His Trophy Mistress. Daphne Clair

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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 least 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 СКАЧАТЬ