Paul’s silent for so long that I think he’s going to ignore my question, as he does often when I push the envelope and get too personal. But then he answers, his voice low and gruff.

“He doesn’t want me to be alone.”

I keep my expression blank, but I’m surprised by the admission. He hardly ever mentions Harry Langdon, and when his father’s name does come up, it’s generally accompanied by a sneer. This is the first time he’s even hinted that his father might be acting in Paul’s interest.

“I think that’s probably a pretty typical paternal instinct,” I say softly.

“Which would be awesome if I were twelve,” he mutters.

“Don’t get your boxers all in a snarl about this, but do you really have the right to be petulant when you’re living on his dime?”

His already tense jawline goes even tighter for a second, but then he shrugs. “What’s your suggestion? My leg prevents me from doing anything involving physical work, and the repulsive face is a little too distracting for the corporate world, don’t you think?”

“That’s crap. Sure, professional soccer is probably out, and you can take modeling off the list, but you could make a living if you wanted to.”

“Sure. I could be a caretaker. That’s a great career path.”

“Knock it off,” I snap. “At least I’m doing something.”

“All out of the goodness of your heart, right? You just care so much about other people, is that it?” He leans forward slightly, his eyes mean, and I hate that he seems to see right through me.

“I care.”

“About me?” He gives a sick semblance of a smile, and I’m wondering how the hell this friendly, casual conversation veered so far off track so quickly.

“About people,” I grind out.

“Of course,” he says, leaning back in his chair, deceptively relaxed. “Olivia Middleton, the reformed do-gooder.”

How does he know I’m reformed? “We’re not talking about me.”

“Maybe I want to,” he says.

“Well, when I become so unhinged and mentally unstable and reclusive that my father pays you to spend time with me, then we can talk about me!”

His head snaps back a little, and I clamp my mouth shut. My words can’t hurt him. I’m sure of it. The guy doesn’t give a shit about me, and he’s only tolerating me for reasons I have yet to figure out.

So what is it that I saw flash across his face just now? Because it looked an awful lot like pain.

“Sorry,” I mutter. I don’t lose my temper often, and the hot feeling in my cheeks is as unfamiliar as it is uncomfortable.

“Don’t be,” he says, opening his book again. “You make a good point. My father pays you to spend time with me, and as long as I want to live under Daddy’s roof, I have to tolerate that. Doesn’t mean I have to entertain you, though, so if you don’t mind . . .”

It’s my turn to lean forward, and I kick him none too gently, although I’m careful to kick his good leg. “I’ll leave you to your sulky reading, but don’t think for one second that I don’t know that I’m the first caretaker to stick around. For some reason, you’re letting me stay. You’re even being mostly pleasant, although something tells me that’s fake as hell. So anytime you want to come clean, I’d love even just a tiny clue as to what the hell’s going on here. What’s with the fake-friendly routine? Why me, and none of the others?”

Paul couldn’t appear more bored if he let out a huge yawn, but to my surprise, he does look up from his book when I finish my rampage.

“You want to know why you’re here when all of the others ran off?”

“More specifically, I want to know why you’ve decided to be civil to me. Something tells me that ill-tempered monster I met the first day is the real you.”

“That much is true,” he says, his voice all easy agreeability. “As for why I’m up for keeping you around?” His eyes move over my body, and not in a flattering way . . . in an insulting, degrading way.

My body responds anyway.

“The only reason you’re still hanging around is because you’re hot,” he says. “Because as far as being a caretaker goes, you’re worthless. You don’t know shit about physical therapy, you’re more annoying than you are comforting, and when Mick and Lindy take off for their weekend outing in a couple of days, I have a pretty good idea that I’ll also find out you’re a miserable cook. But don’t worry, sweetie. You’ll always find work from the male clients. The old ones will call you eye candy and the young ones will call you a hot piece of ass.”

On some level I know I’m supposed to be offended, but it’s almost painfully apparent that offense is exactly his intention. Which makes it really easy to disregard his meanness as pathetic self-defense.

I settle back in my chair and open my own book. “Nah, that’s not why you keep me around,” I muse, as though talking to myself. “But for the record, I am a really good cook. You’ll see.”

Paul’s face goes incredulous over my refusal to get upset, but almost immediately he recovers his usual indifferent expression. “You’re one messed-up piece of work.”

“Yeah, but you’re starting to worry that you might like me,” I say confidently. “Considering I also give you a boner, shit’s gonna get reaaaaal complicated here in the next few months.”