Abigail checked the card again and looked suspiciously at her daughter. “You know this Sloan Montgomery? Then why haven’t I heard of him?”
“Because there’s never been any reason to mention him. Remember the fund-raiser for the women’s shelter that I helped with last year? I met him then. He builds furniture in a factory down in the old commercial district on the lakefront—innovative, unusual stuff that he designs himself—and he donated a bunch of it to the shelter. That’s all I know about him.” She looked up at Selby. “Show Mr. Montgomery into the miniature room, please. Tell him I’ll be with him in a moment, and close the door. Once he’s out of the way, Mother can slip past without being seen and go up to her room.”
Abigail had wearily agreed, and a few minutes later Morganna had let herself quietly into the miniature room.
Across the room, Sloan Montgomery was standing by Morganna’s worktable, apparently studying a lyre-backed dining chair, smaller than his palm, that she’d been carving on the day her father died. “My furniture is a little different from yours, I’m sure,” she said, and he straightened and turned to face her.
Against the background of tiny things, he looked even larger than life—impossibly tall and broad-shouldered in a dark gray pin-striped suit. He was every bit as handsome as he’d been at the fund-raiser, but today he was somber—more so, surely, than a condolence call on a casual acquaintance would require. The tension in his face made Morganna pause. She was worn-out herself, or perhaps she would have thought twice before she asked, “Which category are you in?”
He frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“I find myself wondering why you’re here. I assumed this was a sympathy call—but perhaps it’s just another attempt to collect an unpaid bill instead. Did my father owe you money, too?”
“No, he didn’t. And though I’m sorry about your loss, this isn’t really a sympathy call, either, Miss Ashworth.”
Morganna frowned. “Then—if you’re not intending to console me or regain what you’re owed, why have you come?”
“To try to take your mind off things.”
“Now that’s refreshing,” she said lightly. “And a great deal different from the rest of our visitors today. Half of them seemed to remember my father as a saint, while the rest were obviously biting their tongues to keep from saying what they thought of him. And those were just our friends—the creditors didn’t bother to mince words. After all that, I could stand a little entertainment. Do you sing? Dance? Play the accordion?”
“I gather that you and your mother are in troubled circumstances.”
“If that’s what you call taking my mind off things—”
“Perhaps I should have said instead that I came to find out whether I can help you.”
“I don’t see how,” Morganna said frankly. “Troubled circumstances is putting it lightly. Daddy’s been dead just a week, and it’s quite apparent that life as we have known it is over.”
He nodded. “The house?”
“It’s as good as gone—it was in his name, and it’s mortgaged for more than it can possibly sell for. I suppose we could fight the bank and at least get a delay in the foreclosure, but to be honest, we can’t even afford the utilities. Mother’s already terminated the staff—though bless their hearts, they’re staying on a few days despite being laid off, because they don’t want to leave us here alone.”
“There’s no money at all?”
If she hadn’t been so exhausted, so tired of going over it all in the squirrel-cage of her mind, Morganna might have been offended at the question. But it didn’t occur to her to bristle at the personal nature of the inquiry. Perhaps from the outside the problem would look less thorny, more malleable—and she and Abigail needed all the insight they could collect.
“Nothing significant, compared to what he owed.” She sighed. “Even if the insurance company pays off—and I can’t blame them for not being eager to settle up—it won’t be enough. I don’t know what we’ll do. Mother always left all the financial details to Daddy, but unfortunately ignorance is no defense. Just because she didn’t know about his deals doesn’t mean she isn’t going to be held responsible for at least some of them. She’s going to end up worse than penniless. And she’s got no skills to support herself, much less to pay back debt—she’s always been a stay-at-home wife. Besides, she’s just close enough to retirement age to make finding a job very difficult, but too far away from it to get any benefits.”
“But your father’s debt comes to rest with her, right? It’s not your problem.”
Morganna bristled. “She’s my mother. Of course it’s my problem.”
After a little pause, he asked, “So how are you planning to pay it all?”
“Well, that’s another difficulty,” she admitted. “It wasn’t very practical of me to get a degree in art. It’s hardly a field that’s in great demand these days.”
“You could teach.”
Morganna shook her head. “Even if I had the temperament, I don’t have the right education to get a teaching certificate—it would take another two years of classes at least before I could qualify. And then we’re back to the problem of money, because I could probably earn enough to live on while I went to school, but not enough to cover tuition, too.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I start on Monday at the Tyler-Royale store downtown. A friend of mine is married to the store manager, and Jack—the manager—says I can arrange displays and try my hand at designing the storefront windows.”
“That’s a full-time job?”
“No, the rest of the time I’ll be selling women’s sportswear. It’s a start.”
She knew that despite her best efforts, she sounded tired and depressed. In a department store sales job, it would be decades before she could make a dent in her father’s debts.
He said slowly, “I may have a better idea.”
“I’m listening.” Morganna shrugged. “Though I have to admit I not only don’t see how you can help, I don’t understand why you should want to, either. If you knew my father at all—”
It was apparent that he heard the question in her voice. “As a matter of fact, I never met him.”
And then, while she was still trying to fathom why he seemed to feel responsible for her welfare and Abigail’s, Sloan Montgomery had looked her in the eye and asked her to marry him.
Morganna didn’t remember fainting. The next thing she knew, she was sitting on the floor, her shoulders cradled in Sloan’s arms, her nose resting against the soft lapel of his suit jacket, breathing in the delicious aromas of wool and soap and aftershave. The moment she was aware, however, she began to struggle, trying to get to her feet.
“Just sit there for a bit,” he said. “The last thing you need to do is fall down again.” He supported her till she could sit up by herself, and then he perched on her work stool, looking down at her. “Apparently my suggestion came as a shock.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” Morganna wriggled around to brace herself against the cabinet which supported the miniature house. “Whatever makes you think I’d be interested in marrying you?” She saw his jaw tighten and added hastily, “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It’s just that we hardly know each other. The idea of getting married—”
“I think we know enough. I know, for instance, that the Ashworth name opens every door in Lakemont society.”
“Not for much longer,” Morganna said wryly.
“That’s true.” His voice was cool. “Unless you act quickly to limit the damage from your father’s peccadilloes, a hundred years’ worth of family history will go down the drain and you’ll be an outcast.”
“Do you think I care about that? My real friends—”
He didn’t raise his voice, but his words cut easily across her protest. “And so will your mother.”
Morganna bit her lip. It wasn’t that her mother was shallow, she wanted to say. But it would be even harder for Abigail to start o
ver than it would be for her daughter.
Morganna had already noticed how many people who should have come to offer their sympathies had stayed away instead. She didn’t think that fact had occurred to Abigail yet, but she knew that when it did, the realization would be devastating. Even the poverty they faced would be easier for Abigail to deal with than the humiliation of losing the only way of life she’d ever known.
“Do you think I haven’t tried to figure out a way?” she said wearily. “I can’t simply conjure up enough money to bail us out.”
“But I can.”
She stared up at him. “Why would you want to?”
He looked across the room, over her head, and said calmly, “I don’t suppose you’ll find this flattering.”
He’d been dead right on that count, of course—for what he’d told her then hadn’t been complimentary in the least. He’d made it plain that it was not Morganna he was attracted to, but her social standing. With an Ashworth at his side, he’d be at the highest rank of Lakemont’s society, and he would have achieved the final detail of the goal he’d set for himself as an impoverished kid years before—his own business, a few million in the bank, a position of respect in the community, a wife other men would envy him. Morganna was the ultimate piece in the puzzle he’d set himself to complete.
“So,” she’d said, when the orange glow of her fury had finally dissipated enough that she could trust herself to speak without screaming at him, “it’s not really a marriage you’re proposing, it’s a straight-out trade. Your money for my name.”
“That’s the deal.”
“Usually, you know, it’s older guys who have divorced their first wives who are looking for a trophy to display.”
“Sorry to violate the rules, but I was too busy fifteen years ago to find someone unsuitable to marry, just so I could discard her now in order to acquire you. You don’t appear to have any time to lose, Miss Ashworth. Are you interested or not?”
Morganna raised her chin and looked him straight in the eye. “Let me make this perfectly clear. For myself, I wouldn’t consider this proposition for an instant. It’s an insult and I’d live in a cardboard box and eat cat food for the rest of my life before I’d make a deal like that.”
“But you have your mother to consider.”
“Exactly. So convince me that what you’re offering her is worth the price you’re asking.”
Sloan had convinced her. And he’d kept his word. The day Morganna married him, he’d taken over the responsibility for Burke Ashworth’s debts, down to the last penny. And at the wedding breakfast, he’d handed Abigail a cashier’s check—he’d told her it was the face value of her husband’s life insurance policy—which would be adequate to keep her in comfort for the rest of her days.
Remember that moment, Morganna told herself. No sacrifice was too great a price to pay for the relief that had gleamed in her mother’s eyes at that instant.
And no sacrifice was too great to preserve Abigail’s peace of mind, even if it meant that Morganna had to spend every instant of the four weeks playing the part of a loving wife. Heaven knew she had perfected that role with her friends during the last six months—but performing for her mother would be a whole lot trickier.
It might be a challenge, Sloan had said, for her to pretend to be deliriously happy. Well, he’d hit that one on the nose.
Deliriously happy. By the time the month was over, Morganna thought morosely, she’d be lucky if she wasn’t simply delirious.
CHAPTER TWO
SLOAN dropped an ice cube into a glass and added a generous splash of liquor. “Here you go, Joel. Scotch on the rock—singular—just the way you like it.” As he strolled toward the fireplace to hand over the drink, a log burned in two with a crack, and a shower of sparks surged up the chimney and flared against the fire screen. “Dinner will be in just a few minutes, but in the meantime you can bring me up to speed on what’s been going on at Sticks & Stones while I’ve been away.”
The controller didn’t seem to hear. Though he took the glass, Joel continued to stare at the portrait in oils that hung above the drawing-room mantel. Following his gaze, Sloan contemplated the modernistic portrayal of Morganna—a much younger Morganna, hardly out of her teens—wearing a formal white satin gown, topped with a wine-colored velvet robe and an elaborate, glittery crown, which seemed much too heavy for her slender frame.
Reel in your tongue, Joel, he wanted to say. “That was painted the year she was Queen of the Carousel Ball.”
Joel seemed to pull himself back from a distance. “Is that the big dance where all the year’s debutantes are introduced?”
“And paraded around like merchandise,” Sloan agreed.
“It’s a beautiful picture.”
Sloan looked at the portrait again. He found it fascinating that Joel liked it. Sloan had never been fond of the painting, himself, but he hadn’t ever taken the time to figure out why. Was it the artist’s style that turned him off? Generally he liked his art a little more realistic-looking. Or was it the too-fancy costume, which in his opinion made Morganna look like a child playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes? Or was it perhaps the fact that the painting was from a time before he’d met her, a time when Morganna’s world had been so far separated from his that there was no point of intersection?
Not that it mattered, of course; the painting was ancient history now. He hardly even noticed it anymore, except when someone like Joel commented. He turned his back to the portrait and leaned against the mantel, enjoying the warmth of the fire. “How have things been going at the factory while I’ve been away?”
Joel sipped his drink and settled into a chair beside the fire. “Well, there are several matters you need to know about. I got my hands on an advance copy of Furnishing Unlimited’s next catalog.”
Sloan’s eyebrows raised. It was difficult even to get hold of a solid rumor about a head-to-head competitor’s new products, but to have full information even a few days in advance of the formal announcements, set out in the competitor’s own literature, was truly a coup. “How did you manage to pull off that one?”
Joel reached into his briefcase, propped against the chair leg, and handed over a slick magazine-size booklet. His voice was prim. “I really can’t talk about my source.”
Which no doubt meant, Sloan thought, that some woman on Furnishing Unlimited’s payroll had slipped it to him. Obviously it wouldn’t do to underestimate Joel; apparently a guy could be a ladies’ man even with a calculator clipped to his belt and a pocket protector full of pens and pencils. “I wouldn’t dream of asking for the details,” he said dryly.
“They’ve developed a couple of new lines I thought you should see. I marked the pages for you.”
Sloan flipped open the booklet, pausing at places where Joel had placed a sticky note, to look at Furnishing Unlimited’s new line of modernistic office furniture. “This looks a bit like our current designs.”
“That’s what I thought. They haven’t exactly done anything shady in adapting what Sticks & Stones did last year. But I believed you should know what they were up to, before it actually hits the market.”
“I doubt they’ll be able to lure our customers away with poor imitations of our designs, but you’re right about the value of a warning. Put yourself in for a raise, Joel.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll do that.”
Sloan continued to flip pages. “You said there were several things to bring to my attention.”
“We had to suspend a couple of workers this week. It seems they were running a business on the side, while they were on our time clock. The union steward was quite unhappy with the suspension action and is protesting it. And the men themselves, of course, were livid at being caught.”
In the hallway outside the drawing room, a flutter of blue silk caught Sloan’s eye. “I’ll call all of them in tomorrow morning and get it settled,” he said absently.
A moment later Abigail Ashworth appeared in the doorway. �
�Sloan, my dear,” she exclaimed. “I’m so glad to have a moment with you before Morganna comes down. I feel I should apologize for my bad timing, though, popping in on your first night at home.” Joel rose from his seat, and Abigail’s eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon, I thought you were alone.”
“You remember my controller, Joel Evans?” Sloan said, and she nodded. “A glass of wine, Abigail?”
“That would be lovely, dear. You know, it’s awfully good to be home—I could almost thank Robert for making my life so stressful that I couldn’t wait to get out of Phoenix. I’m sure Morganna has told you my silly reason for being here.” She looked expectantly up at him.
He was just opening his mouth to answer when, from the doorway, Morganna said hastily, “Actually, I haven’t had time, Mother.”
Sloan’s momentary irritation at her interruption—didn’t she think he could handle her mother?—gave way to a wicked impulsiveness. “First things first,” he murmured. “I’m sure you understand, Abigail, that there are certain…priorities…when a newly married couple is reunited after a time apart.”
He watched in fascination as Morganna’s face went pink. He was reasonably sure that the cause of her heightened color was pure fury at him for the suggestive comment, but it was equally apparent to Sloan that the onlookers had interpreted it differently. There was a naughty but appreciative gleam in Abigail’s eyes, while Joel shifted his feet and looked thoroughly embarrassed.
Sloan reached inside his jacket and pulled out a long, slender, black velvet box. “That reminds me, darling. Since I had other things on my mind earlier, I forgot to give you the anniversary gift I brought you from San Francisco.”
Morganna shook her head. “It’s not our anniversary.”
“Yes, it is. It’ll be six months next week since our wedding.” He held out a hand in summons, and watched her closely as she slowly crossed the room toward him. Though he was certain Joel and Abigail saw only a pretty hesitancy at claiming her gift, Sloan couldn’t miss the bone-deep reluctance with which she moved. She’d have been more eager, he thought, to approach the guillotine.
His Trophy Wife Page 2