His Trophy Wife. Leigh Michaels

no money at all?”

      If she hadn’t been so exhausted, so tired of going over it all in the squirrel-cage of her mind, Morganna might have been offended at the question. But it didn’t occur to her to bristle at the personal nature of the inquiry. Perhaps from the outside the problem would look less thorny, more malleable—and she and Abigail needed all the insight they could collect.

      “Nothing significant, compared to what he owed.” She sighed. “Even if the insurance company pays off—and I can’t blame them for not being eager to settle up—it won’t be enough. I don’t know what we’ll do. Mother always left all the financial details to Daddy, but unfortunately ignorance is no defense. Just because she didn’t know about his deals doesn’t mean she isn’t going to be held responsible for at least some of them. She’s going to end up worse than penniless. And she’s got no skills to support herself, much less to pay back debt—she’s always been a stay-at-home wife. Besides, she’s just close enough to retirement age to make finding a job very difficult, but too far away from it to get any benefits.”

      “But your father’s debt comes to rest with her, right? It’s not your problem.”

      Morganna bristled. “She’s my mother. Of course it’s my problem.”

      After a little pause, he asked, “So how are you planning to pay it all?”

      “Well, that’s another difficulty,” she admitted. “It wasn’t very practical of me to get a degree in art. It’s hardly a field that’s in great demand these days.”

      “You could teach.”

      Morganna shook her head. “Even if I had the temperament, I don’t have the right education to get a teaching certificate—it would take another two years of classes at least before I could qualify. And then we’re back to the problem of money, because I could probably earn enough to live on while I went to school, but not enough to cover tuition, too.”

      “What are you going to do?”

      “I start on Monday at the Tyler-Royale store downtown. A friend of mine is married to the store manager, and Jack—the manager—says I can arrange displays and try my hand at designing the storefront windows.”

      “That’s a full-time job?”

      “No, the rest of the time I’ll be selling women’s sportswear. It’s a start.”

      She knew that despite her best efforts, she sounded tired and depressed. In a department store sales job, it would be decades before she could make a dent in her father’s debts.

      He said slowly, “I may have a better idea.”

      “I’m listening.” Morganna shrugged. “Though I have to admit I not only don’t see how you can help, I don’t understand why you should want to, either. If you knew my father at all—”

      It was apparent that he heard the question in her voice. “As a matter of fact, I never met him.”

      And then, while she was still trying to fathom why he seemed to feel responsible for her welfare and Abigail’s, Sloan Montgomery had looked her in the eye and asked her to marry him.

      Morganna didn’t remember fainting. The next thing she knew, she was sitting on the floor, her shoulders cradled in Sloan’s arms, her nose resting against the soft lapel of his suit jacket, breathing in the delicious aromas of wool and soap and aftershave. The moment she was aware, however, she began to struggle, trying to get to her feet.

      “Just sit there for a bit,” he said. “The last thing you need to do is fall down again.” He supported her till she could sit up by herself, and then he perched on her work stool, looking down at her. “Apparently my suggestion came as a shock.”

      “That’s putting it mildly.” Morganna wriggled around to brace herself against the cabinet which supported the miniature house. “Whatever makes you think I’d be interested in marrying you?” She saw his jaw tighten and added hastily, “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It’s just that we hardly know each other. The idea of getting married—”

      “I think we know enough. I know, for instance, that the Ashworth name opens every door in Lakemont society.”

      “Not for much longer,” Morganna said wryly.

      “That’s true.” His voice was cool. “Unless you act quickly to limit the damage from your father’s peccadilloes, a hundred years’ worth of family history will go down the drain and you’ll be an outcast.”

      “Do you think I care about that? My real friends—”

      He didn’t raise his voice, but his words cut easily across her protest. “And so will your mother.”

      Morganna bit her lip. It wasn’t that her mother was shallow, she wanted to say. But it would be even harder for Abigail to start over than it would be for her daughter.

      Morganna had already noticed how many people who should have come to offer their sympathies had stayed away instead. She didn’t think that fact had occurred to Abigail yet, but she knew that when it did, the realization would be devastating. Even the poverty they faced would be easier for Abigail to deal with than the humiliation of losing the only way of life she’d ever known.

      “Do you think I haven’t tried to figure out a way?” she said wearily. “I can’t simply conjure up enough money to bail us out.”

      “But I can.”

      She stared up at him. “Why would you want to?”

      He looked across the room, over her head, and said calmly, “I don’t suppose you’ll find this flattering.”

      He’d been dead right on that count, of course—for what he’d told her then hadn’t been complimentary in the least. He’d made it plain that it was not Morganna he was attracted to, but her social standing. With an Ashworth at his side, he’d be at the highest rank of Lakemont’s society, and he would have achieved the final detail of the goal he’d set for himself as an impoverished kid years before—his own business, a few million in the bank, a position of respect in the community, a wife other men would envy him. Morganna was the ultimate piece in the puzzle he’d set himself to complete.

      “So,” she’d said, when the orange glow of her fury had finally dissipated enough that she could trust herself to speak without screaming at him, “it’s not really a marriage you’re proposing, it’s a straight-out trade. Your money for my name.”

      “That’s the deal.”

      “Usually, you know, it’s older guys who have divorced their first wives who are looking for a trophy to display.”

      “Sorry to violate the rules, but I was too busy fifteen years ago to find someone unsuitable to marry, just so I could discard her now in order to acquire you. You don’t appear to have any time to lose, Miss Ashworth. Are you interested or not?”

      Morganna raised her chin and looked him straight in the eye. “Let me make this perfectly clear. For myself, I wouldn’t consider this proposition for an instant. It’s an insult and I’d live in a cardboard box and eat cat food for the rest of my life before I’d make a deal like that.”

      “But you have your mother to consider.”

      “Exactly. So convince me that what you’re offering her is worth the price you’re asking.”

      Sloan had convinced her. And he’d kept his word. The day Morganna married him, he’d taken over the responsibility for Burke Ashworth’s debts, down to the last penny. And at the wedding breakfast, he’d handed Abigail a cashier’s check—he’d told her it was the face value of her husband’s life insurance policy—which would be adequate to keep her in comfort for the rest of her days.

      Remember that moment, Morganna told herself. No sacrifice was too great a price to pay for the relief that had gleamed in her mother’s eyes at that instant.

      And