Trophy Wives (8 page)

While he battled with his conscience, Lucy walked around to the driver's door, yanking it open. Before she got in, she looked haughtily across the roof of the car. “Doesn't matter to me. I'm just a professional companion, remember? And—” she raised her arm and checked her watch “—I'll be on overtime if I don't get you back to your car soon.”

Ethan flinched as the door slammed shut.

 

She got behind the wheel, fuming with indignation. For a few minutes today, she'd been on the trip of a lifetime. She had basked in the glow of his praise. For a few minutes, she'd felt that he liked her for herself. Found her funny and charming, saw past the dyslexia. He had listened, encouraged, offered to help.

And man, he was the sexiest thing on legs. Every single feature, every aspect of him seemed to pull her toward him, draw her in until she wanted to be absorbed by him. One smoldering look—and with his deeply tanned skin, dark hair and those glorious pale eyes, he smoldered like embers ever threatening to ignite into a bush fire.

But she needed to clear up the Juliette thing.

When he balked at telling her the full story, she was plunged back into cold familiar waters. Silly little Lucy. Gullible, aching for affection and attention. She'd believe anything.

Oh, she knew he wanted her. Even the most sophisticated and experienced seducer could not fake the desire she'd glimpsed. But he did not think enough of her to tell the truth. He'd expected mindless response to his
praise and pretence at caring. God help her, he'd very nearly gotten it!

He wanted her to trust him? He would have to work harder than that.

Ethan opened the passenger door and climbed in. His movements were slow and deliberate, and although she did her level best not to look at him, the waves of frustration sloughed off him and settled over her.

Her indignation cooled a little. Remember what's at stake here. She may already have endangered Summerhill by accusing him of having an affair with his boss's wife. Having him sulk for the rest of the day was not a good idea. She was supposed to be helping him enjoy his stay.

Tension sizzled. She breathed it in. “I'm sorry,” she said, not intending it to sound so tight.

“What do you have to be sorry about?”

“I've upset you.”

His lips pursed. “Hmm. Upset?” His legs stretched out in a taut line and he rested his hands on his thighs. “Well now. Horny? Very. Confused? Worried that your brother is taking advantage of you?”

He paused and flexed his fingers.

Lucy's mind skittered away from all but the safest word. “Confused?”

He grunted. “I don't need this, Lucy. I've got stuff to do.”

“Don't let me stop you,” she responded tartly.

“But you do, and that's the rub. Even when I'm not with you, I'm thinking about you and worrying about you, and dreaming of that damn mouth of yours.”

Said mouth dropped open, but all she could manage was “Oh.” There wasn't really a lot you could say to that.

With his deep slow drawl still echoing in her ears,
she felt herself blush. There was nothing she could do about that either. She kept her eyes firmly on the road ahead and that was the last they spoke.

But her body and mind spoke—plenty. She was so aware of every movement, every breath he took. For the most part he stared straight ahead. But now and again she felt a wave of heat as he glanced over at her. Lucy did not return his glances but steamed away in her own humid shell.

She felt she was clinging to a cloud and any minute her weight would drag her through it. The longer and more tense the silence, the more heavy-limbed and languorous she felt. His breathing sounded loud in her ears—but maybe it was her own. She changed gears, navigated, all on autopilot, while struggling with equal measures of worry and desire and self-righteousness. If she couldn't tamp it down, she thought she might explode.

All of a sudden they were in the underground garage at her building and she was turning off the ignition. Before she had time to wonder why she hadn't dropped him at his rental car across the road, he made his move. She heard the click of his seatbelt release almost just before she felt her own released. Without a word, his hands gripped her shoulders, turning her quickly, then moving down to clamp around her waist and lift her right up out of her seat. Her hands flailed for balance and a surprised shriek raced out of her throat. “What—?”

Next moment, she was hoisted over the handbrake and plonked ungraciously and haphazardly onto his lap, bumping her head on the ceiling of the car. Quick as a flash, one hand clasped the back of her neck and her head was pulled down, close to his face.

Lucy suddenly remembered to breathe and exhaled
raggedly. Ethan's eyes were open and they flashed bright with anger. He held her head fast, millimeters away. His hot breath huffed across her face and his fingers laced through her hair. “It's
you
I want, not Juliette,” he growled. “And to hell with your professionalism!”

Then his mouth claimed hers and Lucy was lost. His lips forced hers open. Teeth scraped and ground together. His tongue burst into her mouth, demanding her response, not her permission. This was no magical fairy-tale kiss on a mountain, with Mother Nature smiling benevolently down. Nor a stolen smooch in an alcove that she had initiated. This was hard, carnal. As if he was staking a claim.

And after the tensions of the day, it mirrored her feelings exactly.

As her initial shock subsided, Lucy was taken over by the heat of his body, the pressure of his mouth. Her taut muscles relaxed, sank into him as he deepened the kiss. Her hands were trapped between them and she struggled vaguely to free them but his chest was unyielding, his arms like iron. One hand moved, uncurled so the palm was flat against his chest. The other remained fisted with his shirt locked into it, only now she pulled him closer.

Perhaps realizing Lucy was past struggling, Ethan's hand at the back of her head gentled. Straightening his fingers, he stroked and tugged at her hair. She shivered, every nerve ending rising to the surface.

His tongue also gentled. Instead of insistence, there was now an erotic rhythm that had her squirming even closer. Their tongues met, slid over each other and back again, and she felt the different textures of his, and his gentle but insistent probing. Her breath started to labor in serious excitement.

He made her feel things she'd never experienced. How could she resist the pull of her body when it responded to him so frenetically? When this ended, when he was gone, would she ever feel desire again?

Her head fell back slightly and she gasped as he moved his mouth down her throat then along her jawline to end with a hot lick and suck at the base of her ear. She arched her back, surging against him. His hand left her head and joined the other in a firm caress down the length of her sides, and soon she felt them inside her knit top.

As they strained against each other, she heard a moan of impatience—hers. They writhed and pressed. She rubbed her bottom down into his lap, seeking, finding the hard ridge that strained up to meet her, and heard his grunt, desperate and loud in the confined space. Lucy squirmed in his lap, trying to crawl in as close as she could get.

His hands spanned her waist and were then inching up toward her breasts. A slave to sensation at this point, Lucy shamelessly dipped her body down, craving the exquisite torment when his thumbs grazed over her aching nipples. The blood roared in her ears. So far, so fast, she couldn't believe she was this close. One more thrust of his tongue, one more squeeze of her nipples to send a flame of pure lust licking downward, one more mighty flex of his thighs to push and grind him into the most sensitive part of her. She was seconds away, the scream already tearing up toward her throat.

And then he tore his mouth from hers, his chest rising against her. His hands stilled their torture. She opened her eyes, moaning with impatience. Their breath mingled, hot and humid. He looked up into her eyes and said, “Your call.”

“Upstairs, now!” Lucy gasped.

She scrambled back over to her side of the car, haphazardly pulling down her top. Grabbing the keys from the ignition, she opened the door, fumbled for her bag, and rounded the car, intent only on getting upstairs.

Ethan was alighting from the passenger side. She hesitated impatiently, her pulse hammering in her throat. Hurry, hurry, she chanted mentally, the fingers of one hand pressing on the spot in her chest where the blood pounded and rushed. When she knew Ethan was right behind her, she turned toward the stairs and ran—smack!—into a stranger.

T
he man put out a steadying hand from where he leaned against the wall of the underground garage. Lucy backed away as if he held a whip.

She could only imagine her dishevelled appearance, but his eyes were on Ethan, who drew alongside her. Then he looked back at her shame-burned face. “Lucy McKinlay, I presume?”

“How—how do you know?”

He indicated the number of her parking spot. The number of her apartment.

His eyes slid back to her. With a smug little look on his face, he introduced himself as a detective.

Ethan moved closer, tidying his shirt. His arms dropped to his sides. One of them brushed against hers and he deliberately stepped slightly in front, shielding her.

The only thought Lucy could put together was that
she was as bad as her mother. She didn't suppose he was there to arrest them for lewd public behavior, but still, to know he'd seen them in the car, practically like animals… Shame, shame, so hot, she could die of it.

Ethan exhaled. “What's the problem, detective?”

“And you are, sir?”

“Ethan Rae. I'm a friend.”

The detective gave another smug little smile then got down to business. He had already been to the lodge looking for Tom, and wanted to know where he had been on Saturday night.

Lucy felt completely senseless. She struggled to keep up. It took a few seconds for her to recall that Saturday had been the night of the rugby game and the stolen car. The foreboding that had lodged in her gut for the last day bubbled up again.

Tom was at home that night, she told him cautiously. She had called him there around 10:00 p.m. He asked if Tom had mentioned the car being stolen. She was about to go into details when Ethan put a restraining hand on her back.

“We had the car. It was gone when we came out of the game. We didn't know the registration number and phoned Tom to get it and he said not to bother reporting it right then. He would do it the next morning.”

Lucy nodded. “He
must
have reported it.”

The detective shook his head, staring at her accusingly.

“He didn't report it. Were you aware the vehicle was unregistered?”

The pressure of Ethan's hand on her back increased. “No. Detective, when we got to the station, there was a queue a mile long and we had restaurant reservations. Tom assured us he would take care of it.”

“That car was found at the scene of a suspicious fire.”

The rest of the conversation was a blur. The detective asked if anyone could corroborate their story and when Tom would be back. He handed her his card. Lucy closed her eyes in embarrassment when he apologized for interrupting them. When he'd gone, she sagged against the car.

“What's going on, Lucy? Just what's Tom into?”

“I—I don't know,” she managed.

“What was that scumbag's name at the rugby?”

“Joseph Dunn. I told Tom. He had to have reported it, for the insurance, right?” With relief, she thought he couldn't file an insurance claim without reporting the car stolen, so no one could accuse him of insurance fraud.

Ethan looked thoughtful. “Maybe this Dunn is trying to set him up.”

“But why?”

“Money's my guess. I knew he was in trouble. Didn't realize how deep.”

Lucy looked at him sharply. “What do you mean, you knew?”

There was quite a pause. “I've heard some things.”

The meat supplier's words that morning flitted around her mind.
Inland Revenue, a private investigator…
“You've heard what? From who?”

“People in the village.”

Watch your back…
“You've been asking questions about us in the village?”

Ethan rubbed his neck self-consciously. “Magnus asked me to make a few inquiries. He's heard rumors of financial difficulties.”

Lucy reeled in the face of his discomfort. He wouldn't—
she'd trusted him. Her lips moved, but she had nothing to say. All she wanted to hear was his denial.

Finally he looked at her and she saw his conscience laid bare. He exhaled. “Magnus takes his club very seriously. He won't tolerate any hint of scandal.”

For Lucy, Magnus's expectations were nothing as important as Ethan's role in all this. “Who have you been asking?”

Guilt deepened his tan. “I didn't have to look far.”

“Who?” she demanded.

“It's amazing what the locals come up with when you mention where you're staying.”

Something in her chest cramped up. There was another long silence while she tried to contain the welling of betrayal. He had spent hours today building her up, showing her he cared and offering his help. Today she had truly felt that anything seemed attainable.

Please, please deny it, she prayed. Deny it, or explain. Give me something…

“It's not to hurt you,” he told her softly, reaching out to touch her arm. “That's the last thing—”

She flinched, clamping her arm to her side. “Get out.”

Shock and shame and sadness engulfed her. And then the fear. He had the power to destroy them; she had been warned.
Keep your distance, he's all business.

“Lucy, I want to help.”

She shook her head and stepped back. “I want you to go.”

“Come upstairs, we'll talk.”

Her face flamed with self-disgust when she remembered her impassioned plea of just minutes ago.
Upstairs, now!
“Just go.”

Ethan sighed heavily and rubbed his face. After a
long moment when she refused to look at him, he leaned close. “Will you come back to the lodge tonight?”

At the thought of Summerhill, she felt an incredible yearning to be there. To take Monty up to the gorge, to her special place. She wanted peace.

But she carefully erased any sign of interest on her face and instead, faced him with scorn. “Why? Did you think I would sleep with you now?”

It was his turn to flinch. Again he raised his hand toward her. She thrust her chin out defiantly. “Go away.” Her voice rang out loud and hard.

Ethan's eyes narrowed but he stepped back. “Cool off for a bit. I'll be back.”

Barely able to see where she was going, she walked slowly for the stairs. Her throat closed with anguish. Why would he want to harm her? And why lead her on, fuel her passion, make her feel special and wanted if he were trying to finish off her business?

Because he worked for Magnus. Tom was right. Magnus was intent on getting them off the list. And Ethan was the destroyer.

She leaned on the balustrade, closing her eyes against a painful pounding in her head. This was how her day had started. Confusion and hurt about Ethan and Juliette, fear at the court papers. She had wanted to cry at his thoughtfulness when he'd shown her the brochures from the dyslexia center. Then layer upon layer of approval and admiration, of encouragement and offers of help. An intensity of desire that rocked her—and shocked him also, she was sure.

She shook her bag irritably when she could not locate her key. Muttering mutinously, she tipped the entire contents onto the landing.

In truth, the anger was directed more at herself than
Ethan. It was too late to firewall it. She cared—desperately—about him. She grasped the elusive key in her hand and squeezed it as hard as she could, wincing as it dug into her palm.

And that gave him the power to wound her more deeply than anything had in years. If only she'd kept it professional, but she couldn't even get that right. Why did everything she touched end up in such an unholy mess?

 

His fingers tapped restlessly on the steering wheel of his rental car. He checked his watch again. Half an hour. She had been in there for half an hour.

His clamorous body had finally subsided after being pushed up to exploding point. The look and feel and smell of her seeped into every corner of his being. Colored everything to the point where he was high when he could see her, and in the depths of depression when he could not.

Only once had he ever felt a fraction of this turmoil for a woman and he'd been barely a man then. She'd been on the swim team at university. But she could not understand his decision to quit swimming when he was a certainty for the Olympics. She could not understand his need to stick to his goals, to exorcise the mess his father had made of everything, and show him that he— Ethan—could do better.

He rubbed his face and checked his watch again. Come on, come on. His hands slapped a drumroll on his thighs. He was so wired. If that detective had not burst in on the scene, he would be deep inside her sweet body now, where he'd wanted to be since the second he first saw her. There would be one more expression to add to his catalog of “Lucy” expressions. He wanted to be an
inch away from her face, to watch that sweet mouth curve into a smile of pure satisfaction.

His body signalled its approval of the direction of his thoughts just as his cell phone beeped. It was Clark Seller in the Sydney office.

Clark could barely contain his excitement. The Minister for the Interior for the islands had unexpectedly decided to attend a Pacific Tourism Council in Sydney. He could meet with Ethan tomorrow.

Tomorrow! Damn, damn. Ethan groaned. How could he leave tomorrow without straightening this mess out?

Lucy's face swam in front of his eyes as he'd last seen it. Let down. Scared. He would never have believed himself capable of putting that look on anyone's face. Especially not on her face.

And then his world tipped a little on its axis. It was an indistinct slide of his insides—distant, like a dream in which you're falling over a cliff. A beautiful soundless freefall, without fear—after all, it's just a dream. Right?

Clark's insistent voice intruded and Ethan did something unprecedented. “You handle it.”

“What?” Clark was incredulous, but Ethan reassured him that he was more than equipped to handle this preliminary meeting. There would be no negotiations. It was more or less just a feeler.

He hung up and opened the car door. He'd had it with cooling his heels out here.

Lucy's apartment building was beside a busy intersection and the traffic lights had just turned green so he had to wait half a minute to cross the road. The wind was blustery and turned to the south. Bitterly cold, he rubbed his arms as he dodged through the line of stationary vehicles.

He opened the gate and passed through just in time to see the underground garage door closing behind a red sports car. Lucy's red Alfa Romeo.

Cursing, he turned back to fumble at the gate latch just as her car drove right past him.

“Red. Red!” he shouted at the traffic lights and broke into a trot. The lights were not on his side. They went amber and she barrelled through and turned right. Ethan had a near miss with a white utility van as he raced across the road and jumped in his car.

And went nowhere fast. The driver of the van was blocking his way to the far-right lane and the lights stayed red. By the time he finally got going, she must have had nearly five minutes on him. Not being familiar with the one-way-street system in this town cost him precious time and he swore viciously when he ended up going full circle and arrived back outside her apartment building. But at least from here he knew the way to Summerhill.

Where else would she go? Fuming, he raced through the streets and got onto the ring road that led out of the city and toward the West Coast.

Annoyance drilled his temples. Lucy McKinlay had cut him off at the knees. What was he thinking? Turtle Island was his ultimate deal. His biggest, his last, his final revenge. Where was his infamous focus? He was
not
handing over control. No way. This was still his baby.

Come on, Rae. Think! He held engineering and business degrees. Solving problems was his forte. Political, legal, employment—how could one small personal dilemma slip under his grid and turn his lights out?

It was an utterly wretched ninety-minute drive with no sign of her car ahead, but there was more than one route to the mountains. Finally the turn-off to the ski vil
lage flashed by and he decelerated. The weather was closing in fast. Ethan thought fleetingly of the hunting party and hoped they were home safe.

Soon, on the long driveway up to the lodge, he caught sight of a flash of red by the stables and swung the steering wheel that way. Surely she would not be fool enough to go riding when dusk was on them and a storm was brewing.

It must have been zero degrees with a windchill factor of formidable proportions when he alighted. The rain was just starting in earnest—big, fat skin-shrinking drops with the promise of more. He ducked his head and raced for the stable entrance.

Lucy sat huddled with her knees drawn up to her chin in a corner of Monty's stall. Her face was a mixture of sullen surprise and resignation.

“No.” Ethan shook his head.

Petulantly she jerked to her feet. “I know that. Leave me alone.” She froze him with a look of such disdain, he hardly registered that she'd pushed past him.

Her turning her back on him, walking away, sharpened his temper. Frustration gnawed at him, born of the simmering sexual tension he had kept reined in all this long day. He made a grab for her arm, but she easily shook him off and walked out into the night. It took him a few seconds to register she had just walked out on him—again—and then he followed, almost disbelieving.

Icy rain slashed at his face the moment he was out the door. The wind howled, buffeting him. Such was the deluge, it took him a while to make her out because he, naturally, was looking toward their vehicles.

Lucy, unpredictably, had stomped off in the direction of the house with her arms wrapped around herself.
She still wore a light knit top and a leather jacket that was more stylish than protective against the elements.

His temper surged, warming him. He ducked his head and set off after her, snagging her arm in a vice-like grip. It was hard to make out her face in the gathering darkness and driving rain, but her eyes flashed dangerously.