by Kwan, Coleen
“Yes,” he growled, feeling cornered and not knowing why. “But why am I the bad guy in this? I’m just trying to teach my sister a few life lessons.”
She straightened the towels, not answering him right away. “You need to be more diplomatic about it, not such a bull in a china shop.”
“Huh, well there’s nothing diplomatic about that statement.”
“Oh, Owen, we’re way past diplomacy.”
He jutted out his jaw. “Natasha knows what I’m like. I call a spade a spade.”
“She’s sixteen. Girls that age are very sensitive about how they appear in front of their peers.”
Not just girls. Boys were sensitive, too. He had the memory of Eric Jensen and his mates snickering as he was manhandled from the school hall etched into his brain for all eternity. Paige was right, dammit. He should have taken Natasha aside before criticizing her, not chew her out in front of Gretel. He’d behaved like a Neanderthal and lost the advantage of being in the right.
He uttered a part groan, part sigh. “How do I buy a bloody Prada bag and how much should I spend?”
Paige did a double take. “You’re really going to take my advice?”
“In this, yes. I don’t want a rift between Natasha and me at this early stage, and I’m in over my head.”
“This is quite a novelty, you asking for my help.” She grinned, looking pleased with herself.
“Don’t get carried away. It’s just a bag.”
“It’s not just a bag. You don’t understand how the right accessory can transform an entire outfit, how the feel and smell of a new handbag can lift a girl’s spirits.”
“I don’t want to understand. I just want to buy the flipping thing and get it over with.”
“Men.” She shook her head at his lack of empathy before dusting her hands and readjusting her ponytail. “Right, let’s get down to business. We can order the bag over the internet, and it should be here in a couple of days. Why don’t we check out a few options on your computer?”
He followed her out the pool house. The prospect of spending his afternoon browsing the internet for a handbag didn’t seem as horrifying as it sounded. Perhaps Paige had something to do with that.
…
“Youch!” Paige hissed as the scraper slipped and jagged into her palm. Blood welled up from the cut and oozed over her skin, dripping onto her shoes and the dusty floorboards of her living room. Blast it. She’d spent over an hour scraping the peeling paint from the walls and she was almost done in. The muscles in her back and arms ached, her manicure was ruined, her hair was covered in grit and sweat. Her concentration had begun to waver, which was when the accident had happened.
She needed antiseptic and a large Band-Aid, neither of which she had in the cottage. She’d have to go up to the main house and use the first aid kit stored in the laundry room. With a clean paper towel wrapped around her hand, she set off.
She’d intended to spend Sunday afternoon working on her résumé, but couldn’t work up any enthusiasm for it, so instead she’d decided to attack the peeling walls. Now it was a pleasant change to wander through the mild autumn air. The trees were beginning to change color. Magpies warbled in the bottlebrushes. Before, she’d never spent much time in the garden, but since moving into the caretaker’s cottage she’d found a new appreciation for the peace and beauty around her. She really had been lucky to grow up here, even though she’d taken it all for granted.
In the laundry room she found the first aid kit, but with only one working hand it was difficult to open. The box slithered from her grasp, and she was wrestling with it when Owen ducked his head inside.
“What’s up?” he asked before his gaze zeroed in on the towel wrapped around her hand, and he immediately stepped closer. “You’re hurt.” He reached for her hand, and she didn’t even think of not letting him touch her.
Her heart had started thumping uncomfortably as soon as he’d appeared. Earlier, she’d glimpsed him driving off with Natasha, presumably to return her to Argyle House, but she hadn’t heard him return.
“How did this happen?” he asked as he gently held her hand.
She put on a casual little smile. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch from my scraper. If you’ll just open the box for me, I can do the rest myself.”
Instead of obeying, he unfolded the towel from her hand. Some of the blood had dried, sticking to the towel and tugging at her skin as he uncovered it. She didn’t flinch, but he paused right away.
“This doesn’t look like nothing.” An odd note deepened his voice. “Come on, we’ll do this in the kitchen.”
There was no point arguing, so she let him lead her into the kitchen where he sat her down at the table. He fetched the first aid kit and a large basin filled with warm water, and then proceeded to wash and dress her wound. She watched him work, his square, blunt-edged fingers gentle and nimble on her skin, his head bent forward as he concentrated on the task. Afternoon sunshine slanted through the windows, and in the silence the clock ticked louder and louder. The sight of her hand in his work-roughened palm unsettled her. Tingles raced along her veins, her throat narrowed, her legs grew warm. She wondered if he could hear how ragged her breathing was. This wasn’t good. She didn’t want to be attracted to Owen. He wasn’t her type, he wasn’t someone she’d mix with, he wasn’t even someone she liked all that much. But none of that seemed to check her body’s reaction to him.
She had to break the silence or she’d give herself away, for sure. “So you’ve patched things up with Natasha?” she asked.
His head lifted, and for a moment she glimpsed a dazed expression in his eyes almost as if he’d been lost in a daydream. He blinked several times before replying, “Yes, I think so. She promised to be more polite in general, and I assured her she wouldn’t be changing schools. I didn’t tell her about the Prada bag; I’ll let that be a surprise for her next week.” He paused to set down the cotton swab. “Thanks for helping me.”
“Oh, you know me and handbags.”
“No, I didn’t mean just the handbag, I meant thanks for helping me mend fences with my sister.”
She felt a telltale flush wash over her. How annoying that Owen’s approval could affect her so much! Try as she might to resist, the warmth and appreciation in his eyes sent her brain into a tailspin.
She said the first thing that came into her head. “You’re lucky to have a sibling. I’d have liked a brother or sister.” If she had, maybe that would have taken some of her mother’s focus off her, given her a little breathing space to figure out who she was by herself. At times she’d felt smothered by her mother’s attention, yet her father’s remoteness had hurt just as much.
Owen unwrapped a Band-Aid and carefully placed the bandage over her cut, smoothing the adhesive fabric against her hand. The pads of his fingers were warm, slightly uneven, masculine…and quite mesmerizing. As he continued his stroking, she gazed down, caught up in the sensual rhythm, wanting him to glide his fingers over the rest of her skin.
His forearm pressed against hers. Next to her paleness, he was golden honey, the heft of his arm dusted with small, dark hairs, the muscles thick and well-defined. He was a hot and hunky builder, and she had a terrible urge to bend her head and coast her tongue across the hairs on his arm. What would he taste of? Salt and sweat and soap—common, everyday things made uncommon by who he was. But who was Owen Bellamy, anyway? Was he the moody pool boy she used to torment, or the rugged, blunt businessman she now worked for?
She shifted in her seat, and their gazes met and meshed. He felt it, too, she sensed. Felt the hum between them, the static flashing and flowing, the pull and the suck. Stronger than before, and this time she didn’t have the safety of her position. This time she was stripped bare, defenses crumbling like a sand castle collapsing into the crashing tide.
“Paige?”
His fingers slipped across her hand and found the telltale pulse hammering in her wrist.
So what if she found Owen attra
ctive? He had a hard, sexy body and a way of staring at her that made her all skittish with excitement. So what if he was blunt and unpolished and not the type of man she’d ever dated in the past? After her marriage disaster, maybe he was just what she needed.
She leaned toward him, and beneath the table her knee bumped against his, the feel of his denim jeans against her bare skin spinning her senses. She couldn’t remember when a man had her so jangled up. Usually she was the coolheaded one, but with Owen she was all crazy with anticipation and desire.
“Yeah…?” She fluttered her eyelids at him, her voice breathy, suggestive.
“Your pulse is racing. Do you have a fever?”
She blinked at him. She had a fever all right—for him. She was burning for his arms around her, for his lips upon hers, for the swooning kisses she’d devoured and then spurned all those years ago. But as she gazed at him, she began to see that she might have misinterpreted Owen. The heated mist in his eyes had faded, replaced by an amused sparkle. Was Owen laughing at her because he’d turned her on so easily?
She snatched her hand away. Oh, the indignity. “You’re not a doctor. Stop feeling me up.”
“I was just making sure the Band-Aid was on properly.” The glint in his eyes flared. He’d tested her defenses and found her weak spot.
“I’m going back to work.” She began to rise to her feet, but he forestalled her by wrapping his fingers around her wrist.
“Wait.”
She paused, praying for her restless pulse to behave.
“That cut looked pretty nasty. You shouldn’t do any more work on the cottage.” His grip firmed on her wrist. “In fact, you should just give up on the redecorating and move back into your bedroom.”
He made sense. The cottage was dour and Spartan, and painting was a grubby job she didn’t enjoy, and besides she wasn’t going to be here for very long. But the prospect of moving back into her old bedroom didn’t appeal to her as much as it once had. Moving back would be a step backward, returning to the person she once was, and that wasn’t what she wanted anymore. She didn’t want to be the old Paige Kerrigan again. Not completely. Yes, she wanted her former confidence and security, the savoir faire that carried her through life. But there were bits of her she’d rather leave behind, bits she’d been reminded of by Owen and his sister. Bits she wasn’t proud of.
She met Owen’s gaze and saw the lively speculation in his eyes. Huh. That was another reason to stay put in the cottage. Sharing the house with him could lead to all sorts of tricky situations. He got her engine spinning, no denying it, but she wasn’t going to let that run out of control like last time. Avoiding temptation was the sensible thing to do.
“I’m fine,” she insisted. She pushed to her feet, but instead of letting her wrist go, he stood, too, and his nearness made her gulp. He had such beautiful shoulders. Broad, powerful, well defined. She’d like to feel them, run her palms over— Heck, what was she thinking? She yanked her wrist free and attempted to step back, but somehow found herself trapped between the table, her chair, and Owen. “I can still use the scraper with my other hand.”
“What are you trying to prove?”
Oh God, why didn’t he move before she did something idiotic?
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I just like annoying you.”
A grin lit up his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “And you’re so good at that.”
For a second she was dazzled. He should smile more often. He could sell ice to Eskimos with that smile. “I’m good at a lot of things.”
“Yeah…” His gaze zipped down her body, lingered on her bare legs, then flew back to her face. “I can see that.”
Heck, she had to stop flirting with him. She tried her usual maneuver of flicking back her hair and raising her chin to give him a cool stare. “Do you mind?” She waggled her fingers in the few inches separating them. “I need to get back to my scraping.”
For a moment he looked like he wouldn’t budge, but then he took a slow step backward. Paige breathed out a tiny sigh.
“Why don’t I help you?” Owen said.
“Wh-what? No,” she replied instinctively before she realized how jittery she sounded and added, “I mean, you must have better things to do.” She edged toward the door. “Oh, look at the time. I didn’t realize how late it was. I’ll probably pack it in for the day.”
“Sometime during the week, then. I’m sure I’ll have some spare time.”
“Yes, sure.”
But as she made her way back, she vowed not to let Owen anywhere near the cottage. If he started helping her and being nice to her, she might start flirting with him again and even do something crazy like kiss him. Worse, once she started kissing him, she might not be able to stop.
Chapter Six
“So you’re living here?” Councilor Lethbridge glanced about the living room before his suspicious gaze returned to Owen. “And what happened to the Kerrigans again?”
Owen had already explained the situation, but he simply repeated, “They’re away, but I don’t know where.”
The councilor seemed disappointed by his answer. Pursing his thin lips, he continued eyeing Owen and the room. Owen tamped down the sudden surge of irritation. He’d thought it a good idea to invite Phillip Lethbridge over for a midweek evening drink. The wealthy lawyer lived next door and was an influential member of the Burronga Town Council. He’d be someone to have on his side when the council voted on Bandicoot Creek, Owen had thought. But he hadn’t counted on the man’s mistrust.
“You’ve got some good artworks.” Lethbridge grudgingly nodded at the paintings on the wall. “You’re a collector?”
“Afraid not. My interior decorator suggested most of these.”
“Humpf.” Suspicion returned to the councilor’s face.
Lethbridge wore a cashmere sweater, beige trousers, and loafers with those little tassels Owen hated. Owen, on the other hand, wore a plain blue shirt with his jeans and sneakers. He’d decided not to dress up, to wear the casual clothes he normally wore to informal events, but now he realized his mistake. He didn’t look like he belonged in this neighborhood, and the opulent furnishings only emphasized that. No wonder Lethbridge looked skeptical.
“Can I fix you a drink?” No point in dwelling on his mistake; he had to push on, try to make up lost ground. He gestured toward the liquor cabinet.
“I’ll have a whiskey. Single malt, if you have it.”
“I’m sure I do.”
He rummaged through the bottles, hoping he’d find something. He never drank whiskey himself, but he’d asked Paige to stock up the alcoholic supplies, so with any luck she’d know what people in the neighborhood drank. It appeared she did. He pulled out a bottle of some impressive-sounding scotch whiskey, and Lethbridge nodded his approval when he accepted a glassful. But his skeptical expression returned when Owen opened a bottle of everyday beer.
“Cheers,” Owen said defiantly. He liked his beer. He wasn’t going to change just because he’d moved into a swanky neighborhood. He wouldn’t even pour his beer into a glass; he would drink it straight out of the bottle.
Lethbridge cleared his throat, halfheartedly raising his glass of whiskey.
“How ’bout that test match with the All Blacks?” Owen launched into the tried and tested subject of sport. Lethbridge had to follow rugby. Everything about him screamed “private school” where the game was compulsory. Sure enough, the councilor launched into a detailed discussion of the match.
After a few long minutes, Owen felt his eyes start to glaze over. He’d exhausted his limited knowledge of rugby, but even if he was growing stiff with boredom, at least Lethbridge had relaxed a little. Maybe it was time to bring the conversation round to Bandicoot Creek.
“I used to be a good fly-half until I injured my knee.” Lethbridge had settled into the wingback chesterfield. “Nowadays golf is my sport. You play, Bellamy?”
Owen had to shake his head. Golf was for people with money and
time.
“You ought to try it, especially now that you’ve moved here. Plenty of good golf courses around here. The country club has an excellent course.” Lethbridge went to take another swig of whiskey but paused, eyes narrowing above the raised glass. “You’re a member there?”
“No.” Owen sensed the councilor withdrawing again, and wanted to clench his fist in frustration. All his groundwork going to waste, and just because he didn’t belong to the fricking country club. He sat up. “I’m thinking of applying for membership. Would you be willing to propose my application?”
It seemed the worst thing he could have said. Lethbridge coughed, went red in the face, and pretended there was something in his whiskey. “I don’t know if I’m in a position to do that.” He hemmed and hawed for a while longer, making Owen dig his fingers into the arms of the couch.
He’d been too blunt, he realized too late. Instead of coming out so baldly with his request, he should have wooed Lethbridge a little more. He should have flattered him, stroked his ego, made him feel big and important. But he wasn’t made like that. He’d built up his career dealing with people like himself—down-to-earth, direct, blue collar. He didn’t have the expertise to handle someone like Lethbridge, and now it looked like he’d done more harm than good by inviting the guy over.
But Owen wasn’t ready to throw in the towel. He waited until the councilor had calmed down before saying, “The country club is a fine-looking place. I pass it each time I go out to Bandicoot Creek.”
“Bandicoot Creek?” Lethbridge picked at his trousers, not appearing much interested.
“Yeah, it’s the block of land I’m planning to develop. It’s near the ninth green of your club.”
Lethbridge stiffened. He’d caught his attention now, Owen thought, but not in a good way as he registered the grimace on the councilor’s face.
“Ah. I heard some rumor about that at the club.” A deep trench appeared on his forehead as he drew his brows together. “Frankly, it’s not the kind of development we approve of. Row upon row of mean little town houses, hooligans doing burnouts on the streets, people trespassing on our golf course. No, no.” Lethbridge shook his head, his mouth pursed into a disapproving knot. “We can’t have that near our country club. It would ruin everything.” Setting down his whiskey, he stood, his intention to leave clear.
