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.