Society Wives: Love or Money: The Bought-and-Paid-for Wife

“Yes, have you seen the beast?” Felicity continued.

Carefully Vanessa put down her coffee. “Yes, I’ve met with him.” I’ve also fought with him, kissed him, ogled him in swimmers, and accompanied him to the police station. “He’s staying at the Marabella and, yes, he is here about the will. In a way.”

“You sound remarkably calm,” Emma decided. “Is that a good sign? Or are you sedated?”

“Is he dropping the contest?” Felicity asked. “He must know he’s beating a dead horse.”

“Tristan doesn’t think so,” Vanessa replied. “In fact, he’s here because he believes he’s found a way to beat me.”

They all responded pretty much at once, a mixture of scoffing remarks and how-so questions. And so she filled them in on the letter’s allegations, the no-adultery clause in Stuart’s will, and finally this morning’s meeting with the detectives handling Bunny’s case.

Silence followed, an unusual happenstance when this group met. Abby recovered first, although she looked pale and strained. Not only had she lost her mother in sudden and suspicious circumstances, but she’d had to fight tooth and nail to have her suspicions recognized. “What did the police say?”

A lot, Vanessa answered silently, most of it uncomfortable questions about her relationship with Tristan and the—nonexistent—man referred to in the letter. To her friends she said, “They took us seriously enough when we showed them the letter. They asked a lot of questions, but in the end I’m not sure they think it’s the same person.”

“Why not?” Abby leaned forward, intent and focused. “It sounds exactly like the others.”

Felicity nodded. “The lowlife who took the journals is selecting blackmail opportunities straight from the pages. It’s only a matter of time before he hits pay dirt.”

They all fell silent a moment, considering, before Emma asked, “Wouldn’t he have tried to blackmail Vanessa though?”

“Would you have paid?” Felicity turned to Vanessa. “If the letter had come to you?”

“Why would I pay when the allegation is false?”

A couple of them exchanged looks, no one met her eye, and in the ensuing silence the bottom fell out of Vanessa’s stomach. “You think I had a lover? While I was married to Stuart?”

“No, sweetie.” Emma put a hand on hers. “Not us.”

“Then … who?”

“There’s been some talk,” Caroline said.

And they hadn’t told her? Hadn’t mentioned these suspicions once? In all this time?

“You have to admit, you do keep parts of your life off-limits.”

Felicity had spoken no less than the truth. Vanessa had been secretive and this was the perfect opportunity to confide in her friends and garner their advice. That’s what friends were for, after all. Not that she had much experience, especially with her peers, and that made this hard task even tougher.

Her intentions were good, but the words lodged in her throat. Before she could coax them free, Lily returned from the bathroom and there was much fussing over how long she’d been gone.

“I ran into Delia Forrester,” she explained. “I couldn’t get away.”

“Poor you,” Caroline murmured.

“Whatever did she want?” Emma asked.

“A favor.” Lily pulled a wry face. “She needs an extra invitation to the polo benefit. Vanessa, it seems she’s invited your good friend Tristan Thorpe.”

Polo turned out to be a hard, fast and physical game—not for sissies as Frank Forrester had maintained. After several chukkers and with the help of some sideline experts, Tristan was catching on to the skilful intricacies of play and enjoying the breakneck end-to-end pace. As Frank’s binoculars rarely strayed from the field, he wondered if the old bloke had been referring to the off-field action rather than the polo itself.

Tristan had a healthy cynicism for the games played by the beautiful people, and this charity benefit had brought out the best—and worst—players. Which brought his thoughts winging straight to Delia.

Frank had introduced his wife as “My favorite blonde,” instantly tying her to the woman he’d referred to as his second-favorite at the Marabella restaurant. In those first few seconds Tristan rejected the connection out of hand. The two women were as different as Vanessa had claimed.

With her glossy facade and saccharine-sweet affectations, Delia was the kind of woman he’d expected—and wanted—to find living in his father’s house. Vanessa Thorpe was not. The truth didn’t slam into him. It had been creeping up on him for days, with every meeting, every new discovery, every disarming touch of warmth or vulnerability.

Acknowledging his error of judgment did unsettle him, however.

If he’d misjudged her character by the width of the Nullabor, could he also be wrong about other things?

Since seeing her response to the letter he’d been thinking a lot about the sender’s motivation. He’d assumed someone had a vendetta against her. Back in Australia he’d believed it—a pushy young social climber could make plenty of enemies without even trying. But since arriving in Eastwick, the worst he’d heard about her was, “She holds her cards close to her chest.”

A loud cheer rolled through the spectators’ gallery, rousing Tristan from his introspection. The local team’s number three had goaled, leveling the score. He’d learned early on that the Argentinean import was a great favorite with the partisan polo crowd.

Vanessa, too, had her fans. This Tristan measured from the locals’ responses to him.

Too polite for blatant rudeness, many met him with a cool look or shook his hand with stiff formality. Others were more direct. Vern Kramer, for example, stated outright that he sympathized with his plight—”You’re his son, after all”—but didn’t approve his tactics. Vern was another of his father’s oldest friends and one of the more vocal sideline polo experts.

Right now he was protesting an umpiring decision with much gusto. His wife took a large step back, disowning him with a wry shake of her head. “He’s not mine. I don’t know him.”

Tristan waited a moment, watching the umpire award a penalty against the local team and smiling at the roasting that ensued. Then he acknowledged Liz Kramer whose large backward step had brought her—unwittingly—to his side. “How are you, Mrs. Kramer?”

“Well, thank you.” Her greeting was polite, her tone frosty. Par for the course, although from Liz it stung. She’d been a close friend of his mother’s, a frequent visitor at their home, and he remembered her fondly. “And you, Tristan? Are you enjoying being back home?”

Not the first time he’d been asked a variation of that question and he didn’t understand the assumption any better with each repetition. “My home is in Sydney,” he said, sick of making the polite answer. “This is a business trip.”

“And are you enjoying that?”

There was a bite to her voice that suggested she knew his business. “Not particularly.”

“Which makes me wonder why you’re persisting.”

“I have my reasons.”

Eyes front, watching a melee of horses and mallets, he felt rather than saw Liz’s gaze fix on his face. “How is your mother?”

“Recovering.”

“She’s been ill?”

He cut her a look and saw genuine concern in her eyes. It suddenly struck him that of all the conversations he’d had since arriving in Eastwick, Liz was the first to ask after his mother. He decided to tell her straight. “Breast cancer. She’s had a tough few years.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

They watched the game in silence for several minutes. Then Liz said, “I hope she found the happiness she was chasing.”

Tristan frowned. “Chasing?”