by Daphne Clair
She’d spent an extravagant amount on a lush wine velvet bedspread honeycombed with gold thread, and tossed silk cushions in gold and shades of red and purple against the pillows, the colors echoing the Persian rug on the floor. Colors of passion.
She fell for an ebony figurine of an almost life-size sleek, crouching black leopard with gleaming green glass eyes, and placed it beside a red velvet footstool in a corner of the room. Then, deciding she might as well go all the way, she hung several gold chains around its neck. And on the dressing table she crowded a dozen brass candlesticks of varying sizes and designs, furnishing them with red or gold candles.
“It looks like a love-nest!” Maddie exclaimed when she saw the room next. “Fantastic!”
When everything was in place Jager looked around the room, his gaze lingering on the leopard for a few seconds, then he reached for Paige, drew her toward the bed and pressed her down among the cushions, kissing her with passion and purpose. Later he dispensed with the bedspread and most of the cushions, but made good use of those that were left.
The next evening he arrived with a large flat parcel, and she unwrapped it to find a gilt-framed reproduction of Ingres’ Odalisque with a Slave, the naked Eastern beauty in her sumptuous surroundings reclining against cushions that exactly matched Paige’s bedroom walls.
He had trumped her leopard.
“Are you having a housewarming?” Maddie asked her.
Paige hadn’t thought about it, but it might be as good a way as any to introduce their parents to the idea of her and Jager being a couple again.
She invited Philip, and a few people from her work, and the neighbors. The little house was full to overflowing, the guests spilling onto the porch and even into the garden, although the nights were cool now.
Jager greeted Paige’s parents courteously, accepted their stiff nods, and found a chair for her mother.
“I’ll take your coat,” Paige offered as Margaret doffed the jacket she was wearing. “And Jager will get you a drink.”
When she returned from the bedroom Jager and Glen were fiddling with the stereo while her parents, drinks in hand, talked with Philip.
She was distracted by some more arrivals and it wasn’t until much later that her mother cornered her on the excuse of needing the bathroom, claiming she had forgotten where it was.
“That young man seems very much at home,” Margaret commented as they edged through the crowd.
Paige said firmly, “Jager? Yes, he is. He spends a lot of time here.”
Her mother cast her a look. “Your father says he’s hugely successful, but leopards don’t change their spots, and after Aidan…well, I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Yes, I know what I’m doing.”
“I see Philip’s here,” Margaret said hopefully. “I thought you and he got on rather well.”
“He helped with the decorating. Actually he and Jager get on rather well too.” They reached the bathroom and Paige opened the door. “Here you are.”
“Good party,” Jager said afterward, as they lay entwined in her bed. The leopard’s glass eyes gleamed in the moonlight spilling into the room between filmy swathed curtains. A big moth flung itself against the window and blundered off into the night.
“I think so.” Paige yawned.
His voice dry, he asked, “Do you think your parents got the message?”
She hadn’t discussed that aspect with him at all. But he wasn’t stupid. “They know we’re…together.”
“And…?”
“And what? I love my parents but they don’t decide how I should run my life.”
“How do they feel about it now that I’m not exactly on the poverty line?”
“Money had nothing to do with it. If we’d been older—”
“Do you really think that would have made much difference?”
She would never convince him. He had a blind spot as far as her parents were concerned, just as they did about him. “It’s all in the past anyway. Can’t we talk about something else?”
“Better still,” he said, “let’s not talk at all.”
His mouth came down on hers, and within minutes she was incapable of talking, even of thinking, her whole being concentrated on the wonderful sensations he was creating, and the need to make him feel the same.
CHAPTER NINE
JAGER asked Paige to hostess a dinner party for him. “I’ll get caterers in,” he said, “but I’d like you to be there. By my side.”
She hadn’t ever set foot in his home. After the first couple of times when she’d evaded the suggestion, he had stopped asking. They went together to the theater or dinner or sporting events where they mixed with the sort of people her parents knew. Once they even attended the same social function as her mother and father and engaged in a short, formal chat. But wherever they went, afterward he returned her to the cottage and more often than not stayed the night.
She hadn’t been wrong about the kind of relationship he’d offered her. She saw the satisfaction in his eyes when she dressed up, choosing clothes that without crossing the bounds of good taste instilled by her mother, emphasized her figure, distracting attention from her face. Dresses that hugged or flowed, were cut low in front or back; slit skirts, short skirts—though not too short; and for casual occasions, jeans that molded her neat bottom and hugged her long legs.
“This is Paige Camden,” Jager would introduce her, his possessive arm encircling her waist, the pride in his eyes as they slipped over her proclaiming she was his. And more often than not, the other person said interestedly, “Oh…Henry’s daughter?”
And she’d feel Jager’s fingers on her waist as she acknowledged her parentage.
She was Jager’s trophy, but no longer his wife.
“What sort of dinner party?” she inquired cautiously. They were dining at one of the exclusive—and expensive—restaurants he preferred. She picked up her wine from the impeccable linen tablecloth and sipped it to hide her trepidation.
“I owe some hospitality to a few people. You remember the Zimmermans? And the Hardys.”
They had been guests of both couples. Married couples. She pushed the thought aside. “Anyone else?”
He shrugged. “I thought about ten people.”
“It’s quite a large party for dinner.”
“I have a big dining table. The apartment is planned for entertaining.”
She knew it was a serviced apartment in the central business district, a gracious old building converted at great cost to meet the demands of people like Jager who had the money to pay for service and style and preferred living near their city offices.
Paige put down the wineglass, watching the red liquid settle back into stillness, the light gleaming on it.
“And maybe Maddie and Glen,” Jager persuaded. “We’ve eaten with them often enough.”
They had, although sometimes her sister and brother-in-law dropped in at the cottage and stayed for an impromptu meal.
She looked up and found him regarding her intently. There was a tenseness about his shoulders, a tightening around his mouth. She saw this was important to him.
Paige had never analyzed her own reluctance to take this further step in their relationship. It was common knowledge now that they were lovers. They had appeared together in public often enough, and invitations frequently included them both. Even the Zimmermans, both in their sixties, had assigned them a double bedroom during a weekend visit to the couple’s beach house.
“When do you plan to have this dinner party?” she asked. “And how formal will it be?”
Jager didn’t smile but she sensed the easing of tension in him. He knew he’d won.
A few evenings later he arrived at the cottage with a plastic carrybag bearing the logo of a designer boutique. “I brought you a present,” he said. “I hope it fits.”
She opened the bag and took the carefully folded garment from its tissue wrapping, holding it by a pair of thin gold straps that cleverly curv
ed around the front and turned into crisscrossed ties across a deep opening in the ruched black chiffon stretch bodice, and extended to an even lower one at the back. The bodice was thigh-length, and below that several soft layers of chiffon, each subtly edged with gold, flared into a short skirt.
It was beautiful and expensive and wildly sexy.
“I want you to wear it to my dinner party,” Jager said. “Try it on.”
Her fingers trembled. A small moth seemed to be fluttering in her throat. She 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.
Her hands tightened into fists. “I won’t let you buy clothes for me, Jager.”
The frown deepened. “I’ve bought you things before.”
He’d bought lingerie for her, sexy undies and nightwear that she knew was as much for his pleasure as hers, but that she enjoyed wearing for him…in private. “This is different.” The moth in her throat had turned into a hard, choking lump of ice.
“It’s a dress,” he said, impatiently, glancing at it. “What’s so different about it? It’s no more revealing than that green thing with the slit up to your thigh and the other slit in the front that drives me wild. Or that skimpy little black velvet top with the one button in front.”
How could she explain her rejection of the concept of wearing a dress he’d chosen and paid for and asked her to wear? Her gut-level conviction that it would alter the carefully balanced status quo between them was unreasonable.
Intellectually she knew it didn’t change anything. But somehow accepting his “gift” was accepting that she was no more to him than a sexual partner and a status symbol.
“It’s…public,” she said. “You want to show me off.”
“It’s a private dinner party,” he argued. “I like showing you off. Any man would. Is that a crime?”
Paige gave up trying to make him understand. “I don’t need another dress.”
He looked thoughtful. “You haven’t worn anything new lately.”
That was true. She had spent most of Aidan’s insurance money on the cottage and its refurbishment, keeping aside a small emergency fund. Her income was adequate and in time her father would leave her some money, but meantime she preferred to be independent, spending sensibly and cautiously. “I’m sorry if my wardrobe doesn’t match up to your image,” she said.
“When we were married one of your chief complaints was not having new things to wear.”
She wished he hadn’t reminded her. Unlike Jager, she’d never been able to bring herself to wear secondhand clothes. No doubt she’d been spoiled, as he’d scornfully told her.
Remembering how long he’d hung around outside the charity shop before entering, Paige had flung that at him, and he’d admitted that pride had warred with need. “But it’s not so bad. And you were great. I watched how you handled the customers, friendly but respectful, just as if you were serving in some Queen Street store. That was class.”
In the face of his patent admiration, the quarrel died then, and she’d even swallowed her misgivings and tried buying used clothes, but her revulsion at wearing something that had belonged to someone else—perhaps someone who had died—was uncontrollable.
This was a different emotion, but just as strong. “If you want me to wear something new,” she said, “I’ll buy it myself.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“Then what is?”
He looked back at her in wordless anger. It seemed he was no more able to articulate his reasons than she was.
“Never mind,” he said finally. “If you don’t want it…” He shrugged, obviously baffled.
She’d spoiled his surprise, spurned his gift. And if she suspected his motives, she supposed they were subconscious and he was genuinely puzzled by her refusal. “I’m sure they’ll take it back,” she said, bending to replace the wrappings.
“I won’t be taking it back,” Jager said harshly. “Keep it, in case you change your mind. Or give it away.”
She wouldn’t be changing her mind, but perhaps forcing him to take it back would exacerbate any hurt he was feeling. Not that he showed hurt—only a tightlipped frustration. She slipped the rewrapped dress into the bag. “How are the dinner plans going? Did you ask Glen if he and Maddie could come?”
“They’re coming.” The anger hadn’t quite died but his voice was neutral. “I haven’t finalized yet with a couple of people. We’ll probably be twelve in all.”
Paige did buy a new dress. It wasn’t as sexy nor as costly as the one that now sat at the back of a high shelf in her wardrobe, still in its bag. But it was soft and pretty, sage-green with a wide though modest neckline. And if Jager was disappointed when he opened the door to her after a whisper-quiet, mirrored elevator whisked her to his penthouse apartment, he didn’t show it by a flicker of an eyelid.
He ushered her into a large, high-ceilinged room. A wall of windows looked out on the harbor, inky-black by night except where lights shimmered in snaking lines from anchored ships, the high arch of the Harbor Bridge, and shoreside buildings.
With a view like that the designer had wisely not tried to compete. The furniture was plain and almost stark, long couches covered in palest gray leather, occasional tables carved of light wood, with glass tops. Paige’s high heels sank into unobtrusively gray-green carpet, and color was added by strategically placed rugs and large paintings.
A wide archway revealed the dining table, already set with gleaming cutlery and wineglasses.
She had arrived early, mindful of her hostess duties. “I see the table’s fixed.”
“The caterers did that first. They’re in the kitchen now—come and meet them.”
A pleasant middle-aged couple, the caterers seemed to have everything under control. Within minutes Paige was back in the living room while Jager poured her a drink.
She couldn’t help mentally comparing their surroundings to the cramped quarters they’d shared over ten years before. It was difficult to believe Jager was the same person.
They had both changed since then. He’d been the one who insisted on marriage, on commitment, a blind leap of faith in the future—their future. Security and permanence. Now she understood that he’d never had that from anyone, but at seventeen she hadn’t comprehended how desperately he needed it from her. Under the surface brashness and stubbornness had been a deep-seated craving she’d been too young to understand, too inexperienced to fulfill.
Apparently he had found what he wanted in his career and his hard-earned wealth. This Jager no longer needed validation nor moral support from her. He didn’t want her promises or her love. It was enough that he had access to her body, her company when he felt so inclined, her presence at his side when a presentable social partner was required.
“What’s the matter?” Jager asked. Glass in hand, he was lounging on a sofa opposite her, and in the big room seemed distant, both physically and emotionally.
“Nothing.” He must have read in her face the aching tug of regret for what might have been. She looked around them. “This is…impressive.”
“More so than your parents’ house?”
Theirs was large and architect-designed, with a pool and garden where Paige and Maddie had spent happy hours with their friends when they were growing up. It was a family home, the decor chosen by their mother with comfort as well as entertaining in mind achieving a balance of elegance and welcome.
“Do you need to compare?” she challenged him.
His gaze was enigmatic. “It’s just an idle question.”
Jager never asked idle questions, but she didn’t want to start a fight before his guests arrived. She took some of her drink and changed the subject, com
menting on the view.
When the doorbell chimed she was relieved. More people would dissipate the subtle tension in the air.
The Zimmermans had barely settled with their drinks when Maddie and Glen breezed in, holding hands. Every time their eyes met they smiled as though they simply couldn’t help it. Marriage seemed to have made their feelings for each other even stronger, and Paige felt a pang of pure envy.
While Jager was handing Maddie a glass the doorbell sounded again and he went to answer it.
Paige was talking to Maddie on one of the sofas when he ushered in the new arrivals. Turning expectantly, she suffered a jolt when she saw her parents enter the room, restrained social smiles fixed on their faces.
White wine spilled over her hand as she stood up. Carefully she put down the glass and picked up a paper napkin to wipe it away. “You didn’t tell me!” she accused Jager.
“I thought I’d surprise you.”
Her mother wafted over and kissed her. “Aren’t you pleased to see us?”
“Yes, of course.” She returned the kiss and forced a smile for her father as he saluted her cheek too.
She looked at Jager, trying to divine why he’d done this, but he was asking Margaret what she wanted to drink, and then as the doorbell chimed yet again he asked Paige, “Would you pour a dry white for your mother, darling, while I get that?”
There was no chance to speak with him privately. At dinner she took her place opposite Jager and played the part he’d assigned her, keeping the conversations going, discreetly signaling to the caterers when the next course should be served, and making sure everyone was well fed and comfortable.
Afterward they had coffee and liqueurs. The caterers cleaned up and left, and while Paige talked with the Zimmermans she saw Jager approach her father, who was admiring the view from the window.
