His Trophy Mistress. Daphne Clair

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      He found it and then handed the key on its electronic tag back to her. She felt a trickle of moisture on her forehead and lifted a hand to find the source, wincing as her fingers encountered something sharp. She stared at the tiny droplet of blood on her finger. “I’ve got glass in my hair.”

      Jager had regained some of his normal color, but his eyes were darkened in the center, the irises now more gray than green, his mouth tight as he surveyed her. “We need a bathroom,” he said, “to clean up.”

      There was one off her room, shared with the bedroom that had been her sister’s when they both lived at home. “Come upstairs,” she offered. It was the least she could do.

      Jager’s face was streaked with blood too, and there were red spots on his shirt. His hair was ruffled out of its sleek styling, speckled with sparkling fragments of glass.

      He followed her up the wide marble staircase, carpeted in the middle so that their footsteps were silent.

      The door to her room was open. Paige swiftly crossed to the bathroom, switching on the light. White and merciless, it shone on shiny decorative tiles and a glass-enclosed shower, bold gold-plated taps and big fluffy towels.

      She took a towel and facecloth from a pile on a shelf, handing a set to Jager. “You’d better wash your face.”

      While he did so she opened one of the mirrored cupboards, grimacing at her pale reflection, with a smear of blood across the forehead.

      As Jager dried himself she turned with a comb in her hand, holding it out to him. “Wait. I’ll get something to catch the glass.” If they used one of the towels the slivers would be caught in the pile.

      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, СКАЧАТЬ