The Trophy Wife

by Sandra Steffen

"Eight o'clock," he said, commending himself for his discipline and quiet reserve. "I'll see you then." He turned on his heel and walked away without another word.

  Amber was left standing next to her car, watching his footsteps burn up the sidewalk. He was angry. What now?

  It might have had something to do with her mention of his former fiancée, his contender, or her. He could have stuck around long enough for her to find out. But no, that wasn't his way.

  He was honorable and ornery. Impatient one minute, sincere the next, difficult without a doubt. He had a chip on his shoulder and a burning glimmer in his eyes. He liked her, and didn't seem especially thrilled about it. He could hold his own in a conversation with her, no easy feat for most people. She didn't understand half of what drove him. He was a lot of man. Her father always said it would take a lot of man to make her happy.

  Wouldn't you know, he was exactly the kind of man she could love.

  * * *

  "How long were you and Olivia Babcock engaged?"

  "Not long."

  Amber stared over the flickering candles, waiting for Tripp to continue. When he did, it was to change the subject.

  "It's a good thing the restaurant has a five-star rating. If the lights are this dim Saturday night, we'll need to use the light from those five stars to see what we're eating."

  Lucky for him she'd seen his good side, because if she hadn't, she would be sorely tempted to dump a glass of lemon ice water over his arrogant head. She was tempted anyway.

  She lowered her salad fork to her salad plate, took her napkin from her lap, pushed her chair out slightly and rose slowly to her feet. From there, it was an easy march to the far wall where she turned up the lighting. "How's that, better?"

  He'd arrived at her parents' home right on time. Inez had answered the door while Amber was putting the finishing touches on the place settings in the formal dining room. After arranging the food on the buffet according to course, and covering each dish with polished silver lids, Inez had been only too happy to retreat to the small home she and her husband, Marco, shared on the grounds of Hacienda de Alegria. Amber's father was in Washington D.C. on business, and Meredith was in the theater room with the two youngest, and by far most spoiled Coltons, Teddy and Joe, Jr. That left Amber and Tripp alone in this wing of the Colton home.

  "Well?" Amber had asked, proud of her handiwork. "What do you think?"

  Tripp had eyed the ornate centerpiece and fine linen place mats and napkins. "How many plates and forks can one person use?"

  Evidently, a good night's sleep hadn't improved his disposition. She'd traipsed to her chair, thinking it was amazing that the man could remain upright with that heavy chip on his shoulder. She took her seat, saying, "I'm perfectly capable of pulling out my own chair, but it will look better if you do it for me on Saturday. For now, let's collaborate on our stories."

  "Our stories?"

  "Yes. How did we meet? How long have we been seeing each other? That sort of thing."

  "Collaborate on our lies, you mean."

  She'd stared at him over the tops of the candles. "You're right. Let's stick as close to the truth as possible. We met when we were kids, and then bumped into each other again recently here at my father's house. We'll make certain to drop Dad's name at least three times. And if we're going to be convincing, we're going to have to gaze lovingly into each other's eyes several times. A stretch of the imagination, I know. We're going to have to practice." If her voice had become droll, she couldn't help it. "And one more thing, Tripp."

  He paused, his fork in midair, then slowly lowered it to the table. "What?"

  She didn't know how to bring this up delicately. "You'll look stunning in your new suit. But if you want to look respectable, you really need to consider cutting your hair."

  He didn't have it secured in a rubber band tonight. It was shiny and straight and chin-length. The way he'd tucked it behind his ears made him look as if he'd stepped from another time. He could have been a pirate, or a knight, or a conquistador.

  His eyes glimmered like glass across the table. "No."

  She did a double take. "What do you mean, no?"

  Tripp spread his hands wide on either side of his plate. "It's a little word, one syllable, two letters. Or aren't the rich familiar with the concept?"

  "I know what no means. What I don't know is why you're trying to start a fight. You're the one who wants that position. I'm only trying to help."

  The way he scratched his chin looked completely out of character. "Contrary to what you think, I have my pride."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "I won't be judged on appearance alone."

  If that wasn't the pot calling the kettle black. Appearance was important, but there was more to people than that. Amber's mother used to say it was what was on the inside that counted. It had been years since her mother had even tried to see inside Amber's heart. Her little sister Emily had, but Emily had left Prosperino months ago.

  Amber had hoped that she would find a man who looked past the part of her she showed the world, to the part she kept hidden from all but a select few. She wasn't a fanciful woman, or a particularly romantic one. She knew her strengths and weaknesses. She was a modern-day woman with a fair mind, a smart mouth and an honest soul. And she honestly didn't know what to do about the spiteful, snide man sitting across the table from her right now.

  She decided to try one more time. "That new suit will get your foot in the door. After that, it's up to you to show Perkins what you're made of."

  "Then you're saying actions speak louder than words?"

  She nodded. Finally, they were getting somewhere.

  He picked up the finger bowl and took a loud slurp.

  The room, all at once, was perfectly quiet. He'd made his point. Another time she might have commended him for his aplomb. This wasn't another time. This was now, and right now she'd had it with his attitude.

  A small chunk of her crusty bread bounced off his forehead and splashed in his water goblet. Amber didn't know who was more surprised.

  Tripp stared at her, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Surely it was the devil that made her tear off a second piece.

  "What the hell are you doing?"

  "What does it look like I'm doing?" She dipped the second glob of bread in her finger bowl.

  "It looks like you're lowering yourself to my level."

  The soggy bread hit him in the center of his stubborn, spiteful, arrogant chin.

  "I'm sick and tired of your snide comments and condescending attitude, Doctor."

  "My attitude? I'm not the one who's making sure I don't embarrass them at the dinner table this Saturday."

  "That's what you think I'm doing?"

  "I know which fork to use. Olivia made certain of that."

  She rose to her feet, only her fingertips touching the polished surface of the table. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe I invited you here so we could brush up together?" She wanted to throttle him. Shaking slightly, she added, "And because I like you?" She eyed the homemade bread in her hand. Forget breaking it into small pieces. She flung what was left of her crusty roll at him in a way reminiscent of her tomboy days; her brothers would have been proud.

  Both held perfectly still, each assessing the other's anger. She liked him? Tripp thought. He glimpsed a moment's hurt in her green eyes. Hell, she liked him.

  He brushed crumbs from his shirt, then fished a soggy morsel from his lap. Next, he pushed his chair back and very casually reached for his linen napkin. After placing it to the right of all his dinner paraphernalia, he found his feet. "I thought you were…I shouldn't have, I know. It's just that—"

  She held up one hand. Slowly, painstakingly, she retrieved the pedestal bowl containing the peach-flavored crème brûlée from the sideboard. Tripp's gaze followed her movements. She didn't intend…She wouldn't…

  Staring at the heaping spoon in her hand, he said, "We both know it would be completely beneath
you to do what you're thinking about doing."

  The lumpy goo landed an inch higher than the roll had. Tripp looked down just as the dessert lost its fight with gravity and plopped to the top of his shoe.

  "All right, Amber. You've made your point. I misjudged you. You have no idea how sorry I am. I won't let it happen again."

  She scooped a dollop onto one finger, then licked the end of it. It was provocative as hell. "You're wrong," she said with saccharine sweetness. "I know just how sorry you are. You're a sorry, snide, prideful man who's been carrying a chip on his shoulder long enough. You think you have the corner market on pride? What do you think of this?"

  Think?

  He was too busy ducking to think. A second, much larger dollop of crème brûlée missed his ear by a fraction of an inch. He heard it land somewhere behind him.

  He stared at her for interminable seconds. He picked up his napkin and dabbed at the dark spot on his shirt. Then, eyes narrowed, he walked to the sideboard and speared a piece of shrimp scampi with his fork.

  "What are you doing?" she asked.

  He drew the fork back like a slingshot. "As you can see, I'm using the correct fork. And for the record, you started this."

  Her eyebrows rose in the semidarkness. He was glad she'd turned the lights up, because he wouldn't have wanted to miss the way her eyes glittered with excitement.

  "That," she taunted, "is what Custer shouted to the Indians at Little Big Horn while making his last stand. Shall I refresh your memory as to how that turned out for Custer?"

  "Refresh this!" The shrimp scampi arced through the air.

  Amber screeched, clamored, and ducked, but not fast enough. The shrimp caught in her hair. She threw down the spoon and scooped up the crème brûlée with her bare hand. "That does it, Calhoun. This means war!"

  Five

  Tripp moved stealthily around the table, taking his eyes off Amber only long enough to glance at the remaining serving dishes and bowls, and consider his options. Shrimp scampi and crusty bread had sufficed as attention-getters, but they were no competition for the cold, wet goo that had splattered one side of his face moments ago. The bowl of crème brûlée was his best bet, but it was closer to Amber. He continued around the table, hoping to lure her away from it. She beat him to it, whisking it out of his reach.

  The woman was cunning and quick. She could have given some of the kids from his old neighborhood a few pointers and a run for their money. The thought bothered the back of his mind. He reminded himself that these weren't the streets of L.A. Amber was safe here. At least, he thought, taking an ominous step closer, she was safe from harm.

  He considered his remaining choices. There was a bowl of seafood rice stuffing, coffee and creamer, some green, leafy things she'd called salad and he called weeds, and a little dish of melted butter. He was going to have to make do with the bowl of rice stuffing. With lightning-quick movements reminiscent of his cagey, street-fighting days, he whisked it from the buffet table and into his left hand. Next, he eased around Amber's chair as she eased around his. They moved in the same direction, counterclockwise, keeping the gleaming cherrywood table between them.

  The shrimp looked out of place in her hair. She made no move to brush it out, nor did she seem concerned about the red splotches on her ivory tank top, compliments of the tropical salsa that had hit its mark, thanks to his first attack.

  The floor, table and chairs were littered. Taking another calculated step in her direction, he said, "It's too bad you sent Inez home. Or do you rich people call a party service to do the cleanup?"

  She lifted her chin haughtily. "You really need to try to get past the rich versus poor elements of our pasts."

  He almost smiled. Oh, she was witty, articulate, cunning. And bratty. God yes, she was that, and more.

  He flung a portion of the rice stuffing. The mixture scattered, part of it catching in the little hollow at the base of her neck, only to drop slowly inside the scoop neck of her top. Tripp waited with bated breath for the pieces of food to come tumbling out of the bottom edge, then spent far longer than he should have wondering precisely where those morsels had lodged. A fantasy played out in his mind. He imagined lifting her arms and peeling the shirt over her head. Her bra would come next. He would unfasten the closure and slowly lower one strap and then the other. When he'd bared her breasts he would bend down…

  His body heated. Damn.

  Taking advantage of his momentary lapse, Amber sprang around the table to ambush him. He caught her wrist when her hand was a matter of inches from his face.

  Their eyes met. He could blame his desire on the erotic fantasies he'd been harboring, but he had no one to blame but himself for the way he brought her hand to his mouth and licked a path across her palm.

  Her lips parted; her eyelashes lowered dreamily. He heard her breath hitch in her throat, and felt her shudder beneath his tongue. His overheated blood surged through him, pooling low. Dangerously low.

  It had been a long time since he'd lived dangerously, since he'd let the adrenaline rushing through him guide his actions. He released her wrist, then glided his hand down her arm. Her skin was smooth, the muscles firm, yet supple. Blood pounded a pagan rhythm in his ears, and his gaze fixed on her mouth.

  Her lips lifted in a smile. In a flash, he realized her intent. He made a move to grab her wrist again, but he was too late. Crème brûlée covered the lower half of his face.

  She laughed out loud and spun around. He caught her by the arm and pulled her back. With his other hand, he scooped a portion of the creamy mixture from his chin with one, and only one, intention in mind.

  She ducked her head and laughed again, the sound playful and mischievous and so damned musical he stopped the forward motion of his hand, suspending it in midair inches from her face. He drew her around to face him. Their gazes met, and her laughter trailed away.

  Her eyes were large, her pupils dilated in the dimly lit room. Her lashes swept down, throwing a momentary shadow on her cheeks. With their upward sweep, she rose on tiptoe. Gently, her lips touched his.

  The kiss was so light it was barely a kiss at all, so brief that their eyes remained open. As she drew away, she licked her lips, tasting the concoction she'd gathered from his mouth. "This is an interesting way to sample dessert."

  His body heated further, a muscle working in his throat.

  "Hold that thought," she whispered. "If Perkins sees you looking at me like this, he won't question our engagement."

  "Then this—" He cleared his throat. "This is part of the drill?"

  Her answer was a small nod that wasn't really a nod at all. "What would you say it is?"

  He would say it wasn't enough.

  He flung the handful of food to the table, then cupped her shoulders, filling his hands with warm woman. Her silky tank bunched beneath his fingers as he drew her closer. "I would say," he murmured close to her lips, "that practice makes perfect."

  This time their eyes closed when their lips met, their hands gliding over clothing that might never be free of food stains again. His palms smoothed down the sides of her waist, drawing her more fully against him, the entire length of her body pressed firmly to the entire length of his, his hands molding, learning, exploring.

  Amber was doing some exploring of her own, her hands gliding across Tripp's shoulders. His muscles bunched and flexed beneath her palms. His breathing became ragged as her fingers inched lower. He tasted of mint and cream and smelled of dinner and deep summer. He felt like heaven.

  He made a sound deep in his throat, part need, part frustration, all male. So this, she thought, was how it felt to hold a hundred and eighty pounds of tall, lean, muscular man in her arms. Never had she felt more feminine, so desirable, or so wanton.

  The kiss deepened, and her breath whooshed out of her, but she didn't end the kiss. She didn't want it to end. She wanted to climb right inside this kiss, right inside this man, where she could experience this passion from the inside out.


  Her initial response to him earlier in the week had been powerful, but she hadn't been prepared for the sensations swirling through her right now. She'd kissed her share of men over the years. Once, she'd even kissed a prince. But no man had ever kissed her in return in exactly this way. Certainly, no man had ever made her feel so enchanted.

  Tripp's body was pressed to the front of hers. Dizzy, she realized the hard edge of the table was pressing into the backs of her thighs. Hadn't she been facing the other way when the kiss had started? He didn't give her a chance to ask. He barely gave her a chance to think. He was too busy molding her, from thigh to shoulders, to every hard inch of him. And she was too busy reveling in the scent of man, the taste of man, and the knowledge that this man wasn't immune to her scent, her taste, her touch.

  Footsteps sounded behind them. Amber wouldn't have paid them any attention, nor would she have given Inez's "Oh, excuse me!" another thought, if Inez's voice had trailed away and her footsteps had faded away on tiptoe.

  Those footsteps didn't fade away. They came closer, Inez's shoes squishing on the sticky floor. Her voice rose an octave, growing louder, and so shrill Tripp and Amber jerked apart.

  Inez sputtered and pointed and sputtered some more. Tripp appeared frozen. One look at his face was all it took for Amber to know that she had to think fast. She traipsed to the table, where she grabbed the linen napkins, then handed one to him. Using the other to tidy her face and hands, she smiled sweetly. "You're right. Practice does make perfect. I'd say we pretty much nailed everything from the choreography to the tilt of our heads. No need to practice it again before Saturday. It's too bad, too. That kiss wasn't half-bad."

  He got that arguesome look on his face. His eyes narrowed, his lips thinned, and his jaw set. Amber turned to Inez. Her expression wasn't difficult to decipher, either. The shock was gone. In its place was an expression Amber had grown up with, letting her know in no uncertain terms that she had some explaining to do.

  "I thought you'd gone, Inez."

  "I came back to make sure you two hadn't started World War Three." Hands on ample hips, the short woman with the flashing brown eyes looked from one to the other. "I am too late, I think." She turned on her heel, returning moments later with a wastebasket in her hands. "Well? Do either of you have anything to say for yourselves?"