works?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What hours?’

  ‘From the middle of the afternoon to whenever she comes home.’ Her voice was stiff and prickly.

  ‘Every day?’

  She shook her head. ‘She has two days off each week.’

  To her relief he didn’t speak again until he’d parked the car outside a house up on the Port Hill.

  ‘I thought we were going to a restaurant,’ she objected, looking around with suspicion she didn’t try to hide.

  ‘I’m staying here,’ he said laconically.

  With his girlfriend? ‘In a house?’

  ‘Hotels bore me. I prefer being with friends.’

  A cold emptiness expanded under her ribs.

  His glance sliced through her. ‘Paige, I’m not planning to murder you and tip you over the cliff,’ he said, each word an exercise in icy precision. ‘If you don’t want to eat here I’ll take you to the nearest restaurant and we can talk about Juliette’s legacy in front of anyone who’s interested.’