Best of Virgins Bundle

by Cathy Williams

  ‘All right, then, I won’t,’ he said obligingly. ‘It wouldn’t be true. I’ll bet he wondered what the hell had bitten him when he tried to force you into bed.’

  ‘He didn’t get the chance,’ she said with cutting disdain. ‘The first time he groped me I told him I’d complain of harassment if he ever tried it again.’ Colour touched her skin. For weeks she’d felt dirty, as though the man’s touch had contaminated her.

  ‘So he sacked you?’

  A swift glance revealed a dangerous razor-edge of light in the depths of his eyes. Shaken, Paige looked away to marshal her thoughts. ‘I was made redundant. Last hired, first off. And it was a bad year for farmers so the firm didn’t have enough work for me…Actually, I was glad to go.’

  Although if she’d known how difficult it was going to be to get another job she might have fought to stay, in spite of the creep.

  Marc said in a voice that contradicted his searching gaze, ‘He’s spread it around the city that you’re a predatory female who backs demands for an increase in wages with threats.’

  Angry and bewildered, she stared at him. ‘Threats? Threats of what?’

  ‘According to him, you said that if you didn’t get a rise you’d accuse him of sexual harassment.’ He spoke in a detached, judicial tone that lifted the hairs on the back of her neck.

  The plane slowed, easing to a stop. Her voice molten, Paige said, ‘So that’s why I’ve had no luck finding a new job. I should have put his pot on.’

  ‘Why didn’t you? You weren’t the first woman he’d tried it on with, and you must have known he’d do it again. Sleazes like him always do.’

  Trust him to unerringly pinpoint the one thing that still worried her. She said defensively, ‘It was my word against his. He’s a well-known personality in Napier; why would anyone believe me? How did your private detective find out?’

  ‘By asking questions of a couple of women who’d left that office suddenly. One of them was your predecessor.’ The plane rolled smoothly to a stop. Marc got to his feet and said, ‘It doesn’t matter, anyway.’

  And when she looked up in disgust he gave her a cold, merciless smile that jetted an icy touch the length of her spine. ‘His firm now knows exactly what’s been happening. He’s got one chance to keep his job, and that’s to keep his hands, his innuendoes and everything else to himself. He’s also been—persuaded—to stop spreading slander about you. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble getting a similar position when you go back.’

  Paige’s jaw dropped, but the pilot’s voice over the intercom stopped the hot words tumbling from her lips.

  ‘Here we are in lovely sub-tropical Kerikeri,’ he announced, ‘gateway to the Bay of Islands. Hope you had a good flight.’

  Pasting a jaunty smile on her lips, Paige said, ‘Coincidence is a funny thing. Just think, if I hadn’t come down the stairs of the hotel at the exact moment you turned around, you’d never have known that I lived in Napier.’

  Marc’s eyes were cool and opaque, as unreadable as the expression on his gorgeous face. ‘New Zealand’s not that big—I’d have found you.’ He stood back to let her out into the aisle.

  Something about his tone made her deeply uneasy. Trying to ignore the crawling tension between her shoulderblades, she got up.

  The steward emerged to open the door, nodding respectfully as they stepped out into sultry sunlight and air that even the taint of aviation fuel couldn’t sully.

  Refusing to look at Marc, Paige decided there was a difference about the atmosphere up here—somehow the countryside glowed, softer yet more vivid than the crisp clarity she was used to. The grass radiated green light around them as they walked across to the helicopter where another pilot waited.

  Not that he was needed. The helicopter belonged to Marc, and it was he who flew them to the island, landing the chopper precisely on a hard pad several hundred metres from the homestead.

  The big house sprawled in magnificent gardens beside a half-moon of beach; as they’d flown down Paige had noted a grass tennis court and a swimming pool, and what appeared to be a large two-masted yacht in the bay, anchored beside a motor cruiser.

  Rich man’s paradise, she thought, struggling for balance and common sense, trying not to be overwhelmed. She knew Marc worked hard; Juliette had told her about his frequent absences and the long hours spent at his desk. But it didn’t seem fair that Sherry had to display her body to earn enough for a place of her own when Marc had all this—and it was just one of his residences!

  The rotors died, and she realised Marc was turning around. Into the sudden silence he said formally, ‘Welcome to my home.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Paige said, enmeshed in an odd, swift shyness, because it seemed as though he was making some sort of statement.

  Which was ridiculous. No doubt the formal welcome had been just a bit of old-world courtesy.

  Marc was disloyal, a breaker of vows. Quite possibly the executive-cum-mistress whose existence had shattered Juliette’s life was already in residence, honing her cutting English accents for more put-downs.

  The house seemed to grow in size as they walked through the garden towards it. Clinging desperately to her composure, Paige refused to gawk like a sightseer—although that was difficult once they were inside.

  Not that the house was decorated in incongruous splendour. For all its size it breathed a warm, casual sophistication that made her feel instantly at home. After being introduced to the housekeeper, a middle-aged woman called Rose Oliver, Paige was ushered by her to a bedroom overlooking the bay.

  Paige eyed the vast bed, its white calico spread tucked into a box frame of dark, warmly coloured wood. White walls breathed understated elegance; one displayed a magnificent kimono in black and cinnamon and a blue almost the same intense hue as Marc’s eyes, and on the wall behind the bedhead a triptych glowed like a jewel in the cool, beautiful room—a spare, exquisitely painted Japanese scene of mountains and river.

  Apart from a terracotta pot holding a flourishing banana tree there were no other decorations, although the wall of stained wood shutters onto a terrace gave the room texture and pattern.

  ‘The wardrobes are in here,’ the housekeeper said, gesturing towards a door in the wall. ‘Would you like me to unpack for you?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Paige tried to sound at ease. The last thing she wanted was to let someone who probably regularly ministered to heiresses see her clothes.

  After showing her the bathroom, Mrs Oliver said, ‘I’m sure you’d like a shower. I’ll call for you in about an hour, shall I? If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to ring.’ She pointed to a telephone tucked into a shelf below the headboard. ‘The numbers are on the set.’

  She smiled and left the room.

  All very polite and friendly, Paige thought as she headed into the large tiled bathroom. A huge shower covered an indecent amount of the floor, and an even larger spa bath took up another corner. Sunlight shimmered through palm fronds and dark shutters onto creamy marble and gleaming glass.

  A delicious perfume led her to the soap; she lifted the cake and smelt it, then set it down again with a firm, set smile. Her own brand was fine. It was stupid, but if she used the soap that Marc’s money had provided she’d feel she’d been bought.

  As she wallowed in hot water from four directions, she wondered if anyone quite so poverty stricken had ever been a guest in Marc’s house before.

  Who cared? ‘Enjoy it while you can,’ she told her reflection defiantly.

  Her scruples, if scruples were what they were, didn’t extend to not using the hairdryer, also bought with his money!

  She got into a pair of olive-green trousers before tucking in her bittersweet red shirt. A final glance in the mirror revealed that the trousers hung a little loosely on her hips. Frowning, she pulled out the shirt to cover them.

  Only just ready when someone knocked on the door—according to her watch, twenty minutes early—she opened it. Her smile set when she saw
who waited outside.

  CHAPTER SIX

  LIKE her, Marc had changed. In trousers that skimmed his strongly muscled thighs and a sports shirt one shade paler than his eyes he looked big and unyielding—and forbiddingly attractive.

  Paige’s heart kicked into a gallop, and she had to swallow hard to dislodge her breath from its sticking place in her throat.

  ‘Oh—I thought you were Mrs Oliver—the housekeeper,’ she blurted, only just saving herself from stammering.

  Narrowed, steely eyes examined her face. ‘Would you like a look around before lunch?’

  ‘Thank you.’ She wanted to ask him about Juliette’s legacy, but it seemed crass and greedy. Instead she walked sedately beside him down the wide hall and out onto a terrace running along the front of the house.

  She had to admit that Marc was an excellent host. With impeccable courtesy he showed her the garden between the house and the beach, a sub-tropical fantasy that fascinated her with its skilful mingling of colour and form and scent.

  On the way back towards the house they passed the tennis court, and he asked if she played.

  ‘I used to,’ she said. ‘But not for a while.’

  ‘Perhaps we could have a game some time.’

  Which meant never, of course. ‘Perhaps,’ she said noncommittally. She turned away and looked out over the bay. ‘Are those boats—the yacht and the cruiser—yours?’

  ‘Yes. Do you like sailing?’

  ‘I loved it when I was a kid,’ she told him, adding, ‘My father had a yacht.’

  He frowned. ‘I’ll take you out one day.’

  Like the suggestion of tennis, she knew he didn’t mean it. What was the sense of all this? Tomorrow he’d be gone.

  He was just being polite, as though she was a real guest here, not someone he’d been obliged to host by his dead wife’s will—the wife he’d betrayed.

  Abruptly she asked, ‘Where is Juliette’s box?’

  Thick black lashes concealed his eyes for a second, then lifted to reveal intensely blue depths, unreadable and enigmatic. ‘I’ll have it sent to your room.’

  In crackling silence, they walked up the steps to the wide terrace.

  ‘It’s a wonderful house,’ Paige said woodenly. ‘So warm and sunny, yet the eaves must keep out the summer sun. And the garden is magical!’

  Marc watched her face, saw something like wistfulness there, and silently summoned a raw French oath at the wave of protectiveness he felt. It had to be because she was Juliette’s friend. And because she’d had a rotten time with that bastard she’d worked for. As well, she hadn’t entirely recovered from the flu.

  A man who prided himself on facing the truth without flinching, he let the comforting lies lodge in his brain for a betraying moment, until cold anger banished them.

  Yes, he felt some responsibility for Juliette’s friend, because she was in trouble. But this strange need to care for her was something he’d never experienced before.

  He was gentle with women because they were smaller and more fragile, although he respected their different kind of strength and their endurance when many men gave up. And he didn’t prey on the weak; he chose only those sophisticated enough to look after themselves.

  Even Juliette, he thought with a brief, hard smile, young as she’d been, had known exactly what she wanted.

  But Paige got to him; he resented the fact that any offer of help would be flung back in his teeth. Determination shone from her face, from the set of her shoulders and the resolute line of her soft, tantalising mouth.

  Although he admired her for it, he wanted to smash that challenging pride into shards and make her totally, completely dependent on him.

  He’d never felt like that before.

  Brusquely he said, ‘Lunch must be ready.’

  It was served at a table on the terrace, under the benign and hopeful gaze of a golden retriever called Fancy, each mouthful of delicious food accompanied by enthusiastic, fearless chattering from a pair of fantails, tiny birds that swooped through the warm air as they sought unseen insects.

  Desperate to subdue the rising tension, Paige said brightly, ‘They’re such friendly little birds, aren’t they? It’s difficult to think of them as mighty hunters.’

  Marc’s smile hardened. ‘Like them, we’re all hunters,’ he said, ‘and we’re all prey.’

  Shocked, she lifted her lashes. He was watching her with half-closed eyes, and as little rills of flame ran wild through her body he lowered his gaze to her mouth.

  Deliberately intimate, blatant as a kiss, the brief glance burned through her defences. Colour flamed into her skin and she couldn’t think of anything to say—she who had been extremely vocal when her sleazy employer had tried to hit on her!

  Finally she managed, ‘That’s an interesting perspective on personal relationships.’

  With a slight Gallic shrug he stated inflexibly, ‘It’s the truth. Look at your flatmate.’

  ‘Sherry?’ She bristled. ‘She’s not a victim and she’s certainly not—’

  ‘She wants money from the men who watch her strip.’ His coolly dispassionate voice doused her spurt of temper. ‘The more provocative her routine—the more she promises with each gesture and movement—the more money she makes. But I doubt if she follows through on it.’

  ‘She doesn’t,’ Paige snapped. ‘She’s a dancer.’

  ‘So it’s a coldly commercial transaction—she encourages her customers to fantasise about her without giving them any warmth or tenderness or respect.’

  Paige blinked and cast a swift glance at his angular features. It seemed an odd thing for a man who kept a mistress to say. How much warmth or tenderness or respect had he given Juliette? She could glean nothing from his face beyond a quizzical gleam in the blue eyes.

  She said stiffly, ‘She’s doing it for Brodie’s sake. As for warmth and tenderness and so on, I don’t imagine many of the men who watch her dance go to the club for that.’

  ‘Your loyalty is praiseworthy,’ he drawled, not hiding the mockery in his tone. ‘So why aren’t you stripping for a living? She’s earning more than you are.’

  Her appetite vanishing, Paige put down her fork and looked him straight in the eye. ‘Because I can do other things, and I don’t have a child to plan for,’ she stated coldly. ‘Sherry grew up in a horrifying family situation and ended up on the streets when she was only fourteen. She got herself off them by sheer guts, then she married, sure it was going to last for ever. When she told her husband she was pregnant with Brodie he scarpered off to Australia, leaving a pile of debts he’d run up in her name. She doesn’t enjoy working as a stripper, but her long-term plan is to make enough money to get out and give Brodie a decent life.’

  ‘That makes her prey,’ he said calmly, and changed the subject with an insulting blandness. ‘Eat up—it’s a long time since breakfast, and you didn’t have anything on the flight, so you must be hungry.’

  He was right. Although Paige’s mouth set mutinously, she was hungry, and while she cleared her plate of a delicious salad that combined beans and strawberries Marc told her Arohanui’s ancient legend of two Maori lovers who laid down their lives for each other.

  Lulled by sunshine and a deep, highly suspect pleasure, Paige clung to her common sense by sheer exercise of will. When he’d finished she said lightly, ‘How very romantic and tragic—Romeo and Juliet, South Pacific-style.’

  His answering smile was smoothly mocking. ‘And you don’t believe a word of it.’

  ‘If it happened, I’ll bet they were very young.’

  ‘Meaning that only the young and naïve consider love worth dying for?’ He leaned back in his chair, long fingers curved around the stem of his wine glass, those thick lashes hiding his thoughts. ‘You could be right.’

  Uneasily aware that for all his relaxed grace he was focused intently on her, she opened her mouth to answer, but was forestalled when his brilliant gaze took her prisoner.

  ‘How old are you? Twenty-th
ree? From my perspective that’s pretty young,’ he finished on a note of amusement.

  Heat washed through her in a smooth, feral response, shutting down her mind until the dog sat up to snap at a fly and the familiar, tiny sound dragged her back to reality.

  Paige looked away and said stiffly, ‘If it’s cynical to believe that love is a much overrated emotion, then I suppose I must be cynical.’

  His brows rose above glinting, metallic eyes, but he said mildly, ‘I agree entirely with you that love is a much overrated emotion.’

  Well, she’d known that—so why did her heart contract painfully? ‘How astonishing! We have something in common,’ she flashed, then bit her lip.

  He nodded. ‘My parents supposedly loved each other, but all I remember of them was the sound of their quarrels. And their silences.’

  Paige looked down. A gleam of sunlight probed a knife-blade with metallic glitter. ‘My parents didn’t quarrel. My mother told me that she’d had no idea—she thought they had a wonderful marriage until we arrived back from Disneyland to find my father living with his secretary. I think that was why she never got over it.’

  The moment the words were said she wished them back; wincing internally, she braced herself for his response.

  Sunlight collected in mahogany pools in his hair as he looked down at her. ‘That must have been a difficult time.’

  ‘As I suppose you know, there’s no easy way to deal with marriage disasters. I managed,’ she said curtly, accepting a cup of coffee from him.

  ‘But your mother didn’t.’

  Shocked, she looked up into eyes that were steady and sympathetic. ‘Your private detective has been busy.’

  ‘Drink up,’ he said, not disturbed by her bitterness. ‘After you’ve finished your coffee, why don’t you rest for an hour or so?’

  In her bedroom, Paige decided ironically that he was good; he’d managed to cloak a desire to get rid of her with common courtesy. She’d even believed him—until she was free of his overpowering magnetism.