“So, it’s not really a marriage you’re proposing, it’s a straight-out trade. Your money for my name,” Morganna said.

“That’s the deal,” Sloan replied.

“Usually, you know, it’s older guys who have divorced their first wives who are looking for a trophy to display.”

“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. “Convince me that what you’re offering is worth the price you’re asking.”

To have and to hold…

Their marriage was meant to last—and they have the gold rings to prove it!

To love and to cherish…

But what happens when their promise to love, honor and cherish is put to the test?

From this day forward…

Emotions run high as husbands and wives discover how precious—and fragile—their wedding vows are…. Will true love keep them together—forever?

Marriages meant to last!

Part-Time Marriage (#3680)

by Jessica Steele

His Trophy Wife
Leigh Michaels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Dan Thompson of the Kansas State Fire Marshal’s Office. Thanks for the wholehearted way you threw yourself into this project!

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

PROLOGUE

HIS office was seriously out of style these days, compared to the sleek corner suites occupied by many corporate executives. It didn’t boast deep carpeting or antique furniture or original art. And its windows didn’t show off a stunning panorama of a landscape or a city skyline or even a sunset. Instead Sloan Montgomery’s very old-fashioned office lay almost at the center of the building that housed Sticks & Stones, and its windows overlooked the production line. That arrangement had been the standard in industrial design eighty years before, when the building was new, and Sloan had never seen any reason to change it. He could keep a closer eye on the furniture being built down on the factory floor when all he had to do was turn around from his desk to take a look. And he had always been able to think better with the rumble and whine of the machines in the background.

His right-hand man, the controller of Sticks & Stones, tapped on the half-open door of Sloan’s office. “Here’s that information you wanted.” He laid a folder on the corner of the desk. “The credit report is right on top. It’s not a pretty sight.”

Sloan’s fingers itched to reach for the folder, but he schooled himself to patience. This had waited a long time; it would last a minute longer, till he was alone. “Thanks, Joel.”

The controller showed no inclination to leave. Instead he moved around the end of the desk to stand with his back to the stream of warm air coming from the space heater which warmed the office on cold mornings. “I know it’s none of my business—”

Very true, Sloan thought.

“But I can’t get straight in my mind why you want all that information. As far as I can see, Burke Ashworth had nothing to do with Sticks & Stones. He wasn’t a competitor or a supplier. He wasn’t even a customer, and thank heaven for that, because it appears he owed money to everybody but us in three states by the time he drove his car off that bridge.”

“There are more ways to be in debt than by owing money, Joel.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Joel sounded doubtful. “It appears that he did it on purpose. Drove off the bridge, I mean. There was still a suicide clause on his life insurance policy.”

“So he was trying to make his death appear to be an accident?”

Joel nodded. “Not very successfully, I’d say. Look at the whole picture. He was up to his neck in debt with no way to pay it off. About the only thing he actually owned was the car he was driving, and it’s just scrap metal now.”

“He could have declared bankruptcy.”

“From what I’ve heard, Burke Ashworth would rather be tragically dead than look like a loser. Besides, filing for bankruptcy wouldn’t have done him much good—the federal government doesn’t forgive things like unpaid income tax. No, a convenient accident was his only way out. I couldn’t locate a single asset that hasn’t already been spoken for by a half-dozen creditors.”

Now there, Sloan thought, his controller—good as he was—had missed the mark. For Burke Ashworth had left behind an unencumbered asset. Just one.

He had left a daughter.

And if Sloan played his cards right, Morganna Ashworth would pay off her father’s debt. Every last fragment of it.

CHAPTER ONE

Six Months Later

THE four of them were laughing over some silly thing—Morganna didn’t even remember what it had been—when she caught a glimpse of the dainty platinum watch on her wrist. “Time for me to go home,” she said, pushing her chair back from the bridge table. “Sloan will be back from San Francisco today.”

“And the little wife wants to be waiting to welcome him home from his business trip,” said the redhead sitting next to her. “Even after half a year of marriage—how touching.”

From the seat on Morganna’s other side, a brunette rolled her eyes. “Don’t be sarcastic, Sherrie. You know perfectly well if it was you instead of Morganna that Sloan was coming home to, you’d be standing by the front door waiting for him.”

“For Sloan Montgomery? Not on your life,” Sherrie said. “I’d already be in the bedroom.”

They all laughed, but Morganna had to make an effort. And she noticed as she looked across the table at her hostess that Emily’s amusement, too, was only on the surface; her eyes were not smiling.

“It really isn’t fair, Morganna,” Sherrie went on. “He’s not only gorgeous, but all you have to do is murmur that you want something, and you’ve got it. Your house, that rock on your left hand, your new car—talk about the woman who has everything. Even if the rest of us were lucky enough to stumble onto a guy who’d buy us anything we wanted, trust me—he’d be eighty-two and toothless. Sloan is everything a woman could want.”

The envy which dripped from Sherrie’s voice seemed to turn to sulfuric acid against Morganna’s skin. But, she told herself, it was crazy to resent Sherrie’s perceptions of her marriage, when the woman had picked up precisely the image that Morganna had worked very hard to project.

Emily walked her to the door. “Sherrie and Carol mean well, Morganna. They just don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“And that’s exactly the way I want to keep it.” Morganna forced a smile.

It wasn’t even that the two were so far off track, she admitted to herself as she turned her new sports car toward the gated neighborhood of Pemberton Place and the Georgian-style mansion she called home. Sloan was gorgeous—and he was generous to a fault. Morganna had quickly learned to be careful of what she admired, for whatever she looked approvingly at was apt to turn up on her breakfast tray within a day or two. After a few episodes, she’d learned to bite her tongue.

She’d slipped up on the car, though. She’d commented—without even thinking about it—that the new convertibles looked like fun. Less than a week later, hers had shown up in the driveway. It was even her favorite color.

Sherrie was right—Sloan was everything a woman could want. So why was Morganna so unhappy?

She parked the convertible in the garage next to Sloan’s black Jaguar. The presence of his car didn’t mean he was home, however; it had been sitting there all week while he was gone. She’d offered to take him to the airport and to pick him up on his return, but he’d said he didn’t want to put her to the trouble and he’d called a cab instead.

Of course, she thought with a hint of bitterness, a trophy wife wasn’t supposed to be practical, only decorative. And that was all she was to Sloan Montgomery, Morganna knew—a trophy. A mile marker of how far he had raised himself. He’d gone from the factory floor to the owner’s office, from a walk-up apartment to a mansion in Lakemont’s most exclusive neighborhood, from the wrong side of the tracks to an alliance with one of the oldest and best-known families in the city.

She knew quite well what she was to him—because he’d told her, on the day he had proposed marriage, precisely what he wanted her to be. A symbol, visible to all the world, of his success. A trophy wife.

She let herself in the side door and in the shadowed corridor she almost bumped into the butler. He’d been hovering, she thought—waiting for her. Wanting to warn her, obviously—but of what?

“Is Mr. Montgomery home?” she asked.

Selby’s voice was lower than usual. “Not yet, Miss Morganna. I believe his plane should be landing any time.”

“Then what’s wrong? And don’t tell me that nothing is, because I can see by your expression that you’re worried.”

Selby’s tone dropped even further. “Your mother is here. None of us knew she was coming, Miss Morganna. She just appeared on the doorstep this afternoon.”

And that, Morganna knew, signaled trouble. Obviously Abigail Ashworth hadn’t come all the way from Phoenix to Lakemont, Wisconsin, for afternoon tea, or simply for the fun of the trip. More to the point, she didn’t make a habit of dropping in uninvited. In fact, this was the first time since she’d moved to Phoenix, right after Morganna’s wedding, that she’d been back. Though Morganna had made it plain that her mother would always be welcome in her house, Abigail Ashworth had pointed out that the Georgian mansion was now Sloan’s home, too, and she couldn’t take his hospitality for granted.

Yet now she had done exactly that. Big trouble, Morganna thought grimly. “Where is she?”

“In the miniature room.”

Morganna started across the hall to where a nine-foot-tall pocket door stood open a couple of inches. She pushed the walnut panel back and stepped inside.

Despite its name, the room itself was anything but miniature. In fact, it was one of the largest in the house, intended by the builders to be a music room with plenty of space for dancing. Its contents were what had given the room its name, for it was full of tiny treasures. Some of the diminutive dolls and accompanying furnishings had belonged to Morganna’s grandmother, but most had been gifts to Morganna herself, souvenirs from her travels, or items she had created on her own. Half-museum, half-workshop, the room was Morganna’s favorite in the entire house.

Literally at the center of the collection, standing on a specially built cabinet in the middle of the room, was a miniature reproduction of the full-size mansion. Architecturally correct down to the most infinitesimal detail, it was more museum piece than plaything, even though it had been Morganna’s birthday gift the year she was nine.

She looked past the dollhouse to her mother. Abigail Ashworth sent a vague smile in her daughter’s direction and straightened the fingernail-size envelopes in the brass mailbox beside the front door of the miniature house.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you,” Morganna said.

“Why should you be waiting for me, dear, when I didn’t let you know I was coming?”

At least that answered one question, Morganna thought. Her mother wasn’t confused about whether she’d been invited. Not that she’d harbored any real doubts about Abigail’s mental faculties. “It’s a nice surprise to see you, of course. But I have to ask, Mom—what brings you back to Lakemont at this time of year?”

“You know Indian summer was always my favorite season.”

“Believe me, that’s going to be over any day. The evenings are already getting so damp and chilly that a fire feels good.”

Abigail sighed. “All right. If you must know, there’s a man.”

Morganna’s jaw dropped. Her mother, in love? “Here?”

“No, in Phoenix. He’s moved into the apartment complex, and he seems to think he’s in love with me. The more I try to discourage him, the more determined he gets.”

That made more sense. “So you’re escaping from him?”

“I feel sure that if I’m simply unavailable, Robert will find someone else to focus on. Heaven knows Phoenix has no shortage of eligible women.” Abigail smiled brightly. “A month or so should do it, I think.”

A month. Morganna’s heart sank, but she forced a cheerful note into her voice. “That’s great, Mom. It seems we never have enough time together anymore to do everything we’d like, but with a whole month…Has Selby given you a room?”

“Yes, dear. And I’m going upstairs to it right now, so you and Sloan can have your reunion without an audience.” Abigail winked and turned toward the door.

Morganna forced herself to wait long enough for her mother to reach the top of the stairs before she ducked back into the hallway. Sloan was due to walk in at any moment, and she had to intercept him. She simply could not take the chance that he’d run into Abigail without warning. Surprised, he might slip up—and if he said one wrong word…

Morganna was standing by the front door and calculating times in her head—if his flight was on schedule, if he’d had no trouble getting a cab, if rush hour traffic had been no worse than usual—when she saw an airport limousine maneuver through the gates of Pemberton Place and pull up in front of the mansion. By the time Sloan got out, she had the front door open and was hovering just inside.

Sloan paused on the sidewalk. The light of the decorative lamps at the front of the house fell in sharp angles across his face, highlighting the rugged good looks which always took Morganna’s breath away for an instant whenever she first laid eyes on him. The effect was stronger than usual today—but then it had been nearly a week since he’d left. He wasn’t wearing a coat, only a dark-gray wool suit, and at thirty-five he was as lean and athletic-looking as most men who were a decade younger.

Without haste, Sloan shifted the weight of his garment bag and briefcase and climbed the shallow steps to the entrance. “This is a surprise,” he said dryly. “Finding you waiting by the door for me. But you’ve forgotten the good little housewife’s standard props, haven’t you? Pipe, slippers, newspaper, martini—”

Irritated, Morganna said, “You don’t smoke, it’s too early for slippers, you’ve no doubt already read the newspaper and you don’t like martinis. And there’s a very good reason why I’m standing here.”

“There must be. I never doubted it.” Sloan set his bags down and looked her over, his dark eyes intent. “And you’re not very happy about the reason, are you? Well, let’s go somewhere private and you can tell me about it.” He reached out as if to drape an arm around her shoulders.

Morganna had already moved toward the drawing room. Once inside, she sat on the edge of a chair and said, “My mother’s here. And she’s planning to stay a while.”

“That’s nice.”

“Nice? Are you out of your mind?”

“I like Abigail. Always have.”

Then it’s too bad you didn’t marry her instead of me, Morganna wanted to say. She bit her tongue hard. “Well, I like her too, Sloan—too much to let her be worried, or to suspect that we’re not happy.”

Sloan moved over to the drinks tray, poured himself a whisky and handed Morganna a club soda. “In other words, you don’t want her to know the price you paid so she could have her comfortable life in Phoenix.”

“What good would it do if she found out?”

“None, of course. You can rest easy, Morganna—she won’t discover it from me. Of course, it may be more of a challenge for you to pretend to be deliriously happy.” He picked up his glass and left the room. From the hall, she heard the deep murmur of his voice, and then the butler’s softer reply.

Morganna rubbed her temples. The irony in his voice was like an ice pick to her heart. Where had she gone so wrong?

It had all seemed so logical, so straightforward, when it had begun—just over six months ago, and barely a week after the world had caved in on Morganna and her mother.

It had been several days after Burke Ashworth’s fatal car accident before Morganna had begun to realize the perilous situation her father had left them in. But as soon as she started to absorb the facts, confirmation crept in from every side. The banker calling to demand payment on the mortgage, the stockbroker announcing with regret that the value in Burke’s portfolio was not adequate to cover his margin calls—those things were only the beginning of a downhill slide that seemed to have no bottom.

That was probably why, when Sloan Montgomery had shown up at the house, Morganna had agreed to see him—even though she barely knew him. Because, she thought, talking to him couldn’t possibly make things worse.

The memories of that day were carved into the very cells of her brain. She’d been sitting with her mother in the drawing room, receiving callers. A horrifying percentage of them had turned out to be her father’s creditors, and though she had tried to convince her mother that there was no need to see each and every one, Abigail insisted. Morganna could only watch with helpless anxiety as Abigail’s exhaustion reached crushing proportions. It wasn’t until the stream of creditors had ended that Abigail finally agreed to go and rest.

Just then Selby had brought in a business card, neatly centered on a silver tray. Morganna could have screamed at him.

Abigail took the card, her hands trembling with fatigue. “This must be another one, because I don’t recognize the name.”

Morganna looked over her shoulder. “No, Mom. This one’s for me.”

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 over 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.

Her dark green dress was one he’d seen her wear at least a dozen times before, and he idly wondered which point she was trying to make tonight by wearing it instead of something new. Was she emphasizing her reluctance to shop for clothes because spending his money left her feeling even more in his debt? Or was she subtly pointing out that she didn’t think he was worth dressing up for?

In public, where her friends or his business associates might notice, she was always a fashion plate, elegantly garbed and groomed and seldom wearing the same dress twice. If he’d remembered to tell her earlier that Joel was coming for dinner, Morganna would no doubt have come downstairs looking as if she was off to the Carousel Ball immediately after dessert. Sloan had suspected on occasion that she was actually trying to look like a caricature of the leader of society he’d said he wanted her to be.

In private, however, things were different. Though to a casual onlooker she would always have appeared just as neat and well-turned-out, she was in fact far less elegant. She wore the same few dresses—all ones she had owned before their wedding—and she ignored the stock of jewelry with which he’d supplied her.

Probably, he thought, she would like him to believe that on the nights they dined alone she was in the habit of simply seizing the first thing she touched in her closet, without even noticing what it was. In fact, he thought it was more likely that she deliberately planned what she wore, and how often, in the hope of annoying him.

Not that her campaign of irritation would succeed. It didn’t matter to Sloan if she wanted to wear the same dinner dress for the next thirty years—especially if it was this particular dress, which hugged her figure with its deceptively demure shape and enticed despite an innocently high-cut neckline. He suspected if Morganna had any idea precisely how attractive he found that dress, she’d have donated it to the thrift shop long ago.

“That old thing again?” he murmured as she came within arm’s length. He took her hand and drew her closer, till his lips brushed across her cheek. “Your wardrobe is becoming incredibly boring, my dear.”

She said under her breath, “I’ll keep your objections in mind.”

“Meaning that you intend to go right on wearing the same old clothes. Perhaps I should mention the problem to your mother.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Don’t push me.” He laid the velvet box across her palm and let a husky note creep into his voice. “Happy anniversary, darling.”

He saw the flash of irritation in her eyes, but obediently Morganna unsnapped the box and lifted the lid. Inside, on a bed of black satin, lay a river of fire—a bracelet of diamonds too numerous to count, perfectly matched and set into a braided chain of platinum that had made him think of her pale blond hair.

Irritation had given way to dismay, he saw as she raised her gaze to meet his. Her eyes were stormy blue-gray, and one crystal tear clung to her dark lashes. “Stop this,” she whispered. “Stop torturing me.”

He bent closer. “It’s a gift, Morganna.”

“It’s a ball and chain, and you know it.”

He lifted the bracelet from the box. “Would you rather put it on or explain to your mother why you don’t want to wear it?” He watched her swallow hard before she held out her hand. He fastened the bracelet, then raised her wrist so he could press his lips against the pulse point. Deliberately he pitched his voice just above a murmur—suggestively low, but just loud enough for the two onlookers to hear. “I’ll wait to get my real thank-you later, when we’re alone. Now, I think Selby is making signals about dinner. Shall we go in?”

The bracelet seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, and every time Morganna raised her fork, the diamonds on her wrist caught the light from the chandelier and shattered it into knife points that hurt her eyes.

Six months, she thought. It would be six months next week since the wedding. Since the first and most ostentatious of the gifts.

She had been taken completely off guard at the wedding breakfast, when Sloan, after giving Abigail her check, had handed Morganna an envelope containing the deed to the Georgian-style mansion—a legal document detailing that the property now belonged jointly to Sloan Montgomery and Morganna Ashworth Montgomery. Husband and wife.

“Just a little wedding gift,” he’d said, and Abigail had exclaimed in delight at the idea that her daughter’s childhood home and the multitude of treasures it contained were now Morganna’s to keep.

Morganna herself had shuddered at the thought—not because she didn’t want the house, for she had shed tears over the thought of losing it, but because the image of debt piling upon debt made her stomach churn. Only then did she realize that somewhere in the back of her mind she had cherished the vague hope of being able one day to pay back the money he had provided for her mother, so she could be free of Sloan Montgomery. But how could she ever be free if she, too, took from his bounty?

Under her breath, without looking at Sloan, she’d said, “I didn’t ask for anything from you. And I won’t take anything from you.”

Sloan had leaned across her to top off her already-full champagne glass. “That’s your tough luck, Morganna, because I’ll give you anything I damned well want to.”

In startled silence, she had turned to stare at him.

“I understand quite well that you’d prefer being a martyr to accepting my gifts. Living in a cardboard box and eating cat food—wasn’t that what you told me you’d sooner do than marry me?”

Morganna’s voice was taut. “Don’t expect me to believe you did this out of fondness for me. You only put my name on this deed to impress my mother. If you’d been doing it for me, you’d have made the house mine entirely.”

“I could have wiped out your father’s debts outright, too, instead of promising to pay them off over the next couple of years. But do you think I’m such a fool that I’d hand you everything you want at a swoop in return for nothing but a promise? We made a deal, Morganna. Now that you’re my wife, you have an image to maintain, and part of your performance is to graciously accept the generous gifts of your seemingly smitten husband. Get used to it.”

She’d had six months to become accustomed to Sloan’s way of doing things, but it hadn’t made a difference. Six years wouldn’t change things, either, she thought wearily, if—God forbid—it came to that.

It wasn’t that his gifts were garish or ill-chosen. Showy as the diamond bracelet was, it was in perfect taste; the quality of the stones was what made the bracelet so attention-getting, not a flashy setting. It was the motivation behind the gifts that Morganna found so hard to swallow, and the fact that her wishes didn’t enter into his plans at all.

And why should she expect him to consult her, she wondered bitterly. It would be silly to ask a department-store dummy what she wanted to wear; a plastic mannequin had no opinion. And, it was all too clear to Morganna, that was precisely how her husband viewed her. She was nothing more than a prop in his magic show—a bit of stage dressing to help convince the audience how stupendous her husband was.

So Morganna did what she had to do. In public she was the perfect trophy, smiling and happy, wearing diamonds Sloan had chosen and designer clothes purchased with his money. In private, she wore what she liked. And if he was tired of seeing her hunter-green dinner dress, that was just his tough luck, because she intended to wear it till it was threadbare. Fortunately it was one of her favorites; if she’d hated the dress she might not have been as eager to annoy him with it.

After dinner the men excused themselves to finish their business discussion, while Morganna and Abigail returned to the drawing room to sit beside a freshly stoked fire. Morganna hardly noticed the passage of time or the drift of the conversation until her mother said, “I expected by now you would have redecorated the drawing room, Morganna.”

“I think it’s fine the way it is, Mother.” And to redecorate would simply add one more item to the list of things I owe Sloan.

“Don’t be silly, child,” Abigail said flatly. “I know for a fact that you’ve always disliked the dark hangings that I put in here. And I have to admit, at this time of year and with winter closing in, it’s a gloomy sort of room—not at all the cozy feeling I was trying to achieve. Perhaps the depressing atmosphere in here is why you seem to be drooping tonight.”

Morganna seized the excuse. Tomorrow, she thought, I’ll be able to handle this. But not tonight. “I was hoping it didn’t show—but I am tired, Mother. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go on up to bed.”

“I don’t mind at all, dear. I’ll just walk up with you and get my book.”

At the foot of the stairs, Abigail paused. “Aren’t you going to say good-night to your husband?”

The very question startled Morganna, and she had to stop and think about how a normal married couple would act. That reaction alone showed how shatteringly peculiar their situation was, she thought. “I’m sure he’d rather not be disturbed, Mother. When he’s talking business with Joel—”

“Nonsense,” Abigail announced, and before Morganna could protest she’d knocked at the library door and pushed it open.

Sloan paused in the middle of a sentence and looked inquiringly at them. “Sorry to interrupt,” Morganna said, more abruptly than she’d intended. “I just wanted to say good night.”

She was already backing out of the doorway when Sloan moved toward her. “Is it so late? I’m terribly sorry, darling.” He looked over his shoulder. “We’re almost finished, aren’t we, Joel?”

The controller shook his head. “I’m afraid not. There’s still the matter of updating all the property insurance on the factory, and there’s also a customer problem that came up while you were gone.”

Sloan shrugged. “Then it will be a little longer, Morganna. In case you’re asleep by the time I come upstairs—” He slipped one arm around her shoulders, and with the other hand he cupped her chin and raised her face to his.

Morganna had opened her mouth to object before she thought better of it, so her lips were parted when he kissed her. She tensed at the first brush of his mouth, panic rising in her. Even at their wedding, he hadn’t touched her this intimately, and every cell in her body shrieked in protest.

As her reluctance surged, Sloan’s arms tightened, drawing her even closer. Though she knew his embrace must have looked like that of an experienced and welcomed lover, Morganna couldn’t mistake the steel that held her fast. She couldn’t have broken free from his hold even if his kiss, soft as the graze of a butterfly’s wing, hadn’t turned her knees the consistency of oatmeal.

She was trembling by the time he let her go, and he steadied her for a moment with both hands on her shoulders. “Unquestionably,” he said huskily, “I’ve been gone from home much too long.”

By the time he finally got Joel out the door, the house was quiet. Even the butler had taken Sloan’s advice and gone on to bed. Yawning, Sloan scattered the embers in the library fireplace, put the last of his papers in his briefcase and checked the locks before he climbed the stairs.

In the upper hall, he paused for a moment to listen to the silence and looked thoughtfully down the hall to the closed door of Morganna’s bedroom. Though that good-night kiss had been intended as pure theater, it had not remained a simple performance for long. But he hadn’t had enough time to fully assess Morganna’s reaction to the embrace. At first she had been annoyed, certainly, and reluctant—those feelings had exuded from every muscle as he’d held her. But there had been something else as well, something he hadn’t quite been able to identify before he’d had to let her go. It wasn’t anger that had made her go weak in the knees. Had it been the faint flutter of desire?—or had he merely seen what he wanted to see?

As he opened the door of the master bedroom, instinct made him pause for a split second to assess his surroundings. Was something actually wrong, or was the room merely different? An instant later, he realized what had prompted his caution, and his body tightened.

“Morganna,” he said gently. Only then did he look around, searching for an extra shadow in the darkened room and spotting her in the window seat with her feet drawn up and her arms wrapped around her knees. “What gives me the singular honor of finding you waiting for me in my bedroom?”

She sounded almost petulant. “How did you know I was here?”

Sloan touched one of the bedside lamps and it glowed softly. “Your perfume. Midnight Passion isn’t something I’m used to smelling—at least not in this room. Next time you try to hide, you might want to wash it off first.”

“I’m not hiding. I need to talk to you.”

“I was afraid it would be something like that.” He tugged his tie loose and dropped his cuff links in a tray on the dresser. Without hurry, he began to unbutton his shirt.

“Would you stop that?”

“What? Undressing? It’s my room, I’ve had a long day, and I’m tired. What do you want, anyway?”

“I want you to stop this preposterous behavior in front of my mother.”

“You told me you didn’t want Abigail to have reason to suspect that we might not be quite as happily married as she’d like.”

“Yes, I did.” Her admission was obviously reluctant. “But you don’t have to pretend that we can’t keep our hands off each other. Your attempt at demonstrating affection was rude and distasteful.”

“To whom? It seemed to me that toward the end you were starting to enjoy it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, you were contradicting yourself.”

He frowned. “How exactly am I supposed to have contradicted myself?”

“First you made it sound as if we rushed right off to bed the instant you got home. Then when I came in to say good night, you implied that we hadn’t done anything of the sort.”

“And how did I do that?”

“I’ve been gone from home much too long,” she quoted, sounding impatient.

“Oh, that.” He grinned. “Your mother probably thought I meant it was time to rush off to bed again. After a whole week’s absence, you know, once would hardly be—”

She had turned faintly pink. “Well, you’ve made your point, Sloan. You can knock it off now.” She stood up. “Oh—and don’t get any crazy ideas about why I’m in your bedroom, now or any other time.”

He draped his shirt over the back of a chair. “Are there going to be other times?”

“Probably.” Morganna sighed. “Mother came upstairs with me tonight.”

Sloan was honestly puzzled by the switch of subjects. “What’s that got to do with anything? Where else could she go? The guest rooms are all on this floor.”

“She lived in this house for thirty years, Sloan—she knows where the master bedroom is. I could hardly stroll down the hall to my room with her standing outside the guest room door watching me. So I came in here instead.”

He shrugged out of his shirt and kicked off his shoes. “I see. If we were a normal married couple, we’d be sharing this room—and that’s what she expects. I get it.”

“Good for you. Unfortunately it’s likely to happen again. I just want you to understand that any time I have to spend in your bedroom has nothing to do with you.”

“So what are you planning to do with all the time you’ll be waiting? I suppose we could sit on my bed and play penny-ante poker every night until you’re sure Abigail’s asleep and you can sneak down the hall to your own room. But how are you planning to keep her from noticing that when Selby brings up your breakfast tray in the morning he doesn’t deliver it to the master bedroom?”

It was obvious from the way she caught her breath that Morganna hadn’t yet considered that difficulty.

“And considering your fondness of breakfast in bed,” Sloan mused, “I doubt you’d find it appealing to get up at the crack of dawn every day so you could beat her downstairs.”

“I suppose we could knock a hole in the wall between your closet and mine so the suites connect.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “That way I could just stroll through your bedroom every time I want to go to my own, and you wouldn’t have to put up with my presence for any length of time.”

“Not a bad idea, but I think she’d ask questions about the noise and the workmen. Anyway, my suggestion is much less dusty than yours.” Sloan walked into the bathroom and reached for a toothbrush. “Move in here with me,” he said over his shoulder.

“Pretend to share a bed? That would take more acting than I want to think about. I suppose we could take turns sleeping on the window seat, but she could be here for the next month.”

“I didn’t say anything about pretending.” Sloan smeared toothpaste on his brush and started to count off the seconds, betting with himself about exactly how long it would take her to react.

Before he’d reached five, Morganna was standing in the bathroom door. “If you think for a single moment that I’m actually going to sleep with you, Sloan Montgomery—”

“Not a single moment,” he conceded. “I’ve been thinking it for more like six months.”

He brushed his teeth for a full three minutes, dividing his attention between watching the silently shifting expressions on her face and cataloging the contents of the bathroom. It was fortunate, he decided, that he didn’t own a straight-edged razor, because if she couldn’t get her hands on one, she couldn’t slit his throat with it—no matter how much she looked as if she’d like to try.

“No.” The single word sounded as if she were strangling.

He pretended not to have heard. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this anyway. You’ve had six months to get used to the idea of being married, and now it’s time to take the next step.”

“This has never been a marriage, it’s a merger.”

“Up till now, yes. But really, Morganna—you’re surely not naive enough to think I intended it to stay that way.”

“But you already have everything you wanted from me! The house, the listing in the social register, the trophy wife on your arm at parties—for heaven’s sake, Sloan, they’re going to ask you to be one of the official hosts at the Carousel Ball!”

He was momentarily distracted. “I must admit I’d like to know how you pulled that one off, Morganna. But what makes you think that’s all I wanted?”

“What else is there?”

He said, slowly and very deliberately, “I want the Montgomery name to have the same respect in future generations that the Ashworths have had in the past. In short, I want my children to be accepted as the cream of Lakemont society.”

Her eyes were wide and unfocused, as if she was looking at a scene too awful to comprehend. “Your children—and mine, you mean? No.”

“Why? Because you think your bloodline is too rarefied to mix with a barbarian’s?”

The dart struck home; he saw her shudder. “Because you’re not interested in me that way.”

“Of course I am. I’m no monk, and you’re a very attractive woman.”

“But in six months you’ve never even suggested…You only kissed me tonight because Mother was watching.”

“I’ve been biding my time, waiting for the right moment to take the next step. Tonight just made me think about what I’ve been missing and decide that the time is now. As for the idea that I’m not interested in you—I’ll be happy to demonstrate how very wrong you are about that. Come here.”

She backed up instead. “Please, Sloan—don’t be insulting. We both know I’m hardly the only woman who would have satisfied your requirements for a wife. I’m only here because at the moment you started shopping, I was available and my price was lower than most.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Do you have any idea what your father has cost me already? And I’m not nearly done clearing up the mess he left behind.”

Her eyes widened. “If you think you can blackmail me into your bed by threatening to stop paying the debts you took over—”

“Coerce you by going back on the terms of our deal? Of course not. I wouldn’t do that any more than I’d use force.”

He saw relief register in her face.

“I’ve been very patient, Morganna. You’ve had six months to get used to the situation. I’ve given you every opportunity to see the advantages of being married to me, and I’ve made it plain that I intend this to be a long-term bargain. It’s time to move on to the next stage of the relationship. Make it a real marriage.”

“I suppose you set this up.” She sounded bitter. “Inviting my mother, I mean, so she’d put pressure on me.”

“Not guilty. As a matter of fact, Abigail’s visit startled me just as much as it did you. I’ll admit if I’d thought of the scheme, I might have engineered it—”

“That’s certainly no surprise.”

“But I didn’t think of it. Her timing is very convenient for my purposes, but then it’s no crime to take advantage of handy accidents. Do you know, I think I’ve looked at that dress quite long enough for one evening. Shall I help you out of it, my dear?”

She folded her arms across her chest. “You said you wouldn’t use force.”

“And I won’t—because I don’t need to. You’ll come to me, Morganna.”

“I’m leaving now.” Her voice was shaky.

He didn’t move to intercept her as she made her way across the room, but he didn’t step out of her path, either. “You’ll come to me,” he repeated softly, “because if you don’t—”

She stopped less than two feet away and turned to face him. “Because if I don’t—then what? You’ll tell my mother on me? How ludicrous can you get, Sloan?”

Sloan shook his head. “Because if you don’t, you’ll regret it. Not because of anything I’ll do, but because of what you’ll be missing, Morganna.” With a single step he closed the distance between them and cupped her cheeks in his hands. Her breath was shallow and uneven; he could feel her panic in the rigidity of her face. “Whether you know it or not, you have appetites, my dear. And I intend to be the man who satisfies them.”

CHAPTER THREE

WHERE his fingertips had rested, Morganna’s skin burned as if he had branded her. And by simply cupping her face in his hands, he’d apparently done something to her balance, too, for she stumbled over thin air as she fled down the hall to the quiet safety of her own bedroom.

Her mind was spinning. She’d known from the beginning that Sloan drove a hard bargain, but she had assumed that he would stand by his word. She hadn’t realized till tonight that the man was a snake—keeping his real agenda hidden until it was too late for her to back out of their deal.

I want my children to be accepted…

She shuddered at the very idea. How she had managed to keep her voice steady enough even to answer him was beyond her comprehension.

My children, he had said. Not our children. That had stung. Not that she’d have found the more inclusive description any more inviting, of course. No matter what the circumstances, she was hardly likely to grow starry-eyed over the notion that Sloan wanted her to carry his child. Even if he’d pretended romantic interest in her, she wouldn’t have been swayed.

In fact, however, the phrase was simple confirmation of what Morganna had known all along—that to Sloan she was nothing more than a means to an end. Any of a half-dozen other women she could think of would have been just as acceptable to him as Morganna was—as his wife, his ticket into Lakemont society, the mother of his children….

Children. The nerve of the man!

But he had made one mistake, Morganna told herself. In his almighty confidence, believing that all he had to do was crook his finger and she would fall into his arms like an overripe fruit, Sloan had sworn off the one approach that might have actually gotten him what he wanted. He had disdained the entire idea of using force. And he had scorned the use of coercion—which in Morganna’s opinion was just about the same thing.

You’ll come to me, he had said, without either pressure or duress being brought to bear. But in that, he was dead wrong. Morganna could not imagine any circumstances which would make the idea of a real marriage palatable to her. The notion that she would cheerfully volunteer for wifely duties was farcical.

It was long past time for Sloan Montgomery to be taken down a notch. Now Morganna just had to figure out exactly how to do it.

Morganna had finally gone to sleep, repeating over and over her determination to wake early enough to be downstairs before her mother rose. It shouldn’t be difficult, she told herself, no matter what Sloan thought. Her mother was no more a morning person than Morganna herself was. Besides, Phoenix was two time zones later than Lakemont, and Abigail’s internal clock would take a few days to adjust. She might even sleep till noon.

But Morganna’s rest had been fitful, and somewhere in the middle of the night her subconscious decided to ignore the orders she’d given. As a result, the household was wide-awake by the time Morganna roused. The first thing she heard, in fact, was Sloan’s voice just outside her bedroom door, and the novelty of it made her abruptly sit upright, her heart pounding. He never came to her room. For him to be there this morning, after the incredible demands he’d made last night—

“I’ll take that tray, Selby,” Sloan said. “Good morning, Abigail. I’m sure Morganna will want you to come in, but let me check first to be sure she’s at least got a nightgown on by now. Earlier this morning…well, you know…”

Morganna’s hand curled on the first object she could reach, which happened to be the bedside phone—but she knew throwing it at him would only add to her problems. As the door opened, she forced her fingers to relax.

Sloan, already dressed for the day in black trousers and a herringbone jacket, backed into the room with her breakfast tray in his hands and kicked the door shut behind him. He stood for a moment just inside the room, surveying her.

Morganna was painfully aware that the neckline of her teal satin pajamas plunged even lower than that of the average ball gown, and she knew it was apparent that she was wearing nothing except the thin, clingy satin. But she was equally determined not to admit that she’d even noticed his inspection, much less that it had raised her hackles. So she smothered the urge to draw the blankets up to her shoulders. “You haven’t learned to knock? Or were you hoping to catch me before I had a chance to make myself decent?”

“I thought your mother would expect me to have the run of the place.” He set the tray on the side of the bed and sat down beside it. “And as for looking decent—you’re a lot more than decent. In fact, you’re downright tasty this morning.”

“How sweet of you to notice. However, let’s not change the subject away from my mother.” Morganna’s voice was low but full of acid. “I’m so glad we had that heart-to-heart talk last night, Sloan, so you’d know exactly how to go about sabotaging my efforts. You understood perfectly well that I didn’t want her to know about this room, so of course at the first opportunity you made sure to point it out to her!”

“She was already in the hall. So was Selby, on his way to deliver your breakfast. At that point, keeping Abigail from finding out that we don’t share a room was no longer an option, Sleeping Beauty. The question now is damage control. So what would you rather she think? That your private and personal bedroom is really an armed fort complete with moat, or that we’ve made an amicable arrangement to use two rooms in order to preserve our mutual comfort?”

Morganna bit her lip and thought it over. “I guess, when you put it that way…”

“I thought you’d see the sense of it.” He pulled the door open again. “Come on in, Abigail. I’ll ask Selby to bring an extra cup.”

“I don’t want to interrupt,” Abigail began.

“Please do,” he said gently. “As a matter of fact, your daughter was just giving me a piece of her mind.”

Morganna tried to smother her gasp.

Sloan didn’t look at her. “She didn’t want me to confess to you that I snore so badly that she moved out of our bedroom.”

It wasn’t bad for a spur-of-the-moment story, Morganna thought. It might even work.

Sloan leaned over the bed and gave a playful tug to her satin lapel. “It seems that my beloved doesn’t want to admit to you that I might be less than perfect.”

The back of his fingers brushed, not quite innocently, against the slick satin over her breast. Automatically Morganna tried to pull away, but her restless sleep had left her too tangled in the sheets to move far.

“I can certainly understand that philosophy,” Abigail agreed.

“Besides, she thinks it’s much more romantic when I come dashing in from down the hall to help fasten her dress. Or, for that matter, to unfasten her dress…”

“That’ll be enough,” Morganna muttered.

Sloan grinned and bent closer. “Would you rather say thank you for the rescue now or later?” he murmured. “I could ask your mother to step outside for a few minutes. And there’s nothing so pressing at the office that it can’t wait for a little while.”

“Later,” Morganna said through gritted teeth. “Much later.”

“Good. Anticipation makes everything better, I’ve found.” He pushed a lock of her hair back and his lips brushed the sensitive skin just under her ear. Then he straightened. “I’ll take you both out for dinner tonight.”

As soon as he was gone, Morganna tossed a pillow toward the foot of the bed. “Make yourself at home, Mother. You’re up awfully early, aren’t you?”

Abigail hitched up her tailored trousers and settled onto the bed. “Not really. I’ve gotten in the habit of playing tennis at 6:00 a.m. It gets so hot in Phoenix in the summer, you know, that early morning is the only reasonable time to exercise. And with the time difference, this is just exactly when I’d be getting ready to hit the court. What are your plans for the day, darling?”

“I really don’t have any,” Morganna admitted.

“Well, you mustn’t rearrange your schedule to suit me. I have friends I can call, you know, when you’re going to be busy. Though we really must do some shopping sometime.”

“Sloan wasn’t supposed to tell you—” Morganna stopped abruptly.

“Tell me what? That you could use some clothes? Do you think I can’t see that for myself? Honestly, dear, that dress you were wearing last night is at least three years old. You wore it when you were Emily Hamilton’s bridesmaid.”

“I still like it.”

“Then let’s look for something similar. In purple, maybe—that would look nice with your coloring. And don’t tell me you don’t have the money. Considering things like that diamond bracelet, I doubt Sloan keeps you on a short allowance.” Abigail paused. “In any case, I’ve always felt badly that I didn’t have time or money to do more in the way of a trousseau for you, Morganna. But now that I’m settled so well, I’d like to make up for that.”

With Sloan’s money. Morganna bit her tongue and didn’t say it. She couldn’t voice her suspicions to Abigail that it might have been Sloan himself and not the life insurance company who had provided that sizable cashier’s check to secure her mother’s future. As long as Abigail had no reason to believe she was living on her son-in-law’s charity, Morganna couldn’t bear to hurt her by suggesting it. It wasn’t as if she had firsthand knowledge, after all—only a bone-deep fear that even Sloan couldn’t have forced the company to pay a claim they didn’t feel they owed because the policyholder had so clearly committed suicide.

“Sure, Mom,” she said with resignation. “I’d love to go shopping.”

“And while we’re out,” Abigail added briskly, “I need to stop at the country club pro shop and get some tennis balls.”

“There should be some in the hall closet downstairs. And you can borrow my racquet, if you didn’t bring yours.”

“Racquet? Oh, no, dear, I just need the balls. But they must be brand-new ones. And I’ll have to buy some lightweight fabric, too. Is your grandmother’s old sewing machine still set up in the back bedroom?”

Morganna was startled. “Yes. But whatever do you need it for?”

“To sew pockets in the back of Sloan’s pajama jackets, just big enough to hold a tennis ball. It will keep him from sleeping on his back, and that’s supposed to be a sure-fire cure for snoring.” Abigail frowned. “Unless…Honey, he does wear pajamas—doesn’t he?”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.