His Trophy Wife

“So, it’s not really a marriage you’re proposing, it’s a straight-out trade. Your money for my name,” Morganna said.

“That’s the deal,” Sloan replied.

“Usually, you know, it’s older guys who have divorced their first wives who are looking for a trophy to display.”

“I was too busy fifteen years ago to find someone unsuitable to marry, just so I could discard her now in order to acquire you. You don’t appear to have any time to lose, Miss Ashworth. Are you interested or not?”

Morganna raised her chin and looked him straight in the eye. “Convince me that what you’re offering is worth the price you’re asking.”

To have and to hold…

Their marriage was meant to last—and they have the gold rings to prove it!

To love and to cherish…

But what happens when their promise to love, honor and cherish is put to the test?

From this day forward…

Emotions run high as husbands and wives discover how precious—and fragile—their wedding vows are…. Will true love keep them together—forever?

Marriages meant to last!

Part-Time Marriage (#3680)

by Jessica Steele

His Trophy Wife

Leigh Michaels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Dan Thompson of the Kansas State Fire Marshal’s Office. Thanks for the wholehearted way you threw yourself into this project!

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

PROLOGUE

HIS office was seriously out of style these days, compared to the sleek corner suites occupied by many corporate executives. It didn’t boast deep carpeting or antique furniture or original art. And its windows didn’t show off a stunning panorama of a landscape or a city skyline or even a sunset. Instead Sloan Montgomery’s very old-fashioned office lay almost at the center of the building that housed Sticks & Stones, and its windows overlooked the production line. That arrangement had been the standard in industrial design eighty years before, when the building was new, and Sloan had never seen any reason to change it. He could keep a closer eye on the furniture being built down on the factory floor when all he had to do was turn around from his desk to take a look. And he had always been able to think better with the rumble and whine of the machines in the background.

His right-hand man, the controller of Sticks & Stones, tapped on the half-open door of Sloan’s office. “Here’s that information you wanted.” He laid a folder on the corner of the desk. “The credit report is right on top. It’s not a pretty sight.”

Sloan’s fingers itched to reach for the folder, but he schooled himself to patience. This had waited a long time; it would last a minute longer, till he was alone. “Thanks, Joel.”

The controller showed no inclination to leave. Instead he moved around the end of the desk to stand with his back to the stream of warm air coming from the space heater which warmed the office on cold mornings. “I know it’s none of my business—”

Very true, Sloan thought.

“But I can’t get straight in my mind why you want all that information. As far as I can see, Burke Ashworth had nothing to do with Sticks & Stones. He wasn’t a competitor or a supplier. He wasn’t even a customer, and thank heaven for that, because it appears he owed money to everybody but us in three states by the time he drove his car off that bridge.”

“There are more ways to be in debt than by owing money, Joel.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Joel sounded doubtful. “It appears that he did it on purpose. Drove off the bridge, I mean. There was still a suicide clause on his life insurance policy.”

“So he was trying to make his death appear to be an accident?”

Joel nodded. “Not very successfully, I’d say. Look at the whole picture. He was up to his neck in debt with no way to pay it off. About the only thing he actually owned was the car he was driving, and it’s just scrap metal now.”

“He could have declared bankruptcy.”

“From what I’ve heard, Burke Ashworth would rather be tragically dead than look like a loser. Besides, filing for bankruptcy wouldn’t have done him much good—the federal government doesn’t forgive things like unpaid income tax. No, a convenient accident was his only way out. I couldn’t locate a single asset that hasn’t already been spoken for by a half-dozen creditors.”

Now there, Sloan thought, his controller—good as he was—had missed the mark. For Burke Ashworth had left behind an unencumbered asset. Just one.

He had left a daughter.

And if Sloan played his cards right, Morganna Ashworth would pay off her father’s debt. Every last fragment of it.

CHAPTER ONE

Six Months Later

THE four of them were laughing over some silly thing—Morganna didn’t even remember what it had been—when she caught a glimpse of the dainty platinum watch on her wrist. “Time for me to go home,” she said, pushing her chair back from the bridge table. “Sloan will be back from San Francisco today.”

“And the little wife wants to be waiting to welcome him home from his business trip,” said the redhead sitting next to her. “Even after half a year of marriage—how touching.”

From the seat on Morganna’s other side, a brunette rolled her eyes. “Don’t be sarcastic, Sherrie. You know perfectly well if it was you instead of Morganna that Sloan was coming home to, you’d be standing by the front door waiting for him.”

“For Sloan Montgomery? Not on your life,” Sherrie said. “I’d already be in the bedroom.”

They all laughed, but Morganna had to make an effort. And she noticed as she looked across the table at her hostess that Emily’s amusement, too, was only on the surface; her eyes were not smiling.

“It really isn’t fair, Morganna,” Sherrie went on. “He’s not only gorgeous, but all you have to do is murmur that you want something, and you’ve got it. Your house, that rock on your left hand, your new car—talk about the woman who has everything. Even if the rest of us were lucky enough to stumble onto a guy who’d buy us anything we wanted, trust me—he’d be eighty-two and toothless. Sloan is everything a woman could want.”

The envy which dripped from Sherrie’s voice seemed to turn to sulfuric acid against Morganna’s skin. But, she told herself, it was crazy to resent Sherrie’s perceptions of her marriage, when the woman had picked up precisely the image that Morganna had worked very hard to project.

Emily walked her to the door. “Sherrie and Carol mean well, Morganna. They just don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“And that’s exactly the way I want to keep it.” Morganna forced a smile.

It wasn’t even that the two were so far off track, she admitted to herself as she turned her new sports car toward the gated neighborhood of Pemberton Place and the Georgian-style mansion she called home. Sloan was gorgeous—and he was generous to a fault. Morganna had quickly learned to be careful of what she admired, for whatever she looked approvingly at was apt to turn up on her breakfast tray within a day or two. After a few episodes, she’d learned to bite her tongue.

She’d slipped up on the car, though. She’d commented—without even thinking about it—that the new convertibles looked like fun. Less than a week later, hers had shown up in the driveway. It was even her favorite color.

Sherrie was right—Sloan was everything a woman could want. So why was Morganna so unhappy?

She parked the convertible in the garage next to Sloan’s black Jaguar. The presence of his car didn’t mean he was home, however; it had been sitting there all week while he was gone. She’d offered to take him to the airport and to pick him up on his return, but he’d said he didn’t want to put her to the trouble and he’d called a cab instead.

Of course, she thought with a hint of bitterness, a trophy wife wasn’t supposed to be practical, only decorative. And that was all she was to Sloan Montgomery, Morganna knew—a trophy. A mile marker of how far he had raised himself. He’d gone from the factory floor to the owner’s office, from a walk-up apartment to a mansion in Lakemont’s most exclusive neighborhood, from the wrong side of the tracks to an alliance with one of the oldest and best-known families in the city.

She knew quite well what she was to him—because he’d told her, on the day he had proposed marriage, precisely what he wanted her to be. A symbol, visible to all the world, of his success. A trophy wife.

She let herself in the side door and in the shadowed corridor she almost bumped into the butler. He’d been hovering, she thought—waiting for her. Wanting to warn her, obviously—but of what?

“Is Mr. Montgomery home?” she asked.

Selby’s voice was lower than usual. “Not yet, Miss Morganna. I believe his plane should be landing any time.”

“Then what’s wrong? And don’t tell me that nothing is, because I can see by your expression that you’re worried.”

Selby’s tone dropped even further. “Your mother is here. None of us knew she was coming, Miss Morganna. She just appeared on the doorstep this afternoon.”

And that, Morganna knew, signaled trouble. Obviously Abigail Ashworth hadn’t come all the way from Phoenix to Lakemont, Wisconsin, for afternoon tea, or simply for the fun of the trip. More to the point, she didn’t make a habit of dropping in uninvited. In fact, this was the first time since she’d moved to Phoenix, right after Morganna’s wedding, that she’d been back. Though Morganna had made it plain that her mother would always be welcome in her house, Abigail Ashworth had pointed out that the Georgian mansion was now Sloan’s home, too, and she couldn’t take his hospitality for granted.

Yet now she had done exactly that. Big trouble, Morganna thought grimly. “Where is she?”

“In the miniature room.”

Morganna started across the hall to where a nine-foot-tall pocket door stood open a couple of inches. She pushed the walnut panel back and stepped inside.

Despite its name, the room itself was anything but miniature. In fact, it was one of the largest in the house, intended by the builders to be a music room with plenty of space for dancing. Its contents were what had given the room its name, for it was full of tiny treasures. Some of the diminutive dolls and accompanying furnishings had belonged to Morganna’s grandmother, but most had been gifts to Morganna herself, souvenirs from her travels, or items she had created on her own. Half-museum, half-workshop, the room was Morganna’s favorite in the entire house.

Literally at the center of the collection, standing on a specially built cabinet in the middle of the room, was a miniature reproduction of the full-size mansion. Architecturally correct down to the most infinitesimal detail, it was more museum piece than plaything, even though it had been Morganna’s birthday gift the year she was nine.

She looked past the dollhouse to her mother. Abigail Ashworth sent a vague smile in her daughter’s direction and straightened the fingernail-size envelopes in the brass mailbox beside the front door of the miniature house.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you,” Morganna said.

“Why should you be waiting for me, dear, when I didn’t let you know I was coming?”

At least that answered one question, Morganna thought. Her mother wasn’t confused about whether she’d been invited. Not that she’d harbored any real doubts about Abigail’s mental faculties. “It’s a nice surprise to see you, of course. But I have to ask, Mom—what brings you back to Lakemont at this time of year?”

“You know Indian summer was always my favorite season.”

“Believe me, that’s going to be over any day. The evenings are already getting so damp and chilly that a fire feels good.”

Abigail sighed. “All right. If you must know, there’s a man.”

Morganna’s jaw dropped. Her mother, in love? “Here?”

“No, in Phoenix. He’s moved into the apartment complex, and he seems to think he’s in love with me. The more I try to discourage him, the more determined he gets.”

That made more sense. “So you’re escaping from him?”

“I feel sure that if I’m simply unavailable, Robert will find someone else to focus on. Heaven knows Phoenix has no shortage of eligible women.” Abigail smiled brightly. “A month or so should do it, I think.”

A month. Morganna’s heart sank, but she forced a cheerful note into her voice. “That’s great, Mom. It seems we never have enough time together anymore to do everything we’d like, but with a whole month…Has Selby given you a room?”

“Yes, dear. And I’m going upstairs to it right now, so you and Sloan can have your reunion without an audience.” Abigail winked and turned toward the door.

Morganna forced herself to wait long enough for her mother to reach the top of the stairs before she ducked back into the hallway. Sloan was due to walk in at any moment, and she had to intercept him. She simply could not take the chance that he’d run into Abigail without warning. Surprised, he might slip up—and if he said one wrong word…

Morganna was standing by the front door and calculating times in her head—if his flight was on schedule, if he’d had no trouble getting a cab, if rush hour traffic had been no worse than usual—when she saw an airport limousine maneuver through the gates of Pemberton Place and pull up in front of the mansion. By the time Sloan got out, she had the front door open and was hovering just inside.

Sloan paused on the sidewalk. The light of the decorative lamps at the front of the house fell in sharp angles across his face, highlighting the rugged good looks which always took Morganna’s breath away for an instant whenever she first laid eyes on him. The effect was stronger than usual today—but then it had been nearly a week since he’d left. He wasn’t wearing a coat, only a dark-gray wool suit, and at thirty-five he was as lean and athletic-looking as most men who were a decade younger.

Without haste, Sloan shifted the weight of his garment bag and briefcase and climbed the shallow steps to the entrance. “This is a surprise,” he said dryly. “Finding you waiting by the door for me. But you’ve forgotten the good little housewife’s standard props, haven’t you? Pipe, slippers, newspaper, martini—”

Irritated, Morganna said, “You don’t smoke, it’s too early for slippers, you’ve no doubt already read the newspaper and you don’t like martinis. And there’s a very good reason why I’m standing here.”

“There must be. I never doubted it.” Sloan set his bags down and looked her over, his dark eyes intent. “And you’re not very happy about the reason, are you? Well, let’s go somewhere private and you can tell me about it.” He reached out as if to drape an arm around her shoulders.

Morganna had already moved toward the drawing room. Once inside, she sat on the edge of a chair and said, “My mother’s here. And she’s planning to stay a while.”

“That’s nice.”

“Nice? Are you out of your mind?”

“I like Abigail. Always have.”

Then it’s too bad you didn’t marry her instead of me, Morganna wanted to say. She bit her tongue hard. “Well, I like her too, Sloan—too much to let her be worried, or to suspect that we’re not happy.”

Sloan moved over to the drinks tray, poured himself a whisky and handed Morganna a club soda. “In other words, you don’t want her to know the price you paid so she could have her comfortable life in Phoenix.”

“What good would it do if she found out?”

“None, of course. You can rest easy, Morganna—she won’t discover it from me. Of course, it may be more of a challenge for you to pretend to be deliriously happy.” He picked up his glass and left the room. From the hall, she heard the deep murmur of his voice, and then the butler’s softer reply.

Morganna rubbed her temples. The irony in his voice was like an ice pick to her heart. Where had she gone so wrong?

It had all seemed so logical, so straightforward, when it had begun—just over six months ago, and barely a week after the world had caved in on Morganna and her mother.

It had been several days after Burke Ashworth’s fatal car accident before Morganna had begun to realize the perilous situation her father had left them in. But as soon as she started to absorb the facts, confirmation crept in from every side. The banker calling to demand payment on the mortgage, the stockbroker announcing with regret that the value in Burke’s portfolio was not adequate to cover his margin calls—those things were only the beginning of a downhill slide that seemed to have no bottom.

That was probably why, when Sloan Montgomery had shown up at the house, Morganna had agreed to see him—even though she barely knew him. Because, she thought, talking to him couldn’t possibly make things worse.

The memories of that day were carved into the very cells of her brain. She’d been sitting with her mother in the drawing room, receiving callers. A horrifying percentage of them had turned out to be her father’s creditors, and though she had tried to convince her mother that there was no need to see each and every one, Abigail insisted. Morganna could only watch with helpless anxiety as Abigail’s exhaustion reached crushing proportions. It wasn’t until the stream of creditors had ended that Abigail finally agreed to go and rest.

Just then Selby had brought in a business card, neatly centered on a silver tray. Morganna could have screamed at him.

Abigail took the card, her hands trembling with fatigue. “This must be another one, because I don’t recognize the name.”

Morganna looked over her shoulder. “No, Mom. This one’s for me.”

Abigail checked the card again and looked suspiciously at her daughter. “You know this Sloan Montgomery? Then why haven’t I heard of him?”

“Because there’s never been any reason to mention him. Remember the fund-raiser for the women’s shelter that I helped with last year? I met him then. He builds furniture in a factory down in the old commercial district on the lakefront—innovative, unusual stuff that he designs himself—and he donated a bunch of it to the shelter. That’s all I know about him.” She looked up at Selby. “Show Mr. Montgomery into the miniature room, please. Tell him I’ll be with him in a moment, and close the door. Once he’s out of the way, Mother can slip past without being seen and go up to her room.”

Abigail had wearily agreed, and a few minutes later Morganna had let herself quietly into the miniature room.

Across the room, Sloan Montgomery was standing by Morganna’s worktable, apparently studying a lyre-backed dining chair, smaller than his palm, that she’d been carving on the day her father died. “My furniture is a little different from yours, I’m sure,” she said, and he straightened and turned to face her.

Against the background of tiny things, he looked even larger than life—impossibly tall and broad-shouldered in a dark gray pin-striped suit. He was every bit as handsome as he’d been at the fund-raiser, but today he was somber—more so, surely, than a condolence call on a casual acquaintance would require. The tension in his face made Morganna pause. She was worn-out herself, or perhaps she would have thought twice before she asked, “Which category are you in?”

He frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“I find myself wondering why you’re here. I assumed this was a sympathy call—but perhaps it’s just another attempt to collect an unpaid bill instead. Did my father owe you money, too?”

“No, he didn’t. And though I’m sorry about your loss, this isn’t really a sympathy call, either, Miss Ashworth.”

Morganna frowned. “Then—if you’re not intending to console me or regain what you’re owed, why have you come?”

“To try to take your mind off things.”

“Now that’s refreshing,” she said lightly. “And a great deal different from the rest of our visitors today. Half of them seemed to remember my father as a saint, while the rest were obviously biting their tongues to keep from saying what they thought of him. And those were just our friends—the creditors didn’t bother to mince words. After all that, I could stand a little entertainment. Do you sing? Dance? Play the accordion?”

“I gather that you and your mother are in troubled circumstances.”

“If that’s what you call taking my mind off things—”

“Perhaps I should have said instead that I came to find out whether I can help you.”

“I don’t see how,” Morganna said frankly. “Troubled circumstances is putting it lightly. Daddy’s been dead just a week, and it’s quite apparent that life as we have known it is over.”

He nodded. “The house?”

“It’s as good as gone—it was in his name, and it’s mortgaged for more than it can possibly sell for. I suppose we could fight the bank and at least get a delay in the foreclosure, but to be honest, we can’t even afford the utilities. Mother’s already terminated the staff—though bless their hearts, they’re staying on a few days despite being laid off, because they don’t want to leave us here alone.”

“There’s no money at all?”

If she hadn’t been so exhausted, so tired of going over it all in the squirrel-cage of her mind, Morganna might have been offended at the question. But it didn’t occur to her to bristle at the personal nature of the inquiry. Perhaps from the outside the problem would look less thorny, more malleable—and she and Abigail needed all the insight they could collect.

“Nothing significant, compared to what he owed.” She sighed. “Even if the insurance company pays off—and I can’t blame them for not being eager to settle up—it won’t be enough. I don’t know what we’ll do. Mother always left all the financial details to Daddy, but unfortunately ignorance is no defense. Just because she didn’t know about his deals doesn’t mean she isn’t going to be held responsible for at least some of them. She’s going to end up worse than penniless. And she’s got no skills to support herself, much less to pay back debt—she’s always been a stay-at-home wife. Besides, she’s just close enough to retirement age to make finding a job very difficult, but too far away from it to get any benefits.”

“But your father’s debt comes to rest with her, right? It’s not your problem.”

Morganna bristled. “She’s my mother. Of course it’s my problem.”

After a little pause, he asked, “So how are you planning to pay it all?”

“Well, that’s another difficulty,” she admitted. “It wasn’t very practical of me to get a degree in art. It’s hardly a field that’s in great demand these days.”

“You could teach.”

Morganna shook her head. “Even if I had the temperament, I don’t have the right education to get a teaching certificate—it would take another two years of classes at least before I could qualify. And then we’re back to the problem of money, because I could probably earn enough to live on while I went to school, but not enough to cover tuition, too.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I start on Monday at the Tyler-Royale store downtown. A friend of mine is married to the store manager, and Jack—the manager—says I can arrange displays and try my hand at designing the storefront windows.”

“That’s a full-time job?”