by Daphne Clair
In the bedroom she removed a pillowcase, leaving the covers rumpled, and hurried back to spread it on the bathroom floor. “Now you can comb the glass out of your hair.”
“You first.” He reached out, lifted her spectacles from her nose and placed them on the marble counter. Before she could protest his hand curled around her nape, warm and compelling.
“I can do my own.”
“You can’t see it,” he replied calmly. “Bend forward a bit, honey. You don’t want glass down your cleavage.”
The casual endearment had caught her unawares, sending a soft warmth through her. Afraid he’d read the heat in her cheeks, and maybe something in her eyes that she didn’t want him to see, she bowed her head.
His fingers slid gently through her hair from nape to crown, followed by the stroke of the comb. Fragments of glass made a tiny pattering on the pillowcase. He combed carefully though the fine strands, then gave a muttered exclamation, and she felt a prickle of pain.
“This might hurt,” he said tersely. She held her breath, and bit her lip against a sudden sting.
“There.” He dropped a bloodied sliver on the pillowcase. “It was embedded, but I think I’ve got it all. Don’t move.”
He grabbed a facecloth and ran cold water on it, then she felt the coolness pressed to the place where the glass had pierced the skin. “It’s bleeding a bit,” he said, “but it wasn’t deep.”
“You’re bleeding more than I am.” He’d taken the full force of the shattered windscreen, too busy fighting for both their lives to even try to protect himself as she had done.
“It’s nothing. Just a few nicks.” He lifted the cloth. “That’s better. Do you have some disinfectant?”
“Not necessary.” She lifted her head. “I’m fine, really.”
“Really.” He sounded as if he didn’t believe her. His free hand caught her chin, a frown of concentration on his brow. “You didn’t get any in your face.”
“No.” She stepped back, but now he took her hand, and led her to the wide basin. “We haven’t finished yet.” He put in the plug and turned on a tap with one hand, still holding her in a firm grip with the other.
“Look, I—”
“Shh,” he admonished. “Hold still.”
He gently wiped the remaining blood from her forehead and bathed her arms, washing away the red streaks, leaving only tiny puncture wounds. “You were lucky,” he said. “We both were.”
The water had turned pale pink and he let it out, reached for one of the towels and patted her skin dry. “You’ll want to change.” He was eyeing her ruined dress—streaked with blood, and torn where she’d caught it on something as they were helped out of the car.
Paige recalled worrying about the wine stain, seemingly aeons ago, and thought how little it mattered. They might both have been killed.
She shivered, remembering the horrible, stark fear of those few moments when the world seemed about to end for her. And for Jager.
His hands closed over her arms. “It’s all right. You’re all right.”
“I know.” But her voice was unsteady and she couldn’t stop trembling. She supposed shock was setting in.
Jager drew her toward him, but then he stopped and cursed under his breath, looking down at his bloodied clothes. “Can you get out of that dress by yourself?” he asked her.
Paige nodded jerkily. But she didn’t move, and the tremors that racked her were getting worse.
“Here.” He turned her, and she felt the zipper at the back of the ruined dress being opened, all the way to the end of her spine. Then the dress was lifted away from her shoulders and it slithered to her feet, leaving her in a mauve half-cup bra, matching bikini briefs and a pair of lace-topped stockings that were snagged and laddered.
“Step out of it,” Jager said.
Like an automaton she obeyed, lifting one foot from the tangled satin of the dress. Her shoe caught in the folds and she lost her balance, kicking off the other shoe in an effort to regain it.
Jager’s hands closed about her arms, swung her around to face him, and her hand momentarily flattened against his chest.
Her startled eyes met his, and her trembling abruptly stopped.
The particles of glass caught in the blackness of his hair sparkled like a scattering of diamonds, and his eyes had the sheen of polished jade. The flawless male skin was marked by small wounds, one trickling a thin line of blood onto his cheekbone.
Unconsciously Paige touched her tongue to her upper lip, bringing Jager’s gaze to her mouth. Another tremor shook her body, and his head jerked up a fraction. His hands tightened but he kept the few inches space between them. “Have you got something warm to put on?” he asked her, his voice low and rough.
Paige blinked, nodded.
“Then go and do it,” he ordered. “I’ll clean up in here.” He gave her a little push. “Go on.”
She did, dragging a thick terry-cloth robe from her wardrobe. When Jager pulled the bathroom door wide and entered the bedroom she was tying the sash at her waist, clumsily because her hands were shaking. Her torn stockings lay on the bed.
The light no longer picked up glints from his hair. He must have combed out the glass. And he’d taken off his jacket—and his shirt. To wash out the bloodstains, she supposed. “I tossed the glass in the waste bin,” he said. “And the pillowcase into the clothes basket. What do you want to do with this?” He had her dress in his hands.
“Leave it.” She was trying to be calm and controlled, but little shivers kept attacking her in waves. Despite the heavy toweling wrap she felt cold. Her gaze went to the dress in his hands. “I’ll have to throw it out.”
A faint, knowing contempt touched his mouth, and she said defensively, “It’s ruined.” It might be a waste but the dress was beyond repair.
He looked down at the crushed and stained fabric. “Pity. You looked marvelous in it.”
He began folding it, clumsy but careful.
She had never looked marvelous in anything. She’d looked good in it, Paige knew—as good as she ever would. But it was silly to feel a pleased glow at the compliment.
The shiny fabric slipped in his hands, his attempt at folding coming to grief.
“It doesn’t matter,” Paige said, unaccountably irritated. “Give it to me.”
She crossed to him and took the dress from him and into the bathroom, where she shoved the thing willy-nilly into the rubbish container in the corner, slamming the lid back on.
Jager’s shirt was spread across the heated towel rail, damp in patches. She couldn’t see his jacket, and supposed he’d hung it on the hook behind the door.
When she turned he was standing in the doorway, watching her.
Defensively she folded her arms across herself as she made her way back into the bedroom. Jager stood aside but as she passed him she caught a whiff of his skin-scent, bringing back unbearably powerful, poignant memories. Warm nights and a warm bed, and Jager’s warm raw-silk nakedness under her hands, against her own heated skin…
Hurriedly she moved away from him, and turned to find him looking at the ruined stockings lying on the bed, but then he lifted his eyes and they seemed to be searching for something in hers.
She should look away. Instead she found her gaze wandering to his mouth, a mouth made for temptation, for seduction. A mouth that could wreak magic on a woman’s body. And his broad chest, a masculine perfection where her hands had once roamed at will, where she’d lain her cheek against his heart after making love. Her eyes reached the discreet silver buckle of the belt that snugged his dark trousers to his slim waist, and her heartbeat quickened.
She didn’t have her glasses on, she reminded herself. Any flaws would be mercifully invisible to her. No man could possibly look as good as Jager did right now.
“Enjoying yourself?”
His voice brought her back with a start to what she was doing.
She tried to brazen it out. “Just checking. I would have thought you’d at leas
t have bruises.”
He flexed his right shoulder and shifted his leg, apparently testing. “I may have, tomorrow.” He grimaced.
“You were hurt! Why didn’t you tell the ambulance officers?”
“It’s nothing. They gave me a pretty thorough going-over.”
“They’re not doctors.”
“I’m fine.” He swung the arm to show her. “See?”
Unconvinced, but conscious of how much worse it might have been, she shivered again. “You might have been killed.”
“So might you.” He looked grim suddenly. “You’re still cold. Maybe you should have a warm shower and get into bed.”
“With you here?”
“I won’t join you—unless I’m invited.”
“You’re not invited!”
He folded his arms across that splendid chest, and looked regretful. “I thought not. But don’t let me stop you.” As she hesitated, he said, “This is no time to be prudish, Paige. It’ll be at least fifteen minutes before my shirt is dry. You might as well use the time—unless you’d rather spend it talking to me.”
No, she wouldn’t…would she? Paige plumped for the lesser evil. “All right,” she mumbled, and made for the bathroom.
The shower felt good. Wincing at the tender spot where Jager had dug glass from her scalp, she washed her hair. Five minutes with the hair dryer left it shining and soft, and she put her undies into the clothes basket and pulled the terry gown back on, because she hadn’t thought to bring anything else into the bathroom with her.
She fingered Jager’s shirt and lifted it from the towel rail, switched on the hair dryer again to play it over the remaining dampness, then returned to the bedroom with the shirt in her hand. “It’s dry,” she told him.
“Thanks.” He’d been lounging on the bed, his head propped on the pillows. The sight gave her a start; he looked so much at home, as if he belonged there.
He stood up and stretched out his hand for the shirt, but then, as if he couldn’t help it, his hand bypassed the shirt and touched her hair, stroked its newly washed sleekness, and his thumb traced the outline of her ear.
Paige’s heart stopped. She forgot to breathe. Couldn’t speak. Her eyelids fell of their own accord, before she jerked them open. “What are you doing?”
His hand had come to a stop, a hank of her hair trapped in his fist. “Where’s your husband?” His voice was deep and indistinct, and his jewel-eyes glittered into hers. “Damn him, why isn’t he here looking after you?”
The unexpected question widened her eyes, and her lips parted on a caught breath. Obscure anger shook her. “I’m a grown woman, Jager. I don’t need a man to look after me.” Never mind that Jager had done just that tonight, very competently, for which until this moment she’d been grateful. “And as for my husband,” she added huskily, and took a deep breath, “he…Aidan’s…”
“Not here,” Jager said harshly. And then his other arm came around her body, crushing her against him, and his mouth on hers smothered the words she was trying to say, sent her thoughts spinning into deep space and made her forget everything except his kiss.
CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS a kiss that took her breath, her heart, her soul. She couldn’t think, couldn’t move, except to lift her arms and cling, as if she were drowning in the wine-dark sea of desire and he was her only hope of survival.
The blood running through her veins sang his name, her skin was licked by fire, her limbs turned to liquid flame. The taste of him was an intoxication, the hard length of his body against hers a ravishment.
She opened her mouth to him and he took swift advantage of the invitation, making the kiss deeper, unashamedly sensual, a merciless invasion of her senses.
His hand pushed aside the front of her robe and settled on her breast, his thumb and forefinger finding the budding center, making her moan with ecstasy and arch herself against him, triumphant when she recognized the thrust of his arousal pressing at the apex of her thighs.
She brought one hand down to his bared chest in imitation of his caress, reveling in the heat and slight dampness of his skin against her palm, once as familiar to her as her own body.
Then his mouth left hers and his arms lowered, lifting her. She gasped, clutching at his shoulders, and his lips closed over her breast. With an inarticulate cry of pleasure, she let her head fall back. Dizzy and disoriented, she was wholly given over to sensation.
She hardly realized he had swung them round until his mouth momentarily left her and they fell together onto the bed. Before she’d drawn breath he impatiently untied the belt of her robe and bared her body to his hot, questing gaze. She stared back at him boldly as his hands traversed her from neck to knee, rediscovering the shape of her breasts, her hips, her thighs. There was color on his lean cheekbones, and his fingers were unsteady, his eyes heavy-lidded and glowing with desire. That look had always filled her with wonder—wonder that she could do this to him. That he wanted her so much.
One hand slipped between her thighs, and the other left her to undo his belt. He stroked her softly until she was wild with need, then stood for a few seconds to shuck the remainder of his clothing and sheath himself. Watching, she was briefly thankful that he’d thought of it, then he was beside her, taking her again into his arms, answering her frantic, silent plea to let her take him in, to experience the whole of him, and at last, without equivocation or delay, filling her with himself, driving her to the pinnacle and beyond, to that nameless place where past and present and future didn’t exist, but only the blinding, transcendental moment.
While the world drifted back into focus Paige resisted opening her eyes. Her cheek rested on Jager’s shoulder, and her legs were still tangled with his, his arm warm around her.
He moved, and she held her breath, afraid he would leave, but he only settled closer, enfolding her again. He kissed her closed eyelids, then feathered more tiny kisses along her cheek, and down her neck to her shoulder. She smiled, and he kissed her lips, long and tenderly, with an underlying hint of passion. Against her mouth, he murmured, “Tissues?”
Paige gave a little laugh, and reached without looking for the drawer of the bedside table.
Eventually she had to open her eyes. Jager was on his way to the bathroom, giving her a heart stopping view of his naked back, but in minutes he returned. She said sleepily, “Turn off the light.”
He detoured to do it, then came back to her, drawing her again into his arms and pulling a sheet over them both. “That was to dream of,” he said. “But too damn quick.”
His palm spanning her belly, he teased her navel with his thumb, while his lips wandered along her shoulder, nuzzling and nibbling. Her eyelids fluttered down, and a deliciously lethargic pleasure rippled all the way to her toes. As Jager’s hands and his mouth pleasured and tantalized, she moved her body subtly under his ministrations, allowing him better access there, hinting that some attention would be appreciated here.
He had always been good at this, she thought, a hint of sadness penetrating the dreamy aura he was creating. A silent tear trembled at the corner of her eye and coursed into her hair.
Jager found the salty track with his lips, and murmured, “What? Crying?”
“No,” she denied, not wanting to think about what had been or what might have been, or what might still be. She turned her head and met his lips with hers, aligned her body with his, thrust her knee between his thighs, to blot out the thoughts, the memories.
Jager responded with a surge of passion, and when she opened herself to him again and welcomed him with a sigh of satisfaction, he came to her as deeply and completely as before, but until the moment when he shuddered uncontrollably against her, a muffled sound tearing from his throat, there was gentleness in him this time, a tender concern in his touch.
Afterward he didn’t leave her side, holding her close in his arms until she drifted into an exhausted, velvety sleep. Her last thought was that he’d be gone by morning, and her heart gave a small t
hrobbing ache at the prospect.
When she woke a weak morning sun was streaming though the window. Jager, fully dressed but without tie or jacket, leaned on the window frame, watching her.
“Oh, God!” She closed her eyes again, hoping he was a figment of her imagination. Or perhaps she was still dreaming.
“I didn’t think I looked that bad,” he said.
Paige opened her eyes again. He was fingering his chin, his eyes both wary and amused. He’d shaved, and his hair was damp and sleek. He must have used her bathroom, borrowed a razor, and she hadn’t heard a thing. “You’ve been here all night?” she said.
A dark brow rose. “You don’t remember? I’m disappointed. Shall I tell you what we did?”
“I know what we did!” Foolishly, she felt her cheeks burn. “I thought you’d leave before…now.”
“You mean before your parents find out I’m here.”
Paige clamped her lips. It was what she’d meant. No point in restating the obvious.
Vaguely she recalled hearing a car, the sounds of her parents’ return, but she wasn’t sure when. She’d been too engrossed in Jager, in the pleasure he was giving her, to even care.
She felt at a distinct disadvantage, lying naked in bed while he stood there patently at ease, his arms loosely folded. Clutching at the sheet for modesty, she sat up and looked around for something to put on.
Jager moved, a little awkwardly, stooping to pick up the toweling robe from the floor. “Is this what you want?”
“Thank you.” She had to drop the sheet to take it and pull it on, and he didn’t turn away.
Kicking away the bedclothes, she swung her feet to the floor, belting the robe. When she stood up he was close by, only a foot or two from the bed, his hands now thrust into the pockets of his trousers. “You should have told me if you wanted me to leave,” he said.
“Would you have?”
“What the lady wants, the lady gets.” The mockery in his voice reminded her that last night she’d wanted him—desperately, recklessly. Without any thought of consequences and repercussions.