One Real Man (Entangled Bliss) ) (3 page)

She looked up in surprise. “Your sister?”

“You don’t remember Natasha?” His brows drew together in a sharp vee.

Paige scrambled through her memories and came up with a vague image of a chubby toddler. She couldn’t remember much more than that.

“She’s quite a lot younger than you, isn’t she?”

Owen nodded. “Natasha turned sixteen last month. She’s at a boarding school nearby, but now that I’ve relocated, she’ll be spending some time here, too.”

“Is that why you moved from Sydney? Because of your sister?”

“She’s one reason, but mainly it’s work. I’m overseeing a big new development here in Burronga, and I have a few projects farther north.” He leaned back in his chair and softly drummed his fingers on the wooden tabletop. “So d’you think you can handle being my housekeeper?”

The skepticism in his tone had her bristling. “Of course,” she retorted. “Do you think you can handle me being your housekeeper?”

He lifted a forefinger. “Let’s get one thing straight. The dynamics between us were very different fourteen years ago, but don’t go thinking that gives you any kind of special license with me. If I hire you, I expect the same respect I get from all my employees, got it?”

The unveiled warning made her shiver. She should have known better. Hadn’t she baited him once too often all those years ago and paid for it with the most blistering kiss she’d ever received? A kiss that had ripped her apart and triggered a thrilling, frightening frenzy she couldn’t control…?
No, don’t think about that.
Don’t think about how Owen had made her feel during those tumultuous two weeks. That wasn’t her. For days he’d taken advantage of her weakness, and when the situation threatened to get out of hand, she’d been forced to end it in the bluntest way possible. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t.

“Paige? Earth to Paige.”

She forced away the memories and gave him a brisk nod. “Yes, I heard you, and I’m not asking for any special treatment.”

“The job pays fifteen dollars per hour, four to five hours per day, five days per week. If I need you to work on weekends, you get time and a half. That suit you?”

She stopped her jaw from dropping just in time. Was that the going pittance for housekeepers? But it was obvious Owen wasn’t kidding. Despite her effort to stifle her incredulity, he must have sensed it because he continued, “There are extras. You’ll have the use of a car and a mobile phone, and accommodation is included.” He paused before adding, “The caretaker’s cottage is available. You can have that.”

A choking noise bubbled out of her mouth. “The—the caretaker’s cottage?” she spluttered. She should have guessed he’d want to taunt her by putting her in his former home.

“Yeah, it’s behind the rhododendron walk, remember?” His penetrating gaze never left her face. “You must know it.”

“Of course.” She had only the faintest recollection of a small, whitewashed building huddled behind a thick hedge of rhododendrons. She’d never been interested in the caretaker’s cottage, but now it appeared that would be her home for the next few weeks. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“It was good enough for me and my dad and my sister.”

Yikes, she didn’t care for that barb in his voice. For all his denial, Owen was hell-bent on grinding home his advantage over her. Well, just because their roles were switched, that was no reason for him to think he was better than her. No matter how down on her luck she was, she was still Paige Kerrigan, and she wouldn’t let him forget that.

She lifted her head to give him her frostiest stare. “And it’ll be good enough for me.”

…

Using his hand to shade his eyes from the glare, Owen gazed across the paddocks where a few goats picked their way over the badly eroded slopes. The man standing next to him did likewise, and for a few moments they studied the landscape in silence broken only by the distant squawk of yellow-crested cockatoos.

“Well?” Owen turned to his companion. “What do you think?”

Nate Hardy rested a boot against the sagging wire fence and gestured toward the small, weed-choked creek winding through the lower fields. “So that trickle of water is Bandicoot Creek?”

“Yep. It’s a good name for our development. Bandicoot Creek. Makes you think of countryside, peace, greenness, tranquillity.”

“Good for marketing. People moving to Burronga are looking for all that.”

“And that’s exactly what they’ll get here, once we rehabilitate the creek and fix the erosion problems. This won’t be a cheap, dreary, cookie-cutter suburb or an energy-guzzling, exclusive gated community. It’s going to be eco-sensitive, spacious, and affordable at the same time.” Enthusiasm rose in Owen as he warmed to his subject. “We need a development like this in Burronga, something a little more egalitarian than what we currently have.”

Burronga, a prosperous midsize country town, had always attracted its fair share of wealthy people, who favored multimillion-dollar acreages like the Kerrigan place. The not-so wealthy made do with old weatherboard houses or modest town house developments. There wasn’t much in between, but Owen was determined to change that.

Nate slanted him a cynical look. “Ever wonder if there’s a reason for that?”

“Like what?”

“Like maybe the rich dudes prefer it that way. Makes them feel more exclusive without having upstarts crowding out their view. And these are the people on the city council, with the power to veto developments like Bandicoot Creek.”

Owen studied his companion more closely. Technically, Nate Hardy could be classified as one of the “rich dudes” these days, as he’d made a fortune in investment banking before returning to Burronga for a simpler life. But Nate came from the wrong side of the tracks, just like Owen, and didn’t show any inclination to jump the social divide.

Nate owned a garden landscaping business and also did financial consulting for a few select clients, which was how Owen had gotten to know him. They’d been working together for only a few months, but already they were more than just business colleagues, and Owen had come to value Nate’s opinions.

“They won’t veto Bandicoot Creek,” Owen said in reply to Nate’s doubts. “It’s a great proposal. It’ll be good for jobs and good for the environment. Right now this land is hardly fit for those goats over there. How can anyone not agree it’s an excellent idea?”

Shaking his head, Nate clapped a hand on Owen’s shoulder. “Mate, haven’t you learned yet? It’s not what you know, it’s who you know that’s important. You have to go out there and sell yourself to the knobs that matter. You have to be prepared to do a lot of schmoozing.”

Owen muttered a curse. Schmoozing was as alien to him as the opera. He had no small talk, no capacity to flatter, to lie, to pretend. He was who he was, take it or leave it. That was how he’d always operated, and he’d done all right so far.

“I can’t stand phonies,” he said. “Especially rich phonies.”

“Anyone else in your company who could do the schmoozing for you? How about Jim McCarthy?”

At sixteen, Owen had been apprenticed to Jim McCarthy, an old building buddy of his dad’s. He’d worked unstintingly for Jim, grateful for the chance to quit Burronga and keen to help out his dad in any way he could. In his spare time he’d completed a business diploma, and increasingly Jim had included him in the company decisions, until last year Jim had offered him a partnership in McCarthy Construction.

“I have a lot of respect for Jim,” Owen said, “but I doubt he’s any better at schmoozing than I am.” Jim bought his clothes from Kmart, went to the greyhound track every week, rolled his own cigarettes, and when forced to, could out-cuss anyone on a building site. “He’s left all the selling of this one to me.”

Nate grunted. “That’s a heck of a responsibility he’s given you.”

A sixty-million-dollar responsibility. All resting on his shoulders. Owen tensed his back as if he could already feel the obligation weighing on him.

“Bandicoot Creek was my idea in the first place,” he said. “The land was going cheap, even though it’s a sizable investment for us. I know it’s stretching our finances beyond comfort level, but sometimes we have to take risks.”

And the rewards would be sweet. By pulling off Bandicoot Creek, he’d be able to thank Jim for everything he’d done for him, plus he’d prove to everyone else in McCarthy Construction that he was worthy of the partnership. And then there was Heidi, Jim’s twenty-three-year-old daughter. Bandicoot Creek would help soothe some of the guilt Owen felt over her and that unfortunate New Year’s Eve incident.

He braced one foot against the fence, then vaulted clear over the wire. “Come on.” He motioned to Nate to follow him. “I’ll show you around.”

Together they clambered over the uneven ground. Owen pointed out the noxious weeds, the crumbling ditches, and the silted creek, all results of bad farming practices. The only thing going for this parcel of land was its location, a ten-minute drive from town and near the ninth fairway of the Burronga Country Club’s championship golf course.

Nate nodded at the fairway. “You should join the country club. Rub shoulders with all the old boys.”

“Yeah, right.” Owen snorted. “I can just see all those members leaping up to propose and second my application.”

“Well, you’ve got the right address now. You’re renting the Kerrigan house, aren’t you?”

“That’s right.”

Nate kicked at a clump of prickly pear. “Rather you than me, mate. That house doesn’t hold fond memories for me.”

Owen frowned. “Didn’t know you were connected with the Kerrigans.”

“Only indirectly. My cousin was the chump who married Paige Kerrigan.”

Owen’s throat tightened. “Seth Bailey’s your cousin? Crap. I never made the connection before.”

“‘Crap’ is the operative word.” Nate snickered without humor. “He’s turned into a real douche bag. I don’t hear from him these days, and that suits me fine after what he did to Paige.” Turning, he aimed an inquisitive look at Owen. “So why did you say ‘crap’?”

Owen shrugged. “I hired a new housekeeper this morning. Paige Kerrigan.”

His friend stared at him for several moments before he tilted his head back and burst out laughing. “Paige Kerrigan’s your housekeeper in her own house? Come on, you’re pulling my leg!”

“No, it’s true.” In a few brief sentences he explained what had happened.

Nate shook his head and whistled in disbelief, still chuckling. “She’s going to cook you breakfast? Hell, you’re brave. I’d be too afraid she’d poison me, either by design or accident.”

“I might have gone too far with the breakfast thing,” Owen admitted. He hadn’t intended adding cooking to her duties, but he’d been irked by her offhand manner to his job offer.

“You think?” Nate laughed. “That woman is just not made for domestic duties. She was maxing out her credit card when they handed out the homemaker genes.”

Nothing Owen didn’t already know. But his mind was occupied with something Nate had said earlier. “What did you mean by Seth being a douche bag? What did he do to Paige? Did he cheat on her?”

Nate sobered up fast. “You don’t know? Jeez, I thought everyone around here knew.”

The muscles in Owen’s arms bunched up. “What happened?” It had to be something sleazy, he thought as unease heaved in his stomach. Something sordid, to force a proud girl like Paige to go running for cover.

“Seth had a video of Paige dancing around topless. I guess it was taken just after they were married, when the gloss hadn’t worn off yet. After they separated, he posted it on the internet and it went viral before he finally removed it. I think Paige must have threatened to cut his balls off.” Nate shrugged. “Paige can be a real pain in the arse, but she didn’t deserve to be humiliated like that.”

Nobody did. Owen hauled in a breath of air as he tried to order his milling thoughts.

“Topless, huh?” Damn, why was that the first thing to come out his mouth?

Nate grinned. “Yup. I wouldn’t pick Paige as someone who lets herself be filmed without her shirt on. She’s always so stitched up.”

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.

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 so…small 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.