The Bought-and-Paid-for Wife
Bronwyn Jameson

For all my readers, with a special mention

to those who’ve written to me. I treasure

every note and letter and card.

And to Mrs. White, the number one

advocate for my own little “Lew.”

Thank you, K.

Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to

Bronwyn Jameson for her contribution to

THE SECRET LIVES OF SOCIETY WIVES miniseries.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Coming Next Month

One

He’d seen pictures. He’d expected beautiful. After all, when a man chooses a trophy wife, he wants one other men will covet. But Tristan Thorpe hadn’t appreciated the extent of that beauty—or its powerful clout—until the front door of the Connecticut colonial opened in a rush and she was there, five-and-a-bit feet of breathtaking impact.

Vanessa Thorpe. His father’s widow. The enemy.

In every one of those society diary pictures she looked as glossy and polished as a trophy prize should…which had left Tristan speculating over how much was real—the platinum hair? the full lips? the petite but perfectly curved body?—and how much came courtesy of his father’s wealth.

He hadn’t wondered about the sparklers at her throat and in her ears. Those, he knew, were real. Unlike her other multi-faceted assets, the diamonds appeared on the listed valuations of Stuart Thorpe’s estate.

But here, now, seeing her in the flesh for the first time, Tristan didn’t notice anything fake. All he saw was the very real sparkle in her silvery-green eyes and the smile. Warmer than the August sun at his back now that the rain had cleared, it lit her whole face with pleasure and licked his body with instant male appreciation.

That hot shot of hormones lasted all of a second, which was as long as it took for shock to freeze the smile on her perfect pink lips.

“It’s…you.”

Her whispered gasp came coated with dismay and, although she didn’t move, Tristan saw the recoil in her expression. She wanted to back away. Hell, she probably wanted to slam the door in his face, and a perverse part of him wished she would give it a go. The long flight from Australia and the snarled afternoon traffic following a heavy rainstorm had him edgy enough to enjoy that kind of confrontation.

Logic, however, was Tristan Thorpe’s master and it cautioned him to remain cool. “Sorry to disappoint you, duchess.” And because he wasn’t the least bit sorry, he smiled, as slow and mocking as his drawled greeting. “Obviously, you were expecting someone else.”

“Obviously.”

Tristan arched an eyebrow. “Didn’t you say I was welcome here any time?”

“I don’t recall—”

“Two years ago,” he reminded her. After her husband’s death. Seeing as she had to call his estranged family on the other side of the world to inform them of his passing, why not extend her largesse? An ex-waitress with expectations of a cool hundred million in inheritance could afford to appear generous.

Right now she didn’t look so generous. In fact she looked downright inhospitable. “Why are you here, Tristan? The court date isn’t until next month.”

“If it’s even necessary.”

Surprise and suspicion narrowed her eyes. “Have you changed your mind? Are you dropping your contest of the will?”

“Not a chance.”

“Then what do you want?”

“There’s been a new development.” Tristan paused, savoring the moment. He’d flown nearly ten thousand miles for this. He wanted to drag it out, to see her flail, before he brought her down. “I think you’ll change your mind about keeping that court date.”

For a second she stared at him, her expression revealing nothing but annoyance. Behind her, somewhere within the mansion’s vast interior, a phone started to ring. He saw her momentary distraction, a glance, a tightening of her lips, before she spoke.

“If this is another of your attempts to obstruct execution of Stuart’s will—” the hostility in her eyes and her voice confirmed that’s exactly what she thought “—please take it to my lawyer, the same as you’ve done with every other new development the past two years. Nothing has changed in that regard. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

Oh, no. No way would he be dismissed. Not with that snooty voice, not with that imperious lift of her perfect little chin.

Tristan didn’t stop to consider propriety or good manners. To prevent her closing the door on him, he stepped forward. To halt her leaving, he reached out and caught her by the arm.

The bare arm, he realized as the shock of her warm and female softness shot through his system.

Vaguely, beneath that purr of awareness, he felt her stillness and heard the hitch of her breath. Shock, no doubt, that he’d dare lay a hand on her.

“You don’t want to close that door on me.” His voice sounded rough, a deep growl in the tense silence. And he realized that the shrill ringing of the telephone had stopped, whether because someone had picked up or the caller had quit, he didn’t know and couldn’t care. “You don’t want me taking this public.”

“No?”

“If you’re smart—” And she was. They might have dealt with each other largely through lawyers, but he’d never underestimated the smarts behind her platinum blond looks “—you’ll keep this between you and me.”

Their eyes clashed with raw antagonism and something else. The same something that still buzzed through his system and tightened his gut. The same something that made him release his grip on her arm without breaking eye contact, even when he heard the rubbery squelch of rapidly approaching sneakers on the foyer’s marble floor.

“Take the call if you need,” he said. “I can wait.”

The owner of the sneakers stopped and cleared her throat and Tristan’s attention switched to a trim middle-aged woman, even shorter than Vanessa. Despite her casual jeans and T-shirt attire, he pegged her as the housekeeper. Perhaps because of the old-fashioned feather duster poking out from under one arm.

“Sorry to interrupt.” Even though she addressed her boss, the woman’s gaze flicked over Tristan, not curious, not nervous, but sizing him up. The dislike in her expression suggested she recognized him. “Andy needs to speak to you.”

“Thank you, Gloria. I’ll take it in the library.”

“And your…guest?”

The pause was deliberate. He got the distinct impression that, like her employer, she would relish tossing the guest out on his backside. And then turning the dogs on him.

“Show him to the sitting room.”

“No need.” Tristan’s gaze shifted to Vanessa. “I lived here for twelve years. I can find my own way.”

That registered like a slap of shock in her rain-on-water eyes but she didn’t comment. Instead she inclined her head and played the gracious hostess. “Can Gloria bring you tea? Or a cold drink?”

“Would that be safe?”

The housekeeper made a sound that fell midway between a snort and a laugh. Her boss, however, didn’t appear to appreciate his gibe. Her lips compressed into a tight line. “I won’t keep you long.”

“Don’t hurry on my account.”

She paused, just long enough to cast him a long, frosty look over one shoulder. “Believe me. I never do anything on your account, Tristan.”

Uttered with the perfect mix of scorn and indifference, it was a killer closing line—one he would have paid with a salute of laughter at another time, in another place. With another adversary. But this was Vanessa Thorpe and she was already halfway across the foyer, her head bent in earnest conversation with her employee.

He couldn’t distinguish words, but the low lilt of her voice packed the same impact as her million-watt smile.

It created the same sting of heat as when he’d gripped her arm…and that heat still prickled in the palm of his hand. Flexing his fingers helped. Allowing his gaze to drop below her shoulders didn’t.

She wore a little dress—a sundress, he supposed, although the milk-pale skin it revealed hadn’t seen much sun. Very little skin lay bare; this was not a provocative dress. The silky material didn’t cling as much as flow with the subtle curves of her body. It was classy, expensive and feminine. The kind of dress that whispered woman to every red-blooded male cell he owned.

At the door to the library, she gave final instructions to the housekeeper who hurried off. To fix his tea, with a side of lemon, milk and arsenic, he presumed.

For a long moment the only sound was the retreating squeak of rubber soles and then, as if she felt the touch of his gaze or the cynical whisper of his thoughts, Vanessa pivoted on the heel of one of her delicate sandals. The skirt flared out from her legs, revealing a hint of bare thigh.

Making his skin prickle with renewed heat.

Their eyes met, clashed, held, and he saw a flash of something in her face, quicksilver fast. Then it and she were gone, from the room but not from his blood.

Damn it to blazes, he could not be attracted to her. He would not allow it.

With a growl of aggravation, he shut his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. Twenty-six hours he’d been traveling. Longer from when he left his Northern Beaches’ home for the airport in Sydney’s south end.

He was tired and he was wired, running on adrenaline and fixation on his goal.

How could he believe anything he felt right now? How could he trust anything in the turmoil of emotions elicited by his return to Eastwick, Connecticut? To this, the home where he’d grown up, where he’d felt cherished and secure, only to have that comfort blanket yanked from under his adolescent feet without any warning.

Guess what, darling? We’re going to live in Australia. You and your sisters and your mother. Won’t that be exciting?

Twenty years later he was back and his heightened responses—the heat, the bitterness—weren’t all about Vanessa Thorpe.

He expelled a long breath and forced himself to move farther inside.

She’d changed things, of course. The colors, the furnishings, the mood. His footsteps echoed in the cavernous foyer, soaring to the two-story ceiling and bouncing off walls painted in a medley of pale blues. Where he remembered the warmth of a childhood home, now he felt nothing but an outsider’s detachment.

Ignoring the tight sensation in his gut, he executed a slow three-sixty and took in the matched mahogany hall stand and side table, the pair of watercolor seascapes, the vase of long-stemmed blooms. The place was as perfectly put together as Vanessa Thorpe, as carefully executed as had been her plan to snare a multimillionaire three times her age.

For two years Tristan had fought the will that gave her everything bar a token bequest to him, Stuart Thorpe’s only child, a deliberate act to show he’d chosen wife over son as his beneficiary. Tristan had filed motion after motion while he searched for a loophole, an angle, a reason.

He’d never doubted that he would win. He always did.

Finally, from out of the blue, he’d caught his lucky break. An anonymous allegation contradicting what his legal team had learned about the young widow. Initially, all they’d heard was good—Saint Vanessa with all her charity committees and voluntary work and her unstinting devotion to an ailing husband.

But a second round of discreet inquiries had revealed another slant on Vanessa Thorpe. No solid evidence, but enough rumors from enough different sources to point toward the smoke of a secretly guarded fire. Evidence would not be easily attained two years after the fact but it might not prove necessary.

He was banking on an admission of guilt to close this thing off, granting his mother all that was rightfully hers. Winning would not make up for her life’s disappointments and unhappiness, but it would serve to reverse the gross injustice of her divorce settlement.

Twenty years late but it would redress the balance. It was just and fair. And at long last, it would set things right in Tristan’s mind.

Vanessa put down the receiver and slumped over the library desk, weak with relief. Plans had changed. Andy would not be arriving at the door any minute, making her meeting with Tristan Thorpe even more difficult than it promised to be.

And she knew, from experience, that anything involving Tristan would prove more difficult than it needed to be.

Time after time he’d proven that, obstructing the execution of probate at every turn, refusing each effort to compromise, threatening to never give up until he had his due. All because he’d cast one look at her age, another at her background and thought Hello, gold digger.

Vanessa knew plenty about narrow-minded bigots, but still she’d given this one time to reassess. She’d called, she’d extended that invitation to visit, she’d given him every opportunity to take a fair settlement from the estate. She’d thought he deserved it, even though Stuart had decided otherwise.

But Tristan remained inflexible. A greedy, heartless brute and bully. Too bad she refused to be intimidated.

Reflexively she lifted a hand to rub at her arm. She hated that his touch had left a remnant warmth, that she’d felt the same heat from eyes the changeable blue of summer on the Sound. From the depth of his dark drawl and the scent of rain on his clothes and the contrast between civilized suit and uncivilized—

An abrupt knock at the library door brought her head up with a guilty start. But it was only Gloria, her brow puckered with concern. “Is everything all right, hon? Do you need to go out? Because if you do, I can deal with himself.”

The last was issued with a sniff of disdain that made Vanessa smile. For a brief second she considered taking that option, mostly because it would tick him off. But she needed to find out what he wanted and why he’d felt a need to deliver his latest pain-in-the-butt objection in person.

Not that she believed he’d discovered anything new. At least, nothing that could influence the estate distribution.

“Everything’s fine, thanks. Andy’s had to cancel our trip to the city but that’s turned out to be a blessing. As for himself—” she said it with a mocking smile as she rose to her feet “—I can handle him.”

“I know you’re plenty tough, but he’s a big one.”

“The bigger they are…”

Gloria harrumphed. “You better make sure he doesn’t break anything valuable when he falls. And if he does fix on making trouble, I’m here.”

“No,” Vanessa said, getting serious. “You will not be here because your working day finished thirty minutes ago. Now, go home and fuss over your Bennie. As soon as I’m done with our guest, I’m heading up to Lexford anyway.”

“Is everything all right up there? Is L—”

“Everything’s fine,” she repeated. And because she didn’t want to extend the conversation by fielding further queries, she put a firm hand on Gloria’s shoulder and propelled her toward the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Now, shoo.”

Wanting a glass of water before facing the dreaded enemy, Vanessa headed to the kitchen…and stumbled upon him en route—not in the formal sitting room as instructed, but in the keeping room.

No, no, no. Her heart beat fast with agitation. This was her place. The only room decorated with her things. The only room small enough and cozy enough and informal enough to relax in with a good book or to visit with friends.

Tristan Thorpe did not fit anywhere in that picture. Not the friends bit, and definitely not the small and cozy part. He’d made his mark as a pro football player in Australia, and she could see why he’d been such a forceful presence on the field. It wasn’t only his height, broad-shouldered build and wide male stance. He also exuded an aura of purpose and determination, a hard edge that his tailored suit and expensive grooming could not disguise.

Even standing with his back to the door, without the full-on impact of his intense blue gaze and the decisive set of his strong-boned face, he created an uneasy awareness in Vanessa’s flesh. She wasn’t used to seeing a man in her house, especially one this blatantly male.

But he’s here, she told herself. He is what he is. Deal with it.

That pragmatic mantra had pulled her through a lot in twenty-nine years—more difficulties of more importance than Tristan. Most of them had been solved by her godsend marriage to Stuart and she could not afford to lose that resolution. Not now; not ever.

She started into the room and at the sound of her first footfall, his head came up. A thousand nerves jumped to life as he swung around to face her. She lifted her chin an inch higher. Straightened her shoulders and fixed her face with the cool, polite expression that had gotten her through the most terrifying of social events.

Let him call her duchess. She didn’t care.

And then she noticed what had held his attention—what he now held delicately balanced in his big hands—and her heart lurched with I-do-care anxiety. It was the Girl with Flowers, the most treasured in her collection of Lladro figurines.

That fretfulness must have registered in her expression because he regarded her narrowly. “Bad news?”

Vanessa knew he referred to the phone call, but she nodded toward the figurine. “Only if you drop that.”

Heart in mouth she watched him turn it over in his hands, first one way and then the other. As a football player he’d been magic with his hands, according to Stuart. But magic or not, she didn’t want Tristan’s hands on her things. She didn’t want to look at them a week or a month or a year from now, and remember this man in her home.

As much as she wanted to keep her distance, she couldn’t help herself. She had to cross the room and take the statuette from his hands.

“When I mentioned bad news, I meant the phone call.”

The brush of their fingers unsettled Vanessa more than she’d anticipated. She felt the fine tremor in her hand and prayed he didn’t hear the telltale rattle as she put the figurine down.

“There’s no bad news,” she said, recovering her poise. She indicated a wingback chair with one hand. “Would you like to sit?”

“I’m comfortable standing.”

Leaning against a cabinet with the heels of his hands resting on its edge, he looked at ease. Except the tightness around the corners of his mouth and the tick of a muscle in his jaw gave him away. Not to mention the intentness of the sharp blue gaze fixed on her face.

Like a lion, she decided, lolling in the grass of the veldt, but with every muscle coiled as he waited for the chance to pounce. Paint her pelt black and white and call her zebra, because she was the prey.

The vividness of that mental image created a shiver up her spine, but she snapped straight in automatic reflex. Do not let the enemy see your fear. It was a lesson she’d learned as a child, one she’d tried to instill into her younger brother, Lew.

One she’d used often in her new life, adapting to the scrutiny of Eastwick society.

As much as she wanted to put distance between herself and the enemy, she stood her ground and met his unsettling gaze. “Would you care to tell me about this new development? Because I can’t think of a thing that would make any difference to your claim on Stuart’s estate.”

“You’re aware of every letter in that will, Vanessa. Surely you’ve worked this out.”

“You’ve tried to obstruct every letter of that will. I can’t believe there’s one you missed!”

“We didn’t miss this one, duchess. You were just clever enough to beat us…then.”

Vanessa huffed out a breath. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Stop playing games, Tristan. I don’t have the time or the patience.”

For a long moment he didn’t respond, although she realized—belatedly—that he no longer lounged against the cabinet. He’d straightened, closing down the gap between them. But she refused to ask for space. She refused to acknowledge that his proximity bothered her.

“Is he the same one?”

She blinked, baffled by his question. “Who?”

“The man you were expecting this afternoon. The one who put that smile on your face when you answered the door. The one who called.”

Was he crazy? “The same what? What are you talking about?”

“I’m asking if this man—Andy, isn’t it?—is the one who’s going to cost you a hundred million dollars.”

Vanessa’s heart seized with shock and a terrible realization.

“Well?” he asked, not giving her a chance to recover, to respond. “Is he the man you were sleeping with while you were married to my father?”

Two

Oh. My. Lord. He was talking about the adultery clause. The one left over from Stuart’s first marriage, to Tristan’s mother.

When Tristan had signaled his intention to challenge the will, her lawyer, Jack Cartwright, had gone over every clause with painstaking care, making sure Vanessa understood and that he wouldn’t receive any nasty surprises from the opposing attorney.

She’d given that clause no more thought. She had no reason to. But now Tristan thought she’d had a lover…that she still had a lover.

That comprehension took a moment to sink in, and then she couldn’t prevent her shock from bubbling into laughter.

“You think this is funny?”

“I think,” she said, recovering, “this is ludicrous. Where would you get such an idea?”

“My lawyer’s asked around. There are rumors.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “After almost two years of this dispute, you’ve decided to invent rumors?”

“I didn’t invent anything.”

“No? Then where did these rumors suddenly sprout from?”

He took a second to answer, just long enough for Vanessa to note that the muscle still ticked in his jaw. “I received a letter.”

“From?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it does,” she fired back at him, her earlier disbelief growing indignant. “It matters that someone is slandering me.”

He regarded her in silence, a long taut moment that fanned Vanessa’s gathering fury.

“I’m giving you the chance to deal with me privately, here and now,” he said finally, his voice low and even. “Or would you prefer to take this to court? Would you like to answer all the questions about who and where and how often under oath? Would you like all your society friends to hear—”

“You bastard. Don’t you dare even think about spreading your lies.”

“Not lies.” Something glinted, brief and dangerous in his eyes. “I intend to dig deep, Vanessa, if that’s what it takes to discover all your dirty little secrets. I will find every truth about you. Every last detail.”

Vanessa’s head whirled with the implications of his threat. She had to get away from him, to cool down, to think, but when she tried to escape he blocked her exit. And when she attempted to stare him down, he shifted closer, hemming her into the corner where she couldn’t move without touching him.

Her resentment rose in a thick, choking wave. She wanted to sound icy, imperious, but instead her voice quivered with rage. “You start by turning up at my home uninvited. You manhandle me. You threaten me with your nasty lies. And now you’re resorting to physical intimidation. I can hardly wait to see what you try next.”

Their eyes clashed in a lightning bolt that was eight parts antagonism, two parts challenge. She knew, a split second before he moved, before his hands came up to trap her against the wall, that the two parts challenge was two parts too much. And still she couldn’t back down, even when his gaze dropped to her lips and caused a slow sweet ripple in her blood. Even when he muttered something low and unintelligible—perhaps an oath, perhaps a warning—beneath his breath.

Then his mouth descended to hers, catching her gasp of indignation.

For a second she was too stunned by the sensation of his lips pressed against hers to react. Everything was new, untried, unfamiliar. The bold presence of his mouth, the rough texture of his skin, the elemental taste of rain and sun and man.

Everything was unexpected except the electric charge that flushed through her skin and tightened her breasts. That was the same as when he’d touched her, the same as when he’d watched her walk away, the same as when she’d turned at the library door and caught him staring.

She heard the accelerated thud of her heartbeat and scrambled to compose herself, to reject that unwanted response. But then he shifted his weight slightly and she felt the brush of his jacket against her bare arm. For some reason that slide of body-warmed fabric seemed more intimate than the kiss itself, and the effect shimmered through her skin like liquid silk.

The hands she’d raised to shove him away flattened against his chest and the slow beat of his heart resonated into her palms. With a shock she realized that she wasn’t only touching him but kissing him back, just now, for one split second. Oh, no. A thousand times no. Her eyes jolted open, wide and appalled, as she pushed with renewed purpose.

His mouth stilled for one measured second before he let her go. The message was clear. He’d instigated this. He was ending it. Damn him. And damn her traitorous body for reacting to whatever weird male-female chemistry was going on between them.

Red-hot anger hazed her vision and she lashed out without conscious thought. He dodged her easily, catching her arm before she came close to landing a blow. And that only infuriated her more. She wrenched at her captured arm and the jerky action caught the Lladro Girl with Flowers she’d set down on the cabinet.

In slow motion she saw the delicate figurine start to topple but she couldn’t move fast enough. The sound of its shattering impact on the marble floor filled the silence for several long brittle seconds. Vanessa pressed the back of one trembling hand to her mouth, as if that might silence the anguished cry deep inside her.

But when she started to duck down, he intercepted her, his hand on her arm holding her steady. “Leave it. It’s only an ornament.”

An ornament, yes, but this one was a gift from her childhood—a symbol of where she’d come from and all she’d dreamed of leaving behind.

But only a symbol, her pragmatic side reminded her. She’d had to grow up too practical for dreams and symbolism. This incident signified only one thing: she’d allowed Tristan Thorpe to cut through her cool, to upset her enough that she’d lashed out in temper.

And she would eat dirt before she gave him the satisfaction of knowing how deeply he’d affected her.

“Are you all right?”

The softened edge to his voice caught her off guard, but she shrugged that aside along with his touch. He was probably worried that she’d start weeping and wailing. Or that she’d turn and throw some more of her ornaments at his infuriating head.

No doubt it was as hard and as cold as the marble tiles underfoot.

Gathering the shards of her poise, she turned and met his eyes. “I will be fine once you get out of my house.”

The concern she’d detected in his voice turned steel-hard. The muscle she’d noted earlier jumped in his jaw again. “You enjoy your house while you can, duchess.”

“Meaning?”

“It won’t be yours once I prove your adultery. Not the house, not any of these pretty things you’re so concerned about breaking. All bought and paid for with Thorpe money.”

“Good luck with that,” she said coldly, while the anger resurged with new fervor. She had to get out of here before she did start hurling things at him, if only to show how little they mattered. “If you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment. If you have anything else to say, please say it through my lawyer.”

“That’s it?”

“Except for one last thing…Please close the door on your way out.”

Tristan hadn’t planned on following her. After closing the front door, he’d been intent on getting to one place only—his attorney’s office in Stamford. He had a letter to deliver. He had instructions to employ the best investigator—a team of them, if necessary—to follow up every rumor about her secret assignations, to find this mystery man whatever the cost.

Even though he’d prodded her about seeing the same man today, he didn’t believe she would be foolish enough to flaunt her lover so openly. Not when she stood to lose everything she’d set her cap at when she had married the old man.

With all his focus trained on what she’d said and not said, on what he’d done and wished he hadn’t, Tristan drove straight through the intersection of White Birch Lane and Beauford when he should have turned right. Half a mile farther on he realized his error and pulled over. Waiting for a gap in the traffic, he beat himself up about missing the turn. And while he was at it, he beat himself up some more for making such a hash of his first meeting with Vanessa Thorpe.

Sure she provoked him. Everything about her had needled him long before he came face-to-face with her kick-gut beauty. But did he have to react to every goading statement, every challenging eye-meet, every disdainful lift of her chin?

Did he have to kiss her?

The hell of it was he didn’t remember making a choice. One second they were going at it, biting verbal chunks out of each other’s hides, the next he had her backed against the wall tasting the provocation of her lush lips. And the hell of that was how swiftly her taste had aroused his hunger.

He’d wanted so much more than one quick bite. His hands had itched to touch that distracting dip in her chin, to feel the creamy softness of her skin, to pull her tight against his body.

He could blame the long day, his lack of sleep, the edgy turmoil of returning to Eastwick, but in the end he could only hold himself responsible. He’d let her get to him.

He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

The flow of traffic eased and he checked his mirror just as a champagne colored convertible whizzed by. He didn’t have to see the vanity plates to know it was her. Everything on the list of possessions they’d sparred over this past year was indelibly printed on his brain.

He hadn’t planned on following her any more than he’d planned on kissing her, but as he steered into a gap in traffic Tristan had a hunch that this would turn out a whole lot more fulfilling and less frustrating than that ill-conceived meeting of mouths.

“I’m so glad you suggested this,” Vanessa said.

This was to meet by the water at Old Poynton, where the breeze drifting off Long Island Sound tempered the warmth of the late afternoon sun; where breathing the fresh marine air cooled the edgy heat of Vanessa’s temper…a little.

And you was Andy Silverman, who’d suggested the outdoor walk-and-talk when he’d called earlier to change plans.

Andy had grown up in the same Yonkers neighborhood as Vanessa’s family, and she’d recognized him as soon as he commenced working at Twelve Oaks, the special-needs facility that had been home to her younger brother for the past seven years. They met regularly to discuss Lew’s program and his progress, and Andy had become more than her brother’s counselor.

Now she counted him as a friend…the only friend who knew and understood Lew and the difficulties posed by his autism.

“Tough day at the country club?” Despite the lighthearted comment, she felt a serious edge to Andy’s sidelong look. “You want to talk about it?”

“Haven’t we just done that?”

They’d talked about Lew, as they always did, and about why Andy had cancelled their trip to the city. Storms, like today’s, were one of several triggers that upset Lew’s need for calm and routine order.

“Your brother has bad days all the time,” Andy said now. “You’re used to that.”

No. She didn’t think she would ever call herself used to Andy’s autism or his most difficult, sometimes violently damaging, days. But she conceded Andy’s perceptive point. He knew there was more worrying her today than Lew.

“I’m not sure you want to hear this,” she said.

“Hey, I’m a professional listener.”

That made her smile. “Do you charge extra for out-of-hours consultations, Dr. Silverman?”

They’d reached the end of the promenade. Andy paused and leaned against the stone wall that separated the walkway from the beach. He folded his arms across his chest. His open face and calm expression were part of what made him so good at his job. “Go ahead and spit it out. You know you want to.”

Not so much want to as need to, Vanessa silently amended. Her gaze shifted beyond her companion, tracking two windsurfers as they rode a gust of air across the clean blue surface of the Sound. Then one of the surfers slowed, faltered, and toppled into the water, his charmed ride on the wind over.

“Wouldn’t it be nice if we all had such soft landings,” she mused out loud.

“You’ve lost me.”

With a small sigh, she turned her attention back to Andy and his invitation to spit it out. “It’s Tristan Thorpe.”

Andy tsked in sympathy. “Isn’t it always?”

“He’s here. In Eastwick.”

“For the trial? I thought that wasn’t till next month.”

“He’s here because he thinks he’s found a way to beat me without going to court.” All semblance of relaxation destroyed, Vanessa paced away a couple of steps, then swung back. “Which he hasn’t, but that won’t stop him making trouble.”

“Only if you let him.”

She laughed, a short, sharp, humorless sound. “How can I stop him? He has it in his head that I’m a nasty sly adulterer and he’s here to prove it!”

To his credit, Andy barely blinked at that disclosure. She supposed, in his line of work, he heard all manner of shockers. “That’s not a problem if there’s nothing to substantiate.”

“Of course there’s nothing to substantiate!”

“But you’re upset because people might believe that of you, despite your innocence?”

“I’m upset because…because…”

Because he believes it. Because he kissed me. Because I can’t stop thinking about that.

“My point exactly,” Andy said, misinterpreting her stumble into silence. “Your friends know you well enough to not believe whatever he might put about.”

“My friends know. You know. I know,” she countered hotly, “but he’s always thought the worst of me. Now he believes I’m not only an Anna Nicole Smith clone who took advantage of a susceptible older man, but I kept a lover on the side to share my ill-gotten spoils.” She exhaled on a note of disgust. “I don’t even know why I’m surprised.”

Andy regarded her closely for a long moment. “He’s really got you stewing, hasn’t he?”

Oh, yes. In ways she didn’t want to think about, let alone talk about. She’d let him kiss her, she’d breathed the scent of him into her lungs, and then she’d raised her hand, for pity’s sake, when she despised violence born of temper and heated words and uncontrolled emotions.

“He got me so riled,” she said with quiet intensity, her stomach twisting with the pain of those long-ago memories. “I wanted to hit him, Andy.”

“But you didn’t.”

Only because he stopped me.

She could still feel the steely grip of his hand, the pressure of his fingers wrapped around her wrist, and the need to lash out raging in her blood. And the worst of it? Not the loss of her treasured gift but the acknowledgment, on the hour-plus drive up here, that she hadn’t been lashing out at him but at her fickle body’s unexpected and unwanted response.

“I told myself not to let him get under my skin. I invited him into my home when I wanted to slam the door in his face. I tried to be polite and calm. But the man is just so…so…” Unable to find a suitable descriptor, she spread her hands in a silent gesture of appeal. Except she doubted the dictionary contained a single word strong enough, hot enough, complex enough to cover all that Tristan had evoked in her that afternoon. “And it’s not only him that has me stewing.”

Suddenly she couldn’t stand still any longer. Hooking an arm through one of Andy’s folded ones, she forced him into motion, walking back toward the strip of tourist boutiques and sidewalk eateries opposite the small beach and marina.

“Someone sent him a letter. An accusation. That’s how this latest crusade of his started.” She tugged at his arm in agitation. “Who would do such a thing?”

“Did he show you this letter?”

Vanessa shook her head and in Andy’s raised brows she read another question. “Are you thinking that this letter might not exist?”

“If I were you,” he said carefully, “I’d want to see it.”

At the time she’d been too astounded and too het up by his allegations. She hadn’t thought of asking to see the evidence. Frowning, she walked and she chewed the whole exchange and its implications over in her mind. “Why would he invent this letter and come all the way over here to prove its claims? That only makes sense if he believes he can prove it. And that only makes sense if someone—such as his correspondent—has convinced him they have something on me.”

And that made no sense because she had never slept around.

Not once. Not ever.

“It’s not as if I have a pool boy,” she continued, “or a tennis pro or a personal trainer. The only male staff I employ regularly is Gloria’s Bennie, and that’s only for odd jobs to keep her happy. I see Jack, my attorney, regularly but everyone knows he’s a besotted new husband and soon-to-be father.”

“And you see me.”

Andy’s evenly spoken comment hung in the air a second before she grasped its significance. Then she stopped in her tracks, shaking her head with a slowly dawning realization. Usually they met behind the walls of Twelve Oaks’ sprawling estate, in one of the formal meeting rooms or the less formal library, or they walked around the estate’s spacious grounds.

But on occasions they did meet in the nearby town of Lexford, for lunch or a coffee. And they’d also met once or twice here at the shore where Andy lived.

“Do you think some busybody could have seen—” she waggled her hand between them, unable to voice the us that might link their friendship in a nonplatonic way “—and misconstrued?”

“It’s possible.”

Vanessa stared at him wide-eyed. Then, pity help her, she couldn’t suppress an involuntary giggle.

“Pretty funny, huh?”

“I’m sorry.” Sobering instantly, she reached out and put her hand on his arm. And that was the thing with Andy—she could touch him and feel no spark, no jolt, no prickling of heat. Nothing but a comfortable warmth similar to what she’d established with her husband and still missed so very much. “I didn’t mean to offend you. You know I love you like a brother.”

“I know that, but what about someone watching us?”

Shock immobilized her for a split second. Then she drew back her hand and her body, suddenly aware of how close they stood. As they’d done on countless other innocent occasions.

With an audience?

They continued walking, but Vanessa couldn’t stop herself from glancing at each car and passing pedestrian. Scores of people were out enjoying the gorgeous summer twilight, yet she felt exposed.

Despite the warmth of the air she felt a chill run over her skin. “I hate the thought that someone might have been following me.”

“That’s something I’ve never quite understood.”

She cut him a narrow look. “The fact that I don’t like being spied on?”

“The fact you’ve kept Lew and your visits to Twelve Oaks secret.”

“That has nothing to do with being spied on.”

“Maybe not,” he said in his usual mild manner. “But if the good folk of Eastwick knew about your brother, then they’d also understand why you need to drive up here so often and why you meet with me. That would take care of one possible misinterpretation.”

As usual, Andy was right. Except up until now she hadn’t seen any need to share this most personal part of her life. Only Stuart—plus a handful of trusted professionals and some old friends from her pre-Eastwick days—knew about Lew. Together they had decided to keep his long-term tenancy at Twelve Oaks private.

“Are you ashamed of—”

“Of course not!” Vanessa swung around to face Andy, all thoughts of being spied upon lost in the fierceness of her answer. “Don’t you dare suggest that Lew is some sort of embarrassment. I would take out a paid page in the New York Times if I thought it would help, but what would be the point? All that would accomplish is a whole lot of talk and finger-pointing from small-minded people who don’t understand.”

“And this is the society you want to live in?”

“No. This is the society I chose to live in when I married Stuart.”

Because that choice included Twelve Oaks, the exclusive facility that provided Lew with the best environment, the right therapy, everything he needed to grow and flourish as an individual. She hadn’t even dreamed of accessing such an expensive option before she met her future husband. In fact she’d been at the end of her tether, out of options for caring for Lew and dealing with his increasingly violent tendencies as he grew from a boy into a man.

“Besides,” she continued, “not everyone in Eastwick is narrow-minded. If they knew, my friends would want to visit, to help, and you know how Lew is with new people and changes to his routine. He is happy and I’m happy visiting and doing my voluntary work without it being talked about all over town. I’ve had enough poor Vanessas to last a lifetime, thank you very much!”

They resumed walking, Andy silent in a way that suggested he didn’t agree. Was she being selfish, making it easier on herself, protecting her cushy life? After Stuart’s death she had wanted to confide in her friends, because Lord knows she’d felt so incredibly alone and lonely. But then she had Gloria, who’d come from the same background, who knew Lew. PlusAndy. Two of the best friends she could have because, unlike her Eastwick friends, they’d known her when she was plain Vanessa Kotzur.

It had been easier to keep the status quo, for so many reasons.

What about now? her pragmatic side wanted to know.

“I need to see the letter,” she said with quiet resolve. Before she made any decision on what else to do, she had to see the evidence.

Andy nodded grimly. “And you need to set him straight about me.”

Vanessa’s whole system bucked in protest. She could actually feel her feet dragging on the pavement as they neared the street where she’d parked her car.

“Perhaps I can do this without even mentioning Lew. I’ll say I do voluntary work at Twelve Oaks.” Which she did. “And we’re working together on a program…a new music therapy program which I’m looking at funding. And that I’m interested in extending the equestrian therapy facility.”

This wasn’t even bending the truth. She intended making a very significant donation from Stuart’s estate, once it was finalized, to help with both of those programs as well as funding positions for adolescents from low-income families.

Andy’s frown looked unconvinced. “He’s looking for proof of adultery, Vanessa. He’ll have you investigated.”

“And find out what? That I drive up to Lexford two or three times a week, to a special-needs home where I’m listed as a volunteer?”

“A home with a resident who shares your surname. Any investigator worth his salt is going to make the connection.”

Didn’t he ever tire of being so calm and logical and right? Blast him. Because he was right, and already her mind had leaped ahead to the next correlation a professional investigator—or his eagle-eyed employer—may make.

Lew Kotzur had moved into Twelve Oaks the same month that his sister Vanessa quit her two waitressing jobs to marry Stuart Thorpe. The man who pulled strings to get young Lew into the place. The man behind the trust fund that paid all his bills.

A sick feeling of fatalism settled over her as they stopped beside her car. Even before Andy spoke. “The way I see it, you have two options, Vanessa.”

“I get to choose my poison?”

He didn’t smile at her attempt at levity. His calm, level gaze held hers as he laid those choices on the line. “Either you let Thorpe investigate and risk him spreading nasty stuff about why you keep your brother hidden away from your new society friends. Or you tell him yourself and explain your motivation. There’re your choices, Vanessa. It’s up to you.”

Three

There wasn’t any choice. Sitting in her car, watching Andy’s loping stride carry him off toward the marina, Vanessa knew exactly what she had to do. Swallow her poison quickly, before she had time to think about how bitter it would taste going down.

She dug her cell phone from her purse. Stared at the keypad so long that the numbers swam before her eyes. Closed her eyes until the crashing wave of dread passed.

This isn’t about you, Ms. Pragmatist lectured. Think about Lew. Think about how disruptive and upsetting this could end up for everyone at Twelve Oaks if an investigator started hanging around, grilling staff and residents.

She didn’t have Tristan’s cell number, but she did have several Eastwick hotels in her phone’s directory. How hard could he be to find?

Not very, as it turned out.

On her second attempt, the receptionist at the Hotel Marabella put her straight through to his suite. She didn’t have a chance to second think, or to do any more than draw a deep breath and silently wail, why the Marabella? She preferred to think he’d have chosen one of the big chains instead of the tasteful Mediterranean-style boutique hotel whose restaurant was among her favorites.

Perhaps his secretary chose it. Or a travel agent. Business executives did not make their own—

“Hello.”

Vanessa started so violently she almost dropped her phone.

By the time she’d recovered and compelled her heart to stop racing and pressed the tiny handset to her ear, he was repeating his greeting and asking if anyone was there. His voice was unmistakable, a deep, thick drawl colored by his years down under. That color matched the sun-tinged ends of his rich brown hair, the deep tan of his skin, but not the alert intensity of his eyes.

She felt a ripple of hot-cold response, as if those eyes were on her again. Those eyes and his mouth—

“It’s Vanessa,” she said quickly, staunching that memory. “Vanessa Thorpe.”

Silence.

“I wasn’t expecting to find you in.”

“You weren’t expecting…” he murmured, slightly puzzled, slightly mocking. “And yet you called?”

“I thought you might be out for dinner. I intended leaving a message.”

“A different message to the one you left me with earlier?”

Vanessa counted to five slowly. He knew she’d been spitting mad when she ordered him out of her house. And he knew why, blast him. She was not going to let that cynical taunt get to her. She had to do this. For Lew. For Andy. For her own guilty conscience. “I need to talk to you.”

“I’m listening.”

“I meant, in person.”

In the next beat of silence she could almost feel his stillness, that hard-edged intensity fixed on her from fifty-odd miles away. Ridiculous, she knew, but that didn’t stop a tight feeling of apprehension from gripping her stomach.

“Tomorrow?” he asked.

With a full schedule of committee meetings plus a trip to Lexford to see how Lew was doing after today’s dramas, her only free hour was first thing in the morning. And the idea of inviting him to her home, or arranging to meet for breakfast somewhere else, caused every cell in her body to scream in protest. Breakfast meant straight out of bed. Breakfast also meant a long night of worry and endless opportunity to change her mind.

“Tonight would suit me better.” Vanessa closed her eyes and tried to block out how bad an idea this might turn out to be. “Do you have plans?”

“I have a dinner reservation downstairs.”

“I’m sure they will hold your table.”

“I’m sure they would,” he countered. “If I asked them to.”

She sucked in a breath, but she couldn’t suck back her sharp retort. “Are you deliberately trying to antagonize me?”

“I don’t think either one of us has to try. Do you?”

Okay. So he wasn’t going to make this easy, but that didn’t mean she would give up. “Are you dining alone?”

“Why do you ask? Would you like to break bread with me?”

“I would like,” she enunciated, after ungritting her teeth, “to speak to you. If you’re dining alone, I thought that may provide an opportunity without intruding on your plans.”

Another pause in which she could almost hear him sizing up the implications of her request. Then, he said, “I’ll have the restaurant add another setting.”

“Just a chair,” she said quickly. “I won’t be eating so please don’t wait for me. I’ll be there in an hour.”

“I look forward to it, duchess.”

Tristan had drawled that closing line with a liberal dose of mockery, but he did look forward to Vanessa’s arrival. Very much. He couldn’t wait to see how she explained her rapid turnaround from get out of my house to I need to talk. He could have made it easy on her by changing his dinner booking and meeting her downstairs in the lounge bar or the more private library. He could have offered to drive out to her house, to save her the trip into town.

But after witnessing her rendezvous at Old Poynton, knowing she’d rushed helter-skelter to her lover right after scoffing at the letter’s allegations, he was in no mood for making anything easy for Vanessa.

So. She wanted to talk. Most likely to spin a story concocted during that intense seaside heart-to-heart. He couldn’t imagine her confessing but she might attempt to explain away her secret meetings with lover boy. Whichever way she played it, he was ready.

This time she wouldn’t catch him unawares.

This time he would keep his hormones on ice.

Resisting the urge to check his watch, he poured a second glass of wine and pushed his dinner plate aside. He’d requested a table at the end of the terrace, where, in secluded peace, he could pretend to enjoy the food and the shimmer of reflected moonlight off the darkened waters of the Sound. Where he wouldn’t be scanning the door for the distinctive shimmer of moonlight-blond hair.

Still, he sensed her arrival several minutes later. Without turning he knew her footsteps and felt the quickening of anticipation in his blood. When he started to rise from his chair, she waved him back down. Her warm smile was all for the waiter who fussed over seating her—not opposite but catercorner to him.

“So madam, too, can enjoy the view.”

She thanked Josef and while he took her order for some ridiculous froufrou coffee, Tristan kicked back in his chair and tried not to notice that she still wore the same pink sundress.

Because she hadn’t yet gone home? Because she’d spent all this time at Old Poynton…doing what?

Only walking? Only talking?

The questions—and the possibility in the answers—snarled through him, sharp and mean. For a long moment he continued to stare at her, waiting for Josef to leave. Waiting for her to acknowledge his presence. Waiting for the impulse to ask those questions to pass so he could speak with some civility.

He took a sip from his very civilized sauvignon blanc. “Traffic bad?”

She’d been fussing with her purse, setting it just so on the table, but she looked up sharply.

“You said an hour.”

“Have I held you up?” Her expression was polite, her voice as cool and dry as his wine. “If you have another appointment, you should have said when I called. I didn’t mean—”

“My only appointment is upstairs, with my bed. It’s been a long day.”

Across the table, their gazes met and held. Comprehension flickered in her eyes, like an unspoken wince of sympathy. “I’m sorry. You must have started the day yesterday, on the other side of the world.”

And didn’t that seem a long time ago? He should have been wiped out but instead he felt energized. By her presence, by her proximity, by the subtle drift of her perfume in the still night air. But mostly by the promise of another skirmish in their ongoing battle.

“I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk about my long day.” And there was something in her eyes or in his primed-for-combat blood, that pushed him to add, “Or my current need to get horizontal.”

“No.” She answered without pause, without dropping eye contact, without responding to his deliberate provocation. “I didn’t.”

“So. What do you want?”

“I want to see the letter.”

Tristan arched an eyebrow. “You don’t believe it exists?”

“Is there any reason I should?”

“I’ve flown ten thousand miles today on the strength of it.”

“So you say.”

Rocking back in his chair, he met the steady challenge of her gaze. “If the lover doesn’t exist and the letter doesn’t exist, why are you worried?”

“Do I look worried?”

“You’re here.”

Irritation flared in her eyes but before she could respond, Josef arrived with her coffee. She smiled up at the young waiter, her annoyance instantly concealed by an expression as warm and friendly as when she’d opened the door that afternoon. Then Tristan cleared his throat and the subtle reminder of his presence wiped all the warmth from her face. Exactly the same as when she’d found him on her doorstep.

“I am here,” she said tightly, “to see this letter. If it exists.”

“Oh, it exists, duchess. Same as your lover.” Turning the wineglass with his fingers, he waited a second before continuing. “A little young, isn’t he?”

A frown marred the smooth perfection of her face. “Josef?”

“Lover boy. At Old Poynton.”

“How do you…” Her voice trailed off and her eyes widened as the inference took hold. “You followed me this afternoon?”

“Inadvertently.”

“You accidentally followed me? For fifty miles?”

One shoulder lifted in a negligent shrug. “I took a wrong turn. You sped by. I thought it might be interesting to find out who you needed to see in such a godfire hurry.”

Vanessa stared across at him with a growing sense of horror and violation. Not the chill shivers of earlier, when she’d thought about being spied on, but a hot wave of outrage. Because he’d done this. Not some anonymous stranger, but this man. Sitting beside her and passing this off as if it were a big fat nothing.

For a long second she had to fight the urge to hurl something at him. The closest something was her cinnamon mocha macchiato, untouched and still hot enough to do serious damage. The need steamed through her, curling her fingers so tightly around the coffee cup’s handle, she was afraid it might crack under the pressure.

Not good, Vanessa. Not cool. Not restrained. Not gracious.

Not any of the things she loved about this lifestyle she’d adopted.

Through sheer force of willpower she loosened her grip, but she couldn’t risk speaking for fear of the words she might hurl in lieu of the physical. She couldn’t even look at him, in case that fired her rage anew. To remind herself of the very public venue and her very elegant surroundings and the very real need to gather some restraint, she looked past his shoulder at the restaurant and the other diners.

Even on a Tuesday night the Marabella’s celebrated restaurant was close to capacity, the crowd an even mix of well-heeled tourists and business suits and elegantly dressed locals. Many she recognized; several she knew well enough to call friends. Frank Forrester, one of Stuart’s old golfing buddies, tipped his silver head and winked broadly when he caught her eye.

Smiling back, she breathed a silent sigh of relief that Frank’s company didn’t include his wife. The last thing she needed was Delia Forrester sauntering over to flutter eyelashes and flaunt her latest chest augmentation at the new man in town. And if Delia were present, she would notice Tristan. She would saunter and flutter and flaunt because that’s what Delia did in the presence of men, despite the husband she gave every appearance of doting on.

“What’s the matter, duchess? Afraid you’ll be seen with me?”

Tristan’s soft drawl cut through her reflection, drawing her attention back to him. When her gaze collided with his—sharp, steady, the rich ocean blue darkened like night on the water—she experienced a brief pulse of disorientation, almost like vertigo.

“Not at all,” she replied crisply, shaking off that weird sensation. What was the matter with her? Why did she let him get to her so easily, in so many ways? “We are here to discuss business, the same as these gentlemen—” she spread her hands, indicating the sprinkling of suits around them “—and the real estate reps over by the door.”

When his gaze followed hers, taking in the company, Vanessa’s heart gave a tiny bump of discovery.

She’d hit upon the ideal segue back to Andy and this afternoon’s meeting and the ridiculous misconception about an affair. “I don’t mind being seen with you, Tristan,” she said in a smooth, even voice, while her insides tightened and twisted over where this conversation might lead. “It’s no different from two people meeting, say, at the shore, to talk business.”

“Your meeting this afternoon was business?”

Lifting her chin, she met his sardonic gaze. “I do voluntary work at a facility for the developmentally disabled up near Lexford. Andy works there as a counselor.”

“And you meet him, about your volunteering, at the shore? After hours?”

“Not usually.” She moistened her lips. Chose the next words with careful precision. “Andy isn’t only a work associate, you see. We grew up in the same neighborhood, went to the same school. He’s a good friend and we do meet after hours, sometimes, and not always to talk about my volunteering. Given his profession, Andy is a good listener.”

“And today—this afternoon—you needed to talk.”

“To vent,” she corrected.

“About me.”

“Who else?”

He didn’t counter for a tick, and there was something in his expression that started a drumbeat of tension in her blood, a beat that slowed and thickened when his gaze dropped to her lips. “Did you tell him about our kiss?”

The intimacy of his words washed through her, at first warm and strong with remembered sensations and then all wrong. Our kiss denoted sharing. A lovers’ kiss, hushed with reverence and sweet with romance, not imbued with bitter disdain and the bite of angry words.

She shook her head. “That wasn’t a kiss.”

“No?”

“It was a power play, and you know it.”

A note of surprise flickered in the darkened depths of his eyes. “Was it really so bad?”

“As far as kisses go, it fell a long way short of good.”

He rocked back in his chair, his expression trickily hard to gauge. Then he shocked the devil out of her by laughing—a low, lazy chuckle that stayed on his lips and tingled through her body like the sparks of a slow-burning fuse.

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