The Bought-and-Paid-For Wife. Bronwyn Jameson
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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