Anne Mather - The Millionaire's Virgin

It was why Paige had left school without finishing her education; why she’d appointed herself his protector. She’d been there when he needed her, taking care of him when he didn’t, and somehow getting him through those first awful months after Annabel died.

It had taken a toll on her, too, but she’d never considered herself. She’d been happy making him happy, and until she’d been introduced to Nikolas Petronides she’d cared little for the fact that the only men she’d dated had been men her father had had dealings with.

Of course, he’d approved of Nikolas, too—at least to begin with. It was only when he’d discovered that the Greek had had no intention of investing money with him that he’d turned against him. And Paige had had no doubts where her loyalties lay…

Which was why there was no way she could accept Nikolas’s offer now. Apart from the fact that they had once known one another too well, she wanted nothing from him. In his own way, he was like Martin: he was using her situation to humiliate her, and however attractive the prospect of a summer in Greece might be—not to mention the generous salary he’d tried to bribe her with—she needed a real job with someone who wasn’t out for revenge.

But she didn’t want to think about that now. It was four years since her relationship with Nikolas had foundered and since then she’d insisted on taking charge of her own life. She sighed. Not that she’d been any more successful, she conceded wryly. Her association with Martin Price had hardly been a success. But then, she hadn’t been aware that the handsome young accountant had been more interested in furthering his own career, and in paying court to Parker Tennant’s daughter he had envisaged a partnership in her father’s investment brokerage firm as his reward. Of course, when Parker Tennant died in such inauspicious circumstances, he’d quickly amended his plans. In a very short time, Paige had found her engagement had only been as secure as her father’s bank balance, and although Martin had made some excuse about finding someone else she’d known exactly what he really meant.

She stared dully out of the window. That was why she’d felt so mortified when she’d learned that Martin had arranged for her to see Nikolas Petronides. It was galling to think that his prime concern was to put some distance between them, and she half wished she could tell him exactly what she and Nikolas had once been to one another. Would he be jealous? She doubted it. Of Nikolas’s wealth, perhaps, but nothing else.

The train pulled into her station and, leaving her seat, she discovered to her relief that it had stopped raining. Which was just as well, as she had a ten-minute walk to Claremont Avenue, and no umbrella.

Aunt Ingrid’s cottage was about halfway down the avenue, and Paige approached the house with some relief. It had been quite a day, one way and another, and she was looking forward to changing into shorts and a T-shirt and spending some time weeding her aunt’s pocket-sized garden. It was what she needed, she thought: mindless physical exercise, with nothing more momentous to think about than what the soil was doing to her nails.

She heard her aunt’s and her sister’s voices before she’d even opened the front gate. The windows of the cottage were open and their raised tones rang with unpleasantly familiar resonance on the still air. Several of her aunt’s neighbours were taking advantage of the break in the weather to catch up on outdoor jobs, and they could hear them, too, and Paige offered the elderly couple next door an apologetic smile as she hurried up the path.

What now? she wondered wearily. She glanced at her watch. It was barely three o’clock. Sophie shouldn’t even be home from school yet. For heaven’s sake, didn’t she have enough to worry about as it was?

‘You’re a selfish, stupid girl,’ Aunt Ingrid was saying angrily as Paige let herself into the house.

‘And you’re a harried old bag,’ retorted Sophie, before there was the ominous sound of flesh meeting flesh. There was a howl from her sister before she apparently responded in kind, and Paige slammed the door and charged across the tiny hall and into the over-furnished parlour just as her aunt was collapsing into a Regency-striped love-seat, her hand pressed disbelievingly to her cheek.

‘For goodness’ sake!’ Paige stared at them incredulously. ‘What on earth is going on? I could hear you when I turned into the avenue.’

That was an exaggeration, but they were not to know that, and it had the effect of bringing a groan of anguish from her aunt. The thought that someone else might have been a party to her disgrace was too much, and Paige, who had been hoping to shame her sister, gave a resigned sigh.

Of course, Sophie was unlikely to care what anyone else thought, and as if to prove this she would have pushed past her sister and left the room if Paige hadn’t grabbed her arm. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ she demanded. ‘I asked what was going on here. You might as well tell me. I’m going to find out anyway. Have you been excluded from school? What?’

‘Ask her.’ Sophie’s face was mutinous. She gave her aunt a baleful look. ‘She’s the one who’s been poking around in my things.’

Paige didn’t make the mistake of letting go of her arm. ‘I asked you,’ she reminded her shortly, although her heart sank at the thought that Sophie might have some justification for her complaint. Casting a silent appeal in the older woman’s direction, she added, ‘This is Aunt Ingrid’s house, not yours.’

‘Ask her what she’s got hidden in her underwear drawer.’

Aunt Ingrid’s voice was frail and unsteady, and for a moment Paige wanted to smile. Dear God, what had Sophie been hiding? See-through bras; sexy knickers; what? Then, the reluctant admission that Ingrid shouldn’t have been looking through Sophie’s belongings anyway wiped the embryo grin of amusement off her face.

‘Yeah, how about that?’ Sophie broke in before she could respond. ‘The old bat’s been prying into my drawers, in more ways than one. Nosy old bitch! I told you that we had no privacy here—’

‘She’s a drug addict, Paige.’ The older woman’s voice trembled now. ‘An addict, in my house. I never thought I’d live to see the day that my own sister’s child—’

‘What is Aunt Ingrid talking about?’ Despite the fact that the old lady had been known to exaggerate at times, her words had struck a chill into Paige’s bones. ‘Why should she say you’re a drug addict?’

‘She’s lying—’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘She is,’ insisted Sophie scornfully. ‘She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.’ She gave a short laugh. ‘I’m not an addict. For God’s sake, I doubt if she’d know one if she saw one.’

‘I know what marijuana smells like,’ retorted her aunt tremulously. ‘You’re not the first generation to discover illegal substances, you know.’

‘So?’ Sophie sneered. ‘You’re no better than me.’

‘I didn’t use heroin!’ exclaimed Aunt Ingrid, with evident disgust, and Paige’s jaw dropped.

‘Heroin?’ she echoed weakly, turning to stare at her sister. ‘Oh, Sophie, is this true? Have you been using heroin?’

‘No—’

‘Then what was it doing in your drawer?’ demanded her aunt, and Paige endorsed her question. ‘Oh, I should have known that you’d take her side,’ muttered Sophie sulkily, without answering. ‘Whatever I say now, you’re not going to believe me.’

‘Try me.’

‘You don’t have to take my word for it,’ persisted the old lady. ‘Go into your bedroom, Paige. You can smell it for yourself. Marijuana has a most distinctive scent: sweet and very heady. That was why I looked though Sophie’s belongings. I was expecting to find a pack of joints.’