The Bought-and-Paid-For Wife. Bronwyn Jameson

you think some busybody could have seen—” she waggled her hand between them, unable to voice the us that might link their friendship in a nonplatonic way “—and misconstrued?”

      “It’s possible.”

      Vanessa stared at him wide-eyed. Then, pity help her, she couldn’t suppress an involuntary giggle.

      “Pretty funny, huh?”

      “I’m sorry.” Sobering instantly, she reached out and put her hand on his arm. And that was the thing with Andy—she could touch him and feel no spark, no jolt, no prickling of heat. Nothing but a comfortable warmth similar to what she’d established with her husband and still missed so very much. “I didn’t mean to offend you. You know I love you like a brother.”

      “I know that, but what about someone watching us?”

      Shock immobilized her for a split second. Then she drew back her hand and her body, suddenly aware of how close they stood. As they’d done on countless other innocent occasions.

      With an audience?

      They continued walking, but Vanessa couldn’t stop herself from glancing at each car and passing pedestrian. Scores of people were out enjoying the gorgeous summer twilight, yet she felt exposed.

      Despite the warmth of the air she felt a chill run over her skin. “I hate the thought that someone might have been following me.”

      “That’s something I’ve never quite understood.”

      She cut him a narrow look. “The fact that I don’t like being spied on?”

      “The fact you’ve kept Lew and your visits to Twelve Oaks secret.”

      “That has nothing to do with being spied on.”

      “Maybe not,” he said in his usual mild manner. “But if the good folk of Eastwick knew about your brother, then they’d also understand why you need to drive up here so often and why you meet with me. That would take care of one possible misinterpretation.”

      As usual, Andy was right. Except up until now she hadn’t seen any need to share this most personal part of her life. Only Stuart—plus a handful of trusted professionals and some old friends from her pre-Eastwick days—knew about Lew. Together they had decided to keep his long-term tenancy at Twelve Oaks private.

      “Are you ashamed of—”

      “Of course not!” Vanessa swung around to face Andy, all thoughts of being spied upon lost in the fierceness of her answer. “Don’t you dare suggest that Lew is some sort of embarrassment. I would take out a paid page in the New York Times if I thought it would help, but what would be the point? All that would accomplish is a whole lot of talk and finger-pointing from small-minded people who don’t understand.”

      “And this is the society you want to live in?”

      “No. This is the society I chose to live in when I married Stuart.”

      Because that choice included Twelve Oaks, the exclusive facility that provided Lew with the best environment, the right therapy, everything he needed to grow and flourish as an individual. She hadn’t even dreamed of accessing such an expensive option before she met her future husband. In fact she’d been at the end of her tether, out of options for caring for Lew and dealing with his increasingly violent tendencies as he grew from a boy into a man.

      “Besides,” she continued, “not everyone in Eastwick is narrow-minded. If they knew, my friends would want to visit, to help, and you know how Lew is with new people and changes to his routine. He is happy and I’m happy visiting and doing my voluntary work without it being talked about all over town. I’ve had enough poor Vanessas to last a lifetime, thank you very much!”

      They resumed walking, Andy silent in a way that suggested he didn’t agree. Was she being selfish, making it easier on herself, protecting her cushy life? After Stuart’s death she had wanted to confide in her friends, because Lord knows she’d felt so incredibly alone and lonely. But then she had Gloria, who’d come from the same background, who knew Lew. PlusAndy. Two of the best friends she could have because, unlike her Eastwick friends, they’d known her when she was plain Vanessa Kotzur.

      It had been easier to keep the status quo, for so many reasons.

      What about now? her pragmatic side wanted to know.

      “I need to see the letter,” she said with quiet resolve. Before she made any decision on what else to do, she had to see the evidence.

      Andy nodded grimly. “And you need to set him straight about me.”

      Vanessa’s whole system bucked in protest. She could actually feel her feet dragging on the pavement as they neared the street where she’d parked her car.

      “Perhaps I can do this without even mentioning Lew. I’ll say I do voluntary work at Twelve Oaks.” Which she did. “And we’re working together on a program…a new music therapy program which I’m looking at funding. And that I’m interested in extending the equestrian therapy facility.”

      This wasn’t even bending the truth. She intended making a very significant donation from Stuart’s estate, once it was finalized, to help with both of those programs as well as funding positions for adolescents from low-income families.

      Andy’s frown looked unconvinced. “He’s looking for proof of adultery, Vanessa. He’ll have you investigated.”

      “And find out what? That I drive up to Lexford two or three times a week, to a special-needs home where I’m listed as a volunteer?”

      “A home with a resident who shares your surname. Any investigator worth his salt is going to make the connection.”

      Didn’t he ever tire of being so calm and logical and right? Blast him. Because he was right, and already her mind had leaped ahead to the next correlation a professional investigator—or his eagle-eyed employer—may make.

      Lew Kotzur had moved into Twelve Oaks the same month that his sister Vanessa quit her two waitressing jobs to marry Stuart Thorpe. The man who pulled strings to get young Lew into the place. The man behind the trust fund that paid all his bills.

      A sick feeling of fatalism settled over her as they stopped beside her car. Even before Andy spoke. “The way I see it, you have two options, Vanessa.”

      “I get to choose my poison?”

      He didn’t smile at her attempt at levity. His calm, level gaze held hers as he laid those choices on the line. “Either you let Thorpe investigate and risk him spreading nasty stuff about why you keep your brother hidden away from your new society friends. Or you tell him yourself and explain your motivation. There’re your choices, Vanessa. It’s up to you.”

      Three

      There wasn’t any choice. Sitting in her car, watching Andy’s loping stride carry him off toward the marina, Vanessa knew exactly what she had to do. Swallow her poison quickly, before she had time to think about how bitter it would taste going down.

      She dug her cell phone from her purse. Stared at the keypad so long that the numbers swam before her eyes. Closed her eyes until the crashing wave of dread passed.

      This isn’t about you, Ms. Pragmatist lectured. Think about Lew. Think about how disruptive and upsetting this could end up for everyone at Twelve Oaks if an investigator started hanging around, grilling staff and residents.

      She didn’t have Tristan’s cell number, but she did have several Eastwick hotels in her phone’s directory. How hard could he be to find?

      Not very, as it turned out.

      On her second attempt, the receptionist at the Hotel Marabella put her straight through to his suite. She didn’t have a chance to second think, or to do any more than draw a deep breath and silently wail, why the Marabella? She preferred to think he’d have chosen one of the big chains instead of the tasteful Mediterranean-style boutique hotel