To Wear His Ring

by Diana Palmer

  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. Plaquemounted 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.

  “Ethan, my boy,” his boss boomed, with a broad smile and a hefty clap on the back.

  Ethan answered his smile with one of his own. In the six months since he’d last seen Magnus, he appeared to have lost weight and shed a few wrinkles. Ethan thought he’d never looked better. They shook
hands warmly, then Magnus tugged him forward and turned to bring his wife into the fray.

  Juliette Anderson was a stunner. Statuesque, golden, gracious. She looked like a beauty queen, vibrantly apart from and above other mere mortals. Glossier hair, brighter eyes, skin that glowed. Surely that flawless complexion, swept-up hair and perfectly buffed fingernails could only be achieved with a large team of stylists on hand around the clock.

  “Ethan, it gives me great pleasure to introduce my wife. Juliette, meet Ethan Rae, a man I consider as close as a son.”

  Magnus stepped back, releasing Ethan’s hand.

  “Pleasure, Ms. Anderson,” Ethan murmured.

  “Please, Juliette.”

  He saw Lucy offer Magnus something off the heavy platter of hors d’oeuvres she carried. Narrowing his gaze, he murmured “Julie,” in a lowered voice.

  Her golden eyes opened wide, then a definite arctic blast seemed to wash across her face. She took his hand. “Ju. Lee. Ette.” Her voice also lowered and there was a peculiarly intense diction to the syllables.

  “Juliette,” Ethan repeated smoothly.

  The woman nodded tightly. Lucy intervened with her platter of nibbles. When he glanced back at Juliette, her face had reverted to serene loveliness.

  Ethan believed in laying his cards on the table. As soon as he could get her on her own, he would find out just what her game was. At least now, she knew he was watching her.

  “Good evening,” came a voice from behind him. “Can I get you something from the bar?”

  “My brother Tom,” Lucy told him.

  “Half brother,” Tom corrected, extending his hand.

  Ethan took an immediate and unexpected dislike to the man. Was it the heavy, untoned look of him? The moist softness of his hand? Or the almost imperceptible glance of disdain that he shot at Lucy while correcting her? Ethan wasn’t usually so quick to judge, but he trusted his instincts. “Wine. White and dry, thanks.”

  The man turned away. Ethan watched him walk up to the bar, thinking there was little familial resemblance. Lucy was delicate, with a purity of proportion in her facial features. Tom looked as if neither his clothes nor his skin fit properly. Perhaps he’d recently put on weight, but he didn’t look as though he’d give a damn.

  Lucy held up her platter. “Care for something?”

  Ethan smiled at her, selecting a couple of delicious morsels and the napkins she offered.

  “It’s been too long,” Magnus rumbled, taking another savory. He rolled his eyes at Lucy. “Like a son to me, yet too busy to make it home for my wedding. And now he invites himself on my honeymoon.”

  Juliette took her husband’s arm. “The wedding was two months ago. And if this was our honeymoon, do you think I would agree to you going hunting for a week and leaving me all alone?”

  “It’s four days, my sweet. Three nights and four days. And you will have Lucy to keep you company.”

  Lucky Juliette, Ethan wanted to say. Instead he followed Magnus and Juliette over to a large sofa by the window, and answered his boss’s questions about his flight and accommodations. That did not stop his eyes tracking Lucy as she served the other couples in the room. Her easy charm and bright smile drew a favorable response from men and women alike. Her pretty outfit floated around her body in a swirl of sea-greens and blues. She was light and grace, and impossible not to watch.

  Juliette excused herself to freshen up before dinner. There was a moment’s silence, then Magnus leaned forward. “She’s something, isn’t she?”

  “Stunning,” Ethan replied woodenly.

  “I’m talking about our hostess,” Magnus chuckled. “You haven’t taken your eyes off her since you came in.”

  A jet of guilty pleasure whooshed up Ethan’s breastbone, but he kept his voice casual. “A little young for me.”

  Magnus cleared his throat.

  “Oh, Christ, Magnus. Sorry. I didn’t mean…”

  Magnus didn’t appear to take offense. “That’s all right, boy. I know I’m being tarred with your father’s brush, and I can’t blame you for it.”

  Ethan’s hand curled into a fist in his lap. The way his mother had been discarded like yesterday’s news after the old man had struck it lucky still burned. After ten years—more—of slave labor and biting poverty. Just tossed aside for a younger model. He could forgive his father some things. Not that.

  He took a deep breath and rested his hands on his thighs. “What do you really know about her, Magnus?”

  “All I need to know. She makes me happy. I know some folk think I’m a silly old fool. I didn’t expect to find this sort of thing again. I’ve been on my own more than a dozen years, Ethan.”

  “I know,” Ethan murmured, remembering the day of Theresa Anderson’s funeral. “I wish you all the best, you know that.”

  “Thank you, Ethan.”

  He wouldn’t push it tonight. He had little to go on anyway. Now wasn’t the time.

  “Actually I’m here on business, Magnus. I have a proposal and I didn’t want to wait.”

  Magnus watched his wife re-enter the room. “Tomorrow, I think. No business tonight.”

  Juliette sat and began whispering into her husband’s ear. “Are you coming in to dinner?” Magnus asked.

  Ethan stretched. “Do you mind if I don’t? I’m beat.”

  Tom seemed to have disappeared, along with all but one of the other couples. Lucy wiped glasses behind the bar. He excused himself and approached.

  “You’ve lasted well for someone with jet lag. More wine?”

  He nodded when she held up a bottle of chardonnay. “Half a glass. Think I’ll call it a night.”

  She looked surprised. “Aren’t you going in to dinner with the others?”

  “No. These were delicious.” He indicated the depleted platter of food. “Are you the chef?”

  She shook her head. “If you get hungry in the night, just call room service.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “If I get hungry at three in the morning, you’ll bring me a sandwich?”

  A slight flush tinged her cheeks, telling him she wasn’t slow on the uptake.

  “Chef leaves around midnight, I’m afraid. Anyway, it’s bad for the digestion to eat at that time of the day.”

  There was no mistaking the voluptuous lilt of her voice or the sparkle in her eyes. Ethan was enjoying himself. He must have tipped over into holiday mode earlier than the usual couple of days it took for him to unwind.

  “I’ll remember that,” he said somberly, “and confine my appetite to chef’s hours.” He leaned back a little, and saw Tom re-enter the room. “Come show me the hunting gallery.”

  She put her tea towel down and accompanied him to the alcove. Hunting did not interest him in the slightest, but it was no hardship to be in close proximity to Lucy as she explained that wapiti were what North Americans call elk, and that thar and sika were different varieties of deer found here. He learned they were in the roar, or mating season. This was the preferable time to hunt because the animals were endowed with impressive antlers which dropped off after the season. Why else would Magnus, a keen trophy hunter, be here now?

  There were ample photos in the alcove of successful hunters astride their kills, which included mountain goats and wild pigs. But what he enjoyed most was Lucy’s evident pride in the magnificent landscape as she pointed to locations she had ridden to or picnicked at.

  They were alone in the bar now, except for Tom. Everyone else had retired to bed or gone through to the restaurant.

  “You didn’t say you knew the Andersons,” she commented.

  “You didn’t ask.” He shrugged. “First time I’ve met his wife. His wedding was—unexpected.”

  Tom approached, having cleared the tables. “I must apologize for the welcome you received today.”

  Ethan cocked a brow at him, noting that Lucy took a step back.

  “It was not up to our usual high standard, I assure you.”

  Lucy half turned away, pursing her l
ips. Darn Tom. Why did he have to make a song and dance about everything? No doubt Ethan would have forgotten the whole thing if Tom hadn’t brought it up.

  She felt herself flush deeply at Tom’s next missive. “A series of unfortunate incidents regarding vehicles—and my sister’s poor timekeeping, I’m afraid.”

  Her heart sank.

  “Was she late?” Ethan’s quick response jolted her in mid cringe. “I’m afraid I was so charmed by your sister, I barely noticed the time or the transportation.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s very generous of you.” Tom sounded a little strained.

  Lucy glowed with delight from the top of her head to her toes. What a nice thing to say—and how smooth. Tom was not going to like being put in his place like that one little bit, and she would no doubt have to pay for it. But for now, she reveled in the pleasure of approbation. She charmed him. Of course she did.

  She could barely contain herself from skipping as all three walked to the bar, but she did manage a grateful grin at her champion.

  “If there is anything we can do,” Tom continued, “to make your stay with us more comfortable…”

  Ethan glanced at Tom briefly, then returned his gaze to her. “Any chance of organizing a fax in my room?”

  Lucy nodded. “I’ll get on it first thing in the morning.” She gave him a warm smile that she hoped conveyed the gratitude she felt. It was not often someone stuck up for her. She wanted him to know she was aware of it, and thankful.

  Not just thankful. Absurdly pleased.

  He smiled back. After a minute, Tom took a step back, huffing about clearing up.

  “Goodnight, Lucy.” Ethan threw a nod at Tom. “Tom.”

  “Sleep well.”

  She reluctantly turned back to Tom as he wiped the top of the stone bar. It had been a shock to discover earlier that Ethan was the vice-president of Magnus Anderson’s company. Tom was fit to be tied, frantic in case she’d said anything inappropriate. The slight undertone of flirting on the way here did not worry her—to her mind it was mutual and harmless. But she could possibly have been more—deferential or something. Tom had a real bee in his bonnet about Magnus and his precious club.