by Kwan, Coleen
He braced one foot against the fence, then vaulted clear over the wire. “Come on.” He motioned to Nate to follow him. “I’ll show you around.”
Together they clambered over the uneven ground. Owen pointed out the noxious weeds, the crumbling ditches, and the silted creek, all results of bad farming practices. The only thing going for this parcel of land was its location, a ten-minute drive from town and near the ninth fairway of the Burronga Country Club’s championship golf course.
Nate nodded at the fairway. “You should join the country club. Rub shoulders with all the old boys.”
“Yeah, right.” Owen snorted. “I can just see all those members leaping up to propose and second my application.”
“Well, you’ve got the right address now. You’re renting the Kerrigan house, aren’t you?”
“That’s right.”
Nate kicked at a clump of prickly pear. “Rather you than me, mate. That house doesn’t hold fond memories for me.”
Owen frowned. “Didn’t know you were connected with the Kerrigans.”
“Only indirectly. My cousin was the chump who married Paige Kerrigan.”
Owen’s throat tightened. “Seth Bailey’s your cousin? Crap. I never made the connection before.”
“‘Crap’ is the operative word.” Nate snickered without humor. “He’s turned into a real douche bag. I don’t hear from him these days, and that suits me fine after what he did to Paige.” Turning, he aimed an inquisitive look at Owen. “So why did you say ‘crap’?”
Owen shrugged. “I hired a new housekeeper this morning. Paige Kerrigan.”
His friend stared at him for several moments before he tilted his head back and burst out laughing. “Paige Kerrigan’s your housekeeper in her own house? Come on, you’re pulling my leg!”
“No, it’s true.” In a few brief sentences he explained what had happened.
Nate shook his head and whistled in disbelief, still chuckling. “She’s going to cook you breakfast? Hell, you’re brave. I’d be too afraid she’d poison me, either by design or accident.”
“I might have gone too far with the breakfast thing,” Owen admitted. He hadn’t intended adding cooking to her duties, but he’d been irked by her offhand manner to his job offer.
“You think?” Nate laughed. “That woman is just not made for domestic duties. She was maxing out her credit card when they handed out the homemaker genes.”
Nothing Owen didn’t already know. But his mind was occupied with something Nate had said earlier. “What did you mean by Seth being a douche bag? What did he do to Paige? Did he cheat on her?”
Nate sobered up fast. “You don’t know? Jeez, I thought everyone around here knew.”
The muscles in Owen’s arms bunched up. “What happened?” It had to be something sleazy, he thought as unease heaved in his stomach. Something sordid, to force a proud girl like Paige to go running for cover.
“Seth had a video of Paige dancing around topless. I guess it was taken just after they were married, when the gloss hadn’t worn off yet. After they separated, he posted it on the internet and it went viral before he finally removed it. I think Paige must have threatened to cut his balls off.” Nate shrugged. “Paige can be a real pain in the arse, but she didn’t deserve to be humiliated like that.”
Nobody did. Owen hauled in a breath of air as he tried to order his milling thoughts.
“Topless, huh?” Damn, why was that the first thing to come out his mouth?
Nate grinned. “Yup. I wouldn’t pick Paige as someone who lets herself be filmed without her shirt on. She’s always so stitched up.”
Not always. She hadn’t been stitched up during those two weeks when they’d exchanged furtive kisses at every opportunity. No, quite the opposite. Each time their lips melded together, she’d become a little more unstitched, a little more unbuttoned, leaving him panting, aroused, and dazed by the combustion.
“But not with Seth.” The image of Paige dancing topless for her dirtbag husband made Owen’s teeth grind and his stomach clench.
“She was singing on the video, too. ‘I Should Be So Lucky.’ Ironic, huh?” Nate’s grin grew mischievous. “Bet next time you see her, you’ll have a hard time keeping your eyes off her, uh, assets.”
Shoot, Nate was a decent guy and a happily married one, too, and even he couldn’t help taking a cheap shot at Paige’s expense. But if Paige weren’t such a stuck-up princess, people wouldn’t be so eager to rag on her. She’d receive a lot more sympathy if she hadn’t raised so many hackles in the past.
“The next time she’s giving me grief over something, I’ll have to visualize her topless dancing,” Owen said. He wasn’t going to mention he’d already seen Paige’s naked breasts — and they were spectacular.
“You don’t have to visualize it. I’m sure that video is still lurking somewhere on the internet. You know what they say—once it’s uploaded, it’s there for life.”
Owen was already shaking his head. “Nope. I won’t be doing that.” Only a pathetic loser would go trawling through the Web for Paige’s titillating video. He’d respect her privacy.
“You’re such a prince,” Nate said.
“No, you’ve got it wrong. I’m the frog.”
“Waiting for the princess to kiss you.” Nate ducked as Owen swung a mock punch at him. “C’mon, let’s get back and crack open a couple of beers. Then we can go over the numbers again.”
Owen followed after Nate. His friend didn’t know that the princess had already kissed him, kissed him thoroughly and lustily for two whole weeks. But in the end he was still a frog, cast back in the pond, banished. There was only so much that kissing could achieve. The rest was up to the frog himself.
Chapter Three
The weathered roof tiles, the leaves littering the porch, and the rusty door hinges were warning enough, but even so Paige wasn’t prepared for the interior of the caretaker’s cottage. Musty cold air greeted her as she wheeled her suitcases into the living room. The breeze from the open door stirred cobwebs dangling from above. Bleary sunlight struggled to penetrate dirty windows overcrowded by the rhododendron bushes outside. Mildew speckled the walls and ceiling. It felt as though she’d strayed into a dungeon.
Her tour of the cottage took less than fifteen seconds—two bedrooms, a monastic bathroom, and a sliver of a kitchen annexed to the living room. Scuffed wooden floorboards covered by a layer of dirt. There was little furniture—just an old leather chesterfield in the living room, a single iron bedstead and thin mattress in one of the bedrooms, and a mismatched assortment of crockery and cutlery in the kitchen drawers. Not exactly the Ritz hotel. More like a halfway house for trolls.
Her high-heeled shoes were pinching her toes. A dull headache pulsed at the base of her skull. Her stomach felt tight and knotted. She hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday afternoon, and her nerves were screaming for caffeine. A treacherous wobble started in her chin, a lump rose in her throat, and her knees began to shake.
What was she doing here? She didn’t belong in this hovel. She had standards, she had pride, and she had an expensive collection of shoes that would hate the dampness in this place. She couldn’t stay here. She needed comforting and pampering to rebuild her confidence; she needed to be reassured that her life would improve soon, very soon.
“Oh, damn.” She sank onto the worn chesterfield as her tears finally spilled over. “Damn, damn, damn.” She hated crying. Tears were a sign of weakness. Tears wouldn’t solve anything. And tears would ruin her makeup. She scrunched her eyes to stem the flow while she wiped away the moisture from her cheeks. God, she wouldn’t waste any tears because of Owen, of all people. He knew the state of this cottage, and he’d deliberately banished her here, hoping she’d break down and either throw a tantrum or quit her job, and both of those outcomes would confirm his prejudices about her. Well, she’d be damned if she let him beat her. Over the past twelve months she’d endured severe emotional battering, but this was it. Owen was her low
-water mark, and she refused to sink any further.
Hands fisted, she pushed to her feet, powered by the strength of her indignation. This place wasn’t so bad. All it needed was lots of fresh air and a thorough cleaning. Add a fresh coat of paint, some bright cushions, a big vase of flowers, and this would be a snug little weekender.
First she had to clean the bedroom closet so she could unpack her suitcases. Her clothes needed airing and pressing after their long trip from London. Fueled with purpose, she marched into the larger of the two bedrooms and flung open the double doors of the closet.
A moth fluttered out toward her. She gasped and froze as the insect bumbled closer. It was large and fat, its wings ragged and furry. Her mouth dried. She faltered back, but the moth kept on coming. It blundered straight for her, brushing against her cheek before flapping away.
“Argh.” She staggered away, frantically swiping at her cheek as she gagged at the loathsome sensation of the insect’s hairy wings. She knew she was being irrational. In childhood, her fear of moths had immobilized her, but with time she’d managed to control her phobia, if not overcome it. But this moth had taken her by surprise when her nerves were already ajitter. And it wasn’t alone. Her skin crawled as she spied another two moths lurking at the back of the closet.
She needed some insect spray, a lot of it, and quickly. She exited the cottage and ran to the main house, which was quite a distance away. As she took a shortcut across the lawn, her high heels sank into the grass and kicked up little divots. By the time she reached the back door of the kitchen, her lungs were heaving and her toes were cramping.
A crusty, gnomish man in worn overalls sat at the table with a steaming mug of coffee. He scowled at her as she came in gasping for air.
“Oi,” he barked. “You’re tracking muck all over the floor.”
Paige glanced down at her beautiful French-designed shoes, which had once been snow white but were now caked with dirt and grass. “Do you work here?” she panted.
The man gave her a surly look. “What’s that got to do with you?”
Judging by his work-worn hands and overalls, he must be the gardener, she decided. She drew in a breath. “It has everything to do with me because I’m the new housekeeper.”
“You, the housekeeper?” He looked her up and down. “Mr. Bellamy didn’t say nothing to me about no new housekeeper.”
She couldn’t waste any more time on the cantankerous old codger, not with those moths still haunting the closet. “We can sort that out later. Right now I need some insect spray. Is there any around here?”
He shrugged. “Dunno. I only come in here for me coffee.”
Sighing, she rummaged through some kitchen cupboards without any luck. Consternation twisted her empty stomach. She couldn’t return to the cottage unarmed. Those moths were there. Maybe all the closets were teeming with moths, waiting to swarm her. She needed something!
Banging the last cupboard shut, she whirled back to the gardener. “Look, I’m moving into the caretaker’s cottage and—and there are a few m-moths inside. I need insecticide or at least a few naphthalene balls. You’re the gardener, aren’t you? You must have some kind of spray I could use.” She stretched her lips into the most ingratiating smile she could manage. “Please?”
The old codger sucked in his leathery cheeks, clicking his false teeth together. “I might have something,” he reluctantly admitted.
“Excellent. Thank you.” She let out a sigh of relief and made for the back door, but the gardener remained seated. “Uh, it’s kind of an emergency. Do you mind coming now?”
The dour scowl instantly reappeared. “I do mind. I just sat down. Don’t want me coffee to go cold.” With deliberate slowness he slurped from his mug, looking like he wouldn’t budge for the next ten years.
“Oh, please won’t you hurry? I—I’m a little nervous of moths.”
“Afraid of a few harmless insects?” The gardener sneered. “That’s feeble.”
Paige envisioned moths bursting out of her closet in a thundercloud of flapping shapes, their fat, powdery bodies choking her. Her heartbeat drummed in her ears, a fast staccato of sheer panic.
She slapped her palm hard on the table next to the old man. He jerked, spilling some of his coffee.
“I need that insecticide now!” she heard herself demand in a tone sharp enough to peel paint. “Now, do you hear me?”
The man’s jaw dropped. His eyes bulged as he stared at her in stunned silence before stumbling to his feet. “S—sure…”
“Sit down and finish your coffee, Wilko.” Owen stood in the doorway, his face like thunder. His cutting gaze whipped over Paige. “In my office. Now.” He left the kitchen without another word.
Paige hesitated.
“You heard him,” Wilko said with a smirk, resuming his seat at the table.
Swallowing, she followed Owen to the study at the end of the corridor. As she entered, he spun around to face her.
“When I offered you the housekeeping job, I told you I expected respect,” he said without preamble. “That means respect for everyone, not just me. Your behavior toward Wilkins was appalling. You won’t speak to him like that. Ever. Do I make myself clear?”
How she hated the cold distaste in his eyes. Hated the way he made her feel so…small and despicable. She much preferred it when he was merely exasperated with her.
“Crystal clear,” she said, surprised at how shaky her voice was. She had been rude to the gardener. She didn’t usually berate people so harshly, but her fear had gotten the better of her, made her shrill and demanding. Made her the arrogant princess Owen had pegged her for.
“Wilkins comes in a few hours every day to look after the garden. He takes his breaks in the kitchen, so you’d better get used to him. You’ll have to apologize to him.”
Paige gulped. “Fine.” She still needed that insect spray from the gardener. The moths might be gone by the time she got back to the cottage, but if they weren’t… She gulped again.
“Is everything okay?”
Glancing up, she found Owen studying her, his expression searching. Should she confess her moth phobia to him? No, she’d never told anyone. He might think her pathetic. Or suspect she was lying in an attempt to ditch the caretaker’s cottage.
“Of course.” She did a quick hair toss. “I’m just anxious to get settled into the cottage so I can move on to my housekeeping duties.”
“Uh-huh.” He didn’t look at all convinced.
“See you later, boss.” She did an about-face on the balls of her feet and gave him her best insouciant sashay as she glided out the study.
“Paige…”
She paused at the door. “Hmm?”
“If you want something from someone, it might help if you smiled and said ‘please’ once in a while. You’ll find you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “I’ll keep that in mind if I ever turn into a frog.”
…
Owen’s gaze lingered on Paige’s retreating figure, despite his best intentions. The way she’d treated Wilko had infuriated him, but somehow it was difficult to maintain the rage while her hips swayed so provocatively. All done on purpose, of course. Paige knew exactly how to divert a man’s attention, and unfortunately he was only made of flesh and blood.
His eye caught the uncharacteristic stains on the heels of her ridiculous stilettos. Dirt and grass, which she must have picked up by walking across the lawn. Or running, judging by the extent of the dirt marks. Why had Paige been running over the grass in her high heels? Had something spooked her? Maybe that was why she’d chewed out the gardener.
Owen massaged his chest, frowning as he tried to make sense of it all. Before he’d left for his meeting with Nate, Paige had said she’d move her luggage into the caretaker’s cottage. Maybe something had happened there to scare her. He hadn’t inspected the cottage yet, reluctant to revive memories. When he had lived there with his dad and Natasha, the bu
ilding had been basic but in good repair, but anything might have happened since his dad had passed away six years ago. It might be a complete dump by now.
“Paige.” Before he knew it, he was striding after her.
She turned around at the foot of the staircase, her pale hair swirling around her shoulders. His breath hitched involuntarily. Out of nowhere an image of Paige dancing topless roared into his brain—a carefree, uninhibited Paige so at odds with this cool, guarded Paige.
“Yes?” Her voice was as clear as a bell ringing in a quiet church.
Try as he might, he couldn’t stop his gaze from drifting to her torso, where the silk of her shirt molded gently to her curves. She wasn’t built like a Hooters waitress, that was for sure, but what she had was a lot more intriguing and arousing. Fourteen years ago her teenage curves had been heaven to him. She’d let him explore her body, and even though his hands had felt clumsy and inept, she hadn’t seemed to mind, had seemed to find his caresses stimulating. Not that she’d ever said so; just the way she sighed and melted against him had told him.
Now he saw she’d matured in all the right places. She had a dynamite figure, and suddenly he couldn’t think of anything besides her body, couldn’t hear anything except the strains of “I Should Be So Lucky”…
“Well?” Paige folded her arms across her chest.
Owen blinked. Just a few minutes ago he’d been bawling her out, enraged at her high-handed manner, and now he was almost drooling over her. Pull it together, man. Remember who has the upper hand now.
“Is the caretaker’s cottage to your satisfaction?” Why was he talking like a pompous ass?
Her face grew stiff. “Oh, yes.”
“It’s probably not what you’re used to.” He waved his hand around casually. “If there’s anything missing, feel free to borrow from the house—linen or plates or cushions.” Women could never have enough scatter cushions.
“I might do that.” Her expression remained cool.
“I’ll tell Wilko to help you with any heavy lifting. He’s as strong as an ox.”
