Yesterday afternoon Wilkins, the surly garden gnome, had eventually deigned to give her some bug spray. She’d crept back to her cottage and forced herself to enter the bedroom. To her small relief, the remaining moths had disappeared, but where they had gone had plagued her just as much. They were hiding somewhere in the cottage, she felt sure, and in the middle of the night they would come out and dive-bomb her with their horrible furry bodies. Ugh. She’d sprayed and cleaned every inch of the closets, aware that she was overreacting and possibly damaging her health, but unable to rationalize away her fears.
“I borrowed some linen and blankets from the house,” she said.
“Like I said, take whatever you need.” For a moment he seemed uncomfortable, as if the thought of her in the caretaker’s cottage didn’t sit right with him. But that was ridiculous, because he’d sent her there on purpose. It appeared he came to the same conclusion as his expression cleared. “I have a list of tasks for you.” He picked up a slim notepad from the table, tore off the top page, and handed it to her. “Here you go.”
She quickly scanned the list. Her vision glazed over as she took in the length. “I’ll get right on it,” she said faintly.
“There’s a backlog, but I’m sure it won’t take you long.”
“Great,” she murmured, retreating from the room before he could add anything else to the list.
“Oh, one other thing,” Owen called out. “I’m having a get-together on Friday night. About a dozen guests. The food’s already been ordered from Carlotta’s Bistro. I’ll need you to set up the buffet, help with the service, and clean up as well. That okay with you?”
It was less a request than an order. He was only asking her out of politeness. But what else did she have to do on Friday night?
She nodded. “Do you want me in uniform? Starched apron and frilly cap?”
He blinked, and for a split second she knew exactly what he was imagining—her dressed in one of those ridiculous French maid outfits complete with miniskirt, suspender belt and stockings, and patent leather heels. Brazen and bawdy. The thought of tantalizing Owen triggered a sudden rush of blood to her cheeks.
The corners of his lips twitched. “That won’t be necessary.” His eyes sparkled, as if he shared her thoughts. “Not this time.”
Paige cleared her throat loudly. “Right. Okay. Informal dinner, Friday night. Business networking?”
“No. Ally and I are throwing a surprise birthday party for Nate, her husband.”
She started. “Ally and—and Nate?”
He nodded, eyeing her closely. “Yeah. Seth’s cousin. You know him, right?”
She lowered her gaze. “I used to know him, a while back.” A long while back, when she and Seth had been dating in Sydney. She’d never warmed to Nate Hardy, had always sensed an undercurrent of indifference from him. But the thought of bumping into him again didn’t concern her as much as the prospect of seeing his wife Ally. Did Owen know of the weird connection between her and Ally? If Nate and he were friends it might have come up. But then again, they were men, and who knew what men talked about with each other.
“I kind of know Ally, too,” she said, determined not to be fazed by the situation. “She used to be engaged to Seth before he jilted her on their wedding day. Of course, that happened a long time before Seth and I met.” She waved her hand to show how inconsequential this was.
But Owen’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Nate never mentioned that to me.”
“Well, why would he?”
“I told him about you just yesterday.”
“Oh.” Her teeth began to worry at her lip before she forced herself to stop. Why should she care if people heard she was Owen’s new housekeeper? It was bound to become common knowledge. But the idea that Nate and Ally knew bothered her more than it should have. She remembered how upset she’d been when she’d discovered Ally’s existence just days before her wedding. Seth had tried to brush it off, but she’d been filled with an icy, trembling panic. She’d reacted by forcing a confrontation with Ally, before Nate had intervened. They’d assured her they had no evil plans to sabotage her wedding, but the trepidation had lingered.
“You won’t have to talk to them much,” Owen said.
Maybe, but she’d still have to stand there, being the attentive housekeeper. And who else was coming to this party? Other friends of Owen who knew about his past, and hers? Oh, wouldn’t they enjoy the novelty of seeing Paige Kerrigan working as a servant. And no doubt many of them would have watched her embarrassing video, too. She deserves to be taken down several notches, Owen’s guests would say to themselves. Well, maybe she did. Maybe this was karmic justice because she’d been born pretty and rich and, she had to admit, spoiled.
“I’ll be fine,” she told Owen with all the composure she had. “I’m a professional.”
His eyebrows flew up, and they both glanced down at the sorry excuse of a breakfast she’d served.
“I’m working on it.” She tossed her hair back and left the room before he could say anything more.
“Argh!” Paige glared at the vacuum cleaner that had just broken her fingernail as she’d attempted to maneuver it around a couch. Jabbing the noisy apparatus off with her foot, she examined the sorry state of her nails. Oh, it was too bad. She’d had her nails done at Heathrow before leaving London—a sort of pick-me-up to bolster her dwindling courage—and now they were ruined.
She was also sweaty, flustered, and thoroughly sick of housework. Owen hadn’t gotten around to hiring a cleaning service—that was on her to-do list. Until then, it was her job to keep the house spick-and-span. After cleaning up the breakfast mess, she’d mopped the kitchen floor, scrubbed two bathrooms, and emptied rubbish bins, and was now vacuuming the reception rooms. There seemed to be acres of carpet, and the vacuum cleaner was bulky, uncooperative, and noisy.
She needed a rest. She needed a long soak in a bubble bath, followed by a massage and a professional manicure. This wasn’t her. That wasn’t her reflection in the mirror—that disheveled frump with damp hair sticking to her brow and stains on her shirt and not a lick of makeup on her face.
As she stood there gazing at her sloppy appearance, the hopelessness of her situation came rushing back to the fore. She’d tried several times to contact her parents, without success. She’d thought of calling friends who’d be sympathetic, but in the end she hadn’t, squirming at the possibility they would mention that video. If pride was a sin, then that was her downfall. For the foreseeable future, she was stuck here. Like that girl in A Little Princess, who’d been forced to work as a servant in the same school where once she’d been treated like a princess. Yes, that was exactly her life now—from diamonds to bread crusts, from princess to drudge.
Tears rushed to her eyes. Her chest ached as a sob gurgled out of her. Then a movement from the window caught her attention, and she glanced up to see Wilkins smirking at her through the glass. Her back stiffened. Choking back her tears, she shot him a glare fierce enough to singe his whiskers. The gardener made a face before turning away.
She’d had enough of manual labor, Paige decided. The carpets could wait a while. She’d go do the grocery shopping. That way she’d get to sit in an air-conditioned car, and maybe she could stop off somewhere and get her nails repaired. Owen had given her keys to a car and a credit card for all the household expenses. Yes, shopping—even grocery shopping—was much more up her alley.
Burronga hadn’t changed too much since she’d left for England, and she found that comforting as she drove through the town center. The Red Possum pub still dominated the main street as it had for decades. The trees lining the street were turning russet and gold. A few tourists wandered about taking pictures of the autumn foliage and the quaint old buildings, like the heritage-listed former post office that now housed Ally’s gift store. Mud-spattered farmers’ trucks mingled with a few sleek city cars. This was her hometown, and it was reassuring to be on familiar territory.
An hour later, she stood in the checkout line of the supermarket with a laden shopping cart, feeling more composed. Owen was a man of down-to-earth needs. He didn’t require anything more exotic than Pepsi and Kettle Chips. She’d managed to find everything on the shopping list, and once she was done here, she’d check out the manicure shop just outside. It wasn’t the upmarket salon she used to frequent, but on fifteen bucks an hour, she couldn’t be too choosy.
The elderly man in front of her had finally emptied all his groceries on the conveyer belt of the checkout counter. Paige gripped her cart, preparing to roll it forward, but before she could, a slim young woman in a trench coat pushed ahead of her, holding a can of Red Bull.
“I’ve just got one item. I’m sure you don’t mind,” she trilled, already turning away before Paige could answer.
Normally Paige wouldn’t have minded, but she wasn’t feeling too charitable today, and the arrogant manner of the woman riled her. “As a matter of fact I do,” Paige said. “The express line is there for a reason.”