The Trophy Wife

Her traitorous heart skipped a beat, darn it all. He was wrong. He had so much more. But who was she to argue? “What are you doing here?”

“I came to say I’m sorry.”

She clasped her hands together and stared at them. “Your last apology had a lot in common with an insult.”

His silence drew her gaze. Studying his lean, olive-skinned face, her heart lurched. He seemed to be having difficulty swallowing, too, his lips thinning into a straight line. “I’m sorry about that, too.”

She believed him, which either made her foolish or desperate. She bristled. Oh, no it didn’t.

Squaring her shoulders, she said, “Apology accepted. Now, if you’ll excuse—”

“P.J. loved the stuffed animal.”

“He did? I mean, I’m glad.”

He held her immobile with his eyes. “And I was thinking that it might be good for him to meet someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” She was breathless again. Had she no backbone whatsoever?

“Someone with a strong will, a drive to succeed, a sense of humor and a forgiving spirit.”

Evidently not.

She nearly melted into a heap at his feet. Entirely too caught up in her own emotions, she had to remind herself that she was no longer a whimsical girl of nine, or even nineteen. She was a woman, strong and independent.

He looked at her for a long time. Next, he looked beyond her into her foyer where a candle burned and a tabletop fountain gurgled.

“I would be honored if you would invite me in.”

The word honored was nearly her undoing. It was so old-fashioned, it left her wondering if chivalry was really dead, after all. Thinking “once burned,” she took control of her wayward thoughts and said, “You’ve apologized and I’ve accepted. What else is there to say?”

She could tell this wasn’t easy for him. Groveling never was. She might have let him off the hook, but then she remembered his little quip comparing her to a spoiled cat. And he’d called her bossy.

It wouldn’t hurt to let him squirm.

“I’ve changed my mind, Amber.”

“Oh? About what, pray tell?”

“About your offer.”

As it often did this time of day, a heavy fog had rolled in, producing a perfect excuse for her shiver. “And what offer was that?” She didn’t know what to blame for the way her voice had dropped in volume.

“Your offer to act as my fiancée at a dinner party this weekend. That is, if the offer still stands.” He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of voices from a middle-aged couple walking their Great Dane. “May I come in?”

So, he’d changed his mind about that. She waved at her neighbors, then looked up at Tripp again. She wondered if he’d changed his mind about her, as well. But one thing at a time. She stepped aside, and opened the door all the way.

Tripp walked past Amber. Hesitating in a spacious foyer, he tried to affect an ease he didn’t feel. He hadn’t been at all certain she would accept his apology. He sure as hell didn’t assume that her offer was still good.

“Why don’t we sit down?”

Why? Because sitting down meant he had to try even harder to appear relaxed. “After you.”

He followed her into a small living room dominated by overstuffed furniture and framed artwork done almost entirely in pastels. A dozen candles burned on a low table. A small fountain gurgled nearby. “Did I interrupt something?”

She shrugged. “I was meditating.”

At least that explained her appearance. Her hair was in a loose knot on top of her head, flyaway, golden-blond tendrils cascading around her ears and neck. Other than the plain silver ring on her second toe, her feet were bare. Her baggy knit shorts hung below her waist, the front dipping lower than the back. Her top was a sleeveless tank made out of a stretchy fabric that clung to her breasts and bared her midriff. It wasn’t as revealing as the bikini she’d been wearing yesterday. It had no business being even more stimulating.

“Smell that?” she said.

For lack of a better plan, he inhaled.

And she said, “It’s a blend of lavender, chamomile and rose essential oils. It’s called aromatherapy and is supposed to be soothing.”

“Did it work?”

“I was getting there. Perhaps you should try it.”

He took a quick, sharp breath. So much for trying to appear unaffected.

He could tell she was trying not to smile as she gestured toward an overstuffed, ruffled sofa, indicating that he could take a seat. “Or would you rather stand?”

It was as if she knew him. He shrugged. They both remained standing.

She meandered to the other side of the room. “So you’ve reconsidered my offer to act as your fiancée at that dinner party.”

“Yes.”

“I thought you said lies are like dogs.”

“They are.”

“But?”

“Coop claims playacting and lying are two entirely different things.”

“I see. You said Coop read you the riot act because you turned my offer down. Is that why you reconsidered? Because Coop made you see reason?”

“Coop has nothing to do with this. I thought about what you said. About pitying me.”

“I shouldn’t have said that. It was my temper talking. I’m sorry.”

“I had it coming. But I don’t want your pity.”

“What do you want?”

She must have walked closer when he wasn’t looking, because he could see her eyes, round in the dimly lit room, the pupils so large only a narrow circle of green surrounded them. Like pools of appeal, they invited him in. He was in the process of taking his second step when it occurred to him that she wasn’t the one who had moved closer.

He needed to loosen his tie. And he wasn’t wearing a tie. He settled for clearing his throat. “It isn’t about what I want. It’s about what I need.”

“What do you need, Tripp?”

His gaze strayed to her mouth, his throat convulsing on a swallow. He had to clear it again in order to say, “I need that position in Santa Rosa.”

“Why?”

“Santa Rosa is a city of more than a hundred thousand people. It’s a wealthy area; the practice is a private one with new, modern, state-of-the-art equipment. The facility is only a thirty-minute drive from San Francisco and caters to the wealthy. My salary would more than triple. I need the money and the prestige.”

She looked him in the eye and said, “You don’t strike me as the type who cares about prestige.”

He told himself he had no business feeling complimented. “It isn’t for me. It’s for a clinic I’ve set up to aid the poor. Right now, it’s operating on a shoestring. I want to expand it in this area. Eventually I plan to open a dozen more up and down the California coast. It’s going to take donations, and backers with deep pockets.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” She asked a hundred intelligent questions. And he, a man who preferred yes and no answers, poured out the story of the clinic’s meager beginnings, and his hopes and plans for its future. Sometime during the conversation, he’d taken a seat on her comfortable sofa and she’d sat in the matching chair, her bare feet tucked underneath her.

Maybe there was something to that aromatherapy after all.

The sky outside her windows went from milky white to gray to pitch black. The candles burned low; she didn’t turn on a light. Sometimes, their conversation flickered like that candlelight, illuminating other topics, her brothers and sisters and a few of the foster kids he’d known while staying with her family. She spoke lovingly of her father, but never mentioned her mother. She seemed concerned about her oldest brother, Rand, and was worried because she hadn’t heard from her younger, adopted sister, Emily. It occurred to him that he didn’t know Amber well. He’d lost touch with most of the Coltons. Other than staying in contact with Joe, Tripp had been too busy clawing his way through med school to maintain strong ties with the huge, extended Colton clan. He hadn’t even known Emily had left town and hadn’t contacted anybody. He hadn’t known that Amber lived in Fort Bragg, either. Inez had been only too happy to supply him with that information when he’d shown up at the ranch in Prosperino earlier. Funny, he’d expected Amber to live in a grand house like her father’s, but her home was quite modest.

She didn’t seem to want to talk about herself, though. Every time it happened, she steered the conversation back to his pilot clinic or the position he was after in Santa Rosa.

“How many times have you met with the doctors at this exclusive practice?”

“Two.”

“How many times has your rival met with the same people?”

“I don’t know.”

She procured a notebook out of nowhere, and began jotting things down. She wanted to know about the dinner, and who would be attending. She was professional, exuberant, warm and smart. God yes, she was smart. He was in awe.

The wind rattled a window. Although he didn’t feel a draft, the candles flickered.

Their gazes met, held. The images from his dreams the previous night shimmered through his mind. His breathing deepened, his gaze skimming over her body.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” she asked.

“Working.” He cleared his throat. At least she hadn’t asked him what he was thinking. It was a good thing, because he would have been even more hard pressed to come up with a good answer.

“What time could you be finished?”

“Four or five.”

“Think you could come back to Fort Bragg around five?”

“You want me to come back?”

She looked at him with a lift of her eyebrows that seemed to say, “Isn’t that what I just said?” But she only nodded.

After a moment, he did, too.

She wrote something in her notebook, tore the page out and tucked it into his hand. “Meet me at this address, say, at five o’clock. We’ll begin the tweaking then.”

Tweaking?

He’d be damned if he would let his imagination go there. He rose quickly to his feet.

Despite his best efforts, he got a mental picture and warmed ten degrees. She was circling him. It gave him a moment to get his body under control.

“What do you mean, tweaking?”

“At this point,” she said from a place directly behind him, “appearance is everything. There’s a wonderful old-world men’s clothing store right here in Fort Bragg.”

He peered at the address on the sheet of paper in his hand. “A men’s clothing store? You want me to buy a new suit? That’s what you meant?”

“Unless you already own a dynamite one. What did you think I meant?”

Never mind what he’d thought. “Dr. Perkins has already seen me like this.”

She looked him over. “There’s certainly nothing wrong with the way you are. Not from a female’s perspective. This Dr. Perkins doesn’t happen to be a woman, does she?”

He shook his head.

And she sighed. “Too bad. Oh, well. This weekend, we’re going to give the people affiliated with Dr. Perkins’s practice a new and improved version of Dr. Tripp Calhoun, the finest pediatrician in sunny California.”

She ushered him to the door. Although he didn’t remember doing it, he must have opened it, because he walked through.

“Tripp?”

He turned on the top step. “Yes?”

“I’m glad we’re going to be friends again.” Before he could answer, she reached up on tiptoe and brushed her lips across his. “Good night.”

The door closed. He didn’t recall saying goodbye, either, but he must have. At least he hoped he had.

He wet his lips, and tasted the strawberry flavor of her lip gloss. He wiped it off with the back of his hand, and stood statue-still, desire uncurling deep inside him.

Whoa. He appreciated Amber’s offer to help, and he would tell her so. After that, he was going to have to lay out a few ground rules. He needed this position, and the credibility it would bring. Okay, maybe he even needed a new suit. If she thought he would bleach his hair and wear blue contacts, she was mistaken. If he got that position, it would be because of who he was, the man inside, not the trappings.

They were going to pretend to be engaged. He didn’t like the idea of lying, even if it was under the guise of pretending. But he didn’t see any other way.

He and Amber were already becoming friends. That part was real. He would hold it there. There would be no real passion between them.

He would tell her as soon as he saw her tomorrow. He started for his nondescript, dependable car and got in. Now, he thought, trying to find a comfortable position in jeans that were suddenly a good size too small, if only somebody would break it to his body.

Four

“Oh, my, I do believe we’ve found the one!”

Tripp tried not to wince, honest to God he did, but if André’s voice got any shriller, the trifold mirror was going to shatter.

“It has style. It says class with a capital C, and it fits you to perfection. Perfection, I say!” André’s eyebrows were chestnut-colored slashes above startling brown eyes that didn’t come close to matching the yellow streaks in his short-cropped hair. “Don’t you agree, Amber?”

Tripp met Amber’s gaze in the mirror. She smiled demurely. “This jacket looks good, too, André.”

The double entendre was lost on André. “Good? It looks glorious. What do you think, Doctor?”

Tripp thought he would have more fun having a kidney transplant. “It’s black,” he said. Every suit jacket he’d tried on had been black.

André looked to Amber for emotional support. She said, “Black is a formal, classic color that never goes out of style. You can wear it to weddings and funerals, fine restaurants, important galas and everything in between. Montgomery Perkins was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He and his family moved to California from the East Coast twenty-five years ago. His bloodline can be traced back to the Mayflower and beyond. He’s the type of man who would own a closet full of black suits, and expect others to, as well.”

Tripp stared at her. “How do you know that?”

She shrugged, then examined her fingernails. “I checked him out. Apparently he’s a very traditional and wealthy physician, one who wouldn’t appreciate a candidate showing up wearing a clown nose or tweed.”

André fanned himself at her mention of tweed. “Have we found the perfect one, or shall we continue?”

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