The Trophy Wife

by Sandra Steffen

  Tripp remained silent. Amber tossed the linen napkin to the table. "Tripp and I had something to settle. Don't worry, Inez. I'll clean this up." Amber turned to Tripp. "As soon as I see Tripp to the door."

  Tripp glanced at Inez. She didn't smile, but she didn't look particularly angry anymore, either. She did, however, indicate, with the thrust of one shoulder, that Amber had left the room.

  In his youth, Tripp would have needed to save face by having the last word. One thing life had taught him was that sometimes all a man could do was hold his head high and leave as quickly and quietly as possible.

  Amber was holding the door open for him when he reached the elaborate front foyer. "You're probably still hungry," she said. "We didn't get through the main course, did we?"

  Tripp ran a hand over his chin. Main course, hell. If Inez hadn't interrupted, they would have been experiencing more than dinner right now. And what the hell did she mean that kiss wasn't half-bad? It was a hell of a lot better than that. And dammit, why was he angry? "Amber—"

  "I know." She pulled a face. "We'd better not try that at Alessandro's."

  He stared at her, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "That's it? That's all you have to say?"

  She glanced up at him, then reached up and picked a crumb from his hair. "Don't worry about helping clean up. You were my guest. Now, as far as Saturday evening goes, I think it would be best if you picked me up at my friend's house in Cloverdale. I get carsick easily, and by meeting you there, I can break up my trip. It's only a thirty-minute drive from Claire's house to Santa Rosa. I'll fax you directions."

  His gaze drilled into her. Vowing to show him how unaffected she was, Amber forced an iron control she didn't feel. "Is that satisfactory?" she asked.

  He studied her for a moment longer, then nodded curtly.

  She absolutely, positively forbade herself to sigh in relief. "In that case, I'll excuse myself and help Inez with the cleanup."

  The moment he was out the door, she closed it behind him, then leaned weakly against it. Amber knew enough about body language to know when a man had something on his mind. He was undoubtedly trying to make sense of what had just happened between them. She didn't want to compartmentalize the attraction and desire they felt for each other, because she was growing more and more certain there was more to it than desire on his part, too.

  All women knew that men thought, acted, and reacted differently than women. Men's bodies weren't necessarily connected to their brains. At least not when it came to sex, and certainly not when they were younger. When did men outgrow their little tendency to get turned on by the sight of any woman with a pretty face?

  She caught her reflection in the mirror. There was a piece of shrimp sticking out of her hair, red splotches all over her silk tank top, and traces of orange goo streaking one cheek. That was some pretty face.

  Hope fluttered inside her like butterfly wings. Maybe Tripp's reaction had to do with emotions, with feelings and a growing regard. Oh, he wanted her. Her body still burned from the way he'd pressed the physical evidence of his desire against her belly.

  Whether he was ready to admit it or not, he liked her. The thing was, she liked him, too. He was difficult at times, a challenge always. Trying to stay one step ahead of him was invigorating. She hadn't been bored in days, but even she knew that this was more than a case of not being bored.

  Tripp had the looks, the style and the moves to unsettle her feminine heart. The question was, did she have what it took to unsettle his?

  By God, she was going to try.

  * * *

  Tripp eased his car around the corner on a tree-lined street on the outskirts of Cloverdale. He was early. And nervous. A double rarity for him.

  Following the directions Amber had faxed to him the day before yesterday had been easy. Located on Highway 101, Cloverdale was easy to find and too small to get lost in.

  Squinting against the glare of the late evening sun, he groped for his sunglasses on the seat beside him. He located them just as he spotted his second turn. According to Amber's directions, he only had a few more blocks to go. He spied her shiny red sports car in a driveway in the next block.

  He slowed his car to a crawl.

  Amber had mentioned that her friend Claire was an artist. Evidently, she wasn't a starving one, because her house was a large, ornate Victorian, palatial in design, and painted several shades of purple. He slid a finger between his neck and the starched collar of the shirt André had chosen. Amber had rich friends. Like drew like.

  And sometimes, opposites attracted.

  Damn, that was what he and Amber were: opposites who were attracted. Extremely attracted.

  Tripp had heard from several reliable sources that Amber had visited the hospital in Ukiah yesterday. He'd had to take their word for it, for she hadn't bothered to stop by his office. Other than that fax, he hadn't seen or heard from her since Thursday. Perhaps if he had, he would have been able to put that kiss behind him. As it was, he couldn't get it out of his mind.

  For the hundredth time, he told himself that the entire episode was a coincidence, nothing more. He'd been harboring some incredibly stimulating fantasies while partaking in that food fight, and coincidence or not, any man would have reacted to the tremble in a beautiful woman's touch, the sultriness in her voice.

  That wasn't what bothered him. It was something else, and it had been bothering him even before Amber had flung that first glob of creamy goo. It was Coop who'd hit the nail on the head when he'd exclaimed how everyone in the hospital was talking about Amber Colton. "Who could miss hair that color, and eyes such a vivid shade of green? I wouldn't mind attending that dinner in Santa Rosa, just to see what she wears. She'll probably flash like a neon sign."

  The description had struck a nerve, and had brought back the only useful piece of advice Tripp's old man had ever given him. "Stick with your own kind, kid. Anybody else will either leave you or die. In the end, it's all the same thing."

  Tripp had been seven, and just old enough to read the marker on his mother's grave. Grace Ann Bradley had been twenty-five.

  "Listen up," Randolph "Rudy" Calhoun had said to the son of the woman he'd professed to love but had never bothered to marry. "You stay away from women with skin lighter than yours. There are two kinds of white girls. The ones who think they're too good for us, and the ones who don't. The ones who don't are even more dangerous, because they go where we go. And that makes them sitting ducks and easy targets for somebody with a score to settle. That's what happened to your poor mama."

  Tripp might have heeded his father's warning, if Rudy hadn't turned from his son and walked away. After that, the man had drifted in and out of Tripp's life, mostly out. Tripp had spent the next ten years being shuffled from one relative to another—except for his time at the Hopechest Ranch—and hating his old man for it. He'd hated a lot of people back then. That all had begun to change the summer he turned fifteen.

  Tripp was one quarter Latino, but his skin was as brown as his grandfather's had been. The red-haired psychology student he'd dated in college had claimed his attraction to fair-skinned women stemmed from the fact that his mother had been fair. She'd believed it was also the reason he'd tried so hard to earn Meredith Colton's respect the summer he'd gone to live at Hacienda de Alegria.

  The psychology student had left him when she'd grown bored with the thrill of the chase. That was all right. He hadn't loved her. Until Tripp met Olivia Babcock, he hadn't allowed himself the luxury of a relationship in years. That one hadn't been as disastrous as the others, but it proved he was still attracted to women completely wrong for him. Women like Amber, who, for all their beauty, would stick out in his world like a sore thumb.

  He climbed out of his car, ran a hand through his hair and buttoned the middle button on his black suit. He didn't even recognize his own reflection in the car window. But he recognized the thought running through his mind. It was a vow he'd made a long time ago. No more excuses. No more
coincidences. No more prolonging the inevitable. Before the night was through, he would make certain that Amber knew just how temporary this was.

  * * *

  Amber's breath caught in her throat at the first sight of the intense, incredibly handsome man on Claire's front porch. "You're right on time, Doctor."

  "It's a first for me."

  She noticed Tripp didn't smile. Holding fast to the doorknob, she moved to one side, motioning him in. He entered without saying a word.

  "We have a few minutes," she said. "Would you care for a glass of wine?"

  He shook his head, and she wondered if he would have preferred a shot of whiskey, straight up. She wished he would say something. A compliment would have been nice. She'd bought a new black dress for the occasion and had fixed her hair on top of her head, securing it with tiny, amber-edged pins. She'd studied her reflection for a long time, applying her makeup with a steady, light hand, placing more emphasis on her eyes than on the rest of her face. As a result, her lashes were long and thick, her lids tinted a smoky shade of gray. She'd applied tinted gloss to her lips, a bit of translucent powder to the rest of her face, and had followed that up with a touch of blush. The result was understated and elegant. It would have been nice if he'd noticed.

  She glanced at Tripp and caught him staring. Oh, he'd noticed, all right. Suddenly she felt buoyant. With a lift of her brows, which she'd darkened just enough to call attention to the delicate arch, she said, "All right, then. We might as well get an early start into Santa Rosa."

  She leaned around him, reaching for her beaded black bag. He took a sharp breath and finally spoke. "Little P.J. was right. You do smell good."

  Her heart slowed, and a warm glow flowed through her. "P.J. said that?"

  His eyes delved into hers. "Coop was wrong, though. He predicted you would wear something flashy, red and preferably low-cut."

  That was what men got for making blind assumptions. "Red," she said, leading the way to the door, "would never do. My job is to appear demure and charming at your side. Men of power, breeding and high social standing might look twice at a waitress or sales clerk wearing red, but they expect the women in their social arenas to appear in subdued, refined clothing."

  "Do you rich people take classes to learn this?" He held up one hand. "I know, I know. I need to get past the rich versus poor element of our pasts."

  She smiled, because dry humor was better than no humor, and Tripp's dry humor made her heart swell with feeling. "Alessandro's is an elegant restaurant. I imagine there will be other colors besides black. I chose this dress because I want to complement, not outshine. I certainly don't want to outshine Mrs. Perkins, who will probably be wearing silver, or gold lamé. And no, they don't teach this in school. Being rich isn't all fun and games. And for your information, the rules were made long before I was born."

  She reached up with her right hand, touching the dark hair that caressed his collar. "It's a shame that some people place so much importance on looks. When did you have it cut?"

  He stared into her eyes so long she got lost in his gaze. "This morning."

  "Did it hurt?"

  "Only my pride."

  "I'm proud of you."

  "Because I got a haircut?"

  She shrugged a shoulder. He'd sacrificed so much for the kids he wanted to help. In that instant, her heart seemed to flip. When it righted itself, it pumped with new meaning. Amber was falling in love.

  She felt breathless, joyful. "If it's any consolation, you look wonderful. Your hair is short enough to appear polite and reputable and still long enough to set you apart from the boring, civilized upper-crust men you're about to impress."

  Tripp didn't move, not even to breathe. Amber combed her fingers through the hair above his ears as she spoke, the butterfly touch of her fingertips sending a heady rhythm through his body, causing him to lose his train of thought. His gaze did a slow glide down her body. Her dress was long and black and sleeveless. The neckline was a gentle sweep from shoulder to shoulder, just low enough to show off the delicate hollow at the base of her neck and the soft-looking skin above her collarbone. The matte-black fabric skimmed over her curves, hiding all but the barest hint of what lay underneath. It was demure, all right; all except the slit that revealed her slender, silk-encased leg from ankle to thigh.

  "Ready?" she asked.

  He nodded and, in a voice huskier than he would have liked, said, "In case I forget later, thank you."

  She wet her lips, smiled. "Don't mention it."

  "I mean it, Amber. If I get this position, I'll be forever indebted to you."

  "What do you mean if?"

  Her smile was playful and reminded him of the way she'd smiled just before flinging that first spoonful of crème brûlée the other night. It caused him to add, "Whether I get the position or not, one thing's for sure. I'll never again be able to eat shrimp scampi or crème brûlée without having fond memories of you."

  Since she had the key, he strode ahead of her out the door. Therefore, he didn't see the way her smile slid off her face as the underlying meaning in his words soaked in.

  Amber turned on a night-light, then followed more slowly, her mind a jumbled mixture of dashed hope and reality. People didn't say they would have fond memories of someone they planned to see again. People had fond memories of someone they once knew.

  That was what she would be to Tripp. Someone he once knew. Someone he thought about a few times a year, perhaps less. Moments ago she'd realized she was falling in love with him. She didn't want to be someone he once knew.

  If he was aware of her inner turmoil, he didn't let on during the drive to Santa Rosa. Perhaps that was because she kept up her end of the conversation, talking about her work and his. Mention of the Hopechest Ranch, where she had an office, sparked his memories of the months he'd spent there. She told him how much the place had changed in recent years. There were now between thirty and forty kids staying at the ranch at any given time. Besides the Homestead, a dormitory-style lodge where the temporary residents, as he'd been, stayed while awaiting adoption or foster homes, there was now a residence called The Shack, which was for delinquents who needed a last chance before being shipped to lock-in juvenile centers that resembled jail.

  For once, Tripp did as much talking as she did, asking questions about the newly constructed "Emily's House," a home for unwed, teenage mothers. He seemed genuinely awed by her devotion to the ranch and the Hopechest Foundation she worked so hard for.

  The more Amber talked about her work, the more she despaired. She felt rooted to the foundation headquarters. Okay, she had been a little bored lately, but she was needed there. It drove home the point Tripp had made earlier. Amber lived in Fort Bragg, and worked near Prosperino at the Hopechest Ranch. If Tripp acquired the position in Dr. Perkins's practice, he would live and work hours away on the other side of the mountains. It might as well have been on the other side of the world.

  He needed her help to obtain that position in Santa Rosa. And she wanted to help. She did. She was only too happy to help, but in doing so, she was ensuring that their renewed acquaintance would be fleeting. By lending him her family name and influence, she was sealing the fate of their relationship and reducing it to something she feared. Temporary.

  The word froze in her brain. That was what it would be—a brief interlude, passionate, perhaps, but above all else, temporary.

  She didn't want this to end before it had really begun. She wanted to feel his arms go around her, to lay her head on his shoulder. She wanted to talk about mundane things, like the weather, and important things, like politics and health issues and global warming. She wanted the relationship to grow more intimate on every level.

  Had it been doomed before it began?

  If he was awarded that position, it was.

  Whatever was a woman to do?

  Maybe she should start another food fight, thereby ensuring that Tripp didn't obtain the position. She could always slurp her soup or drin
k from the finger bowl. Maybe she should have worn red. No, she couldn't do any of those things. Too many children's lives would be adversely affected.

  Maybe they could have a long-distance relationship. But she didn't see how a long-distance relationship could ever work. She got sick every time she drove across the coastal mountains. And as a new pediatrician in a busy practice, Tripp wouldn't have time to make the trip to see her.

  She wanted an up-close-and-personal relationship, not a long-distance one.

  It seemed that Tripp had been right. Lies really were like dogs. They seemed harmless at first, docile, even. But later, they turned on you, attacking just when you thought you were safe.

  What was she going to do?

  She didn't have an answer when they pulled up in front of the restaurant in Santa Rosa. She waited for Tripp to open her door, accepted his help from the car, then took the arm he offered. While he handed the valet the keys, she pasted a smile on her face, then strode with him through the high, arched door of the most expensive and elegant restaurant in town.

  Six

  Tripp was only vaguely aware of the heads that turned as he made his way back toward the table in the semiprivate dining alcove at Alessandro's. If he'd been looking, he would have noticed the dark-haired woman watching his every move. His only thoughts were of the questions he'd been asked and the direction the conversation had taken over dinner. All in all, it had gone quite well. A lot of it was Amber's doing.

  When he'd excused himself, she'd been deep in conversation with Dr. and Mrs. Perkins. This kind of socializing came as naturally to her as treating patients came to him. Talking to Coop, worrying about his next dollar, and trying to stay out of Nurse Proctor's way came naturally to him. Schmoozing was as foreign to him as the language on the menu.

  Alessandro's was everything Amber said it would be. How had she put it? Opulent grandeur at its finest. Nearly everything in the restaurant was silver-blue and white. White damask slip covers on every chair; white-blue flames flickered atop tall white tapers in silver candelabra. Waiters wearing white gloves and black tails served everything from champagne to caviar from gleaming, sterling silver trays.