The Trophy Wife. Sandra Steffen

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.”

      “He did? I mean, I’m glad.”

      He held her immobile with his eyes. “And I was thinking that it might be good for him to meet someone like you.”

      “Someone like me?” She was breathless again. Had she no backbone whatsoever?

      “Someone with a strong will, a drive to succeed, a sense of humor and a forgiving spirit.”

      Evidently not.

      She nearly melted into a heap at his feet. Entirely too caught up in her own emotions, she had to remind herself that she was no longer a whimsical girl of nine, or even nineteen. She was a woman, strong and independent.

      He looked at her for a long time. Next, he looked beyond her into her foyer where a candle burned and a tabletop fountain gurgled.

      “I would be honored if you would invite me in.”

      The word honored was nearly her undoing. It was so old-fashioned, it left her wondering if chivalry was really dead, after all. Thinking “once burned,” she took control of her wayward thoughts and said, “You’ve apologized and I’ve accepted. What else is there to say?”

      She could tell this wasn’t easy for him. Groveling never was. She might have let him off the hook, but then she remembered his little quip comparing her to a spoiled cat. And he’d called her bossy.

      It wouldn’t hurt to let him squirm.

      “I’ve changed my mind, Amber.”

      “Oh? About what, pray tell?”

      “About your offer.”

      As it often did this time of day, a heavy fog had rolled in, producing a perfect excuse for her shiver. “And what offer was that?” She didn’t know what to blame for the way her voice had dropped in volume.

      “Your offer to act as my fiancée at a dinner party this weekend. That is, if the offer still stands.” He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of voices from a middle-aged couple walking their Great Dane. “May I come in?”

      So, he’d changed his mind about that. She waved at her neighbors, then looked up at Tripp again. She wondered if he’d changed his mind about her, as well. But one thing at a time. She stepped aside, and opened the door all the way.

      Tripp walked past Amber. Hesitating in a spacious foyer, he tried to affect an ease he didn’t feel. He hadn’t been at all certain she would accept his apology. He sure as hell didn’t assume that her offer was still good.

      “Why don’t we sit down?”

      Why? Because sitting down meant he had to try even harder to appear relaxed. “After you.”

      He followed her into a small living room dominated by overstuffed furniture and framed artwork done almost entirely in pastels. A dozen candles burned on a low table. A small fountain gurgled nearby. “Did I interrupt something?”

      She shrugged. “I was meditating.”

      At least that explained her appearance. Her hair was in a loose knot on top of her head, flyaway, golden-blond tendrils cascading around her ears and neck. Other than the plain silver ring on her second toe, her feet were bare. Her baggy knit shorts hung below her waist, the front dipping lower than the back. Her top was a sleeveless tank made out of a stretchy fabric that clung to her breasts and bared her midriff. It wasn’t as revealing as the bikini she’d been wearing yesterday. It had no business being even more stimulating.

      “Smell that?” she said.

      For lack of a better plan, he inhaled.

      And she said, “It’s a blend of lavender, chamomile and rose essential oils. It’s called aromatherapy and is supposed to be soothing.”

      “Did it work?”

      “I was getting there. Perhaps you should try it.”

      He took a quick, sharp breath. So much for trying to appear unaffected.

      He could tell she was trying not to smile as she gestured toward an overstuffed, ruffled sofa, indicating that he could take a seat. “Or would you rather stand?”

      It was as if she knew him. He shrugged. They both remained standing.

      She meandered to the other side of the room. “So you’ve reconsidered my offer to act as your fiancée at that dinner party.”

      “Yes.”

      “I thought