Society Wives: Love or Money: The Bought-and-Paid-for Wife. Maureen Child

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      Resolve tightened his features as he nodded to her bundle of flowers. “Shouldn’t you be putting those in water?”

      She blinked with surprise, as if she’d been so intent on their discussion that she’d forgotten her morning’s purpose. “I … yes.”

      “I need to go. I have some decisions to make.”

      Hope fluttered like a bird’s wing in her eyes. “You’ll let me know … once you’ve decided.”

      “You’ll be the first.”

      He nodded goodbye and had gone maybe ten strides before she called his name. He paused. Turned to look over his shoulder and was floored again by the picture she made with the sunlight silhouetting her body and legs through that filmy pink robe.

      Like the roses, he figured she’d forgotten her state of dress. Or undress. For both their sakes, he wasn’t about to point out what was clearly defined by the unforgiving light.

      “The letter I told you about, from your father—I kept a copy. It’s yours, Tristan. If you like, I can go and get it for you.”

      Eight

      After Vanessa offered him the letter, Tristan had stood staring at her down the paved path, face and body both set hard and still as a Grecian statue. There’d been a dizzy moment when her imagination played memory tricks, stripping away his clothes to reveal sun-gilded skin and rippling pool-wet muscles. When he pointed out—his voice dark and quietly dangerous—that if she were going to fetch anything, it should be more clothes, she’d shaken her head with confusion.

      How did he know she was picturing him near-naked? Was she that transparent?

      One slow sweep of his shuttered gaze and she realized that, yes, courtesy of the sun’s backlighting, she was pretty darn transparent.

      Oh, she’d played down her discomfiture. Ignoring any reference to clothing, she’d lifted her chin and invited him to wait in the foyer while she located the letter and a file box of photos and clippings and other memorabilia Stuart had kept.

      At first she’d thought he wouldn’t bother taking them. Later she’d decided that his lack of response as she pushed them into his hands was all a crock. Vanessa understood the pretense. She, too, was a master at hiding her heart.

      With an offhand shrug and a polite thanks he took them, presumably back to his hotel.

      Vanessa should have been overjoyed to see the back of him and that morning’s intense emotional drama. She should have been thrilled that they’d finally talked through some of the misunderstandings and misinformation, and that he might now reconsider his stance on the will. But, no, his departure had left her feeling hollow and restless and anxious, her mind buzzing with more questions.

      Twice she picked up the phone, once her car keys and purse, with a view to pressing him for answers. Did he have any ideas on who had written the letter that brought him to Eastwick? Would he continue to investigate its allegations? Or was his challenge of the will now over?

      But she forced herself to wait. He needed time to digest Stuart’s heartfelt words, to come to grips with the truth of his split from Andrea and their subsequent custody settlement.

      The hollowness in her middle grew into a raw ache when she thought about what he’d believed and what his mother had let him believe. From experience, Vanessa knew that twelve was a vulnerable age to have a parent cut from your life. To go through that in a new country, in a new school, without your friends, believing you’d been traded like a chattel in your parents’ divorce …

      She hadn’t looked at this from Tristan’s side before. So much about the man now made sense. Those hard edges, his drive to succeed, this pursuit of an inheritance he didn’t need. It wasn’t all about doing the right thing by his mother; it was also about himself and the father he’d believed didn’t want him.

      She could almost forgive him his resentment. If only he’d returned her calls or given her a chance to explain earlier, they could have avoided all this. And that thought added to her turmoil while she waited to discover what would happen next.

      Tuesday morning she forced herself to push aside another restless night and her frustrating angst as she set about her usual routine … although she did take care to dress this time, before venturing out into the garden. Tuesday was one of her regular days at Twelve Oaks, and she cut enough blooms for several arrangements at the grand house and put them in water.

      Next, she headed to the kitchen and mixed a double batch of chocolate cherry muffins. The precise processes involved in baking always calmed her. Picturing her brother’s blissed-out grin when he opened the container and discovered his favorite treat always brought a smile to her face. It still hovered—a happy curve of affection—when the timer chimed and she pulled the baking trays from the oven.

      They’d turned out perfectly. Her smile broadened with satisfaction. Then she turned and looked up, and everything—her smile, her brain, her legs—froze.

      But only for a split second. The instant their gazes connected she felt an ungoverned rush of heat all the way from her quick fix ponytail to her freshly painted toes.

      “Where did you spring from?” she asked, her voice husky with astonishment. And, yes, a note of pleasure because of the way Tristan was looking at her and because, well, simply because he was here.

      “Gloria let me in. I followed her up the drive.”

      Vanessa had been so absorbed in her task she hadn’t heard the housekeeper’s arrival. After depositing the trays on cooling racks, she put a hand to her rapidly beating heart. “This is two mornings in a row you’ve sneaked up on me. You have to stop doing that.”

      “Just evening up the score. You surprise me all the time.” He paused, taking in the sunshine yellow dress she’d chosen to empower her mood, before his gaze returned to her face. “Although at least today you’re dressed.”

      Which did nothing to hide her reaction to the appreciation in his eyes or the satisfaction of knowing she surprised him. She felt the flush rolling through her skin and the tightening of her nipples against the lace of her bra. Today she might be dressed, but she had no bouquet of roses to hide behind.

      “Where’s Gloria?” she asked, shifting the conversation to neutral ground.

      “Putting away the … things … you loaned me.”

      The letter and photos? Her eyes widened. “Oh, no. You didn’t have to return them. They are yours to keep.”

      “I don’t need them.”

      “Maybe, but I want you to have them. Stuart would have wanted that.”

      Something quickened in his eyes, a flash of emotion, of sorrow or regret, but he lifted a shoulder and it was gone. Shed like a stray leaf.

      He strolled farther into the room and inclined his head toward the marble island. “You bake?”

      So. He didn’t want to talk about the letter or his father. Vanessa’s stomach dipped with disappointment. But what could she do? Perhaps if he stayed a while, perhaps if she went along with the teasing note to his question and kept СКАЧАТЬ