Heâd seen pictures. Heâd expected beautiful. After all, when a man chooses a trophy wife, he wants one other men will covet. But Tristan Thorpe hadnât appreciated the extent of that beautyâor its powerful cloutâuntil the front door of the Connecticut colonial opened in a rush and she was there, five-and-a-bit feet of breathtaking impact.
Vanessa Thorpe. His fatherâs widow. The enemy.
In every one of those society diary pictures she looked as glossy and polished as a trophy prize shouldâ¦which had left Tristan speculating over how much was realâthe platinum hair? the full lips? the petite but perfectly curved body?âand how much came courtesy of his fatherâs wealth.
He hadnât wondered about the sparklers at her throat and in her ears. Those, he knew, were real. Unlike her other multi-faceted assets, the diamonds appeared on the listed valuations of Stuart Thorpeâs estate.
But here, now, seeing her in the flesh for the first time, Tristan didnât notice anything fake. All he saw was the very real sparkle in her silvery-green eyes and the smile. Warmer than the August sun at his back now that the rain had cleared, it lit her whole face with pleasure and licked his body with instant male appreciation.
That hot shot of hormones lasted all of a second, which was as long as it took for shock to freeze the smile on her perfect pink lips.
âItâsâ¦you.â
Her whispered gasp came coated with dismay and, although she didnât move, Tristan saw the recoil in her expression. She wanted to back away. Hell, she probably wanted to slam the door in his face, and a perverse part of him wished she would give it a go. The long flight from Australia and the snarled afternoon traffic following a heavy rainstorm had him edgy enough to enjoy that kind of confrontation.
Logic, however, was Tristan Thorpeâs master and it cautioned him to remain cool. âSorry to disappoint you, duchess.â And because he wasnât the least bit sorry, he smiled, as slow and mocking as his drawled greeting. âObviously, you were expecting someone else.â
âObviously.â
Tristan arched an eyebrow. âDidnât you say I was welcome here any time?â
âI donât recallââ
âTwo years ago,â he reminded her. After her husbandâs death. Seeing as she had to call his estranged family on the other side of the world to inform them of his passing, why not extend her largesse? An ex-waitress with expectations of a cool hundred million in inheritance could afford to appear generous.
Right now she didnât look so generous. In fact she looked downright inhospitable. âWhy are you here, Tristan? The court date isnât until next month.â
âIf itâs even necessary.â
Surprise and suspicion narrowed her eyes. âHave you changed your mind? Are you dropping your contest of the will?â
âNot a chance.â
âThen what do you want?â
âThereâs been a new development.â Tristan paused, savoring the moment. Heâd flown nearly ten thousand miles for this. He wanted to drag it out, to see her flail, before he brought her down. âI think youâll change your mind about keeping that court date.â
For a second she stared at him, her expression revealing nothing but annoyance. Behind her, somewhere within the mansionâs vast interior, a phone started to ring. He saw her momentary distraction, a glance, a tightening of her lips, before she spoke.
âIf this is another of your attempts to obstruct execution of Stuartâs willââ the hostility in her eyes and her voice confirmed thatâs exactly what she thought ââplease take it to my lawyer, the same as youâve done with every other new development the past two years. Nothing has changed in that regard. Now, if youâll excuse meâ¦â
Oh, no. No way would he be dismissed. Not with that snooty voice, not with that imperious lift of her perfect little chin.
Tristan didnât stop to consider propriety or good manners. To prevent her closing the door on him, he stepped forward. To halt her leaving, he reached out and caught her by the arm.
The bare arm, he realized as the shock of her warm and female softness shot through his system.
Vaguely, beneath that purr of awareness, he felt her stillness and heard the hitch of her breath. Shock, no doubt, that heâd dare lay a hand on her.
âYou donât want to close that door on me.â His voice sounded rough, a deep growl in the tense silence. And he realized that the shrill ringing of the telephone had stopped, whether because someone had picked up or the caller had quit, he didnât know and couldnât care. âYou donât want me taking this public.â