The Trophy Wife Read online

  They walked beneath an arch strung with white lights. Outside, Tripp placed a steadying hand on the ornate wrought-iron railing as he descended the steps. Amber smiled up at him as if she knew he could use all the steadying help he could get.

  They were halfway down the steps when someone called his name behind them. He swung around. In the process, his knuckle caught on a rough spot on the railing. Tripp felt a slight pain in his hand. He was more concerned about the pain in the neck slanting him a phony smile.

  "What do you want, Spencer?"

  Derek Spencer made a show of looking Amber up and down before turning his attention back to Tripp. "May the best man win." With a snide curl of his lip and laughter that might as well have been canned, he turned on his heel and disappeared inside.

  "What was that all about?" Amber asked.

  "God only knows." Swiping a hand across his mouth, Tripp scowled.

  Amber reached up and with gentle fingers took his hand in hers. Slowly, she brought it to her mouth and placed a kiss as soft as a whisper on his scuffed knuckle.

  "When I was small, my mother used to kiss my scrapes and bruises to make them better."

  She planted an openmouthed kiss on the next knuckle, and the next. "Better?"

  His blood heated, thickened and slowly made its way south. He had a feeling that somewhere in the deepest recesses of her mind, she knew exactly what she was doing. She wasn't an innocent and she wasn't a child. She was a woman, a willing woman. One who was damned close to stepping over the line between lover and friend.

  He was trying to remember all his reasons to hold her at arm's length when a taxi pulled up to the curb. Amber strode toward it. One hand on the door handle, she turned, waiting. She looked very sure of herself, and very determined.

  She wasn't going to be easy to resist.

  * * *

  "It should be a lovely wedding. Jennifer is so nervous. Her little flower girl is only three. That's one of those iffy ages. You just never know what a three-year-old will do."

  Amber had paused. It was the first breather she'd taken since leaving Duncan's Restaurant. Tripp glanced in the direction she was looking. The bed-and-breakfast was up ahead.

  "Jennifer was afraid little Breanna would be too shy to walk down the aisle tomorrow." The silence hadn't lasted long. Amber opened the taxi door and climbed out. He had little choice but to follow. "It turns out she just doesn't want to drop the pretty rose petals. She wants to keep them. Isn't that the sweetest thing you've ever heard? Did I tell you the bridesmaids are wearing lavender? Evidently, it's the most popular wedding color right now. Although black is big, too."

  Tripp dug into his pocket for the fare.

  The driver glanced from Tripp to Amber, who was still talking. And talking. When he next looked at Tripp, his expression was supportive. "Thanks, buddy. Your woman always this chatty?"

  Tripp considered telling the driver that she wasn't his woman. And she wasn't normally chatty. He ended up shrugging and closing the door without saying a word.

  Amber started toward the front door before the cab had pulled away. It was as if she was in a hurry. Tripp dragged his feet, ending up at the top of the second landing while she was taking the key from her purse and unlocking the door to their room.

  Striding through, she said, "I can't wait to get out of these heels."

  Before he could say one-Mississippi, she stepped out of one shoe. "Hold it right there."

  She turned around as she leaned down to remove the other, as winsome and agile as a willow switch. "Are you going to close the door? Or shall I?"

  He shut the door, then leaned against it. "What are you doing?"

  "Whatever do you mean?"

  As far as he was concerned, she could cut the innocent act. He was on to her. "You're chattering. And that isn't like you. Which means you're nervous. And if you're nervous, what the hell are you doing?"

  "There's a fine line between being nervous and being excited. And as far as what I'm doing, if you have to ask, I'm obviously not doing it very well."

  The knowing glint that came and went in her eyes was a turn-on if he'd ever seen one. It made him uncomfortable as hell. And intrigued.

  Damn. That ticked him off.

  "You're trying to pick a fight." She looked him in the eye. "Maybe I'm doing something right, after all."

  He felt his eyes narrow, a furrow form between his eyebrows. She should have been put off by his glare. For crying out loud, she should have been afraid.

  "You're angry."

  "Damn right I'm angry."

  She was standing on the far side of the room, seemingly completely at ease. Reaching up with both hands, she began removing the amber-tipped pins from her hair. One by one, they dropped to the plush carpet without making a sound.

  Tripp swallowed. "You should be afraid. Hell, at the very least you should be worried."

  Holding his gaze, she removed the clasp that had secured the majority of her hair.

  "But no. This is Amber Colton I'm dealing with. Everything comes naturally to you. You're not afraid of anything."

  She shook her head, her hair falling around her shoulders in waves. "I'm afraid of some things."

  "Like hell you are."

  "I am." She took a tentative step closer.

  "Name one."

  "I'm afraid of spiders." Another several steps brought her far too close for his peace of mind. "I'm afraid of flying. I don't like elevators. Or gas stoves." Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "I'm afraid of wild dogs and terrorists, poisonous snakes, and drunk drivers, and deep inside, I am afraid of you."

  "Me?"

  She nodded, taking another step closer. "I'm afraid you'll turn away from what I want tonight."

  His ragged breath could have been heard anywhere in the room. "You're running out of time, Amber."

  Another step brought her within inches of him. "What am I running out of time for?"

  "Out of time to come to your senses."

  She tilted her head understandingly, and Tripp realized he was the one running out. Out of breath, out of diversions, out of topics to argue about.

  "Out of time to tell me no."

  "That's an interesting way to put it, when I was just thinking how glad I am that we have all night."

  The air rushed out of him in an audible whoosh. While he still had a few functioning brain cells, he said, "I didn't plan this. I didn't bring protection."

  "I did."

  He closed his eyes. When he opened them, there she was, just a touch away. "You planned this?"

  "I brought candles, too. And romantic music."

  His gaze homed in on her mouth. "You planned this."

  "I don't think we need music or candlelight, do you?"

  She swayed slightly. His hands shot out, perhaps to steady her, or perhaps to hold her safely away. Instead, he gathered her closer, his hands drawing her up, up.

  She watched him through half-closed eyes and tilted her head. A moment later he covered her lips with his. The kiss was just a brush of air at first, but then it changed. Her eyes fluttered closed, as did his. He moved his mouth a quarter of an inch, deepening the kiss. He tasted champagne, and passion. Her lips parted beneath his, and a rush of feeling flooded over him. He made a sound deep in his throat, the kiss becoming a mating of lips, and tongues and the very air they breathed.

  Tripp had always had a good imagination; heaven knew it had been working overtime tonight. But imagery couldn't hold a candle to the jolt pulsing through him right now. She was right. They didn't need candlelight or music. But they did need this.

  They needed more.

  Her body was fluid against his. Her waist fit his hands, the flare of her hips enticing him to explore. The kiss went on and on, their breath mingled, their sighs filling the room.

  They finally drew apart, and their eyes finally opened. His hands went to her face. Holding her steady, he kissed her again, twice. This close, he heard her breath hitch in her throat. She took a
step backward. For a moment he thought she'd come to her senses. It would be best. He didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until after she leaned down and switched off the overhead light, until after it became apparent that she hadn't changed her mind.

  The only sound was his deep, shuddering sigh. The only illumination came from the table lamp across the room. It penetrated the darkness and threw soft shadows in every corner, on every hollow surface. The overhead fan moved the air in circular currents. It was romantic as hell. Dammit, he hadn't planned this, but somewhere deep inside him, he'd known the evening would end this way.

  She'd thought of everything, even protection. He'd known she was thorough. He hadn't known she would be so pliant in his hands, or that he would want her so bad.

  Without a word, she turned around. Reaching up with one hand, she moved her hair aside, presenting him with a silent request.

  Hours ago he'd raised that same zipper. Now he bent down and planted a kiss at her nape. She shuddered beneath his lips. Inch by inch, he lowered the zipper to the small of her back. He knew what she wanted. Who was he to deny the lady?

  Amber had never felt such a delicious sensation wash over her. Goose bumps skittered up and down her arms. Hesitating a moment, she took a silent breath for courage and gave in to the sheer pleasure of his touch. With a gentle hand on each shoulder, he turned her to face him. She forced her eyes open, and there he was, his smile stark and white and full of shared secrets, and of need.

  She planted a kiss on his chin, then made short work of unknotting his tie. Next, she unbuttoned every button on his crisp white shirt. Her fingertips paused at his belt.

  "You touch me there, and there'll be no turning back."

  His eyes were so deep, so brown, so fluid, she felt herself slipping right in. Holding his gaze, she placed her hand where he'd warned her not to. His eyes closed, his breathing hitched. She'd never been so brazen, so wanton, had never felt so powerful. It was a heady sensation, but it was nothing compared to the expression on his face.

  His eyes opened, his lips parted and then he dragged her against him as if he couldn't get enough, his hands memorizing every curve from hip to shoulder. Lowering her zipper the rest of the way, he eased the dress down her arms.

  Forbidding herself to tremble, she let the dress slide down her body. Ever so slowly, she stepped out of it and kicked it aside.

  She'd spent as much time finding the perfect lingerie as she had searching for the dress and shoes. Standing before Tripp in her transparent bra, the scrap of satin panties and lace-topped stockings, she knew it had been worth it. He couldn't take his eyes off the upper swells of her breasts.

  "Perhaps you would like to take it from here?"

  Tripp didn't need a second invitation. He slid a strap down each shoulder. She drew her shoulders together, and for a moment, he thought she might cover herself shyly. Something clicked far back in his mind. Before he could examine it, she reached behind her, undoing the clasp. In a luxuriant movement, she let the garment fall to the floor.

  He spread his fingers wide and covered her breasts. Her body fit his so perfectly, he wanted to roll her underneath him. He tore off his tie and shucked his shirt. His shoes came next. When he was naked, he whisked her remaining wisps of clothing out of his way. Her eyes had drifted closed, the look of rapture on her face his complete undoing. He lowered her to the bed, stretching out beside her.

  The mattress shifted beneath their weight. He glided a hand down her body, willing himself to slow down.

  She whimpered. "Oh, don't stop."

  "I'm not stopping, I'm just—"

  She moved her leg against his. "I want—"

  He knew what she wanted. He reached for protection.

  He kissed her again, on the mouth, on her chin, her shoulder, the delicate skin at her waist and hip. In that order, and in every order.

  "Ah, yes," she whispered. "Please."

  He brought her on top of him, then in a movement that took both their breaths away he had her on her back and he entered her. She arched upward.

  He was aware of something unusual. But then she started to move, and he couldn't think. It had been so long, and she was so beautiful, and sensual, and responsive. He tried to slow down, but she cried out, raking her fingernails down his back, letting him know she wanted nothing to do with going slow. Relying on instinct and the sounds Amber made deep in her throat, he gave in to need and followed her to that place beyond logic or reason, to that place that might as well have been on the other side of the moon.

  He surfaced slowly. Once his breathing returned to a more normal rate, and he could actually think, he chastised himself.

  It hadn't been a profound performance. Such things took time. And she hadn't given him any time, not to think, not to analyze, not to take things slow.

  Sure as hell not to put two and two together and get four.

  No wonder she'd been chatty. She'd said there was a fine line between nerves and excitement. Hell and damnation, she had been nervous—and for good reason.

  Raising up on one elbow, he waited for her to open her eyes. "Amber, how…why?"

  "Why, what?"

  "Why didn't you tell me you were a virgin?"

  She shrugged, bravely meeting his eyes. "I wasn't sure."

  "You weren't sure."

  Amber felt that, under the circumstances, it was only fair to forgive him for using that tone of voice. "I've wondered. I mean, I've had boyfriends, and once or twice I thought…maybe…" She ducked her head. "Guess not."

  He moved to his side. "You guess not?"

  She hid a smile. It was so like Tripp to get angry at a time like this. Honestly, she felt glorious.

  "You guess not!" he repeated.

  "Now I'm sure."

  His mouth dropped open. "You're a beautiful woman, and you've undoubtedly had countless opportunities. Yet you never…until tonight. With me."

  She averted her gaze, suddenly feeling shy, weepy and giggly and teary-eyed all over again. She needed a moment to herself to restore her emotions and preserve her dignity. First she said, "I was saving it for someone special."

  He opened his mouth to argue, but she shook her head, silencing him.

  "When I look back on this, I want to remember it as infinitely precious. I didn't want it to be with some guy after my family's money." She scooted to one side of the bed. "I'll be right back."

  Just before closing the bathroom door, she glanced over her shoulder. The sight of him, so masculine and virile, sexually spent, at once baffled and thoroughly ticked off, brought a smile to her lips. A look of shock crossed his face. And then, as if he couldn't help himself, he smiled at her in return.

  * * *

  "You okay?" Tripp asked when Amber returned from the bathroom ten minutes later.

  Her smile was radiant, making her nod unnecessary. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she glanced at him, then quickly, shyly away. "Maybe I should ask you that question."

  Tripp stopped fiddling with his watch. She was wearing her cream-colored dressing gown. She hadn't taken it in with her, which meant she'd thought ahead and had planned that, too. Curious, he asked, "Was there really a mix-up in the room reservations, Amber? Or was that your doing, too?"

  She lifted the blankets and climbed into bed. It might have been an awkward moment, and yet she didn't appear uncomfortable. When she was settled on the pillows, she turned her head and looked at him, her eyes large and green and clear. "I was hoping for this." With a sweep of her hand, she gestured to the bed, and what had gone on a short time before. "I really had requested rooms ten and twelve because they had a connecting door. This attic room," she said, with another sweep of her hand, "must have been the work of divine intervention." She gave him a moment to digest the information, then asked, "Do you believe me?"

  He stared at her long and hard. When he nodded, something ignited inside Amber, something far deeper than her skin. Love swelled in her chest. She longed to hear him say he loved her in retu
rn. Knowing he believed her was almost as precious.

  He must have switched the table lamp off and the light on his side of the bed on while she'd been freshening up. He was propped up on pillows, half in the shadow of her bedside lamp, the sheet and duvet pulled up to his waist. She turned onto her side, facing him, tucking the sheet under her arms.

  "Now," he said in a tone of voice men used when they wanted answers, and they wanted them now. "Why don't you tell me how a woman as smart and beautiful as you, a woman who's had three real marriage proposals could have gone this long without making love."

  She'd been expecting the question, and yet she still wasn't sure how to explain. She owed it to him to try. "Let's just say that if the proposals were accompanied by love, it was for my family's money."

  "Did you love any of them?"

  "I liked them. One in particular. But in the end, it was all about what my father's money could buy for him. Cars, boats, gifts, vacations."

  "Positions in medical practices?"

  She shook her head earnestly. "This is different. You don't even want that position. You're only doing it to help the poor. Believe me, the only poor my last boyfriend wanted to help was himself. He wanted a trip to Paris. My participation was optional. Believe me, you're the only man who's ever wanted more from me than my father's money."

  "Poor little rich girl."

  "I don't want your pity."

  "You're too smart and conniving and headstrong for me to pity."

  She grinned. A lot of people had told her she was beautiful. Perhaps some of them had even meant it. But no one's praise had ever meant more to her. She loved him. Lord, she was happy. "Tripp?"

  "Hmm?"

  "I don't really feel like talking anymore."

  His hair was tousled, his face lean and chiseled. There were shadows beneath his eyes, an appreciative glint in them. His chin was just beginning to bear the evidence of a beard. His shoulders were broad, his chest muscled, the hair sparse. He started to move, as if to turn out her light. She reached up with one hand, halting him.

  "I don't really feel like sleeping, yet, either."

  He lowered his arm as if in slow motion. "You don't."