His Trophy Mistress. Daphne ClairЧитать онлайн книгу.
didn’t see the other car until it was right in front of them—it seemed to have come from nowhere, the headlights blinding, so close that her voice broke off in a choked scream and she raised her arms before her face, knowing that despite Jager’s frantic wrench at the wheel, accompanied by a sharp, shocking expletive, there was no way he could avoid a collision.
A horrified sense of inevitability mixed with cold, stark terror, and the awareness that maybe this was how—and when—she was going to die.
With Jager, said a clear inner voice, and the thought carried with it both tearing grief and a strange, fleeting sensation of gladness.
The heavy thump and screech of metal on metal filled her ears and the impact jolted her against the seat belt. She was vaguely aware of the windscreen, glimpsed between her shielding arms, going white and opaque, then it disappeared and the two cars, locked together, slid across the road in a slow, agonizing waltz until they came to a jarring halt against a building.
Daring to lower her arms, Paige heard Jager’s voice, seemingly somewhere in the far distance. “Paige—Paige! Are you all right?”
His hand gripped her shoulder, and by the light of a street lamp she saw his face, a deathly color, with dark thin trickles of moisture running from his forehead, his cheeks and his eyes blazing.
“You’re bleeding,” she said, raising an unsteady hand to touch one of the small rivulets, wanting suddenly to cry. She couldn’t bear the thought of him being disfigured.
“Never mind that,” he said impatiently. “Are you hurt?” His hands slid from her shoulders down her arms, and he swore vehemently. “You’re bleeding too.”
She was, from several tiny glass nicks on her bare forearms. “It’s nothing.” She moved her legs, found them whole and unhurt. “I’m all right. Are you?”
“Nothing broken.”
In the background someone was yelling. Car doors slammed and then a face peered into the space left by the broken windscreen. “The police and ambulance are on their way,” said a male voice. “Anyone hurt in there?”
“We’re okay,” Jager answered. “Can you get the passenger door open? My side’s too badly damaged.”
Ambulance staff checked them both and told them they were lucky, but to contact an emergency medical service if they experienced delayed symptoms.
The other driver, miraculously walking, though groggy and with a broken arm, was taken to hospital. While the police were noncommittal when they breath-tested Jager and took statements from both him and Paige, it was fairly obvious the injured man had been drinking.
Within half an hour the cars had been dragged away and the police offered to take Paige and Jager home.
Jager gave them Paige’s parents’ address and climbed into the car beside her. He handed her purse to her and she realized he’d retrieved it from the wreckage.
When the car drew up outside the house he got out and helped her to the pavement, and said to the driver, “Thanks a lot. We appreciate the lift.”
He had his arm around her and was urging her to the gateway as the police car pulled away from the kerb.
“Don’t you want them to take you home?” she said. “You don’t need to come in with me.”
“It doesn’t look like your parents are in yet. I’m not leaving you alone.”
The garden lights were on—they were on an automatic timer—but the house was in darkness.
When she drew out the key Jager took it from her and opened the door, closing it behind them as he accompanied her into the wide entryway. He found the light switch and she said, “The burglar alarm. You have to press that yellow button on the key-tag.”
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,”