Luxury Model Wife
Authors: Downs,Adele
TRUE RICHES
Twenty-eight-year-old Victoria Van Orr just lost everything. With the death of her billionaire husband went his mature patience and warm encouragement…and the veneer of acceptance from everyone else. His friends and colleagues now ignore Victoria, and if her stepson succeeds she just might be forced back to the streets upon which she was raised. But money was never her goal. All she wants is love. Real love.
Antiques expert Steve Carlson knows the value of everything. Pain and betrayal? Those he gave away—and now they’re coming back. His worst mistakes were all with one man: an old friend, the son of a father figure and now the stepchild of a beautiful young widow who wants Steve to help auction off the family estate. To help Victoria, Steve must face his past and become a better man. To find true love, he will discover her surprisingly pure heart, vulnerable yet determined. And beyond price.
PRAISE FOR ADELE DOWNS
“Adele Downs writes with wit and emotion.”
—Will Work for Books
“Adele Downs has done it again. She has written a tale that is light and full of love.”
—Cat’s Reviews on
Lip Service
“Once again, Adele Downs creates the perfect love story.”
—Girl with Pen on
Her Immortal Viking,
Winner of the HOLT Medallion Award for outstanding literary fiction
.
“Ms. Downs sure knows how to pull a reader into her stories.”
—Harlie's Book Blog on
Naturally Yours
“Adele Downs is a wonderful storyteller.”
—The Snarkology on
Her Christmas Cowboy
“Downs does a particularly good job of subtly changing the language to match each character’s viewpoint… while also offering just enough heat.”
—Words, Words, Words on
Kissing Her Cowboy
LUXURY MODEL WIFE
Adele Downs
www.BOROUGHSPUBLISHINGGROUP.com
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Boroughs Publishing Group does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites, blogs or critiques or their content.
LUXURY MODEL WIFE
Copyright © 2016 Adele Downs
All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Boroughs Publishing Group. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of Boroughs Publishing Group is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.
ISBN 978-1-944262-41-9
E-book formatting by Maureen Cutajar
To my parents, Norman and Victoria, whose names I borrowed for this book, for teaching me to appreciate art and literature, and for your lifetime of encouragement. I love you.
To the women in my life who have helped make me strong:
Victoria, Katherine, Adeline, Marie, Pamela.
To the men in my life who have helped make me stronger:
Stephen, Norman, James, Rudolph, Theodore, Roman.
Some of you have found your way into my novels; at least by name. The rest of you are next.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To my dear husband Steve for…everything.
Michelle Klayman, Boroughs Publishing Group CEO, for her enthusiasm for my work. Editor Joanne Soper-Cook for her keen eye for detail and for being a pleasure to work with. And for Chris Keeslar, EIC, for his talent and generous support.
To my street team, The Convertible Crew, for cheerleading and getting the word out about my books.
Many thanks to book bloggers, reviewers, and enthusiastic first readers Patsy H, Tonya K, Victoria Z, Roxie F, Melody P, Harlie W, Jackie H, Leslie L, Kristin C, Cathy B and all the other book lovers who have shown support. I appreciate you so much.
CONENTS
LUXURY MODEL WIFE
Chapter One
A bell chimed a greeting as Victoria Van Orr stepped through the door of Carlson’s Antiques Emporium and traded hot summer sun for cool air relief. She blinked to adjust to the artificial light and let the simulated breeze from the air conditioner relieve the chafe on the back of her neck.
A vintage radio played country music from its spot on a shelf, adding a friendly air to the upscale interior. Victoria’s shoulders relaxed beneath her pale linen blazer as she released a slow breath over her lips. A friend was exactly what she needed.
She scanned the room until her gaze settled on a handyman balanced on the top rung of a ladder, singing impressively on key to the song on the radio. Victoria inhaled and strode toward him, past groupings of eighteenth-century furniture and nineteenth-century dolls, her Italian leather heels tapping the polished hardwood floor with each determined step.
“Hello there,” the handyman called out, without looking down. He was intent on changing a rusted vent cover near the ceiling. A stained terrycloth rag hung from the back pocket of his jeans where the fabric on his thigh was streaked with dust. The low-slung jeans clung to his narrow hips, which framed a tight, round butt. Sweat glistened on his biceps and damp circles marked a white tee shirt that stretched across his well-muscled back.
Victoria hitched her designer purse to the crook of her arm and clutched it to her side like a shield. “Excuse me. Do you know where to find the owner? I have an appointment.”
The man laid the old vent cover on top of the ladder and lined up the new before pushing it into place. “One sec.” His muscled arms and shoulders flexed beneath tanned skin while he worked a screwdriver. When he finished, he glanced her way then stepped down a few rungs and wiped his face with the rag poking from his jeans. Thick blond hair stood in fat spikes around his temples. He combed a hand through while the other slid the screwdriver into an empty pocket.
The man looked to be about her age, late twenties to early thirties, and could have been a model for a home improvement store. She eyed the expanse of his chest and the rugged physique beneath his thin cotton shirt and resisted the urge to study his square-jawed face and handsome features, annoyed she’d gotten distracted when there was important business to be done. Sex had been on her mind
waaaay
too often lately. Clearly, celibacy had become a strain.
He leaned against the ladder and hooked an arm between the rungs. “
Whom
shall I say is calling?” His mouth quirked when he smiled down at her while shining, cornflower blue eyes searched her face. His gaze was disarmingly frank compared to the mock formality of his voice.
Victoria fingered a button on her silk blouse, feeling suddenly warm and overdressed in her linen suit beneath the weight of his stare. Was he…
teasing
her?
She broke eye contact. What an ill-mannered man. Still, she saw none of the judgment in his expression she’d tolerated within West Chester society. His casual attitude was oddly refreshing. And irritating.
She looked past the man’s shoulder to avoid his incredible eyes. “Please tell the owner Victoria Van Orr is here.”
“You got it.” The workman picked up the discarded air vent, completed his descent, and carried the folded ladder to a closet. He made his way to an office door at the rear of the store before closing it behind him.
Victoria wandered the aisles while she waited, taking in the beauty of the rare and unusual pieces displayed about the shop. The care with which the
objets d’art
were presented clarified the reason her late husband had brought his business here.
Under the keen eye of Gregory Carlson, James and his first wife, Lydia, had amassed museum-quality collections during their long marriage.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” a familiar masculine voice said behind her.
Victoria turned with a start, and then took the man’s proffered hand.
“I’m Steve Carlson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” His cornflower blue eyes shone with mischief and humor. “I just wanted to clean up before we talked business. I’ve been fixing things in and around the store all morning. Time got away from me.” His spiky blond hair was combed smooth, his face and hands were freshly washed, and he wore a crisp tee shirt. Even the smudge across the thigh of his jeans had been brushed clean.
Victoria cringed with embarrassment. “
Sorry
. I thought you were the janitor.”
Steve laughed, and his voice had a clear, pleasant resonance, like he was used to laughing. “And you’d be right. When you own a small business, you become the janitor. I also happen to be the vice president. I’m the buyer, sales clerk, and head of the shipping department, too. The list of responsibilities is endless.”
Victoria recalled her days as a department store manager, with its sixty-hour workweek, and nodded in understanding.
“Would you like a drink—some wine, or water?” Steve guided her to the office door at the rear of the store and followed her inside. “I keep my bar stocked for special customers.” He cleared papers and a trade magazine from the seat of a wooden chair and pushed it opposite his battered oak desk before offering it to her.
Victoria smoothed the back of her skirt and took the seat. “Water, please.” She crossed her legs at the ankles. “Though I didn’t realize you and I had a meeting. My appointment was with Gregory Carlson.” James Van Orr and Gregory Carlson might have been friends for forty years, but Victoria hadn’t met either of the Carlson men before her husband’s death.
Steve pulled a bottle of water from a compact refrigerator hidden inside a carved oak sideboard and handed it to her. “Dad asked me to offer his apology. An unexpected buying opportunity came up in France and he had to rush to the airport. We’re opening a second store in New Hope—you know, in Bucks County—and he’s scouting special pieces for the shop. I’m taking his appointments.”
Victoria set the bottle of water on the floor by her feet. “Do you work for your father?”
He eased into his chair behind the desk. “We’re partners.” He glanced at the security monitor propped on the desktop, and then returned his attention to her. “I’ll be glad to help with whatever you need.” His expression clouded. “I’m sorry I missed James’s funeral last year. I meant no disrespect, but I was out of town.”
He looked like the fun-loving, free and easy type, probably juggling half a dozen women while he “scouted special pieces” across Europe. She pictured him bidding at Christie’s or Sotheby’s with a casual flip of his auction paddle, or rummaging through boxes in backstreet Vienna shops, treasure hunting, while her husband lay in his coffin.
“Impromptu buying trip?” She tried to keep sarcasm from her voice.
“Deployment. Three tours. Afghanistan.”
“Oh.” She gave herself a mental slap and resisted the urge to pick her thumbnail. When had she become so quick to cast judgment? She took a deep breath and gave him a genuine smile. “Welcome back.” She really needed to work on her preconceptions.