One Real Man (Entangled Bliss)(8)

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 sosmall 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 building 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.”

She nodded. “Is that all?”

A powerful urge flooded him. Why? he wanted to demand. Why had she, the ice maiden, lowered her barriers and danced topless for that slimeball of a husband? Why had she picked that bastard out of all the willing men she must have had at her fingertips? And, going back even further, why had she rejected him so strongly?

Christ, he was not jealous of Paige’s ex-husband. He was not jealous of any of her ex-boyfriends. Not now, not ever. If he couldn’t stop thinking about her half-naked dancing, it was only because she had a nice body. Nothing else.

“That’s all.”

With a brief nod of dismissal, he walked back to his study. But with every step, an annoying ditty bounced around inside his head.

I should be so lucky



What could be so hard about poaching eggs? Everything, apparently. Paige stared desperately at the pan of hot water, slotted spoon in one hand, steam slicking across her skin. Beside the stove was a bowl holding the limp carcasses of several ruined eggs, either too hard, too soft, or too disintegrated. She’d never poached an egg before. How difficult could it be? You just brought a pan of water to the boil, cracked a couple of eggs in, and let them simmer for a few minutes. Easy-peasy, right?

Huh. She knew better now. The ticking kitchen clock reminded her she’d already missed Owen’s seven o’clock breakfast time and she hadn’t even started his coffee yet. Wiping the back of her arm across her moist brow, she peered through the rising steam, wondering how this batch of eggs was faring. They seemed to be okay These babies would have to do. She scooped out the eggs and transferred them to the plate where toast already waited. Then she rushed over to the Nespresso machine and popped in a cappuccino capsule. Thank heaven Owen didn’t expect her to operate a real espresso machine.

At a quarter past seven, she hurried into the dining room, the tray precariously balanced between her hands. Owen, who’d been reading his newspaper at the table, stood and took the tray from her.

“You should have used the trolley,” he said, setting the tray on the table. He studied her more closely. “Any problems with breakfast?”

Paige tucked a limp strand of hair behind her ears, aware of how hot and bothered she must look. When the alarm clock had woken her this morning, she’d dozed off, then started awake sometime later, disoriented and already late. She’d dragged on jeans and a T-shirt before stumbling to the main house.

“I haven’t poached an egg in a while,” she said, wiping her flushed cheeks.

Owen pursed his lips as he examined the tray. The two eggs sat like lumps of marble on toast that was now limp and cold. Some orange juice had slopped onto the linen napkin, and she’d forgotten the salt and pepper. It was a pretty dismal breakfast, and they both knew it.

Paige gripped her hands behind her back as she waited for Owen to say something cutting. After just one day in his company, she knew how acidic his tongue could be these days.

He picked up a fork and prodded at an egg. The stony yolk barely moved. “Maybe you can skip cooking me breakfast. I can go back to cereal and toast.”

“Hey, give me a break. It’s my first day. I’ll do better tomorrow.” Those eggs weren’t going to get the better of her.

“Okay, if you’re sure. Fried eggs would be easier.” He paused. “You do know how to fry an egg?”

“Of course.” How hard could it be? You just heated up a pan, added some oil, and cracked in the eggs.

She waited for him to sit down and start his meal, but he continued to gaze at her. “You look frazzled. Did you have any trouble down at the cottage?”

She met his searching look head-on. “I slept like a log,” she declared, not bothering to cross her fingers behind her back. It was true. She’d slept like a log tossed down a flood-swollen river with fast-running currents and treacherous rapids.