Trophy Wives

by Jan Colley

  She felt Ethan’s interested gaze and shook her head, knowing whatever words she chose would be inadequate. “Well, it’s something. Wild and remote.”

  She ventured a glance. He nodded as if he understood.

  “My half brother, Tom, changed the dynamics of the farm about five years ago to incorporate luxury accommodation and a restaurant, and he set up mountain hunting safaris, trekking and adventure tours.”

  What she didn’t say was that Tom had set up the lodge against their father’s wishes. But her father had no fight left in him and Lucy was off overseas, enjoying herself.

  “Who are your main clients?”

  “Americans. Germans. Indonesians. And you Australians.”

  “What sort of adventure tours?”

  “Jet-boating. White-water rafting is popular. Heliskiing. Fishing—the Rakaia River that flows through the farm is famous for salmon. Have you been to the South Island before?”

  He shook his head. “My mother owns a small kiwifruit holding in North Island. I try to get over once or twice a year.”

  “It’s quite different,” Lucy explained. “North Island farms seem so…civilized in comparison.”

  “What do you farm?”

  “Beef.” She’d do well to change the subject. The farm wasn’t high on Tom’s list of priorities at the moment. And Tom’s priorities were a mystery to all. “Are you warm enough?”

  As if she’d reminded him, he grunted and absently brushed at the debris on his trousers.

  “How long is your holiday?” she ventured.

  He stifled a yawn and shrugged. “Undecided. Few days, maybe a week.” He faced her and she felt his gaze move over her like a slow burn. “Problem?”

  “No. We’re not too busy at the moment.” If we get kicked out of the club, she thought, business will slow permanently.

  “Perhaps I’ll make use of your escort service.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Just think of me as a trophy wife.”

  She laughed. “I think that might be a bit difficult.”

  “Why’s that, Ms. McKinlay?” he asked in that wonderful baritone that washed over her skin like a caress.

  Lucy kept her eyes on the road, but her lips tightened at the effect his deep gravelly voice, slow and so masculine, had on her nerve endings. Calm down, Flirty Luce; he’s out of bounds… “Why don’t you call me Lucy?” Ethan only nodded and she felt a girlish kick of pleasure at the knowledge that he would be staying and might be needing company.

  “Who lives at Summerhill?”

  “My half brother, Tom. And Ellie, the housekeeper. She’s been with us forever.” Lucy’s voice softened fondly. “She was Dad’s primary caregiver when he had the stroke.” She glanced at Ethan. “My father died three months ago.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” he murmured.

  You wouldn’t be if you had seen him, Lucy thought. Dying was preferable to living the way Thomas McKinlay Senior had lived those last few months after the stroke. He’d been totally incapacitated: unable to walk, talk, feed or bathe himself. She couldn’t bear it….

  “And you?”

  Ethan’s question startled her. “What?”

  “Do you live at Summerhill?”

  “A lot of the time. I have an apartment in town. It’s handy if I have late pick-ups or drop-offs.”

  “You look like a city girl.”

  Lucy laughed. “I can’t decide if that’s a compliment or not. What does a city girl look like?”

  He took his time answering. “Too delicate to be a farm girl, I suppose.”

  “Delicate? Looks can be deceiving. I delivered my fair share of lambs and calves as a kid. And I like to ride. Do you? We have horses.”

  Ethan nodded and, undeterred by his earlier experience, he reached his hand out to the instrument panel again. “Haven’t ridden in years. I’d like that.”

  Techno music blared out from the ancient radio. The alacrity with which the volume was turned down prompted a smile from Lucy. “I bet you’re a jazz man.”

  Another flash of white teeth. “Now, how would that be obvious?”

  Oh, I dunno. The slow stroke of your fingers over your jaw. The black-velvet voice. And eyes that should, by rights, freeze hell over, but instead crackle with heat. Aloud, she told him she had once caught the New Orleans Mardi Gras, and they discovered they had actually been there the same year.

  The conversation progressed onto a range of artists. Ethan was obviously an aficionado, whereas Lucy had a wide range of tastes and wouldn’t be pinned down to specifics.

  She smiled into the night. It was fun to pass the miles in good-natured banter. The next few days promised to be interesting.

  But Ethan took issue when Lucy lamented that she could not dance to jazz. “There’s dancing, and there’s dancing,” he told her, and the warmth inside the car seemed to wind up a notch. “Jazz is sultry. Music for hot nights.” He paused, then took a soft hissing breath. “Or cold nights and a big fire.”

  His voice sizzled along the back of her neck. Lucy imagined that voice spilling into her ear millimeters away, pressed up close in the light of a leaping fire.

  Her throat went dry. “Are you warm enough?” she asked, forgetting she had already inquired.

  “Plenty.”

  They passed the last half hour in silence. He hunkered back in his seat with his head on the rest and appeared to drift off to sleep. There was little traffic and the silence wasn’t at all awkward. Lucy had learned these last six months to read people well and act accordingly. There were times to fill every second with conversation, and times to sit and let the other person take the lead. She could be quiet, if that’s what the client wanted. Funny, when she remembered always being in trouble at school for excessive chatter. Always being in trouble at school for everything….

  She glanced often at the man at her side. He was as delicious as a Chocolate Thin biscuit, she decided, then changed her mind with a grin. Lean, not thin, shoulders that broad, or legs—as far as she could decently tell—that looked long, strong and robust could never be termed thin. No way, no how.

  So far, she liked everything about him. He had an honest, appreciative way of looking at her. He digested every word spoken to him and considered every word he spoke back. It showed in the long pauses punctuating his conversation, as if he were listening intently for the truth in your voice.

  His voice: lazy, deep and gritty. Slow, almost a drawl. John Wayne! Lucy almost gasped when she realized he sounded just like the cowboy in the movies. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do….”

  Altogether an intriguing package. She wondered what his marital status was. He wore no ring, but that meant little.

  She turned off at the sign to the nearby ski village and began the gentle incline, flashing through the tiny settlements that nestled beside the Rakaia River in the shadow of the Southern Alps. With nothing but the drone of the engine in her ears, it seemed she was the only person awake in the world.

  Finally they turned into a long driveway. Lucy checked her watch. Seven-twenty. The cattle stop at the start of the gravel drive caused Ethan to stir and rub his face briskly.

  The house made a picture. Against a black canvas, the rambling two-story structure glittered impressively from every room. Summerhill was a kilometer from the road and flanked by the Rakaia River, about three hundred metres away, with sturdy foothills to the back. Slender poplars lined the driveway and marched on to meet the willows Lucy’s grandfather had planted alongside the river.

  Lucy pulled to one side, turned the ignition off, and they stepped out into the cool night air. Ethan stretched and retrieved his bag from the back.

  “I’ll show you to your room.”

  He followed her up the steps to the entrance. She stopped at the top and gestured for him to precede her into the house.

  They stepped into the wide entrance, a massive area itself, yet dominated by a huge stairway. An imposing wapiti stag head with fourteen-point antlers s
tared balefully at an early twenties portrait of the house on the opposite wall. The old Oriental rug under their feet was faded now, but with enough color to give the kauri wood of the paneling and floorboards a lift.

  The hallway was deserted.

  “Follow me, Mr. Rae.”

  “Ethan,” he murmured, looking around, seemingly in no hurry. He followed her up the staircase, head swiveling as she pointed out where to find the dining room and bar, the covered swimming pool and other outside amenities.

  She stopped by a closed door with a key in the lock and pushed her way into a large and sumptuously decorated room. She noted with satisfaction that the rich velvet drapes were closed and the gas fire, housed in the best of all the antique fireplaces in the lodge, glowed cozily. Moving to the huge bed, she flicked the bedside lamps on.

  It was a handsome room with great views through the floor-to-ceiling double doors out to the balcony. A little masculine for her taste—but comfortable, with two sofas to relax on, a good sized desk, table and chairs and an adjoining bathroom with shower and spa-bath.

  Ethan tossed his bag onto the bed and made a quick inspection of the facilities then came to stand right in front of her. “Looks comfortable.” He nodded approvingly.

  She offered him the key and began to turn away, but then hesitated. “Please do join us for drinks, if you’re not too tired. The trophy room is left at the bottom of the stairs. If not, call room service and they can send up anything you wish.”

  He inclined his head. “Thanks. I’ll freshen up, see how I feel.”

  Lucy stared up into eyes that could melt the coldest heart. How could ice-blue eyes be so warm? A buzz of sensual awareness lifted the hairs on the back of her neck.

  Cause and effect. Bemused, she felt her belly clench and the skin of her exposed cleavage prickle. Knowing full well what that signaled, she took a quick step back, drawing the folds of cool silk closer. A raging red flush clawing up her chest and throat would look fetching in the glow of the fire. Not.

  She nodded and turned on her heel. A small smile curved her lips as she sashayed down the hallway. Of course he would come down for drinks. He had to.

  He made her feel reckless. He made her want to flirt. But then, she had always been flighty. Everyone said so.

  Two

  Ethan expelled a lengthy breath as the door closed behind her. Her fresh scent still clung to his nostrils, but the rustle of the fabric of that stunning outfit was gone.

  Blindsided, he thought, stroking his chin and staring at the closed door. Like a skier in an avalanche, right from that first long look.

  He was horny, that was all. It had been way too long since his last break, and the Middle East wasn’t the easiest place to spend a year.

  Shrugging out of his jacket, he scooped up his toilet bag, walked into the bathroom and turned the shower on. He scrubbed away his traveling grime and jet lag, but couldn’t quite get the sight of her from his mind’s eye or the zing of berries and roses from his nostrils.

  Ethereal was the word that sprang to mind. All that milky skin from her face, down her throat and over the top of her shoulders. Even her beautifully shaped lips were pale. Only her eyes, a warm Mediterranean blue, made her real. Otherwise, he could well believe her to be a fairy princess in a story somewhere, dappled sunlight on her gossamer threads.

  Ethan turned the shower off, chuckling at his cheesy notions.

  But her eyes held secrets and laughter and womanly desires. She was not indifferent to him, and she was too young to be subtle about it. Not that he minded forward women. She wanted him, all right. He bet she was even now thinking about him, his dark hands on her white skin, his mouth crushed to hers… Get a grip!

  Too young, too innocent and light years away from the women he generally dated. He tied a towel around his midriff and padded back into the bedroom. Not to mention probably a gold digger. Women who worked in an environment of money usually wanted it for themselves.

  Women and money. As he dressed, a tiny part of him admired the single-minded way young and beautiful women went after money. They smelled it. They coveted it. They would do anything to get it. Which reminded him. That was part of the reason he was here.

  He retrieved his phone from the suit jacket he’d tossed on the bed and stabbed numbers into it.

  Magnus was more of a father to him than his own. An honorable man. A sensible man. A widower for many years, it didn’t surprise Ethan he wanted company again, someone to contemplate retirement with.

  But to marry a woman thirty years his junior having known her barely two months was totally out of character. When Ethan, just days ago, had received an anonymously sent packet of newspaper clippings regarding the death of a multimillionaire Texan, he could not ignore it.

  The phone was answered on the third ring. He recognized the casual voice of the man he’d met briefly the day before in Sydney. As they spoke, Ethan sat on the bed, phone cradled between his ear and shoulder, and reached for his briefcase. He tipped the clippings out onto the bed. The top one showed Magnus and the new Mrs. Anderson on their wedding day.

  “I’ve started with her background,” the private investigator told him. “Julie May Stratton. Born in West Virginia, in the mountains. Father was a trapper. Six kids.”

  While the man spoke, Ethan sifted through some of the other clippings. They were the worst kind of scandal sheets. Grainy and dated photos, outrageous headlines. Hillbilly Makes Good, one screamed. The Millionaire and the Trapper’s Daughter! said another.

  He listened to her early history, up until she was working as an air hostess. Ethan bent down and shoved his feet into shoes.

  “She finished up in Dallas. And that’s where she met her husband. Twenty years older son from his first marriage, and from good ranching stock. His family wasn’t happy. Hell, the whole city wasn’t happy. Linc Sherman the Third was one of the most eligible divorced men in Dallas.”

  Ethan listened to the sound of papers being rustled.

  “When he died, the city’s press and broadcasters really did a number on Julie. For months, she was practically under house arrest, with the family ranting and raving.”

  Ethan smiled. “You sound almost sympathetic.”

  “Call me old-fashioned, Mr. Rae, but I like a bit of evidence. They were alone on the yacht. No firearms on board that had been fired. No residue on her. She claims to have had one too many glasses of champagne and didn’t even hear him get up. It was all very convenient, but also very circumstantial.”

  No Charges Brought! headed one of the most vitriolic of the clippings. The article went on to lament the intelligence of the entire Dallas police force. Ethan’s mouth tightened in distaste. The press was all for implementing the death penalty in this particular case.

  The investigator told him of the political pressure the police were under because of Linc Sherman’s standing in the city. But forensics, medical experts, lie detectors—she came through them all. And a witness had seen a yacht close to where the Shermans were moored. It was identical to one Julie had told police she’d seen earlier that evening, one her husband had waved to but gotten no response. Despite massive publicity all over the States, no one had come forward to be eliminated from the inquiry as a suspect and the yacht was never found.

  After the Dallas police had wound up their investigation, Julie Stratton Sherman had moved to Australia, changed her name to Juliette and shaved four years off her age. Hardly incriminating, but still…

  “What was he worth?” He whistled at the answer. “Big step up for a hillbilly.”

  Even after paying off a hit man, Ethan reasoned, it would be a huge inheritance. But then, she hadn’t gotten anything yet. Why would she be in a hurry to kill off another husband? Forty million dollars wouldn’t be much good to her if she were in jail serving time for murder.

  His tension eased a little. His shoelaces tied, he sat back and retrieved the phone from his shoulder. “Keep digging. I want to know every move she’s made since she�
��s been in Australia. Every place she’s lived, every party she’s been to, every boyfriend she’s had.”

  Ethan broke the connection, stood and moved to his open briefcase on the desk. Until the private investigator reported back to him with something more concrete than innuendo, he planned to keep a very close eye on the new Mrs. Anderson.

  He checked his watch. Barely twenty minutes had passed since Lucy had shown him to his room. He lifted out the report he had compiled on the Middle Eastern project. He wanted everything relevant at his fingertips in the morning. Preparation was key and his boss demanded the best.

  Juliette Anderson and the completed development were not the only pressing matters on his agenda. His hand rested briefly on another file and he felt the familiar zip of excitement tickle his shoulder blades. Turtle Island. Possibly his greatest triumph. If he could pull this sale off, it would be the deal of the century.

  It would also have just that small whiff of revenge about it….

  He checked his appearance in the mirror and pocketed the key Lucy had given him. You made a plan and you stuck to it, he thought as he left the room. That was the only way to get ahead. Nothing left to chance. Not like his father.

  The remembered taste of poverty slicked over his tongue like diesel. It was a taste you never forgot. That taste had spurred Ethan to put his own goals in motion at an early age to ensure his comfort and security. He had spent fifteen years working his way up in Magnus’s corporation. Now he was at the very top, on the verge of the biggest and most satisfying deal of his career. Then he would have the freedom to decide what the next fifteen years would bring.

  Not too bad for trailer trash.

  He found his way to the trophy room bar. Plaque-mounted stags’ heads and plump fish, not surprisingly, adorned the walls. There was a hunters’ gallery in an alcove, and upholstered window seats all around, jazzed up with bright cushions. One wall was entirely glass and he’d bet there was a great view in the daytime.

  A heavily jowled man behind the bar was handing an Asian couple some well-dressed glasses. Ethan glanced around and spotted Lucy over by a huge stone fireplace. She and Magnus looked up as he approached.