by Kwan, Coleen
“I—I talk to him now and again.”
“So you’re sweet on him?”
“No, course not.”
“I think you are.” Gretel snickered. “His mother works at a beauty salon. You should ask for a discount when you get your legs waxed.”
“I…I…” Natasha stammered.
At the confusion and desperation in the girl’s voice, Paige’s fingernails curled into the flesh of her palms.
“It’s okay,” Gretel said. “I don’t mind if you talk to him. You can even flirt with him, if you want.”
“Flirt with him?”
“Yeah, just pretend flirting, of course.”
“Oh.” Natasha sounded hesitant.
“It wouldn’t mean anything. You need the practice, but, you know, it’s up to you.”
The girls clattered out of the kitchen, leaving Paige scowling. How dare Gretel corrupt Natasha like that? Paige’s first instinct was to march upstairs and confront the girl, but as satisfying as that might be, she had to consider Natasha. Better to wait until she had the teenager on her own.
Her opportunity arrived sooner than expected. By early evening Gretel developed a migraine and had to be picked up by her mother. With Owen at a business meeting, Paige remained in the house to keep Natasha company. The listless teenager appeared grateful when Paige offered to make her a toasted cheese sandwich. As Paige worked in the kitchen, the girl gradually started chatting about her friends. Paige wasn’t surprised that 80 percent of her conversation revolved around Gretel.
“Gretel’s important to you, isn’t she?” Paige commented as she lifted the browned sandwich out of the toaster press.
“I wouldn’t have as many friends if it weren’t for her. Or get invited to so many parties.”
“That’s good.” Paige set the sandwich on a plate and pushed it across the counter to Natasha. “But you don’t want her telling you what to do all the time.”
“What—what do you mean?”
Paige decided to be direct. “I couldn’t help overhearing some of your conversation earlier in the kitchen.”
“Oh.” The poor girl went red to the tips of her ears.
“You were talking about a boy. Kane, was it?”
“Um.” The girl turned even redder.
“I hope you’re not going to use him for flirting practice.”
Natasha tore off a corner of her sandwich and stuffed it into her mouth. “Gretel said it would be just a bit of fun,” she mumbled.
Breathing deep, Paige folded her arms. “Fun? To toy with someone?”
“But—but he’s a loser…”
“Is that really your opinion, or are you just parroting Gretel?”
Natasha hung her head.
Paige’s heart ached deep in her chest. She knew exactly what Natasha was going through. Been there, done that. And suffered the consequences. Stretching her arm across the counter, she touched Natasha’s hand.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” she said. “But it sounded as if you and Kane like each other. Don’t mess that up just because you want Gretel’s approval.”
The girl looked up, confused and unhappy. “I just want to fit in. It’s hard sometimes because the popular girls are so together and I’m…not.”
“I know it’s difficult sometimes trying to figure it all out.” Paige hesitated as she struggled to find an answer to the teenager’s dilemma. “But what would Owen think if you did what Gretel suggested?”
Natasha bit her lip. “He wouldn’t like me leading someone on just for the hell of it, that’s for sure.” She heaved a sigh. “You’re right. I can’t be so mean to Kane.”
“No, because someday he might become very important to you.” Shoot, where had that come from? And why couldn’t she get Owen’s face out of her mind?
“I didn’t say he’s important to me!” Natasha spluttered. “He’s still a loser.”
“Why?”
“He just is. I can’t be seen with Kane. But I won’t pretend to flirt with him. I’ll just ignore him.” She gathered up the plate and rose from her barstool. “Thanks, Paige. Mind if I eat this in front of the TV?”
Paige gazed after the teenager. If she could go back in time and advise her sixteen-year-old self about Owen, what would she say, and would it have made any difference?
…
“Everyone calls him Mr. Asquith,” Paige said. “Nobody uses his first name.”
Owen grinned as he leaned back and folded his arms behind his head. “Jim keeps referring to him as ‘the big kahuna.’ I’ll have to watch myself or I’ll call him that by accident.”
They were sitting in the study while Paige briefed Owen on what to expect from their weekend guest. Owen lounged at the desk, casual in a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up and olive-green cargo pants, one ankle resting on his knee, the inevitable canvas sneakers on his feet. He looked like a construction worker, not the co-owner of a thriving building company. A virile, attractive construction worker, she had to admit, unable to stop peeking at his midriff where his shirt had ridden up to reveal a tantalizing slice of taut muscle.
“He’s forty-eight, born into one of the wealthiest families in the country,” she said, keeping her voice brisk. “The Asquiths originally made their fortune from cattle stations. Now they have a finger in every pie. Mining, manufacturing, construction, even television stations. Gordon’s father built up an enormous empire and passed it to his son.”
“Not hard to be successful when all you have to do is inherit it,” Owen remarked.
“You’ll need to tone down that attitude this weekend, or Mr. Asquith will sense you don’t think much of him.”
Grimacing, he threaded his fingers through his hair. “You’re right. Damn. All this helpful information you’re giving me won’t make a difference if I can’t disguise my real feelings.”
“Why is that so difficult?”
“It’s not as easy as you make out.”
“Are you implying I fake my feelings?”
“No, I didn’t mean to criticize you,” he quickly replied. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on knees. “Huh. Seems I need more coaching than I first thought.”
The ruefulness in his expression got to her. “No, you’re right. It is second nature to me to hide my feelings.”
His eyes widened. “Why is that, do you think?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it was my upbringing…” She hesitated, self-conscious of revealing herself to Owen. “My mother always lectured me about maintaining my appearance, not just my physical one, but my emotional one, too.”
As he gazed at her, she squirmed back in her seat, the spacious study suddenly feeling claustrophobic.
“I notice you mention your mother a lot, but never your father.”
“My father?” She leaned back in surprise. “Yes, well, my father is another story.”
“Edward was fair enough to my father”—Owen exhaled a sigh—“even though for a while I blamed him for my parents’ accident.”
Paige gaped at him. “You—you did? But why?”
Owen studied his loosely linked hands. “Edward was hassling my dad to finish some renovations on this house. My dad was rushing to drop off my mum so he could return to work when the accident happened.” He flexed his hands a few times before lifting his head to meet Paige’s stare. “I realize now your father wasn’t responsible, but at the time I was…grieving, and it was easier to blame him.”
“I—I never knew,” she said, her heart aching for the teenage Owen who’d suffered so much. No wonder he’d resented them all.
“Your father strikes me as a decent man, but you never talk about him.”
She glanced away and focused on the magnolia trees rustling outside the window. “My father never had time for me. He was always busy with work or golf. If I’d been a boy, maybe it would’ve been different, but with me…” She lifted her shoulders. “He bought me ponies and clothes and fancy cars. That was how he showed he cared.”
Deep down, she knew her father loved her, but he’d always been so reserved and undemonstrative, and her mother had taken up so much of the oxygen there was little to spare. She didn’t resent his lack of emotion, but still it wounded her.
“Well, your father is the one who lost out the most,” Owen said.
The warm empathy in his voice made her toes curl. A lump formed in her throat, and suddenly she was terrified of what she might blurt out next. Why Owen? And why this inexplicable urge to strip her feelings bare and delve into the morass beneath?
“It’s easy to blame parents,” she briskly replied as she crossed her legs and straightened her skirt. “But I guess I’m just good at concealing my feelings.”
A few seconds ticked by before he replied, “You’ll have to teach me how it’s done. Sometimes I wish like hell I could conceal my feelings, but I can’t, and to make matters worse, there are times when I can’t find the right words to express myself and end up even more frustrated.”
“You’re certainly expressing yourself now.”
“No, believe me, I’m not.” He gazed at her somberly for a while before abruptly pushing to his feet. “Let’s get on with the etiquette training.”
Relieved they’d returned to more practical subjects, she followed him out the study and through to the dining room where she had laid out two full settings. She stood next to Owen while he sat and navigated his way through the cutlery, glasses, and plates.
“I don’t know why you insisted on this,” she said after a few minutes. “You haven’t slipped up once.”
“Just making sure.” He slanted his eyes at her. “Are you surprised my table manners are up to scratch?”
“Are you trying to goad me into saying something rude?”
“Is it working?” His eyes glinted.
“You want me to be rude?”
“I want you to…” The shimmer in his eyes intensified to an iridescent green. “I want you.”
“Oh.” The lump was back in her throat, stealing all her breath, all her sanity. He wants me. The idea sent an electrifying thrill right to her core. It wasn’t news to her; she’d guessed as much, but this was the first time he’d said it to her in plain English, and the emotion banked behind his statement sent her into a tailspin.
She cleared her throat, sought desperately for something clever to say. “Well, sounds like you have no trouble finding the right words to express yourself.”
“Always so damn cucumber cool,” he muttered to himself. Without warning he curled an arm around her waist and hauled her onto his lap. Her body tensed. Oh God, she could feel his thighs beneath her bottom. They were firm and muscular, and his arm was tight around her waist, like he was never letting go of her.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Mixing things up. Is it bad manners to put a lady on my lap at the dinner table?”
His devilish teasing had her hypnotized. She tried to glare at him, but his smile was impregnable. The warmth of his breath, the impish glint in his dark-lashed eyes, the lure of his mouth—all combined to steal her poise, and the worst of it was she had no desire to leave his lap. She wanted to stay there and do something bad to him. With him.
“It’s the first on my list of don’ts,” she managed to reply, keeping her body very still. “Don’t put a woman on your lap at the dinner table. You’ll crush your napkin.”
“Oh, I see.” At her waist his fingers rotated, branding her through the thin fabric of her shirt. “Since I’ve already broken a cardinal rule, I might as well keep going and kiss you.”
She gulped deeply, heart galloping like a spooked horse. He lifted one hand, touched his forefinger to her chin, tilted her face toward him. His gaze, shimmering and fascinating, held her fast. Air whooshed out of her lungs. A week had passed since they’d kissed in the cottage. She’d battled to push the memory away, but now…now she craved this kiss like a new shoot yearning for moisture. Could he see the need in her eyes? Then he lowered his head to kiss her and obliterated all her hesitation.
His lips were gentle against hers. He didn’t crush her or try to dominate her; instead his mouth caressed her, filling her with light and warmth, his tenderness accentuated by the power he held in check. Quivering, she drank in his kiss, eager for more, convinced she’d never be satiated. The heat of his lips fanned sorely suppressed embers. Hunger flared. She kissed him back more urgently, twining her arms around his neck. She stroked her tongue against his lips and ran her fingers through his hair. But even as her passion blazed, his restraint hardened. She could sense the desire burning through him just as hot as hers, but he held himself in check, almost as if to punish her, if not himself.
She broke free of his lips. “What?” she cried in frustration. “I thought you wanted to kiss me.”
“I am kissing you.” His breathing was as ragged as hers.
“But you don’t want to get down and dirty with me.”
“Sweetheart, I want to get down and dirty with you until we both can’t walk.” His grip tightened around her waist, lusty and possessive.
She tossed back her hair. “Well then?”
“But I don’t want down and dirty yet. I want soft and slow to start with.”
She dug her fingernails into the meat of his shoulders. “We’ve been through this before,” she said through clenched teeth. “I don’t understand you at all. I’m beginning to think you’re a masochist.”
His eyes flashed. “And all you want is a quick roll in the hay?”
The bite in his words had her pulling free. She disentangled her limbs from his and stood away from him, her legs like cotton wool. “There’s nothing wrong with a quick roll in the hay. I just want to forget everything for a brief while. What’s bad about that?” Oh God, I’m begging Owen for sex. How could she fall so low? She glowered at him, impatient and angry with herself, with him, with every damn thing. “There’s no time for anything else.”
He stared at her a while before slowly rising to his feet. “Paige, there’s always time.”
Time for what? Time for him to delve around in her feelings and dig up things she didn’t want disturbed?
She shook her head vehemently. “I’m leaving soon.” As soon as this weekend was over. The decision came to her with the force of a category five hurricane. She had to leave, even if she didn’t have a job lined up in Sydney. She’d call old friends, past associates, anyone as long as she could get away from Owen.
“Doesn’t mean we can’t see each other.” A dogged look settled on Owen’s face. “I still go up to Sydney several times a month. And I’m not going to be here forever, just a couple of years.”
What was he talking about? Why did he sound like he was making long-term plans involving her?
“I don’t want to see you.” Her hands fisted at her sides. “Can’t you understand?”
He seemed unmoved, just rolled his shoulders. “I understand you’re feeling bruised after your divorce, but you gotta know I’m nothing like that ratbag you married.”
Seth. She had to scramble through her memories before she could drag up a blurry picture of her ex-husband. Already she was forgetting what he looked like. Owen had supposed wrong. She was well past the hurt of her divorce, she realized. Just a few weeks back she had been wounded and beaten down by the world, but since then something had happened. Without noticing it, she’d recovered. She didn’t feel the need to hide from the world anymore. The humiliation of the topless dancing video would linger on, a lesson to her not to let her guard down again, but she wouldn’t let it cripple the rest of her life. Even though she’d turned thirty, she was still young enough. She still had time to meet the right man and start again.
And Owen? He was so not the right man for her. But he stood before her, solid and large and vital, the broadness of his chest inviting her to lean on him, the power in his body hinting at the virility he could show her in bed. Her legs wobbled. She couldn’t believe it, but Owen was making her go weak at the knees. He’d done
it once before, the teenager who’d kissed her senseless among the ferns…and now he was doing it again.
She drew herself up, scraped together her tattered dignity. “You and I have nothing in common besides a few lusty urges. I don’t think I can make myself any clearer than that.”
The passion slowly leached from his face, to be replaced by flinty coolness. “I guess I’ve overstepped the social niceties again. A lesson for me not to put a woman on my lap at the dinner table.”
Her nerves screwed tight. What a cold shrew she’d sounded like. No wonder she had that ice-maiden reputation. Usually it didn’t bother her, but now it did. She hated Owen’s thinking she was an unfeeling she-devil. But years of ingrained behavior were hard to reverse, especially when he regarded her with such coldness. And then it was too late as he turned away and shut her out with the wall of his back.
Too late to do anything, once again.
Chapter Nine
Owen walked out of the changing room and halted in front of Paige. “What do you think?” He gestured at the blue-gray silk shirt he wore.
Paige sat up on the sofa and took a quick gulp. “It’s nice…” Nice? Owen looked to die for in the new clothes she’d chosen for him. The soft fabric stretched across his body like a second skin, accentuating the hardiness of his build, while the tailored trousers hugged his hips to perfection.
“Bit tight around the shoulders.” Owen bunched his upper arms, drawing her attention to his biceps.
The shop assistant darted forward. “I have that in a bigger size.” He held up a second shirt. “Try this one, sir.”
Owen sighed. “Don’t I have enough shirts, anyway?” he said to Paige as he began to undo the buttons.
“It never hurts to have a few spare.”
“I can’t believe you actually enjoy this activity.”
He pulled off the shirt right in front of her, and her lungs clenched at the sight of his bare chest. Oh, he had no idea how much she was enjoying this. Owen’s torso and upper arms rippled with muscle, the result of all the years of construction work. As he reached for the larger shirt, she noticed the shop assistant also ogling Owen’s semi-naked body and immediately turned her head away, hoping she wasn’t as transparent as the eager young worker.
