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

“When she left your father.”

“I’d hardly define being tossed out with nothing as leaving.”

He tried to keep the bitterness from his voice but wasn’t sure he succeeded. Not when Liz made a soft clucking noise with her tongue, part sympathy, part reprimand. “She took you, Tristan, the most valuable thing from her marriage. Stuart was a long time getting over that.”

But he had got over it. With the help of a beautiful new wife, and that stuck in Tristan’s craw in a dozen disturbing ways now that he’d met Vanessa.

His gaze shifted beyond Liz, and—as he’d had done countless times in the past hours—he unerringly found Vanessa in the crowd. Despite the number and size of the hats blocking his view, despite the subtlety of her dress, despite the way she’d pinned her distinctive hair beneath a pretty little lace and net construction.

The awareness was there, like a visual magnetism. He didn’t seek her out. He looked up and like sunshine, she was there. Since acknowledging how much his attitude to her had changed, since recognizing the dangerous pull of this attraction, he’d kept his distance. Not exactly avoiding her, just proving to himself that he could resist the urge.

“He was so lucky to find Vanessa. She is a treasure.”

He looked back at Liz, found she’d followed the direction of his gaze. “I’ve heard that more than once today,” he said dryly. “A treasure. A good gal. An angel.”

“Feeling like you’ve been cast with horns and a trident?”

“Somewhat.”

With a soft chuckle, Liz lifted her empty champagne flute and looked him in the eye. For the first time he saw the familiar sparkle of her humor. “If you’d like to take the first step toward redemption, you can fetch me a refill.”

Vanessa thought she felt him watching her. Again. But when she turned in that direction—and all day she’d known exactly where he stood, sat, lounged—she found her imagination was playing tricks. Again.

This time he was intent in conversation with Liz Kramer. With his head dipped toward the shorter woman so a lock of sun-tinged hair fell across his forehead, he looked younger and warmer and more at ease than Vanessa had seen him. Then someone moved and blocked her view and she turned away, heart racing and her mouth gone dry.

Anxiety, she decided. And trepidation because of what he might be discussing with Liz and with countless others before her.

And who are you kidding?

Not her pragmatic self, obviously. She knew these responses had nothing to do with their conflict and everything to do with the man.

Was he ignoring her on purpose?

No, Ms. Pragmatist answered. He is doing what he set out to do. Mixing, meeting, talking. And learning absolutely nothing because there was nothing for him to discover—at least nothing that wasn’t rumor and whispers about her secretive side.

Thinking of the talk her friends had told her about took her mind off Tristan, at least. Not that being talked about was a biggie for Vanessa—she’d grown up with fingers pointed her way. That’s the girl with the freakoid brother. Did you hear her daddy got arrested again last night? They’re such a loser family. She didn’t care what others said about her; she did mind that her friends might have believed her capable of infidelity.

And she hated that she’d frozen when she should have told them the reason for her mysterious behavior.

The sea of summer frocks and lightweight suits, of hats and champagne flutes and imported longneck beers shifted again, parting as if by a divine hand to reveal him again. Walking toward her, a bottle of vintage Veuve Clicquot in one hand, a pair of flutes in the other. Dressed simply in a pale gray suit and open-necked white shirt—no more, no less than a hundred other men in the crowd—he commanded attention with his size, his presence, the way he moved with an athlete’s grace and purpose.

She felt a burst of sensation, as though the pop of a champagne cork had sent all the bubbles fizzing through her veins.

Not good, Vanessa. Not good at all.

In a bid to appear involved, she turned back to Felicity and Reed, Emma and Garrett, Jack and Lily … and discovered that while she’d been lost in introspection they’d moved on. Vaguely she recalled Lily wanting to sit down. Or Jack insisting she sit. Possibly she’d waved them on.

Now she was alone. And feigning surprise when she heard the rich drawl of Tristan’s voice at her back. His actual words were swallowed by the thumping of her heart as she swung around.

He stood close enough for her to feel the impact of his electric blue gaze. A thousand watts all plugged in to her. He probably bought the whole wow-where-did-you-spring-from act because her mouth had gone slack and her throat tight and breathless while she just stood there staring up at him.

Help, her pragmatic self whimpered weakly. She feared that side of her was about to go down for the count.

“I noticed your lack of champagne.” The corner of his mouth quirked in a kind of crooked half smile. “I gather that’s a transgression here.”

The only transgression she could think of was her weak-kneed, weak-willed desire for a man she’d declared her enemy five days ago. How could this be happening?

That deadly attractive half smile had turned quizzical and Vanessa gave herself a mental shake. “Thank you,” she said, a trifle huskily. “But no.”

“This bottle is straight from Liz Kramer’s stash, just opened, unspiked. Scout’s honor.”

“So you say, but you don’t look like a Boy Scout. Can I trust your word?”

Something flickered in his eyes and in her blood. Perhaps that was the last gurgle of Ms. Pragmatist going under, because she appeared to be flirting with him. She, Vanessa Kotzur Thorpe, who had never flirted in her life.

He filled one of the slender glasses, then handed her the bottle. She regarded it suspiciously. “Take it,” he said. “So I can defend my Boy Scout honor.”

Their fingers brushed as she took the bottle, a thrilling little contact of skin on skin. She had barely recovered when he lifted the glass to his mouth. Their eyes met over the rim as he took a long, slow sip and the connection somehow seemed steeped in intimacy.

Without breaking eye contact, without saying a word, he held out the glass and temptation whispered through her blood. She wanted to take it from his hand, to place her lips on the same spot, to taste his heat on the icy cool glass.

More, she wanted to stretch on her toes and lick the golden chill from his lips. To kiss him the way she’d wanted to the first time.

“You still don’t trust me?”

Vanessa wet her lips. “It’s not that. I’m not drinking.”

“Driving?”

“I don’t drink.” She volunteered the information without thought … and then kicked herself sharply. Pay attention. She didn’t want to explain why she never touched alcohol, nor did she want to see in his eyes that he’d worked out the reason by snooping into her background.

She switched her gaze to the game, pretending to watch without seeing anything but a blur of activity. A team of monkeys mounted on camels could have taken to the field and she wouldn’t have noticed … although she supposed they’d have needed extra-long-handled mallets.

After a moment the thick ache in her chest reminded her to relax and breathe. Today Tristan appeared relaxed, as if he were enjoying this as a social occasion rather than as an investigative opportunity. Perhaps he’d taken her appeal outside the Marabella to heart.

Perhaps he was biding his time.

Play thundered by close to the sideline and the air thickened with the scent of sweat and earth and the clash of contact between players. Vanessa blinked and focused. The umpire blew a foul eliciting a heated debate on who’d crossed whose line on the ball.

“How are you enjoying the polo?” she asked, genuinely curious.

“I like the game.”

“But not the rest?”

He considered that a long moment, appearing to give it more weight than the casual inquiry commanded. “I’m enjoying today more than I’d thought. I hadn’t realized so many people would remember me or want to know me. Given your popularity, I thought I might be the pariah.”

“You’re not?”