His Trophy Wife. Leigh Michaels

from the bridge table. “Sloan will be back from San Francisco today.”

      “And the little wife wants to be waiting to welcome him home from his business trip,” said the redhead sitting next to her. “Even after half a year of marriage—how touching.”

      From the seat on Morganna’s other side, a brunette rolled her eyes. “Don’t be sarcastic, Sherrie. You know perfectly well if it was you instead of Morganna that Sloan was coming home to, you’d be standing by the front door waiting for him.”

      “For Sloan Montgomery? Not on your life,” Sherrie said. “I’d already be in the bedroom.”

      They all laughed, but Morganna had to make an effort. And she noticed as she looked across the table at her hostess that Emily’s amusement, too, was only on the surface; her eyes were not smiling.

      “It really isn’t fair, Morganna,” Sherrie went on. “He’s not only gorgeous, but all you have to do is murmur that you want something, and you’ve got it. Your house, that rock on your left hand, your new car—talk about the woman who has everything. Even if the rest of us were lucky enough to stumble onto a guy who’d buy us anything we wanted, trust me—he’d be eighty-two and toothless. Sloan is everything a woman could want.”

      The envy which dripped from Sherrie’s voice seemed to turn to sulfuric acid against Morganna’s skin. But, she told herself, it was crazy to resent Sherrie’s perceptions of her marriage, when the woman had picked up precisely the image that Morganna had worked very hard to project.

      Emily walked her to the door. “Sherrie and Carol mean well, Morganna. They just don’t know what they’re talking about.”

      “And that’s exactly the way I want to keep it.” Morganna forced a smile.

      It wasn’t even that the two were so far off track, she admitted to herself as she turned her new sports car toward the gated neighborhood of Pemberton Place and the Georgian-style mansion she called home. Sloan was gorgeous—and he was generous to a fault. Morganna had quickly learned to be careful of what she admired, for whatever she looked approvingly at was apt to turn up on her breakfast tray within a day or two. After a few episodes, she’d learned to bite her tongue.

      She’d slipped up on the car, though. She’d commented—without even thinking about it—that the new convertibles looked like fun. Less than a week later, hers had shown up in the driveway. It was even her favorite color.

      Sherrie was right—Sloan was everything a woman could want. So why was Morganna so unhappy?

      She parked the convertible in the garage next to Sloan’s black Jaguar. The presence of his car didn’t mean he was home, however; it had been sitting there all week while he was gone. She’d offered to take him to the airport and to pick him up on his return, but he’d said he didn’t want to put her to the trouble and he’d called a cab instead.

      Of course, she thought with a hint of bitterness, a trophy wife wasn’t supposed to be practical, only decorative. And that was all she was to Sloan Montgomery, Morganna knew—a trophy. A mile marker of how far he had raised himself. He’d gone from the factory floor to the owner’s office, from a walk-up apartment to a mansion in Lakemont’s most exclusive neighborhood, from the wrong side of the tracks to an alliance with one of the oldest and best-known families in the city.

      She knew quite well what she was to him—because he’d told her, on the day he had proposed marriage, precisely what he wanted her to be. A symbol, visible to all the world, of his success. A trophy wife.

      She let herself in the side door and in the shadowed corridor she almost bumped into the butler. He’d been hovering, she thought—waiting for her. Wanting to warn her, obviously—but of what?

      “Is Mr. Montgomery home?” she asked.

      Selby’s voice was lower than usual. “Not yet, Miss Morganna. I believe his plane should be landing any time.”

      “Then what’s wrong? And don’t tell me that nothing is, because I can see by your expression that you’re worried.”

      Selby’s tone dropped even further. “Your mother is here. None of us knew she was coming, Miss Morganna. She just appeared on the doorstep this afternoon.”

      And that, Morganna knew, signaled trouble. Obviously Abigail Ashworth hadn’t come all the way from Phoenix to Lakemont, Wisconsin, for afternoon tea, or simply for the fun of the trip. More to the point, she didn’t make a habit of dropping in uninvited. In fact, this was the first time since she’d moved to Phoenix, right after Morganna’s wedding, that she’d been back. Though Morganna had made it plain that her mother would always be welcome in her house, Abigail Ashworth had pointed out that the Georgian mansion was now Sloan’s home, too, and she couldn’t take his hospitality for granted.

      Yet now she had done exactly that. Big trouble, Morganna thought grimly. “Where is she?”

      “In the miniature room.”

      Morganna started across the hall to where a nine-foot-tall pocket door stood open a couple of inches. She pushed the walnut panel back and stepped inside.

      Despite its name, the room itself was anything but miniature. In fact, it was one of the largest in the house, intended by the builders to be a music room with plenty of space for dancing. Its contents were what had given the room its name, for it was full of tiny treasures. Some of the diminutive dolls and accompanying furnishings had belonged to Morganna’s grandmother, but most had been gifts to Morganna herself, souvenirs from her travels, or items she had created on her own. Half-museum, half-workshop, the room was Morganna’s favorite in the entire house.

      Literally at the center of the collection, standing on a specially built cabinet in the middle of the room, was a miniature reproduction of the full-size mansion. Architecturally correct down to the most infinitesimal detail, it was more museum piece than plaything, even though it had been Morganna’s birthday gift the year she was nine.

      She looked past the dollhouse to her mother. Abigail Ashworth sent a vague smile in her daughter’s direction and straightened the fingernail-size envelopes in the brass mailbox beside the front door of the miniature house.

      “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you,” Morganna said.

      “Why should you be waiting for me, dear, when I didn’t let you know I was coming?”

      At least that answered one question, Morganna thought. Her mother wasn’t confused about whether she’d been invited. Not that she’d harbored any real doubts about Abigail’s mental faculties. “It’s a nice surprise to see you, of course. But I have to ask, Mom—what brings you back to Lakemont at this time of year?”

      “You know Indian summer was always my favorite season.”

      “Believe me, that’s going to be over any day. The evenings are already getting so damp and chilly that a fire feels good.”

      Abigail sighed. “All right. If you must know, there’s a man.”

      Morganna’s jaw dropped. Her mother, in love? “Here?”

      “No, in Phoenix. He’s moved into the apartment complex, and he seems to think he’s in love with me. The more I try to discourage him, the more determined he gets.”

      That made more sense. “So you’re escaping from him?”

      “I feel sure that if I’m simply unavailable, Robert will find someone else to focus on. Heaven knows Phoenix has no shortage of eligible women.” Abigail smiled brightly. “A month or so should do it, I think.”

      A month. Morganna’s heart sank, but she forced a cheerful note into her voice. “That’s great, Mom. It seems we never have enough time together anymore to do everything we’d like, but with a whole month…Has Selby given you a room?”

      “Yes, dear. And I’m going upstairs to it right now, so you and Sloan can have your reunion without an audience.” Abigail winked and turned toward the door.