One Real Man (Entangled Bliss) )

by Kwan, Coleen

  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.

  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 weddin
g, 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.”

  The woman spun around, her mane of shimmering black hair twirling around her shoulders. “Paige? Paige Kerrigan? Is that really you?”

  Oh, fudge. Of all the people she could have bumped into, it had to be Astrid Sherwood, Paige thought. Fate was really having a laugh at her expense. Her former high school friend was Vogue perfection in a taupe trench coat, nautical-striped sweater, skinny jeans and ballet flats, discreet diamonds in her ears and a gentle cloud of French perfume.

  Paige steeled herself. “Hi, Astrid.”

  “Oh, possum! What’s happened to you?”

  Astrid Sherwood, undisputed queen bee at high school, had long ago perfected her bitch stare. One look from her was enough to make anyone, students and teachers alike, aware of their shortcomings, and nobody, not even her friends, was safe from it. Now, as Astrid surveyed Paige’s slapdash appearance, Paige felt her insides shrivel as all her insecurities rose from the depths.

  “Oh, you know how it is.” Paige waved her hand, trying to act nonchalant. “Just popped out to do some shopping.”

  “Shopping? For groceries?” A puzzled frown hovered on Astrid’s milky smooth brow. Her polished fingernails tapped against the can of Red Bull. “I didn’t even know you were back in town. When did you arrive?”

  “Not long ago.”

  Astrid’s sharp eyes narrowed. Fortunately the cashier, who’d been waiting, cleared her throat loudly, and Astrid turned around to pay for her drink. But instead of departing, as Paige had hoped, she leaned against a railing, popped the tab of her can, and watched Paige as she began to unload her groceries onto the conveyer belt.

  “I’m engaged,” Astrid announced. She wafted her left hand in the air to draw attention to her large diamond ring.

  “Congratulations.” Paige heaved a bulk pack of toilet rolls onto the counter. “Who’s the lucky man?”

  Astrid slanted her eyes at Paige. “You remember Eric Jensen?”

  The muscles in Paige’s back squeaked tight. Handsome, charming Eric Jensen had been the most popular guy in high school. She’d had one date with him—the Year Ten school formal, and it had ended in humiliation when Owen had gate-crashed the party and demanded to know why she was with that jerk. He’d made a scene until the teacher chaperones had pounced on him and thrown him off the premises. She’d been so mortified she’d caught a taxi home, by herself. After that, she and Eric had avoided each other whenever possible. And Owen had disappeared to Sydney.

  “Eric, sure.” She busied herself arranging the groceries on the conveyor belt. “When’s the big day?”

  “July. We’re getting married in the south of France!” Astrid’s affected squeak scraped against Paige’s nerves.

  “How nice,” she answered flatly. “Hope it won’t be too hot then.”

  Astrid sniffed. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve got everything planned. I know exactly how my wedding should be, and Eric says I can have anything I want.”

  Paige’s thoughts drifted back to her own wedding. She, too, had organized the event with military precision. From a young age, she’d heard her mother and her con
temporaries discuss each wedding they attended, and seen the importance of getting it right. A girl couldn’t be too young to start planning her wedding. So, just like her friends, she’d begun compiling her wedding dossier, collecting ideas of all things nuptial, and when her wedding date was set, that was her cue to put her years of planning into action. She’d been so obsessed with getting every detail right that she’d overlooked the most important ingredient—the husband-to-be.

  “Hey, I heard about you and Seth.” Astrid’s ice-pick drawl dragged Paige from her memories. “Too bad, hmm?”

  Astrid’s sympathy was about as genuine as the Tooth Fairy. Paige lifted her shoulders and replied with a noncommittal grimace. No way was she going to discuss her failed marriage with her best frenemy.

  “You should count yourself lucky to be rid of him.” Astrid circled her manicured finger around the top of the can of Red Bull. Her eyes glinted. “Very lucky, lucky, lucky…”

  A cold spasm gripped Paige low in the gut. Her hands trembled slightly as she clutched a carton of milk. There was no mistaking what Astrid was alluding to. She’d seen the video, and no doubt spread the word. All the people Paige knew in Burronga had probably seen it. Watched it and snickered and judged her.

  The catlike smile on Astrid’s face made her feel so small. Made her feel sixteen again, anxious to be accepted by Astrid’s group, willing to do anything to get the queen bee’s stamp of approval. “Why can’t you be more like Astrid Sherwood?” her mother had sighed on numerous occasions. “Now there’s a girl who knows how to make the most of herself.” So she’d tried really hard to emulate Astrid, to be liked by Astrid, and all it had gotten her was this—a supercilious gibe in the middle of a supermarket.

  Paige stood there, frozen and helpless in her humiliation, like a worm trapped beneath Astrid’s ballet flat, waiting to be squashed.

  Lifting a languid hand, Astrid smoothed her immaculate hair. “Well, so you’re back home, filling up on”—she peered at the groceries—“Pepsi and cheddar cheese and—good lord, is that bologna sausage? Eww.” She made a face. “Eric’s builders are always eating bologna sausage sandwiches. Do you have a hot, buff builder at your place? Wouldn’t be surprised…”