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

Ah. He’d thought she mightn’t approve of that. “Gloria kindly made me tea.”

“Did she kindly tell you what you needed to know?”

“She told me you were tied up with meetings all day.” He allowed his gaze to drift over her charity-meeting outfit. “Yet here you are.”

He sensed her gathering frustration, but she took a minute to glance around the surroundings and the little clusters of tourists and the discreetly hovering staff. If she’d been about to stomp on his bare foot with one of her weapon-shaped heels or to launch herself fully clothed into the pool, she resisted. Her elegantly dimpled chin came up a fraction. “I am here to fetch the letter. Do you have it or don’t you?”

“I have it, although—” he patted his hips and chest where he might have found pockets, had he been wearing clothes “—not on me.”

Despite the dark Jackie O.-size shades, he tracked the shift of her gaze as she followed his hands down his torso. Then, as if suddenly aware of what she was doing and where she was looking, her head snapped up. “I didn’t mean on you. Is it in your room?”

“It is. You want to come up and get it?”

“No,” she replied primly. “I would like you to go up and get it. I will wait in the lounge.”

Vanessa didn’t give him a chance to bait her further. She turned smartly on her heel and walked away. Yes, he tracked her departure all the way across the long terrace. Yes, that filled her sensory memory with images of his bare tanned length wet and glistening from the pool. Of those muscles flexing and shifting as he toweled himself off. Of the blatant male beauty of a strong toned abdomen, of dark hair sprinkled across his chest and trailing down his midline and disappearing into his brief swimming trunks.

Heat flared in her skin then shivered through her flesh as she crossed from the wicked midafternoon sunshine into the cool shade of the hotel interior. She chose a secluded seat away from the terrace windows and surreptitiously fanned her face while she waited.

And waited.

She ordered an iced water and checked her watch. And realized the waiting and waiting had actually been for little more than five minutes. Time, it seemed, had taken on a strange elongated dimension since she opened the door exactly twenty-four hours ago.

In that time so little had happened and yet so much had changed. None of it made sense … except, possibly, the buff body. He’d been an elite athlete, after all, and any woman with functional eyesight would have found herself admiring those tight muscles.

It wasn’t personal.

Vanessa exhaled through her nose, exasperated with herself. She didn’t check her watch again.

Assuming he showered and dressed, he could be five or ten minutes or more. And although she hoped he did shower and dress, she didn’t want to think about him showering and dressing.

To pass the time she scoped the room, wincing when she noticed Vern and Liz Kramer at a table not too far away. Vern and Stuart went way back. While she liked the Kramers, she didn’t want to deal with another introduction and everything-is-fine conversation like last night’s episode with Frank. She just wanted to get the letter and get out of here.

The letter.

Another shiver feathered over her skin with the realization of a purpose and an anxiety forgotten from the second she saw Tristan’s strong, tan body slicing effortlessly through the azure water. Finally she would get to see this piece of evidence. She could make her decision on how to proceed: whether to take Andy’s advice and tell all, or follow Jack’s counsel in revealing as little as necessary.

Since this morning’s breakfast discussion, she’d had little time to weigh the options. Jack’s version tempted her because doing nothing, saying nothing, was always easier. But was it best for Lew? She just didn’t know. But seeing the letter—her heart raced as a tall, familiar, fully-dressed figure entered the room—she hoped, would make up her mind.

Although she’d watched him arrive, Vanessa looked away to take a long sip from her water. Then he was there, standing beside her chair, an envelope in his hand. Her whole stomach went into free fall and she had to close her eyes against a dizzying attack of anxiety.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded. From the corner of her eye she saw Liz Kramer peering their way and she sucked in a quick breath. “Can we go somewhere more private? I’m afraid some more old friends are about to come over here.”

To his credit, he didn’t turn and look. “There’s the guest library downstairs. Or I could arrange a private meeting room—”

“The library will do fine. Thank you.”

Tristan stood back, hands in pockets, while she turned the envelope over in her hands. He tried not to notice the pale trepidation on her face. Or the tremor of her fingers as she drew the single sheet of folded paper from inside.

But he couldn’t ignore the tightening in his chest and gut, the desire to reach out and … hell … do what? Take the bloody letter back? Ignore his reason for holding onto it this morning, so he could hand it to her and judge her reaction?

Logic said she wouldn’t look so uncharacteristically nervous—she of the cool poise and composure—unless she were guilty.

Damn it all to blazes, he needed that guilt. He should be turning up the heat, pushing and prodding her into a hot-tempered admission. Except she looked too fearful and vulnerable and he couldn’t. Not yet.

“It’s white,” she murmured, so low he wouldn’t have made out the words if he weren’t so intensely focused on her face. Her lips. The wide bemused eyes she suddenly raised up to his. “This is the original? Not a copy?”

“That’s the original.” Then, when she continued to sit there studying the paper and the envelope, he asked, “Aren’t you going to read it?”

Perhaps she’d been building up her nerve or delaying the inevitable, because now she unfolded the letter and scanned it quickly. When she got to the end, she stared at the page for a full minute. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking only that she was thinking. In the silence of the large library room, deserted but for them, he could almost hear the wheels turning and the gears engaging.

But when she finally spoke it wasn’t to point out the lack of concrete proof in the letter’s content, as he’d expected. It was to ask, “Why would somebody do this?”

Hands deep in his pockets, Tristan shrugged. “To create trouble for you.”

“Well, they’ve succeeded there,” she said dryly, surprising him again … and reminding him of her first baffling reaction.

He nodded toward the letter. “You commented on the white paper.” She’d also asked if it was a copy. “What’s going on, Vanessa? What aren’t you telling me?”

“I …”

Vanessa paused, her chest tight with indecision. Despite Jack’s instructions to divulge as little as possible, she wanted to share. Yesterday, no. Out by the poolside, no way. But this man had shown a new consideration, in fetching the letter so promptly, in whisking her away to a private room without question, in standing aside and letting her read in peace.

Besides, telling him about the letters would take the focus off her and the secret she didn’t want to share. This one he would probably hear anyway, if he hadn’t already, on the town grapevine.

“A couple of months back,” she commenced slowly, decision made, “two people I know here in Eastwick each received an anonymous letter. I thought … I had thought … this one might be connected.”

“Now you think not, because the paper’s different?”

“And there’s no demand of any kind.”

He went still. “Are you saying these other letters contained extortion demands?”

“Yes.”

“Demanding what? What’s the link?”

“Did you know Bunny Baldwin?” she asked. “Lucinda was her real name but everybody called her Bunny. She was married to Nathan Baldwin, a friend of Stuart’s. I thought you might have known them when you lived here.”

“It’s been twenty years.”

“You remembered Frank Forrester.”

“He and his first wife spent a lot of time at our house.”

Oh. She looked away, unaccountably stung by the sudden hard cast to his eyes. Our house. Did he still feel that attachment? Was that why he was so bound and determined to win the estate back?

She wanted to ask, to know his true motivation, but he cut through her thoughts and reminded her of the subject at hand.

“I take it this Bunny Baldwin is the link between the letters?”

“Yes.” A sick, tight feeling twisted her stomach as she thought about poor Bunny. Although the woman had been fearsomely intimidating—and had cast some speculation about Vanessa marrying so spectacularly well—she’d also been mother to one of Vanessa’s closest friends. “She passed away a few months ago. They thought it was a heart attack but Abby, her daughter, discovered her journals missing. Long story short, the police are now reinvestigating her death.”

“Because of some missing journals?”

“Have you heard of the Eastwick Social Diary?”

His answer was a noncommittal, “Refresh my memory.”

“It’s a gossipy newsletter and Web site column about who’s who and doing what—” or whom “—in Eastwick. Bunny was the writer and editor, and the journals contain her notes and sources plus all the material she chose not to print.”

“Chose not to?”

Too agitated to sit, Vanessa rose to her feet and slowly circled the seating arrangement. This connection to his letter and its allegations had to be broached, as much as she dreaded how the conversation would go down. “I gather she thought some stories were too scandalous or damaging or potentially libelous to print.”

That’s all she had to say. The sharp speculation in his eyes indicated he’d joined the dots without needing further clues. “These journals were stolen and the thief has attempted to blackmail persons named in the journal?”

“That seems the likely explanation.”

“And you think it’s possible the same person sent the letter to me?”

“I thought so.” She lifted her hands and let them drop. “But then it’s not the same stationery.”

“You think a blackmailer uses the same paper every time?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. Do you?”

“There’s no hint of extortion,” he said after a moment’s pause. “And if this person did have blackmail in mind, he’d have sent the letter to you. To entice you to pay hush money.”

She exhaled on a long note of resignation. Yes, he was right. Although … “Do you believe there’s no connection to Bunny and the journals? Because this is rather a big coincidence, a third anonymous letter whose source could have been the same as the first two.”

He regarded her silently for a long second. “What are you trying to sell me here? What’s your angle?”

“I don’t have an angle. I’m just trying to work out the motivation behind this letter.”

“And?”

Surprised he’d detected the nebulous hint of more in her words, she looked back at him warily. Then, she decided to tell him. “What if the thief read something in the journals and misinterpreted? What if the person referred to as having an affair wasn’t me at all? A lot of the diary pieces are guess who, don’t sue. Names are not named. What if he has the wrong person?”

“That doesn’t explain why he sent the letter to me.”

Vanessa narrowed her eyes. “You aren’t prepared to listen to my side at all, are you?”

“I listened.”

“And now what? You’ll have me investigated?”

“Yes,” he said, that blue gaze unflinchingly direct. “I will continue to investigate. I also think we should speak to the police.”

“The police?”

“You said they were investigating Bunny’s death and, I imagine, the extortion demands. Whether it’s connected or not, they should see this letter.”

Six

“I heard a whisper that Tristan Thorpe’s in town.”

Felicity Farnsworth’s casual comment dropped like a brick into the calm pool of after-lunch conversation, bringing all eyes straight to Vanessa.

Blast.

She’d rather hoped the drama surrounding Emma’s upcoming wedding—she wanted small, while her parents had invited half of Eastwick—would keep the focus off her. That’s the way she preferred things anyway, including at the regular Debs Club luncheons. These women—Felicity, Lily, Abby Talbot, Emma Dearborn and Mary Duvall—were her friends. Smart, warm, kind, inclusive, they’d invited her into their group, onto their charity committees and into their confidence.

Now, more than ever, she felt the weight of guilt because she hadn’t been so forthcoming. In six years of regular get-togethers she’d tiptoed around her past and her reason for marrying Stuart and becoming part of Eastwick society.

Although she had shared much of her angst in battling Tristan over the will, hence the girlfriends’ questions now.

“Is he here about the will contest?” Abby asked.

“Where is he staying?” Caroline wanted to know. “Have you met him, Vanessa?”

“Yes, have you seen the beast?” Felicity continued.

Carefully Vanessa put down her coffee. “Yes, I’ve met with him.” I’ve also fought with him, kissed him, ogled him in swimmers, and accompanied him to the police station. “He’s staying at the Marabella and, yes, he is here about the will. In a way.”

“You sound remarkably calm,” Emma decided. “Is that a good sign? Or are you sedated?”

“Is he dropping the contest?” Felicity asked. “He must know he’s beating a dead horse.”

“Tristan doesn’t think so,” Vanessa replied. “In fact, he’s here because he believes he’s found a way to beat me.”

They all responded pretty much at once, a mixture of scoffing remarks and how-so questions. And so she filled them in on the letter’s allegations, the no-adultery clause in Stuart’s will, and finally this morning’s meeting with the detectives handling Bunny’s case.

Silence followed, an unusual happenstance when this group met. Abby recovered first, although she looked pale and strained. Not only had she lost her mother in sudden and suspicious circumstances, but she’d had to fight tooth and nail to have her suspicions recognized. “What did the police say?”

A lot, Vanessa answered silently, most of it uncomfortable questions about her relationship with Tristan and the—nonexistent—man referred to in the letter. To her friends she said, “They took us seriously enough when we showed them the letter. They asked a lot of questions, but in the end I’m not sure they think it’s the same person.”

“Why not?” Abby leaned forward, intent and focused. “It sounds exactly like the others.”

Felicity nodded. “The lowlife who took the journals is selecting blackmail opportunities straight from the pages. It’s only a matter of time before he hits pay dirt.”

They all fell silent a moment, considering, before Emma asked, “Wouldn’t he have tried to blackmail Vanessa though?”

“Would you have paid?” Felicity turned to Vanessa. “If the letter had come to you?”

“Why would I pay when the allegation is false?”

A couple of them exchanged looks, no one met her eye, and in the ensuing silence the bottom fell out of Vanessa’s stomach. “You think I had a lover? While I was married to Stuart?”

“No, sweetie.” Emma put a hand on hers. “Not us.”

“Then … who?”

“There’s been some talk,” Caroline said.

And they hadn’t told her? Hadn’t mentioned these suspicions once? In all this time?

“You have to admit, you do keep parts of your life off-limits.”

Felicity had spoken no less than the truth. Vanessa had been secretive and this was the perfect opportunity to confide in her friends and garner their advice. That’s what friends were for, after all. Not that she had much experience, especially with her peers, and that made this hard task even tougher.

Her intentions were good, but the words lodged in her throat. Before she could coax them free, Lily returned from the bathroom and there was much fussing over how long she’d been gone.

“I ran into Delia Forrester,” she explained. “I couldn’t get away.”

“Poor you,” Caroline murmured.

“Whatever did she want?” Emma asked.

“A favor.” Lily pulled a wry face. “She needs an extra invitation to the polo benefit. Vanessa, it seems she’s invited your good friend Tristan Thorpe.”

Polo turned out to be a hard, fast and physical game—not for sissies as Frank Forrester had maintained. After several chukkers and with the help of some sideline experts, Tristan was catching on to the skilful intricacies of play and enjoying the breakneck end-to-end pace. As Frank’s binoculars rarely strayed from the field, he wondered if the old bloke had been referring to the off-field action rather than the polo itself.

Tristan had a healthy cynicism for the games played by the beautiful people, and this charity benefit had brought out the best—and worst—players. Which brought his thoughts winging straight to Delia.

Frank had introduced his wife as “My favorite blonde,” instantly tying her to the woman he’d referred to as his second-favorite at the Marabella restaurant. In those first few seconds Tristan rejected the connection out of hand. The two women were as different as Vanessa had claimed.

With her glossy facade and saccharine-sweet affectations, Delia was the kind of woman he’d expected—and wanted—to find living in his father’s house. Vanessa Thorpe was not. The truth didn’t slam into him. It had been creeping up on him for days, with every meeting, every new discovery, every disarming touch of warmth or vulnerability.

Acknowledging his error of judgment did unsettle him, however.

If he’d misjudged her character by the width of the Nullabor, could he also be wrong about other things?

Since seeing her response to the letter he’d been thinking a lot about the sender’s motivation. He’d assumed someone had a vendetta against her. Back in Australia he’d believed it—a pushy young social climber could make plenty of enemies without even trying. But since arriving in Eastwick, the worst he’d heard about her was, “She holds her cards close to her chest.”

A loud cheer rolled through the spectators’ gallery, rousing Tristan from his introspection. The local team’s number three had goaled, leveling the score. He’d learned early on that the Argentinean import was a great favorite with the partisan polo crowd.

Vanessa, too, had her fans. This Tristan measured from the locals’ responses to him.

Too polite for blatant rudeness, many met him with a cool look or shook his hand with stiff formality. Others were more direct. Vern Kramer, for example, stated outright that he sympathized with his plight—”You’re his son, after all”—but didn’t approve his tactics. Vern was another of his father’s oldest friends and one of the more vocal sideline polo experts.

Right now he was protesting an umpiring decision with much gusto. His wife took a large step back, disowning him with a wry shake of her head. “He’s not mine. I don’t know him.”

Tristan waited a moment, watching the umpire award a penalty against the local team and smiling at the roasting that ensued. Then he acknowledged Liz Kramer whose large backward step had brought her—unwittingly—to his side. “How are you, Mrs. Kramer?”

“Well, thank you.” Her greeting was polite, her tone frosty. Par for the course, although from Liz it stung. She’d been a close friend of his mother’s, a frequent visitor at their home, and he remembered her fondly. “And you, Tristan? Are you enjoying being back home?”

Not the first time he’d been asked a variation of that question and he didn’t understand the assumption any better with each repetition. “My home is in Sydney,” he said, sick of making the polite answer. “This is a business trip.”

“And are you enjoying that?”

There was a bite to her voice that suggested she knew his business. “Not particularly.”

“Which makes me wonder why you’re persisting.”

“I have my reasons.”

Eyes front, watching a melee of horses and mallets, he felt rather than saw Liz’s gaze fix on his face. “How is your mother?”

“Recovering.”

“She’s been ill?”

He cut her a look and saw genuine concern in her eyes. It suddenly struck him that of all the conversations he’d had since arriving in Eastwick, Liz was the first to ask after his mother. He decided to tell her straight. “Breast cancer. She’s had a tough few years.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

They watched the game in silence for several minutes. Then Liz said, “I hope she found the happiness she was chasing.”

Tristan frowned. “Chasing?”

“When she left your father.”

“I’d hardly define being tossed out with nothing as leaving.”

He tried to keep the bitterness from his voice but wasn’t sure he succeeded. Not when Liz made a soft clucking noise with her tongue, part sympathy, part reprimand. “She took you, Tristan, the most valuable thing from her marriage. Stuart was a long time getting over that.”

But he had got over it. With the help of a beautiful new wife, and that stuck in Tristan’s craw in a dozen disturbing ways now that he’d met Vanessa.

His gaze shifted beyond Liz, and—as he’d had done countless times in the past hours—he unerringly found Vanessa in the crowd. Despite the number and size of the hats blocking his view, despite the subtlety of her dress, despite the way she’d pinned her distinctive hair beneath a pretty little lace and net construction.

The awareness was there, like a visual magnetism. He didn’t seek her out. He looked up and like sunshine, she was there. Since acknowledging how much his attitude to her had changed, since recognizing the dangerous pull of this attraction, he’d kept his distance. Not exactly avoiding her, just proving to himself that he could resist the urge.

“He was so lucky to find Vanessa. She is a treasure.”

He looked back at Liz, found she’d followed the direction of his gaze. “I’ve heard that more than once today,” he said dryly. “A treasure. A good gal. An angel.”

“Feeling like you’ve been cast with horns and a trident?”

“Somewhat.”

With a soft chuckle, Liz lifted her empty champagne flute and looked him in the eye. For the first time he saw the familiar sparkle of her humor. “If you’d like to take the first step toward redemption, you can fetch me a refill.”

Vanessa thought she felt him watching her. Again. But when she turned in that direction—and all day she’d known exactly where he stood, sat, lounged—she found her imagination was playing tricks. Again.

This time he was intent in conversation with Liz Kramer. With his head dipped toward the shorter woman so a lock of sun-tinged hair fell across his forehead, he looked younger and warmer and more at ease than Vanessa had seen him. Then someone moved and blocked her view and she turned away, heart racing and her mouth gone dry.

Anxiety, she decided. And trepidation because of what he might be discussing with Liz and with countless others before her.

And who are you kidding?

Not her pragmatic self, obviously. She knew these responses had nothing to do with their conflict and everything to do with the man.

Was he ignoring her on purpose?

No, Ms. Pragmatist answered. He is doing what he set out to do. Mixing, meeting, talking. And learning absolutely nothing because there was nothing for him to discover—at least nothing that wasn’t rumor and whispers about her secretive side.

Thinking of the talk her friends had told her about took her mind off Tristan, at least. Not that being talked about was a biggie for Vanessa—she’d grown up with fingers pointed her way. That’s the girl with the freakoid brother. Did you hear her daddy got arrested again last night? They’re such a loser family. She didn’t care what others said about her; she did mind that her friends might have believed her capable of infidelity.