His Trophy Wife Page 4

  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 r
aised 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?”

  Sloan never walked into his factory without remembering the first day he’d stepped onto the property, as a high school student looking for a part-time job. In maintenance, if there was nothing else, he’d told the personnel officer who’d talked to him. He was fairly handy with a wrench, and there was no question he could operate a broom. He must have sounded as desperate as he felt, for with a sigh the personnel officer had sent him up to the office which overlooked the factory floor, to talk to the boss.

  What old man Brigham had seen in the young man, he’d never told anyone—but he’d put Sloan to work that day. Within a couple of years, Sloan could operate every machine in the building. And on the day that Brigham announced that he was closing down the firm and retiring, Sloan had once more gone into the office overlooking the factory floor. This time he asked the boss to sell him the business instead of liquidating it.

  “I don’t know why you think you want it, son,” Brigham had said. “Nobody’s interested in buying this factory. Furniture’s a hard trade to be in, and with labor costs so much cheaper outside this country, it’s a fair bet that you’ll be undercut on every side.”

  “I have some ideas,” Sloan had said laconically, and, after surveying him for a long time, Brigham had agreed to give him the chance. Out of respect for the old man, Sloan had waited till after Edward Brigham’s funeral to change Brigham Furniture’s name to Sticks & Stones. The new name would have given the old man an instant ulcer, but it was a far better reflection of the reputation Sloan was building as the creator of innovative, sometimes even funky, bits of furniture for home and office.

  It hadn’t been an easy road, and Sticks & Stones still hit speed bumps from time to time. He’d encountered a good-size one just this week in San Francisco, as a matter of fact. But every time he walked into the factory an
d paused to sniff the scents of wood shavings and fabric dyes and machine oil, he reaffirmed that buying the business had been the right decision. Sticks & Stones had been good to him.

  The day shift was already running at full speed when he arrived, and Sloan took his time crossing the factory floor, greeting workers, checking product quality, listening to the hum of the machines. By the time he reached his office, he was eager to throw open the windows overlooking the assembly line below, settle into his big leather chair and plunge into the mess that must have accumulated during his absence.

  He was startled to find Joel sitting at his desk, a mass of papers spread on the blotter in front of him.

  Sloan paused. “I thought I gave you a raise last night, not a promotion. Isn’t your office still down on the main floor?”

  The controller half smiled. “I was afraid I might miss you when you came in, so I brought some work up to do while I waited for you.”

  “In that case, you might want some extra light on the subject.” Sloan leaned over the desk and flicked a finger against the metal finial atop the desk lamp. Instantly the bulb cast a pool of bright light over Joel’s paperwork.

  “No wonder I didn’t see a switch,” Joel grumbled. “I haven’t run across a touch-controlled sensor in five years, since we quit making lamps.”

  “They have their problems,” Sloan conceded. “But I like not having to fumble to turn it on. It’s much easier to find the lamp in the dark than to grope for the switch.”

  Joel gathered up his papers and moved from Sloan’s chair by the window to one on the opposite side of the big desk. “Why don’t you throw out all this old stuff and use some of the furniture from our new lines? It would be a subliminal sales pitch to everyone who walks into this office.”

  “I like old things.”

  Joel’s voice dripped irony. “I never would have guessed.”

  Sloan let his gaze drift around the room, from the scarred surface of Edward Brigham’s teak desk, to the old wooden filing cabinets that lined one wall, to a row of child-size furnishings that occupied the space beneath the windows overlooking the assembly line. The small but perfectly scaled bureau and chair and sideboard were not toys, however, and they had never been intended to be used by children. They were the samples that salesmen of old had used to display their wares to prospective buyers. Nowadays, of course, it was no longer necessary to haul the real article around. But Sloan wondered sometimes if graphic designs and photos on a laptop computer were any big improvement. If he’d had the real thing with him in San Francisco, would it have made a difference?