His Trophy Wife. Leigh Michaels
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run into Abigail without warning. Surprised, he might slip up—and if he said one wrong word…
Morganna was standing by the front door and calculating times in her head—if his flight was on schedule, if he’d had no trouble getting a cab, if rush hour traffic had been no worse than usual—when she saw an airport limousine maneuver through the gates of Pemberton Place and pull up in front of the mansion. By the time Sloan got out, she had the front door open and was hovering just inside.
Sloan paused on the sidewalk. The light of the decorative lamps at the front of the house fell in sharp angles across his face, highlighting the rugged good looks which always took Morganna’s breath away for an instant whenever she first laid eyes on him. The effect was stronger than usual today—but then it had been nearly a week since he’d left. He wasn’t wearing a coat, only a dark-gray wool suit, and at thirty-five he was as lean and athletic-looking as most men who were a decade younger.
Without haste, Sloan shifted the weight of his garment bag and briefcase and climbed the shallow steps to the entrance. “This is a surprise,” he said dryly. “Finding you waiting by the door for me. But you’ve forgotten the good little housewife’s standard props, haven’t you? Pipe, slippers, newspaper, martini—”
Irritated, Morganna said, “You don’t smoke, it’s too early for slippers, you’ve no doubt already read the newspaper and you don’t like martinis. And there’s a very good reason why I’m standing here.”
“There must be. I never doubted it.” Sloan set his bags down and looked her over, his dark eyes intent. “And you’re not very happy about the reason, are you? Well, let’s go somewhere private and you can tell me about it.” He reached out as if to drape an arm around her shoulders.
Morganna had already moved toward the drawing room. Once inside, she sat on the edge of a chair and said, “My mother’s here. And she’s planning to stay a while.”
“That’s nice.”
“Nice? Are you out of your mind?”
“I like Abigail. Always have.”
Then it’s too bad you didn’t marry her instead of me, Morganna wanted to say. She bit her tongue hard. “Well, I like her too, Sloan—too much to let her be worried, or to suspect that we’re not happy.”
Sloan moved over to the drinks tray, poured himself a whisky and handed Morganna a club soda. “In other words, you don’t want her to know the price you paid so she could have her comfortable life in Phoenix.”
“What good would it do if she found out?”
“None, of course. You can rest easy, Morganna—she won’t discover it from me. Of course, it may be more of a challenge for you to pretend to be deliriously happy.” He picked up his glass and left the room. From the hall, she heard the deep murmur of his voice, and then the butler’s softer reply.
Morganna rubbed her temples. The irony in his voice was like an ice pick to her heart. Where had she gone so wrong?
It had all seemed so logical, so straightforward, when it had begun—just over six months ago, and barely a week after the world had caved in on Morganna and her mother.
It had been several days after Burke Ashworth’s fatal car accident before Morganna had begun to realize the perilous situation her father had left them in. But as soon as she started to absorb the facts, confirmation crept in from every side. The banker calling to demand payment on the mortgage, the stockbroker announcing with regret that the value in Burke’s portfolio was not adequate to cover his margin calls—those things were only the beginning of a downhill slide that seemed to have no bottom.
That was probably why, when Sloan Montgomery had shown up at the house, Morganna had agreed to see him—even though she barely knew him. Because, she thought, talking to him couldn’t possibly make things worse.
The memories of that day were carved into the very cells of her brain. She’d been sitting with her mother in the drawing room, receiving callers. A horrifying percentage of them had turned out to be her father’s creditors, and though she had tried to convince her mother that there was no need to see each and every one, Abigail insisted. Morganna could only watch with helpless anxiety as Abigail’s exhaustion reached crushing proportions. It wasn’t until the stream of creditors had ended that Abigail finally agreed to go and rest.
Just then Selby had brought in a business card, neatly centered on a silver tray. Morganna could have screamed at him.
Abigail took the card, her hands trembling with fatigue. “This must be another one, because I don’t recognize the name.”
Morganna looked over her shoulder. “No, Mom. This one’s for me.”
Abigail checked the card again and looked suspiciously at her daughter. “You know this Sloan Montgomery? Then why haven’t I heard of him?”
“Because there’s never been any reason to mention him. Remember the fund-raiser for the women’s shelter that I helped with last year? I met him then. He builds furniture in a factory down in the old commercial district on the lakefront—innovative, unusual stuff that he designs himself—and he donated a bunch of it to the shelter. That’s all I know about him.” She looked up at Selby. “Show Mr. Montgomery into the miniature room, please. Tell him I’ll be with him in a moment, and close the door. Once he’s out of the way, Mother can slip past without being seen and go up to her room.”
Abigail had wearily agreed, and a few minutes later Morganna had let herself quietly into the miniature room.
Across the room, Sloan Montgomery was standing by Morganna’s worktable, apparently studying a lyre-backed dining chair, smaller than his palm, that she’d been carving on the day her father died. “My furniture is a little different from yours, I’m sure,” she said, and he straightened and turned to face her.
Against the background of tiny things, he looked even larger than life—impossibly tall and broad-shouldered in a dark gray pin-striped suit. He was every bit as handsome as he’d been at the fund-raiser, but today he was somber—more so, surely, than a condolence call on a casual acquaintance would require. The tension in his face made Morganna pause. She was worn-out herself, or perhaps she would have thought twice before she asked, “Which category are you in?”
He frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“I find myself wondering why you’re here. I assumed this was a sympathy call—but perhaps it’s just another attempt to collect an unpaid bill instead. Did my father owe you money, too?”
“No, he didn’t. And though I’m sorry about your loss, this isn’t really a sympathy call, either, Miss Ashworth.”
Morganna frowned. “Then—if you’re not intending to console me or regain what you’re owed, why have you come?”
“To try to take your mind off things.”
“Now that’s refreshing,” she said lightly. “And a great deal different from the rest of our visitors today. Half of them seemed to remember my father as a saint, while the rest were obviously biting their tongues to keep from saying what they thought of him. And those were just our friends—the creditors didn’t bother to mince words. After all that, I could stand a little entertainment. Do you sing? Dance? Play the accordion?”
“I gather that you and your mother are in troubled circumstances.”
“If that’s what you call taking my mind off things—”
“Perhaps I should have said instead that I came to find out whether I can help you.”
“I don’t see how,” Morganna said frankly. “Troubled circumstances is putting it lightly. Daddy’s been dead just a week, and it’s quite apparent that life as we have known it is over.”
He nodded. “The house?”
“It’s as good as gone—it was in his name, and it’s mortgaged for more than it can possibly