Page 2 of Contracted and Claimed By The Boss

‘Miss Cooper?’ His accent was Australian, like an actor she’d once worked with, deep and relaxed, broad vowel sounds more compelling than they should have been.

‘Paige,’ she said with a nod, clearing her throat and forcing a smile. She was so thirsty. Having spent the last few years of her life in Dubai, she should have known better than to have left her water on the plane, but so it was, and Paige hadn’t had a sip of anything for almost two hours. In this heat, that was no mean feat.

‘I’m Max Stone.’

This she already knew. Not only was he very well known—the billionaire son, one half of the siblings who’d inherited the Stone family empire a few years ago—his details had been included in the file she’d been given upon accepting this assignment.

‘Thanks for coming.’ His voice was deep and earthy, like the red dust that straddled the road to this tropical paradise—he sounded anything but grateful. His voice was hyper-masculine, leaving her in little doubt he was a man cast from this land, grown from the earth and tropical weather. His jaw was square, strong like cut granite—somehow, it was nothing less than the voice deserved—with a cleft in the centre of his chin that she imagined, quite unhelpfully, to be the perfect size for a thumbprint. His hair was dark, like a raven’s, though there was the faintest hint of silver at the temples, and his eyes were a piercing blue, quite hypnotically fascinating. If they were still in LA, she’d have suspected he wore contact lenses, but that was a vanity she somehow knew to be beyond Max Stone. This man was rough, hewn from the elements: he was not interested in his own appearance.

He was looking at her as though waiting for her to speak, but what else could Paige say? That it was her pleasure? That wasn’t strictly true. This job was her bolt-hole. She’d desperately wanted—needed—to drop right off the edge of the earth, so she’d accepted the most remote, out-of-the-way assignment she possibly could. Being buried in the Australian tropics felt a galaxy away from the rest of the world, and particularly from the media storm that was building like a hurricane smack bang on top of her old life.

‘Thanks for having me,’ she said, eventually, then cursed herself for admitting as much. She didn’t want her new employer to know that she was on the run. It was hardly a good recommendation for the job.

But if he thought the sentiment a strange one, he didn’t show it. ‘Amanda will be home in...’ he regarded his wristwatch, an old-fashioned Rolex ‘...just under an hour. Come inside, I’ll show you around.’

Behind her, Paige was aware of movement, as the man who’d driven her—Reg, he’d introduced himself as—carried her suitcase across the lawn, towards the wide steps that led to the veranda. There were potted plants on the edges of the steps, terracotta with a shrub she didn’t recognise but liked instantly for its wildness and the cheery, bright flowers. As they drew closer, she saw the petals were quite waxy, and there were pods attached that looked a little like peas. She couldn’t resist reaching out and feeling one. At the merest touch, the pod burst open and, as if it were some kind of party-popper, tiny little seeds flung themselves like confetti, wide into the air.

She stared at it with a small frown then lifted her eyes to Max. He wasn’t watching. In fact, he was four paces ahead, about to reach the wide, old-fashioned doors to the home. She dusted off her fingers and hurriedly climbed the last few steps, until she was level with him. He smelled like the ocean, salty and tangy.

When he opened the door into his home, she went to move inside, but Reg, distracted, stepped out, so Paige had to quickly shuttle out of the way, and the only direction she could move, at last minute, was practically on top of Max Stone.

She’d thought of him as a wild animal and now that their bodies connected she felt that, deep inside her, a certainty that he vibrated with a rhythm quite outside the ordinary human lexicon. On a deeply subconscious level, her body was aware of his body and the way it buzzed and radiated an energy that was all his own. She quickly stepped away, her breathing rushed, her fingers tingling.

‘Sorry, boss. Didn’t see ya there.’ Reg grinned, tipped his discoloured hat, then moved down the steps, two at a time. He conveyed an air of relaxation despite the spring in his step.

Paige didn’t dare look at Max again—she couldn’t. Not while she was fighting her body’s completely unwelcome response to him. Instead, she sought refuge inside the house.

Compared to outside, the hallway was dark and cool, with wide timber floors and walls. Everything about the house seemed original, though Paige was no expert in architecture, and particularly not Australian architecture. She only knew that she liked this place a great deal.

‘The house was originally a hotel,’ Max practically grunted, from right behind her, so Paige realised she had just been standing square in the middle of the hallway. ‘My grandfather converted it into a house about forty years ago, took out a lot of the walls to make larger rooms. I improved the kitchens, bathrooms, brought the plumbing into the twenty-first century,’ he said with something that might have even been an attempt at humour? At least at civility. So she did her best imitation of a smile, moving deeper into the house.

‘Downstairs is all living. Lounge room’s over there.’ He nodded to the left, and Paige ducked her head through the wide entrance way to a very lovely, comfortable space—enormous sofas around a big rug, a wall-mounted television, and shelves lined with books. A large bay window framed a spectacular view over the ocean, which all the rooms on this side of the house would share. She crossed her fingers, hoping her own bedroom would have this same aspect. A board game was set up on the coffee table—Scrabble—but it looked to have been abandoned partway through, perhaps because Amanda had needed to go to bed or get to school.

In the middle of her chest, she felt a familiar emptiness—a sensation she’d grown used to over the last five years, since leaving LA and working as a nanny. She’d been surrounded daily by dozens of little signs of family love and togetherness and she’d never quite been able to stop contrasting that easy affection and parental kindness she observed in her work with her own upbringing—which had been sadly lacking in both.

Max had kept walking so Paige quickened her step once more. ‘Study.’ He nodded to the right. The door was shut and Paige didn’t look in. ‘Amanda’s room,’ he said, indicating the left. With a curious expression, Paige pushed this door inwards—after all, Amanda was her charge and therefore any room of hers was Paige’s responsibility. The room had no bed, but was rather a kids’ haven. A rocking chair by the window so she could sit and stare out at the stunning vista, another television, and a shelf with every games machine one could imagine, and some books scattered over the floor—titles she recognised because they were beloved by all children the world over, it seemed.

‘That’s where she likes to spend time.’ His voice was almost normal, yet there was a slight tightening in the words. Amanda choosing to be in this room bothered him. ‘Dining room. We don’t eat in there.’ He pushed open the door anyway and, out of sheer interest, Paige took a couple of steps inside. This room had a view of the lawn and, beyond it, the rainforest that surrounded this part of the house. Thick, ancient trunks with strange vines wrapping around them and constantly singing birds made Paige sigh. ‘It’s lovely.’

‘We don’t like it.’ We. Paige’s heart gave another little clutch. She’d never been part of a ‘we’. She likely never would be. How could someone who’d lived through what she had, who’d been betrayed by the two people who were meant to be your staunchest, most loyal defenders, ever trust anyone enough to be a ‘we’?

‘You don’t? What’s not to like?’ she asked breathily, covering her heartache with an overbright smile.

His eyes narrowed. ‘Amanda says it’s too stuffy.’

‘I suppose it is a little formal,’ Paige agreed, moving towards the enormous, dark oak table, running a finger over the heavily polished top. There were no signs in here of family life. No photographs, no books, no scratches on the table to indicate happy, shared meals. There was a fireplace, which she suspected rarely got used, and enormous floor-to-ceiling windows with burgundy drapes, and, against the far wall, two small doors. ‘What’s over there?’

His lips twisted in something between a grimace and a smile. ‘That would be the servants’ entrance. For dinner parties.’

‘Ah.’

‘There’s a corridor connecting the dining room to the kitchen,’ he continued to explain. ‘From when it was a hotel.’

‘Clever.’

‘Normal, for the time. Come on, we don’t have all day.’

She startled a little at his switch of tone, at the sound in his voice of—something she couldn’t analyse, but it was clear he wasn’t happy.

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