His Trophy Mistress

by Daphne Clair

  She heard it open tentatively, and a man’s voice said, “Paige?”

  Then Philip appeared in the sitting room doorway, his horn-rims turned enquiringly up to her. He was casually dressed and she supposed in his way he was quite good-looking. But he wasn’t Jager.

  To cover her sickening disappointment she gave him a hugely welcoming smile. “Philip! How nice of you to drop in. Just a minute…”

  “Don’t move. Carry on.” He crossed the room and stood with one hand on the ladder, just by her knees. “You’re doing well,” he told her. “And using paste too,” he added approvingly. He’d told her even prepasted paper hung better with it. “But it’ll be easier with two of us.”

  He was right. The work went much faster, and he was very good at managing the tricky bits about the doors and windows.

  He was smoothing an intricately cut piece around the old tiled fireplace while Paige brushed paste onto the next drop when there was another knock on the door, a decisive double rap.

  “Excuse me.” She left the long strip of paper on the trestle table and hurried into the hallway. Jager was already pushing the door wide. It had probably opened when he knocked.

  He stepped in, latching the door behind him, and scowled at her. “What’s the use of having a burglar alarm if you’re going to leave your damned door open?” he demanded.

  “It’s broad daylight, and I thought—”

  “I thought you’d have had more sense. It might have been all right with Glen and me here, but when you’re on your own—”

  “I’m not.”

  That stopped him. “I thought the car outside belonged to the neighbors.”

  “You’d better come in,” she said, despite the fact that he was already in, “and meet Philip.” She turned and went back to the sitting room, leaving him to follow. “I can’t leave what I’m doing.”

  “Who the hell is…?”

  Philip put down the smoothing brush in his hand and straightened. Somehow he suddenly looked bigger, his chest deeper, his shoulders broader, although he couldn’t match Jager’s height. Like a puffer fish, Paige thought bemusedly, swelling to a larger size when threatened. Behind the glasses his eyes surveyed the invader with cool assessment. “That’d be me,” he said mildly, but despite the thunder in Jager’s gaze he wasn’t intimidated.

  Aware that the testosterone level in the room had just doubled—at least—Paige refrained from fanning a hand before her face, and introduced them.

  When Philip stepped forward with his hand outstretched she almost expected the two of them to engage in arm-wrestling, but Jager merely gripped the other man’s hand cursorily and then dropped it. His expression had become shuttered, only the narrowed gleam of his eyes indicating any emotion at all.

  He cast a glance at the walls, then looked back at Philip. “You’re a professional?” he asked. “Paige hired you…”

  “Philip’s a friend.” Paige hoped he didn’t mind being claimed as such when they barely knew each other. “He kindly offered to help.”

  “I told you, if you needed any more help—”

  “He’s experienced.”

  The gleam under Jager’s black lashes altered slightly. “Is that so?” He looked at Paige. His gaze dropped over the paint-stained shirt that nearly covered the old shorts she wore with it, lingering on her legs before returning in leisurely fashion to her face. “I have some experience too,” he said, sparing a glance for the other man. “Paige and I have been working on it for a while.”

  Philip wasn’t stupid. His alert eyes went from Jager to Paige, and she said hurriedly, “My sister’s husband brought Jager along to help. They’re half brothers.”

  “So you’re kind of related,” Philip said, sorting that out, “by marriage.”

  Jager agreed, “You could say that.” Paige felt the sting of his glance, but refused to meet it.

  He looked around the room again. “You’ve been busy.” Returning his gaze to Philip, he asked, “Been here long?”

  Philip looked down at his watch, but before he could answer Paige said, “We’ve come a long way in a short time. Philip doesn’t mess about.”

  The stormy green eyes lighted on her again. “I’m beginning to think that’s what I’ve been doing.”

  Meeting his direct, gloves-off gaze, she said steadily, “You were very useful.” Then recklessly she added, “All that male muscle was great. Now I’m into a different phase—Philip offered his skills and he’s teaching me a lot.”

  For an instant longer he held her eyes, then he switched his attention to Philip. “You a teacher, Phil?”

  Philip laid his elbow on a step of the ladder. “I’m an accountant…Jay.”

  Jager showed his teeth, but Paige wasn’t certain the gesture could be called a smile. “A numbers man, huh? So how does an accountant get experience at…ah…home decorating?” He made it sound like needlepoint.

  Philip answered equably, “My wife and I renovated three homes during our marriage.”

  “Uh-huh.” Jager cocked his head, hands thrust into the pockets of his cotton casuals. “None of them satisfied you for long?”

  “We sold them for good money and moved on.”

  “Is that what you do? Move on?”

  Philip smiled. “We got a better house each time.”

  “You and your wife.” Jager rocked slightly on his heels. “Uh…you’re not married anymore?”

  “No.” A hint of regret colored Philip’s tone. “She’s selling real estate now, doing pretty well.”

  Jager’s head tilted, as if he were sniffing the air for a foreign scent. He said, “And you…do you have your own practice?”

  Philip stopped leaning on the ladder and adopted the same stance as Jager, his hands sliding into his pockets. “I’m head of accounting at Camden Industries,” he said.

  Jager too, looked at Paige before returning his gaze to Philip. He hadn’t moved, but she was sure every one of his formidable muscles had tightened, as if he were a tiger ready to spring. “Camden’s.”

  Paige could see his mind was working, probably overheating. Making two and two into at least five and a half. His quick glance stung her with contemptuous accusation. “So,” he said to Philip, “you work for Paige’s daddy.”

  Philip’s jaw jutted. “I work for the firm. Paige and I met at Henry’s house.”

  Paige didn’t blame him for rising to Jager’s bait. But he couldn’t know that Jager had never been invited to use her father’s first name, that he’d always meticulously called her parents Mr. and Mrs. Camden.

  Taking advantage of the small silence that ensued, Philip asked Jager, “What do you do?”

  His expression altered when Jager told him. Evidently he’d heard of JJ Communications. “You’re that Jeffries?” he queried. “I thought you’d be older.”

  “I’m old enough.”

  “Married?” Philip didn’t sound hopeful.

  Jager’s mocking gaze slid to Paige. “Not anymore.”

  She’d had enough of this. “You can see,” she told Jager, “we’re busy right now. I have to finish this before it dries.” She picked up her abandoned brush and dipped it into the paste. “So unless you’ve come to help with the home decorating…” She let her gaze stray pointedly to the door.

  His faint grin acknowledged the jibe she’d turned back on him.

  Calling her bluff, he said, “Did you think I’d leave this without seeing it through? You know me better than that, Paige.”

  Paige’s mouth tightened. Her brush slapped paste onto the back of the paper. She was aware of Philip’s curious stare before he turned to shift the stepladder to a new position. She said, “Philip thinks we should have done the walls before the floors.” She was, she realized, brandishing Philip at him like a shield.

  “Does he?” Jager was standing by her now, and he leaned over and moved the piece of paper to allow her to reach the end. His tone implied that he didn’t give a damn what Philip thought.

  She carried
the wet, sticky strip over to Philip and he ascended the ladder to align the paper carefully at the top and began smoothing it down with the wide brush Paige handed to him.

  Behind her she sensed Jager quietly steaming as she helped Philip adjust the edges.

  When she turned, Jager had the next piece ready.

  “I have some experience too,” he said. “Remember?”

  His laser gaze and raised brows brought it all back. The dingy one-room “studio flat” they’d rented because it was all they could afford, with the landlord’s grudging permission to redecorate, but at their own expense. They’d bought paint at a sale and started by slapping color on the tiny kitchen.

  It had looked so good they’d become ambitious and found some cheap, cheerful paper to cover the other walls.

  Given the quality of the paper and their own ignorance, maybe they hadn’t made too bad a job of it but, “I don’t think that counts,” she said quellingly.

  Jager folded the paper and carried it over to Philip. “We all learn from our mistakes,” he said.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE men appeared to have called a truce. When Philip began flexing his arms and grimacing at their stiffness, Jager took his turn on the ladder.

  By the day’s end they were working in tandem, exchanging male banter with a slight edge, and Paige felt like snapping someone’s head off. Somehow she’d been shouldered out to the role of the Little Woman who provided tea and biscuits and rustled up lunch, handed smoothing brushes and trimming knives when they were needed, and was sometimes allowed to put paste on, but couldn’t be trusted with anything important like climbing ladders or actually hanging the paper.

  Unfair. The two of them were certainly getting through the job more quickly than she would have on her own, hardly pausing to eat, although they gratefully downed the drinks she made at frequent intervals. They seemed to be in competition to see who could work faster, longer, harder, an element of driving determination that had been absent when Glen and Jager worked together.

  They finished the sitting room and a bedroom, then surveyed the hallway, smaller but tricky because of the doorways leading off it.

  Paige decided to assert herself. “I’m tired,” she announced truthfully, although her weariness had less to do with physical effort than coping with the palpable tension in the air. “And the light in here isn’t very good. Thanks, guys, but let’s leave it for tonight and I’ll make you some dinner.”

  She thought there was a flicker of relief in Philip’s expression. He took off his glasses and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead.

  Jager cast her a searching look. “No need for you to cook for us. You’d better have an early night.” He clapped a hand on Philip’s shoulder and Paige thought she saw the other man control a wince. “Come on, Phil. We’ll get out of here and let the lady rest, hmm?”

  Since Paige wasn’t arguing, Philip had to tacitly agree, his at first mulish stare becoming a rueful smile as he sketched a salute in Jager’s direction, conceding him the point.

  Paige kept her mouth shut, quietly seething. She wasn’t about to throw herself between any swords. Or to make Philip an unwitting weapon, not even to give Jager the comeuppance that he richly deserved.

  Somehow amid collecting jackets and saying their goodbyes, Jager managed to maneuver Philip out the door and send him down the steps first. Which allowed him to take a step back and say to Paige, “Make sure you get something to eat, yourself. Even if it’s only a sandwich.”

  Not waiting for her to reply, he dipped his head and kissed her mouth, so briefly she had no chance to evade or respond. “See you tomorrow.” And then he was bounding down the steps, jacket slung over his shoulder, to where Philip stood. ***

  Philip too, had promised to return in the morning, but Jager arrived first.

  Paige led him straight to the kitchen where she was making coffee. “You’re early.”

  “You’re up,” he pointed out.

  She picked up the toast she’d been eating. “Have you had breakfast?”

  “Yeah. Is that all you’re having?”

  “It’s all I need.”

  He ran his gaze over her old T-shirt and denim cutoffs. “That’s open to argument.”

  “I’m not thin!”

  His eyes were bland as they returned to her face. “I have no complaints about your figure, honey.”

  Exasperated, she turned her back on him to fiddle with the percolator.

  He was leaning on the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee in his hand when she let Philip in later.

  “I have to leave by lunchtime,” Philip was telling her. “My w…ex-wife asked me to take the kids while she studies. She’s getting herself a law degree.” He sounded half-puzzled, half-proud. Seeing Jager, he nodded a wary greeting. “’Morning.”

  “You have kids?” Jager asked. Although he hadn’t moved from his relaxed position, Paige sensed an undercurrent in the casual query.

  “A boy and a girl,” she remembered, bringing Jager’s gaze to her face. “You didn’t need to come today, Philip.”

  She couldn’t read the oddly intent stare Jager gave her before he looked back at Philip. “We’d hate to take you away from your family,” he said.

  Even as Paige bridled at the possessive “we” Philip gave him a knowing grin. “Yeah, I know. But I’ve got all morning. And I don’t like leaving anything halfway.”

  “Neither do I.” Jager held the other man’s gaze for a moment, then drained his cup. “And even though I was here before you, I guess I’ve been wasting time.”

  They had the hallway done before Philip left, apologizing again.

  Paige shook her head. “You’ve been a huge help. I owe you. Why don’t you come for dinner some time? Bring the children and we’ll take them down to the beach for a swim.”

  He looked pleased. “Well, thanks. I may take you up on that.”

  Paige closed the door as he left, and turned to find Jager regarding her from the kitchen doorway, his shoulder propped against the frame. As she walked toward him he didn’t move. “That’s a step isn’t it?” he said. “Inviting him to bring his kids. Have you met them?”

  “No.” She had to stop in front of him. He looked big and formidable. Telling him she hardly knew Philip was suddenly not an option. She had an overwhelming sensation of being gathered into the powerful male aura of Jager’s sexuality, with scant hope of escape. Making a feeble effort at self-defense, she tilted her chin and said, “Not yet.”

  A muscle along his jaw tightened. The warning glitter in his eyes made her heart thud. “Do you want children?”

  The blunt question startled her. “Aidan and I hoped for a baby…but it never happened.”

  Her eyes stung and she bit on her lip to stop the tears. She’d thought she was all cried out for Aidan, and it was humiliating to be weeping for him in front of Jager.

  His black brows had drawn together. He straightened away from the doorway, swearing under his breath, and took her arm to guide her into the kitchen where he pulled a chair from the table. “Sit down,” he growled, almost forcing her to do so.

  As if that would help. He’d never had any idea what to do with a weeping woman. Not that she’d done it often, preferring to keep her tears private.

  She gulped down a sob, and gave a spurt of shaky laughter. “I’m all right.”

  “Sure.” The bite in his voice was savage. “Can I get you a coffee? Or something stronger?”

  “Coffee would be nice.” She sat up, removed her glasses and pushed a few strands of hair from her face, brushing the incipient tears away in the same movement before replacing the glasses firmly on her nose.

  She watched Jager make the coffee and find bread, butter, cheese and spreads. He added a pack of sliced ham, gave her a plate and knife, then poured the coffee and set a mug before her.

  “Eat,” he said, pulling up a chair himself.

  When they had both done so he made more coffee and sat again, pushing aside h
is empty plate to wrap his fingers around the mug he’d chosen. He seemed to be gripping it tightly despite the hot liquid inside, and his voice was deep and even when he said, “Tell me about Aidan.”

  Paige had begun to lift her own cup, but she put it down again so quickly a few drops spilled on the table. The surface coating was impermeable, but Jager silently got up and found a sponge, wiping up the spill before tossing the sponge into the sink. Then he resumed his seat and waited.

  Paige glanced at him. He looked purposeful and intent and, except for a certain rigidity in his face, almost sympathetic. “Aidan,” she said huskily, staring down at her coffee, “was a wonderful husband. A great person.”

  She fancied she heard Jager’s teeth come together. “You met him in America?” His voice was gritty but carefully expressionless.

  “Yes.” Her parents had sent her there to visit her aunt and uncle who had settled in Pennsylvania, and to get to know her cousins, they said.

  Of course it was really to help her recover from the debacle of her marriage. Which they’d insisted had been no real marriage at all, since Jager had falsified both their ages on the license application.

  Despite their lack of consent, they had discovered—to Henry’s chagrin and Margaret’s horror—the bare civil ceremony was legally binding. Probably only the prospect of having a son-in-law with a criminal record had deterred Henry from making good his threat to have Jager jailed for making a false declaration.

  “Aidan was a friend of my cousins. He was kind, when I needed kindness.”

  Once she had admitted to her parents that they were right, she had been too young to know what she was doing, it had been all too easy to slide back into letting them make the decisions. When her father brought her the divorce papers his lawyer had drawn up, she recoiled, but his patient reasoning wore her down, and she signed the document with shaking fingers before running to her room, where she’d wept into her lonely pillow all night.