Trophy Wives

by Jan Colley

  There was nothing more ragingly erotic than a woman who talked dirty, especially when it filtered out through the lips of an angel.

  He wanted to immerse himself, to feel her moving, flowing under and around him. Their kiss promised pleasure to come, and an exchange of tenderness that bewildered him. Too much emotion. He broke off the kiss and nuzzled her throat. Dangerous, maybe life-altering emotion.

  He reached toward the depleted box of condoms on her bedside table where they had been since last night. Quickly sheathing himself, he lay back over her, sinking into her kiss again. His hands moved, inch by inch up her forearms, entwining her fingers in his.

  Face-to-face, bodies pressed together, his hips hunched into the cradle of hers. He eased into her and in the brightening morning light, watched her eyes fill with warmth, spiced with danger.

  Slow and deep. Sweat broke out on his forehead and he nipped and nuzzled her mouth, swallowing her labored little breaths. Her hips rocked and rolled, and he felt himself so deep, so lushly gloved. The humming in his ears sounded like an old refrigerator, surging and retreating and vibrating.

  She rocked and squeezed and her inner thighs gripped him in velvet welcome. The blood screamed through his every vein, every artery. He felt again the change in her body temperature and an intimate swelling. Heard the desperate sighs that signaled her focus. Her fingers were locked onto his and she seemed to gather for a last great push. Ethan tensed and thrust deep.

  Lucy shattered. Incoherent baby words rushed out of her mouth as her head thrashed from side to side. He heard his name, felt her contractions dissolve him into a heavy, drenching mist of pure pleasure.

  Afterward she lay on her side but cuddled in close. Her drawn-up knees were jammed into his gut and she held him tightly.

  “I really love that thing you do,” he murmured into her hair.

  “What thing?”

  “After you come. All elbows and knees and head, like you’re trying to climb right inside my rib cage.”

  He felt her mouth move against his throat. “Do I? Sorry.”

  Ethan increased the pressure of his arms, holding her closer. “I love it. It’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?”

  He listened to her breathing pan out and deepen. He bet she’d gotten little sleep last night after Tom’s bombshell.

  He pressed his lips to the top of her head, feeling little peace himself. Or eagerness to get back to work. Or even self-satisfaction after the best sex of his life.

  She was warm and smelled sexy. For a moment, his chest expanded so completely, his arms were compelled to cuddle her closer. Then a hollow feeling deflated him.

  First things first. Get Turtle Island started. Land the deal.

  Lousy timing, when everything was crashing around her ears. Could he stall, just for a couple of days? On the other hand, he had read the economy reports. Could the islanders afford to alienate MagnaCorp?

  Ethan craned his neck to look at the curve of Lucy’s cheek, the shadows her lashes made on her pale skin.

  Be patient, stick to the plan and in a couple of short years—less—he could relax, kick back, contemplate the future. Maybe with Lucy in it—if she still wanted him.

  Contemplate Lucy.

  Her knees scraped down his body slowly and now there was no impediment between them. She nestled in closer with a contented sigh. His heart swelled again, perplexing him. So much more intimacy than ever before.

  Contemplate love. Loving Lucy.

  Ethan squeezed his eyes shut, then snapped them open again.

  Lucy donned raincoat and gum boots and walked down to clean out the stables. Their stablehand had been cut off by the flood yesterday and she couldn’t return the horses to the stable until the stalls had been cleared.

  She found the smell of sodden slimy straw and mud quite suited her mood. Rank and festering.

  Lucy was tired of people she cared about being indifferent toward her. She must deserve it, because that was all she had ever inspired in people—at least the people she wanted love from. Basically, she wasn’t lovable. Had never been, starting from the day her mother had left.

  Sweep, sweep. She was working up a sweat here.

  There was something about her that meant she would never be number one. She would always be part-time, long-distance, ditzy, nice little Lucy.

  Her pique was unreasonable. She could no more expect him to give up his job, his life than he could expect her to walk away from her birthright. She leaned on her broom, panting with exertion and frustration. If that is what he had been referring to.

  Although if Tom had his way, her birthright would be chopped up and flushed away. And what would she be left with then?

  What she’d always had. Nothing. Nobody. And nowhere to run. She bent her back to her work and was vigorous about it.

  What were the options? The most logical and probable: stay here and battle Tom’s obstinacy, possibly his enemies and definitely his demons, while trying somehow to turn Summerhill from a debt-ridden, badly-run lodge and neglected farm, into—what? Did she even have any idea?

  Or she could jump on the nearest plane and fly off to—Paris? Prague?—though the language would be a problem and languages were so not her forte. Didn’t matter where. It had always worked for her in the past. Until her father had gotten sick and the vein of money had become plugged.

  But—she pulled her hat off, overheating. Maybe Ethan loved her, or could grow to love her. He gave her something. Hope. With him, anything seemed possible. She felt smart, not dumb. She had good ideas. And perhaps now a little belief in herself.

  Her mind darted about like a blind moth.

  What would he do if she told him, right now, she loved him? Would he run just as everyone she had ever cared for had? Could she ever be happy with only a part of him?

  A familiar figure slopped across the yard outside the stables. The stablehand had arrived. She watched him approach but was so deep in thought, she didn’t really register she was no longer alone.

  He stopped and they looked at each other, then he reached out for the broom. “Jeez,” he said, wheezing a little. “We’ve been in drought for three years and now this. It’s all or nothing, eh?”

  He tugged the broom from her grasp and began sweeping. Lucy looked after him, his words seeping through the fetid smell of the stable.

  All or nothing. Why did it have to be? She could eat two pieces of the pie, couldn’t she? Instead of the whole thing or none at all.

  She started for the house before she lost her nerve. Maybe the fermenting straw had addled her brain, but she was going to walk into the house and tell him she was in love with him. She was going to face the issue instead of running. This was life. There was no fairy-tale family life, no loving, indulgent parents. Just Lucy and her equal love for Summerhill land and for Ethan Rae.

  Ethan took the stairs two at a time, fuelled by anger, shame—and relief. In his room, he tossed his bag onto the bed and began to fill it. Relief? Because there was no choice to be made now. Everything was back to normal.

  Acid rose in his throat like the burn of Tom’s words.

  Ethan and Magnus had been in the conference facility for half an hour before Tom burst in. Magnus’s overriding concern was safety—his wife had let slip about the afternoon weather report Tom had chosen to ignore.

  “Can’t control the weather,” Tom had snapped, shooting a venomous look at Ethan. He obviously thought Lucy had blabbed.

  Poor sap. His back was against the wall. Unwittingly, Magnus built the fire, stoked it, till Tom felt he had no option but to blame Lucy for everything.

  “Lady Luck turns her back sometimes, Magnus,” Tom had wheedled. “It’s cyclical. You’re a businessman. You know that.”

  “Not good enough, son. A big part of your business is safety.” Magnus paused, and hammered home the second nail in Lucy’s coffin. “If Lucy hadn’t remembered that hut, we’d still be out there now.”

  Now Ethan yanked savagely on the zip of the
suit compartment of his bag and heard the door open. He threw Lucy an icy look when she entered his room but forced himself to continue with his mental checklist. Shirt, underwear, toiletries—he was nearly done. His movements were quick and efficient but tension wired his jaw and stretched his spine into a hostile rod.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw her hover in the doorway, her black jeans stained and tucked into long woolly socks that dropped bits of plant matter onto the floor. She looked flushed and rumpled.

  “What are you doing?” she asked quietly, twisting her hands together in front of her.

  His hands crushed the clothing down, then he hauled on the zip. Lucy flinched at the scraping thud of the bag hitting the floor. He continued to pretend to ignore her, moving to the table to organize his laptop and briefcase.

  “You really had me going,” he muttered after an age.

  “Wh-what do you mean?”

  “Should have chosen your accomplice with more care.” Bitterness scoured his throat. Tom’s sneering face flashed past his eyes. “Your brother loused it up for you.”

  Without looking at her, Ethan sensed her cringe with foreboding. Not his problem. Laptop snapped shut, papers stacked, briefcase closed. “If he’d just been patient…but Tom couldn’t leave it alone. He burst in, ranting and raving about how he knew we were cutting him loose. How, because of our pillow talk, Magnus knew about the court case, the gambling, the debt, the shady associates.” He smiled grimly at his watch, slapped his pockets. “Funny thing was, I hadn’t told Magnus any of that.”

  Before Tom’s intrusion, Ethan had secured a stay in the decision about Summerhill’s place on the Global List. He’d also mentioned that Lucy had some good ideas that deserved to be given a chance. In an effort to calm Tom, Magnus suggested he take a leaf out of his sister’s book.

  A red rag to a bull…

  The elderly, respected businessman was unprepared for Tom’s insults, the final one: that his precious club was a highfalutin bag of hot air that Summerhill could manage without. Magnus had stormed out, calling loudly to his wife to get her things.

  Ethan laid the briefcase and laptop on top of his bag and scooped up his jacket. Lucy stood silent. Not wanting to, knowing he shouldn’t, he raked his eyes over her face. Not just milky-pale now, a much more deathly hue. Her eyes were anguished; those perfect lips parted slightly.

  Ethan blinked and looked away, pushing his arms into the sleeves of his jacket. Maybe he wasn’t quite as cold, as pitiless as his sense of justice demanded. Seeing her lips tremble would only haunt him later.

  “And then he told me about your carefully orchestrated plan. How you agreed to do anything for Summerhill, even prostitute yourself to snag a rich husband.”

  “What?” Her voice was faint. “No.”

  He turned his back and walked to the window. The lush green of freshly saturated pasture was soothing, but he’d need a whole universe of it to forget Tom’s fleshy lips spitting out the truth. According to him, his sister might not have much in the brain department, but she was as skilled as her worthless mother when it came to playing men—and Ethan had been played like a flute.

  Did you think you were the first? Tom had taunted. You were just rich and single and about thirty years younger than her usual smorgasbord. Ask her why she came home.

  “You told him you would seduce me,” Ethan muttered, “get me—and therefore Magnus—on side. I was your ticket to saving your land.”

  “No.”

  Ethan turned to her, glowering. “Can you deny it?”

  Her lips moved soundlessly. Something awful—a realization—limped across her face. Then guilt. Somehow, without moving a muscle she seemed to shrink. His heart lurched even lower, his jaw clamped even tighter.

  “It was a joke,” she whispered. “The first night we met. I was fooling around.”

  “Very funny.” He walked to his luggage, took the briefcase and laptop in one hand and shouldered the big bag.

  Damn those trembling lips. He had to get out of here. There was a deal to clinch. He should have known better than to mess with emotions while there was work to do.

  An image of his father, smiling benevolently at a twenty-something busty blonde danced in his mind. That one had lasted two or three years but the result was the same. When it ended, she still took his father to the cleaners.

  Ask her why she came home…

  She was frozen to the spot.

  He glared down at her. “Why did you come home, Lucy?”

  Her shoulders jerked. If she was surprised about anything, it was the way he sounded. She had come to love his voice. Deep and smooth as caramel.

  She wanted to cover her ears. He was so harsh, so bitingly cold. This was the man she was about to confess her love for?

  “The stroke.” Her voice wavered. She made an effort. “Dad’s stroke.” Firmer.

  He stared at her face for a long moment. “Wasn’t it because Tom stopped the party fund?”

  Lucy exhaled noisily, opened her mouth, but he cut her off. Disdain twisted his mouth and he clucked his tongue. “Such low expectations, Lucy. I’m wealthy but hardly in the league of some of the men you entice here. And you’d have to wait a while to inherit.”

  She just shook her head miserably. She knew she should defend herself. But her words would bounce off that rigid form, the pitiless glitter in his eyes. What had she ever done or said that made a difference to anyone before?

  “I had wondered if you were a common gold digger from the first. In your position, it wouldn’t be surprising and you were quite open with your charming little quips about wanting a rich husband.”

  She shook her head miserably. “Ethan, if you can believe that…” Her voice sounded about a hundred years old to her ears.

  “I thought you were different. Thought I was a good judge of character—something I will have to reevaluate.”

  His hands gripped his luggage tightly. He straightened. “Your big miscalculation was, I despise women like you. You must have seen that from the get-go.”

  Lucy exhaled, a long ragged breath. “Walk away then.” Her shoulders jerked in another pitiful excuse for a shrug. “It’s easiest.”

  He jerked his chin toward the table. “My check for the accommodation.”

  Lucy’s eyes followed the movement and stayed there. She heard but didn’t watch, knew well enough the sight of a door close in her face. She stared blindly at the table, amazed that there was no pain. Just a constriction in her chest, like the old, familiar iron lung had taken up residency. Without making a conscious decision, her legs took her over to the table. The check lay there, flat, unfeeling.

  That was something else she knew well. A check, if not to make you feel better, then to keep you quiet until the next time something rose up and lodged in your throat so you made a fuss about it. Till someone noticed and looked at you, sighed a long-suffering sigh and wrote out another check.

  Outside, the van moved off down the driveway, crunching on the gravel. She hadn’t even said goodbye to Juliette.

  Twelve

  Ethan walked out of the elevator on the ninth floor to the sharp sound of applause. Dog-tired, bemused, he was surrounded by smiling colleagues shaking his hand, slapping his back. The small throng dispersed when Clark approached with a grin as wide as the Grand Canyon. “We got the fax half an hour ago. You did it!”

  Clark led him to the anteroom of Magnus’s office, still pumping his hand heartily. Even the very proper Beryce, Magnus’s PA for twenty years, was rising, smiling, ushering them through the door into the office.

  Where was the relief, he wondered as he was enveloped in a bear hug? The triumph? The satisfaction that accompanied revenge?

  His boss sloshed overgenerous slugs of cognac into glasses, serving the three of them, lighting their cigars. The excited flow of words between the other two men never faltered. They toasted each other and sat.

  “Holy cow, boy! It’s the deal of the century, even though it cost me both arms a
nd both legs.”

  Ethan listened, drank, smoked and chastised himself for his lack of enthusiasm.

  “When can you get started?”

  He swallowed the burning liquid and squinted through a heavy haze of smoke. “You like the islands, Clark?” he asked finally. “Pack enough for a couple of years.”

  He drained his glass and watched the delight fade on his mentor’s face.

  Hours later, fuzzy-headed from unaccustomed afternoon drinking, he walked into his harbor-side apartment, tossed his jacket over a chair and called his father in Perth. “How you doing?”

  “What?”

  Ethan was ashamed at the astonishment in Jackson Rae’s voice. His usual inquiries were about work, or the latest squeeze. They exchanged stilted pleasantries then Ethan took a deep breath. “You’re out of the picture for Turtle Island.”

  There was a long pause. “How did you know I bid?”

  “Didn’t. I guessed you would.”

  “Should have known you wouldn’t call just to say gidday.”

  Ethan knew he deserved that. In the silence that followed, he racked his brain to come up with something to soften the blow. He had a lot to learn about building bridges. But you had to start somewhere. “I’m—sorry.”

  “Must have been a hell of a deal,” his father growled.

  “It was. I’ve resigned,” he added.

  There was another lengthy pause. “You and that old reprobate fallen out?”

  “Parted on excellent terms.” A throb in his temple reminded him of the depleted level of liquid left in the brandy bottle. They had parted close. Maudlin close.

  “What will you do? There is a place for you here.”

  Ethan smiled at the lightning-quick offer. “Thanks but no, Dad.” He heard his father’s breath catch. He probably hadn’t called him Dad since he’d been a young boy. At school, he was “sir.” On his rare home visits, he used “Father,” and on his few-and-far-between phone calls he usually just announced, “It’s Ethan,” to preclude having to use a title. “I’m going to farm.”