The Trophy Wife

“You could have fooled me.”

She was no shrinking violet, that was for sure. Tripp admired her for it. If she’d been afraid of her own shadow, she never would have had the courage to stand up to her father on his behalf all those years ago. “I didn’t stop you to take another cheap shot at you. I stopped you to apologize. For yesterday. And in answer to your earlier question, if I have a problem with you, it’s not your fault.”

Amber stared up at Tripp. His shirt and tie were black, his skin a shade of brown that didn’t need sunscreen. He was clean-shaven this morning and handsome beyond belief. And it ticked her off that she’d noticed. He’d just admitted that his earlier jabs had been cheap shots. In the same breath, he’d admitted that he did, indeed, have a problem with her.

“Whose fault is it then, Tripp? This problem you have with me.” Her breath caught in her throat, making her voice sound breathless to her own ears. That ticked her off, too.

“I’m sorry about insulting you yesterday. You didn’t ask to be born into a wealthy family any more than I asked to be born into a screwed-up one. It’s just that you rich people have no idea how intimidating you are to the rest of us.”

He called that an apology? “I…you…” Amber was never at a loss for words, yet here she was, stammering for the second time in a matter of days.

She didn’t try to speak again until she’d made certain she’d put one entire thought in order. “Rich families can be just as dysfunctional as poor ones.”

They were arguing about whose family was more dysfunctional? The conversation had sunk to a new low.

He shrugged in a noncommittal, infuriating manner.

“I intimidate you?” she asked.

He released the clasp on his watch, fiddled with it, tightened it again. “Forget it, okay?”

Perhaps she should have let it go, as he’d asked, but that wasn’t her style. Yesterday, when she’d seen him again out in the garden at Hacienda de Alegria, she’d felt a connection to him. Ever since her mother had changed and her father had grown distant and her family had basically fallen apart, she’d feared that nobody would ever love her for herself again. Looking at the lines around Tripp’s eyes and the furrow between his brows today, she believed it was possible that she’d been wrong. She felt on the brink of understanding something important about him.

Forget it? Now why on earth would she do that? “How do I intimidate you?”

Releasing most of his breath in one noisy stream, he said, “You’re brilliant, you’re witty, you’re rich. You received your MBA from Radcliffe.”

“And you’re a doctor, for heaven’s sake.”

Luckily, the corridor was empty, so no one heard him raise his voice as he said, “I’m a struggling, part-Latino, mostly broke doctor who had to work my butt off to make it through med school.”

“I distinctly recall my father saying that you graduated at the top of your class.”

“The top of my class would have been the bottom of yours.”

“I highly doubt that.”

He made no reply. So she tried another tactic. “I intimidate you. That’s the problem,” she said, persisting. “That’s what’s keeping us from being friends. Let’s see. How could we fix it?”

“I don’t think we—”

“When I was in grade school and had to give a speech, I used to imagine my classmates in their underwear. Maybe you should try it.”

His eyes darkened, his lids lowering slightly.

She ducked her head, pulled a face, and smiled. “On second thought, that’s probably not a good idea.”

It occurred to Tripp that he was staring. He couldn’t help it. The warmth in Amber’s smile got to him. He couldn’t help that, either. He ran a hand over his hair, skimming the rubber band that secured the stubby ponytail at the back of his neck. He’d kept his ponytail to remind him of where he’d been, and where he was going.

“Coop read me the riot act when he discovered I’d turned down your offer. But you’re right. This isn’t a good idea. None of it.” Not what was in his imagination, not what was coursing through his body. “If I need a woman, it’s one who shares my background, my heritage. And I don’t need anybody’s pity.”

Her face fell, a bleak expression settling where her humor had been. She took a backward step. An instant later her chin came up, and her voice rose. “Pity? That’s what you think this is about?”

“Aw, hell.” He’d done it again.

She handed him the stuffed dog. “I’m late for my meeting. I would appreciate it if you would see that P.J. gets this.”

For a long moment, she stared at him without blinking, a burning, faraway look in her eyes. Slowly, she turned, her heels clicking as she walked away from him across the polished, spotless floor.

She paused in the doorway, her back to him, her shoulders rising and falling with her effort to draw a deep, calming breath. “I never felt sorry for you, Tripp.” She turned and faced him. “Until now.”

She left him standing in the middle of the corridor, his heart beating a heavy rhythm, the ears of the stuffed dog clutched tightly in his fist, sourness in the pit of his stomach, and egg on his face.

Amber ignored her doorbell on her Fort Bragg home the first time it rang. Not five seconds later it rang again, followed immediately by a loud knock that rattled the house. She unfolded her arms and legs and rose from the floor. Hurrying, she raised up on tiptoe to peer through the peephole.

A sound of surprise rose from the back of her throat before she could stop it. Fifteen minutes of meditation, wasted.

She dropped back down to the heels of her feet. Bristling, she reached for the doorknob, but froze in indecision. Her ego was still smarting from her last confrontation with the stubborn, belligerent Dr. Tripp Calhoun.

“Come on, Amber. Open up.”

She considered ignoring him. In the end, her curiosity got the better of her. “Give me one good reason why I should.”

The moment of silence stretched. Prepared to wait as long as necessary, she shifted her weight to one foot and folded her arms.

“Please?”

He gave her that one word in a voice soft and warm enough to slip into. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth, gliding slowly down her neck, coming to rest over the rapid thud of her heart. She took a fortifying breath, turned the lock and opened the door.

Facing him squarely, she simply looked at him. He was wearing faded jeans and a black T-shirt that had seen better days but fit him to perfection. His face was made up of interesting planes and hard angles. His teeth were white, his lashes long, his chin firm, his cheekbones prominent. His nose was narrow and had probably been considered regal-looking before it had been broken years ago. He was an arrestingly good-looking man, with just enough imperfections to ensure that his wasn’t a pretty face. She had artist friends, like Claire, who would love the chance to paint him. He was that handsome. Amber knew a lot of handsome men. None of them made her so angry with seemingly so little effort.

“Please isn’t a reason, Calhoun.”

His chiseled features cracked slightly, giving her a glimpse of a self-deprecating half smile. “I’m afraid it’s all I’ve got.”

Her traitorous heart skipped a beat, darn it all. He was wrong. He had so much more. But who was she to argue? “What are you doing here?”

“I came to say I’m sorry.”

She clasped her hands together and stared at them. “Your last apology had a lot in common with an insult.”

His silence drew her gaze. Studying his lean, olive-skinned face, her heart lurched. He seemed to be having difficulty swallowing, too, his lips thinning into a straight line. “I’m sorry about that, too.”

She believed him, which either made her foolish or desperate. She bristled. Oh, no it didn’t.

Squaring her shoulders, she said, “Apology accepted. Now, if you’ll excuse—”

“P.J. loved the stuffed animal.”