One Real Man (Entangled Bliss)(27)

“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 wasgrieving, 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 nownow 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.