The Trophy Wife Read online

  He looked at her long and hard for a moment before saying, "I beg your pardon?"

  "You thanked me. What was that for?"

  "For not giving me the third degree when I was an hour late. For nodding agreeably when André exclaimed that each suit coat looked better than the last, when we both know damn well they all looked the same. For researching Montgomery Perkins and his medical practice. You're very thorough."

  See, she told herself, he was sincere. Oh, at times he was cross and sullen, too. But she could see past that. She was almost afraid to hope that before her stood a man who might, just might, want to look beyond her exterior and try to discover who she really was on the inside, where it truly mattered.

  Just in case she was imagining things, she moved in closer, studying him.

  "What are you doing?" Tripp breathed deeply, catching a whiff of exotic perfume that went straight to his head. Or maybe Amber's smile had done that.

  "Who are you?" she asked. "And what have you done with Tripp Calhoun?"

  Something stirred inside Tripp, something restless and unwelcome, and completely irreverent. Damn, it felt good. He needed to get to those ground rules, and soon. "That wasn't very original. I read that it takes twelve acts of kindness to make up for one negative one, and since I still have eleven positives to bestow, I'll let it go this time."

  Her smile grew. "You're being nice because you want to make up for yesterday?"

  "The thought crossed my mind."

  Again with that smile.

  He tried to figure out what it was about her that drew him. Nothing about the conversation should have been lust-arousing, and yet awareness simmered between them. He shrugged a shoulder, easing closer as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She looked at him, her eyes bright, her face upturned, her lips parted slightly. He was tempted to kiss her, here and now. The idea burned in his mind, heating his blood another degree with every inch he lowered his face toward hers.

  "That Jules!" A shrill voice sounded behind them.

  Tripp and Amber jerked apart, then pretended interest in opposite directions as casually as they could manage.

  "Always wanting to know when I'll be home. Now for those pants!" André was back, talking a mile a minute. "These are to die for. And this tie, hmm-humm."

  Tripp cleared his throat and tried to clear the roaring din from his mind and his ears. He glanced at Amber, only to drag his gaze away when André brought a measuring tape from his pocket and glided down to one knee.

  "What are you doing?"

  André swatted Tripp's hand aside. "I need to measure your inseam."

  For a moment, Tripp froze.

  "That's it. Hold nice and still."

  Nice and still, hell. Tripp backed up so fast André nearly fell over. He caught himself at the last minute with one hand pressed to the floor.

  The bell over the front door jangled, signaling the arrival of another customer despite the closed sign in the window. André cast Tripp a questioning look before rushing off with a flourish toward the front of the store.

  "What did you do that for?" Amber asked.

  Tripp gritted his teeth. "I stopped growing years ago. I don't need my inseam measured." He noticed Amber's grim expression. He didn't understand it, but at that point, he had more important things to do than try to figure it out.

  "Especially not by a man who lives with an artist named Jules, is that it?" she asked.

  She pried the measuring tape from his fisted hand while his mind was still blank. Long before he figured out what the hell she was talking about, she continued.

  "For your information, Jules is a nickname."

  "So?"

  "Short for Juliann. With two n's."

  "You're saying Jules is a woman?"

  Her eyes darkened with an emotion he couldn't identify. "That's what you get for stereotyping."

  That was when it occurred to Tripp that she'd gone down to her knees exactly as André had. "What are you doing?"

  "Somebody has to measure your inseam."

  His hand shot out, covering hers an inch away from its targeted area. "I wasn't stereotyping, dammit. And I'm not having you measure my inseam, either." Not in the state he was in.

  "You're not?" And then, in a softer voice, "You weren't?"

  She was still on her knees, and she was looking straight ahead. She averted her eyes the way a highbred lady should. The smile that stole across her face, however, wasn't the smile of a genteel woman of high social standing. It was playful and bratty, and made Tripp even more uncomfortable.

  "Of course you weren't." She rose blithely to her feet.

  She seemed buoyant and happy suddenly. And beautiful. He clamped his mouth shut. And sensual.

  A lot of women were sensual. Hell, most of them were. He had damn good reasons for fighting the attraction crackling between him and this particular one. And as soon as the blood returned to his brain, he'd be able to recall every one of them.

  "Relax, Tripp."

  Easy for her to say. "What makes you think I'm not relaxed?"

  She touched three fingers to his watch, which happened to be twirling around his finger instead of resting on his wrist where it belonged. He thought it was very big of her to refrain from expounding upon the obvious. He probably should have told her he appreciated her restraint. He had eleven more positive gestures to make, after all.

  She handed him the measuring tape. "Here," she said, far too sweetly for his peace of mind. "Why don't you do the honors?"

  He tossed the tape to a nearby chair. "Just help me find a pair of dress pants in my size, all right?"

  She smiled, slow and dreamy. "Whatever you say, Doctor. Whatever you say."

  She was laughing on the inside. He knew it, and he understood it. What he didn't understand was why he felt no anger.

  He thought about picking a fight just to get back on track, but she'd already started for a rack in the middle of the store. And Tripp didn't have much choice but to follow her.

  * * *

  Tripp unlocked his car door and moved to toss the new suit and all its accessories inside. Amber caught his hand before he'd released the zippered, plastic bag. With utmost care, she squeezed past him and hung the suit from the little hook over the back door.

  Watching the way she contorted and wiggled her body in order to arrange the suit in a way so as not to wrinkle it reminded him that his credit card wasn't the only thing overheated. Not that he needed reminding.

  "What do you want to do now?" she asked, backing up.

  He forced his eyes away from the part of her heading right for him. "I have to get back to Ukiah."

  "So soon?" She closed his car door with one hand, then brushed imaginary wrinkles from her slacks. Every movement was naturally feminine, and far too luxuriant for a man in Tripp's frame of mind. Especially since he wasn't supposed to be looking at her in the first place.

  He took a deep breath.

  "Doesn't that smell lovely?" she asked conversationally. "When the breeze is right, like it is tonight, the air is filled with the scent of hundreds of flowers and shrubs growing in the botanical gardens just south of Fort Bragg."

  Tripp was familiar with several of the small towns in the north-central portion of California, but not many along the coast. He'd lived in L.A. until he was fifteen. Back then, his world had consisted of apartments, housing projects, deserted buildings and back alleys in his neighborhood. He'd spent seven years at the University of California in San Francisco. This was his first visit to Fort Bragg. He'd heard of the Skunk Railroad, named for the noxious fumes the engine had pumped out back when the railway had been used to cart lumber across the coastal mountains between Fort Bragg and Willitis. He needed to be heading back that way, himself.

  "Tripp?"

  "Hmm?"

  "Are you hungry or aren't you?"

  Obviously, she'd been talking. He really needed to pay attention. He gave her a gesture she interpreted as a nod.

  "Shall we grab a
bite to eat?"

  "Here?"

  "Did you have someplace else in mind?"

  The shake of his head served a dual purpose. It answered her question and attempted to clear his mind of what was really in it. "To tell you the truth, I'm going to be eating peanut butter for a while."

  "Oh."

  Before they parted, there was something he had to say. "About what almost happened between us in the store…"

  "What almost happened between us?"

  He felt sideswiped by her smile. "I came damn close to kissing you, and you know it."

  "Oh, that."

  A warning gong went off in Tripp's head. "Amber," he said.

  Air brakes hissed on the street behind them. Laying a hand on her elbow, he drew her with him to the relative safety of the sidewalk. "I appreciate what you're trying to do for me. I'm not poetic enough to word this right, but I want to get something straight between us."

  "What's on your mind, Tripp?"

  Forget what was on his mind. This had to be said. "We come from different backgrounds, different places. Our paths crossed once, and I'm not sorry they're crossing again. But that's all this is. A crossroads. I'm no expert on women, but the ones I've known place a hell of a lot more importance on a kiss, even on a near-kiss, than men do. I'd hate to see you get hurt, and I'd hate even more to be the one responsible for hurting you."

  The evening breeze stirred the awnings over the quaint stores lining the main thoroughfare in Fort Bragg's downtown district. That same breeze tugged a lock of Tripp's dark hair from the rubber band at his nape. Amber fought the urge to reach up with gentle fingertips and tuck it back in. Her gaze met his, and a zing went through her. For an instant, she saw hunger in his eyes, not necessarily for food.

  He wanted her. He didn't want to, but he did. Suddenly, it was all-important that she didn't lose the fight before she'd even gotten into the ring. "I'm a big girl. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, but fine, I've been duly warned. You're off the hook. We have a lot of work to do between now and this weekend. My car's parked at the end of the next block. You can walk me to it while I outline my plans. Please don't just stand there. Time's a-wasting."

  She spun around and started down the sidewalk, her heart in her throat. She didn't draw an easy breath until Tripp fell into step beside her.

  "You always were bossy."

  She bit her lip. "I said please."

  His brown eyes were fixed straight ahead. "You meant just do it, dammit. Or else."

  "Not or else." She smiled. She thought it was very gentlemanly of him not to mention that she hadn't disputed the rest of it. It was as if he understood her—and he liked her anyway. This tall, rugged man who rarely concerned himself with others' impressions of him liked her.

  She glanced sideways at him. "You might as well say it."

  Tripp had a feeling that somewhere in the dark recesses of her mind, Amber knew exactly what she was doing. He on the other hand, had no idea what she was talking about, and this time, he'd been paying attention. "I might as well say what?"

  "Whatever it is that had you scowling at that poor woman we just met."

  "What poor woman?" he asked in spite of himself.

  "The one who just took one look at you and gave you a five-foot berth. She's probably had a horrible day, had to work late, and is hurrying home to her hungry kids."

  "She was hurrying home to her cats."

  "How do you know that?"

  "She was carrying a bag of cat food. See that woman over there just getting out of her minivan?"

  "The thin redhead?"

  He nodded. "She's completely frazzled. And that heavyset one crossing the street? She enjoys being a woman. A lot."

  Amber stopped so suddenly the people walking behind her nearly ran into her. Tripp went a few steps without her, then stopped, too. "Is that what you men do?" she asked when he'd turned to face her. "You make blind assumptions about women when you watch us?"

  "They're not blind assumptions." He lowered his voice in direct response to the pointed looks they were getting. "And I don't know about all men. It isn't something men discuss."

  "But you're saying you can tell a lot about a woman by the way she walks."

  He nodded as if he thought it was completely unnecessary to reply.

  This was the moment of truth, Amber thought, the moment when she discovered how he saw her. It was a risk to her ego, and possibly to her heart. She took a deep breath. Here goes nothing. "What can you tell about me?"

  He settled his feet a more comfortable distance apart and folded his arms at his chest. "You're a woman who's accustomed to getting a second look and her own way."

  She wanted to ask if that was all he saw, but she didn't. Instead, she said, "And was this revealed when I was walking toward you or away?"

  "Away." He didn't even have to think about it. "Definitely away."

  "What about when I'm walking toward you?"

  "That's confusing."

  "What's confusing about me, Tripp?"

  "What isn't? You're gorgeous and you know it. But you're also golden, like sunshine. You have a smart mouth and a serene smile. And your eyes, well, they're like soft grass one minute, cool shade the next. Confusing as hell."

  He started walking again. As Amber fell into step beside him, her heart teetered on her breastbone. From there it was an easy slide into her stomach. "And you said you're not poetic."

  He didn't appear nearly as pleased about that as she.

  She stopped near the front bumper of her shiny red sports car. "Here we are. I'll call you tomorrow."

  "Amber, wait. This conversation isn't finished."

  She looked over her shoulder at him. "Were you this quarrelsome with your former fiancée?"

  He narrowed his eyes and glared at her. Unlike the woman they'd seen moments ago and who right now was driving by in a car bearing a bumper sticker that read, Dogs have owners, cats have staff, Amber wasn't intimidated by Tripp in the least. "What was your fiancée's name again? Olive-Oyl?"

  "That'd be former fiancée. And her name was Olivia." His voice held no humor.

  Amber reached inside her big, square purse. Finding her notebook gave her something do to with her hands and a reason to avert her face so he couldn't see the little roll she gave her eyes. "Olivia what?"

  "Babcock."

  She turned so fast the pen she'd put to paper made a bold line across the blank page. "Olivia Babcock, daughter of Jamison Babcock, the man who amassed his fortune back when the computer industry was a new frontier and has since turned his attention as well as a huge share of his money to cancer research?"

  "You know them?"

  Not personally. But she'd heard of them. Olivia Babcock grew up near L.A. She'd been closer to Sophie's age than Amber's, and had been in the society pages since birth. She was glamorous, sophisticated, beautiful. She and Tripp had once been engaged? Amber wondered if he'd loved her. He must have. She wondered if he still did.

  "Do you miss her?"

  He made no reply.

  It was like pulling teeth. "Do you ever see her?"

  "I thought I would be seeing her this weekend."

  Amber was getting a bad feeling about this.

  "But it turns out I was wrong," he said. "She and her new fiancé are having dinner with Dr. and Mrs. Perkins tonight and won't be attending our gathering in Santa Rosa on Saturday. Praise the Lord."

  Amber didn't know whether to be as elated as Tripp. "Let me ask you something," she said. "Don't you think it's awfully strange that your ex just happens to be engaged to Derek Spencer? The same Derek Spencer who's the contender for the position you're after?"

  Tripp's answer was a sharp nod.

  Amber could have spent an hour deciphering the expression deep in his eyes. Releasing a low whistle, she said, "Strange, my eye. That is some coincidence."

  "I thought so, too."

  "I don't know how to break this to you, Doctor, but if your contender has the Babcock name b
ehind him, you're going to need more than great credentials and a new suit."

  "The Colton name carries its own power and prestige, Amber."

  A worrisome little pounding started in her temples and worked its way around to her forehead. She was digging herself into a deep hole. She wanted to help Tripp, but she wanted to be more than a trophy on his arm. She wanted to be his…His what? His friend. And perhaps even his lover?

  She pushed the question away and concentrated on the matter at hand. "Maybe you'd better tell me a little more about this dinner we'll be attending this weekend."

  She leaned a hip against her car door. Tripp's back remained ramrod straight, his feet set firmly apart, his hands on his hips as he said, "Cocktails begin at seven. Dinner is at eight."

  "Where?"

  "Ever hear of a place called Alessandro's?"

  Heard of it? Anyone who was anyone had dined at the world-renowned, five-star French restaurant. "Whose idea was it to meet there?"

  "One of the doctors in Perkins's practice owns shares in it."

  Oh. She'd missed that. She started jotting things in her notebook again. "Be at my place Thursday at eight."

  "For what?"

  "For dinner, of course. Better yet, meet me at Hacienda de Alegria. I'm a fair cook at best. I'll see if Inez would mind helping."

  "Helping do what?"

  "Arrange a place setting and create a scenario similar to the one we'll encounter this weekend. You'll be scrutinized down to the tiniest detail. And you'll be judged on more than your new suit, believe me. Our table manners will have to be impeccable."

  Tripp's hands slid from his hips to his sides, where he squeezed them into fists. Our table manners, hell. It reminded him of the nurses who breezed into a patient's room and asked how "we're" feeling. Amber meant he was going to be judged on more than a new suit and table manners, when he should be judged on his medical knowledge and bedside manner, dammit. What really angered him was Amber's assumption that he didn't know enough not to slurp his soup.

  He'd been so intrigued by her sunny disposition and so busy being attracted to her that he'd forgotten she was rich, pampered and the complete opposite of the kind of woman he needed. Except he did need her, at least for Saturday night. And that angered him the most.