His Trophy Mistress

by Daphne Clair

  “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 d
ays 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.