THE TROPHY WIFE

by Ginna Gray

  "I'd recommend that you change all the locks at both homes."

  "It's being done right now. I'm also having state-of-the-art alarm systems installed at both places," Max supplied.

  Surprise darted through Elizabeth. She spared her husband a look that said we need to talk later.

  "Gladys and Dooley? They're the couple who work for you?"

  At Elizabeth's nod Detective Braddock went on. "Could there be any resentment there? Any hard feelings? Maybe they don't think they make enough money, or have enough time off, that kind of thing?"

  "Absolutely not," Elizabeth replied with a laugh. "Gladys and Dooley have worked for my family since before I was born. Gladys has doctored my skinned knees and spanked my fanny when I needed it. Never—not in a million years—would they hurt me."

  "It was Dooley who filled that killer's backside full of bird shot," Max pointed out.

  "Ah, I see." The detective scribbled something in his small notepad. "One thing of interest I found in your house was a fax. It was sitting in the tray on the machine. It's from a Detective Gertski in New York, telling you that he'd sent the photo array for a photographic lineup that the two of you had talked about.

  "I was curious so I called New York and talked to Detective Gertski. He told me about the two attempts on your life while you were there. And, of course, you just confirmed them. Do you think the man who broke into your home last night is the same one who tried to kill you in New York?"

  "Yes. I'm positive."

  "And you, Mr. Riordan?"

  "I wasn't here, so I didn't see the guy last night, but that would be my guess."

  "Hmm. Mine, too," the detective agreed. "Do either of you have any idea who could be behind this? Or why?"

  "No, that's the thing. I'm not perfect, but I don't know of anyone who dislikes me enough to have me killed."

  "All right. Let's put our heads together. Give me names of people who just might have so much as the tiniest reason to wish you ill."

  "Well … my ex-husband comes to mind. But since Edward took all my money and ran away with my worst enemy, I'd say he's already satisfied whatever vengeful feelings he ever had about me."

  "You never know," Max said. "Guys like Edward seem to have a convoluted way of looking at things. And of course, they, themselves, are never to blame for anything."

  The detective grinned. "I've run into a few of those myself."

  "And there's Natalie Brassard. She ran off with Edward to get back at me for who knows what. I guess she thought I would shrivel up and die from a broken heart. She probably blames me that her affair with Edward didn't work out. When she returned to Houston and discovered that I was happily remarried she was livid."

  "How about your cousins?" Max asked.

  Elizabeth laughed. "Camille and Quinton? Oh, c'mon, Max. Camille is whiny and resentful, but I don't think she would harm me. Can you picture her hiring a hit man? She'd swoon at the sight of that man."

  "Mm. She is a ninny."

  "As for Quinton, we've been close for most of our lives. All of his sister's complaining about their financial situation embarrasses him. He once told me in confidence that he and Camille each receive about five hundred thousand a year from their trust. When you have a beautiful, fully paid for, fully furnished five-story brownstone, you're hardly living an impoverished life.

  "No." Elizabeth shook her head. "I can't fathom Quinton doing anything to hurt me. With him, what you see is pretty much what you get. He's charming and smart. If he wanted to, and if he applied himself, he could build an empire of his own."

  "So why hasn't he?" Max asked.

  Elizabeth chuckled. "He admits quite freely that he's never tried because he's too lazy.

  "You can rule out Quinton. He's happy with his life just as it is. Jokingly, he claims that being a member of the impoverished branch of an old, revered family is in many ways preferable to being the heir to the riches.

  "He's included in all the ritziest affairs, the most exclusive parties, gallery openings, wine tastings. At least once a week he's asked to attend a dinner or card party—usually as the unspoken partner of an unescorted young woman. That is, of course, if the hostess of the affair can find him at home.

  "What with all the time spent on yachting trips, country weekends in New Port and often months spent at summer villas in the Caribbean and Tuscany and Greece, he probably spends more time away than he does at his New York brownstone. And all virtually free."

  "Hmm. I'd go stark raving mad in a week," Max muttered. He eyed his wife and slipped in a question he'd been wanting to ask ever since the Mosebys had arrived. "Has Quinton ever had romantic feelings toward you?"

  "Quinton? Are you kidding? We're cousins."

  "Second cousins. There's no law against second cousins marrying. The so-called royals of the world do it all the time."

  "Well, the Stantons don't," she said with a chuckle.

  "Anyone else?" the detective asked.

  "Well, I suppose Wyatt Lassiter might be angry enough to wish me harm. His father as well."

  "Damn, woman," Max muttered. "For such a sweet-natured little woman, you sure have pissed off a lot of people."

  Elizabeth lifted her chin. "I'd like to see your list."

  "Detective Braddock would get writer's cramp."

  "That's what I thought."

  The detective scribbled some more, then looked up. "Anyone else?"

  "Well … there is one other person." Elizabeth looked from the detective to Max. She caught her lower lip between her teeth. "There's Troy."

  "Troy? Are you talking about Troy Ellerbee? My right-hand man?"

  "Yes. Detective Braddock said name anyone who dislikes me. Troy doesn't like me."

  "What makes you think that?"

  "Because he told me so."

  "What?"

  "Max, you must have noticed how Troy gets all tight-jawed and surly whenever I'm around. He resents me and would like nothing better than if I vanished off the face of the earth."

  "Maybe. But do you honestly think that Troy is the sort of man who would pay a professional hit man to eliminate you?"

  Elizabeth looked at her husband for a long time without answering. "I don't know," she said finally. "And I don't think you do, either."

  * * *

  Twenty

  « ^ »

  "There. How does that look, Mimi?" Talitha asked, stepping back to view her own handiwork.

  "Mmm. Looks good to me. How 'bout you, sugar?"

  "It looks lovely." Lying propped up on one of the sofas, Elizabeth supervised the decorating of the den at Mimosa Landing, happy to be home. And alive.

  Normally by this time on Christmas Eve all their decorating—for the exterior and formal rooms—would have been done by professionals. The entire family always decorated the den at Mimosa Landing about a week before Christmas. This year, however, Aunt Talitha had insisted on waiting until Elizabeth was released from the hospital and came home to Mimosa Landing to enjoy the tradition.

  "If you ask me, I think the problem is more the height of the tree rather than where the ornaments are placed."

  "You know, Camille, I do believe you're right," Iona agreed.

  "Oh, pooh on the both of you. This tree is perfect," Talitha declared.

  As always, Elizabeth's aunt and Truman had argued about the height of the tree she'd chosen. When the farm manager had dragged the spruce tree into the den earlier, he'd had to lop two feet off the bottom to make it fit.

  "Damn fool woman," he had grumbled. "Says to me, 'We need a big tree. The den's a big room.' Humph. As if I don't know that. Been working here thirty-four years, ain't I?"

  Max walked into the den and made a beeline for Elizabeth. "Pull your legs up a bit," he ordered after giving her a kiss. Elizabeth obliged, and he plopped down on the middle sofa cushion, picked up her legs and placed them across his lap.

  She was covered with blankets and warm fleece throws. Burrowing through the pile, Max grumbled, "Where're y
our legs, dammit? You're covered up like a mummy."

  "That's right. And don't you go uncovering her just so you can play touchy-feely," her aunt scolded. "She's barely been out of the hospital three hours."

  "Would I do a thing like that?"

  "Humph. In a New York second, if you got the chance, you rascal. And don't go wasting that tough-guy stare on me, Maxwell Riordan. I'm not impressed. And don't bother to switch to charm, either."

  His mother laughed. "She's got you pegged, son."

  "You're a bossy old harridan, Talitha Stanton," Max declared in a soft growl, his eyes narrowing.

  "That's right. And don't you forget it, you scallywag."

  His expression remained stern. Only the tiny twitch of one corner of his mouth gave him away.

  He turned his attention back to his wife. "Troy'll be down in a few minutes."

  "Mmm." She nodded and looked at the other women, trying not to purr as Max massaged her instep with his thumbs.

  "I know we've discussed this before, but I hope you're okay with inviting him for the holidays? I think it'll be good for him to stay here for a while. He's been wound tight these last few weeks. I'm hoping that he'll see how special this place is, how much history it holds. Maybe he'll get bitten by the same bug that bit me."

  Plus, Max told himself, on the remote chance that Troy was behind the attempts on Elizabeth's life, he wanted him there, where he could keep an eye on him.

  "That would be nice, Max, but you have to accept that not everyone is going to like the country life. Mimi, for instance, likes it, but in short doses."

  "I know. But you've got to try something to know whether or not you like it."

  "Fine. Just don't be too disappointed if he doesn't share our enthusiasm. And don't you dare leave me alone with him."

  Tipping his head to one side, Max studied her. "You really are afraid of him, aren't you?"

  "At this point, with the exceptions of you, Dooley and Truman, I'm afraid of every man. Even Detective Gertski in New York. It occurred to me after we left that he stuck to me like glue. He even rode shotgun on our way to the airport. I'm sure that's not normal duty for a New York detective."

  "Damn, Elizabeth, you're beginning to sound paranoid. So he went a little above and beyond. I, for one, was grateful for his help."

  She waved her hand. "I know. I know. I'm jumping at shadows."

  "Relax. You're safe here. To get to the house without using the road you'd first have to climb through several barbed-wire fences, then hike a half mile through a pasture dotted with cow patties and guarded by an unfriendly Texas longhorn bull and a herd of cows, which I can't see a New York hit man doing." Max grinned. "Especially not if he reads the signs Truman put up all around the place."

  "What signs?"

  "They read, 'No Trespassing unless you can cross this field in eight seconds or less. The bull can cross it in nine.'"

  Elizabeth laughed. "You're kidding. Did he really put up signs like that?"

  "You bet. I thought it was genius.

  "The guards at the gates have the mugshot you picked out. But even if this guy is fool enough to try to get in through the fields, there's no cover. He'd be spotted as soon as he started. To use the driveway or any of the perimeter farm roads he'd have to get by the guards. There are two patrol cars with four cops blocking every gate, and we're in touch with them by walky-talky," Max said, nodding at the set on the coffee table "Coming or going, no one gets past them without being patted down and their car searched. Well … almost no one." Max shot her aunt a stern look. "Aunt Talitha gave the deputies a tongue-lashing for even suggesting to touch her or her car."

  "I should say so," the old woman huffed. "The very idea. Did they honestly think that I was going to smuggle in a killer to do away with my great-niece, whom I love as though she were my very own child? I've never been so insulted."

  "After seeing her drive, I think they figured nobody would be fool enough to get into a car with her," Max whispered in Elizabeth's ear. "She intimidated the hell out of them.

  "Until this morning, when I couldn't find my mother and Martha told me that she and your aunt had gone to the beauty shop to get spruced up for Christmas, I had no idea that Talitha still drove a car. Is that safe at her age?"

  "Oh, dear. Don't ever let her hear you ask that," Elizabeth whispered back. "Anyway, she only drives around here—to the beauty shop, her card club, that sort of thing. And she always takes the back roads."

  "You're kidding me, right? I've seen your aunt on one of those off-road vehicles that you use around here. Trust me, she's hell on wheels. This morning when she returned she ripped the back bumper right off one of the patrol cars at the gate. She never even stopped. I don't think she was aware of hitting the patrol car."

  Max shuddered. "Damn, the thought of her behind the wheel of a car, with my mother riding shotgun, scares the living hell out of me. I can just hear the two of them bickering away about anything and everything while they're bouncing all over the countryside like a pair of geriatric barnstormers."

  Through her giggles, Elizabeth managed to whisper, "I know. It's a problem. I just haven't gotten up the nerve to address it yet."

  "Good evening, all."

  They turned and saw Troy standing in the arched doorway. Elizabeth tensed. Beneath the throw, Max gave her leg a reassuring pat.

  "Hey, Troy. Finished unpacking, huh? C'mon in and join us," Max invited.

  Elizabeth pulled her legs off his lap and swung her feet to the floor. "Make yourself at home, Troy."

  For Max's sake, she had tried to keep her voice polite, but her fear came through all the same. She couldn't help it. This man disliked her. Was it such a leap to hatred?

  Troy had traded his suit coat for a navy cardigan over his dress shirt and tie, which Elizabeth supposed was his idea of casual attire. In his arms he carried a stack of gifts that came up to his chin.

  "Just put those down on the floor somewhere, Troy," Iona instructed. "We'll arrange them under the tree when we've finished decorating."

  Troy did as she instructed, then, to Elizabeth's dismay, he sat down in the chair next to the end of the sofa where she sat. Leaning toward her, he murmured, "Elizabeth, I'd like to talk to you alone—"

  "No." She shook her head so sharply it began to throb, and she touched the bandage that wrapped from her temple around to the back. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Max look at her with a disquieting expression. "I … I mean, it's the holidays. No business."

  "I phrased that wrong. I don't want to discuss business. This is a personal matter."

  "Oh. I see. In that case … maybe later."

  "Well, you handsome thing, you, if you're looking for someone to talk to I'm available," Camille said, giving Troy that look that Elizabeth had seen many times before when her cousin was on the prowl for a new man.

  It would serve you right if she caught you, she thought with uncharacteristic ill will, then immediately felt ashamed of herself, whether for the insult to Troy or her cousin, she wasn't certain.

  "You'll do no such thing," Aunt Talitha snapped, thumping her cane. "You get back over here, young lady. You volunteered to help with the decorating and for once in your life you are going to finish what you started, Camille Moseby.

  "That's your trouble, young lady. You don't have the fortitude for the long haul. Least little thing comes along to distract you, or annoy you, or looks like greener pastures, or when things don't go exactly your way, you're ready to give up and throw in the towel."

  "But, Auntie—"

  Giving her great-niece an imperious look, Talitha pointed with her cane to the boxes of ornaments left to hang.

  "Oh, all right." Sulking, Camille stomped over to the box and picked up another ornament, muttering under her breath, "I should have gone on that walk with Quinton."

  Mimi backed up as though to view the ornament she'd just hung. Drawing even with Troy, she perched on the arm of his chair and whispered, "You look a little green around
the gills, sugar lump. Say the word and I'll keep her away from you."

  "Oh? How would you manage that?"

  "Simple. I'll tell her you and I are an item."

  "Huh. Talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire."

  "Hmm," Mimi purred, and blinked slowly with almost feline satisfaction. She ran a crimson fingernail through the short, clipped hair at his nape. "Oh, but what a lovely way to burn."

  "You should be so lucky," Elizabeth snapped at Troy. "And kindly remember that an invitation to spend the holidays with us does not give you license to insult my friend."

  "Sorry. I didn't mean to offend."

  "Sure you did," Mimi corrected before turning a concerned look on Elizabeth. "But it's okay, sugar. Don't you go getting yourself upset." She shot Troy a dismissive glance and shrugged one elegant shoulder left bared by the wide neckline of her oversize sweater. "Trust me. I can handle a pipsqueak like Mr. Ellerbee without taking a deep breath."

  "Pipsqueak? Now, just a darned minute—"

  "What about this one?" On the other side of the room, Camille held up an ornament that was a bit battered and tarnished.

  "It looks to me like it's on its last leg," Max said. "Why don't you toss it out?"

  "Oh, no! We can't do that," his wife cried. "That ornament has hung on our tree for over a hundred years. I think it should go near the top, where it won't get jostled and possibly broken."

  "You're absolutely right," Max agreed.

  "Well, then. What are you sitting there for? Get over here, young man, and make yourself useful."

  Max narrowed his eyes. "Like I said. A bossy old harridan." Nevertheless, he did Talitha's bidding.

  Perhaps to anyone else he looked his usual tough, intimidating self, Elizabeth mused. But she was learning to read Max, and the rare twinkle in his eyes told her that he loved being treated as one of the family.

  In the past month he had changed tremendously. The harsh edge was gone, the almost myopic focus on business had broadened to include other aspects of life. He was learning to relax, to appreciate the gifts that he already had—his family and friends, the joy and security of being a part of something lasting like Mimosa Landing.