скачать книгу бесплатно
The perfect wife?
At the dining table that night, Ella poured gravy over Tristan’s beef Wellington, feeling his lidded gaze not on the gravy boat but her arm—and inching ever higher. She bit her lip trying to tamp down the tingling sensation radiating from her center. What might happen if, instead of looking, he reached out and touched?…
The instant the thought hit, sizzling arrows shot heat to every corner of her body. She sucked in a breath and stepped back. She’d enjoyed their dinner out last weekend…perhaps a little too much. That time together had fed fantasies she’d secretly dreamed of for eight months. Fantasies about being a rich man’s bride.
She held the gravy boat before her, a reminder of her place. “Is there anything else I can get for you?”
His jaw jutted before he nodded, and Ella’s heart-beat skipped. Every night that he dined in, she asked Tristan that same question. He’d never once said yes. From the ardent look in his dark eyes now, she knew he didn’t want more ground pepper on his potato.
He sat back, elbows on the chair arms, tanned, mas-culine hands laced over his lap. “Have you eaten yet?”
Worried, she examined his meal. Did something look suspect? “I was about to sit down to mine.”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “In that case, join me.”
Ella could only blink. She ate in the kitchen or in her room. She’d never sat at this long, polished oak table. Never.
Then understanding dawned. He probably wanted to discuss something he needed from her tomorrow evening. Perhaps he wanted to fill her in on some background of the people attending so there’d be less chance of her feeling out of place. But it didn’t really matter what he wanted to discuss. If Tristan had suggested she eat with him, whatever was on his mind must be important.
She backed up toward the kitchen. “I’ll get my plate.”
When she joined him again, he was on his feet. After arriving home, he’d changed into jeans, the faded ones with the rip in the back pocket that sat like a dream on his lean hips. His white oxford was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a V of hard chest and dark hair. His jaw was shadowed with daylong bristles that gave him a rugged look. A sexy look.
Ella swallowed.
And if she continued along that train of thought, she’d start to drool, which was not good etiquette.
He pulled out her chair. Holding her plate firmly in her suddenly buttery fingers, she smiled. “Thank you.”
He pulled in his own chair and joined her. “I thought you might enjoy a glass of wine with dinner.”
Her gaze skated to a bottle of red next to the condiments. He filled her crystal glass, which he must also have placed there while she’d ducked into the kitchen, then his.
After they’d both sampled the smooth-blend Shiraz, Tristan smiled at her. “Well, this is pleasant. We should have done it sooner.”
Ella flicked out her napkin. If nerves weren’t pum-meling her stomach like a drumroll she might agree. It was very pleasant indeed sitting beside this über-attractive man at his dinner table, surrounded by fine things. The scenario was so unbelievable, she couldn’t even have daydreamed about the possibility.
Slipping beneath his sheets isn’t in the cards, either, she thought, but she’d daydreamed about that, and more often than usual this week…
“Do you have a gown for tomorrow evening?”
Clearing her throat, Ella fumbled to collect her silverware. “I picked up a dress today.” It hadn’t been overly expensive. She’d set herself a limit and had very nearly stuck to it. “I hope it’s okay.”
“I’m sure you’ll look stunning.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners and flames leapt up from the kernel of heat building low in her belly. He could smile at her like that all day.
“What color is it?” he asked, then tasted the beef and made a groan of appreciation in his throat.
“Kind of a lemony-golden shade.”
“It’ll go with your hair.” Like a touch, his gaze trailed her long, loose braid, which lay over one shoul-der, leaving a smoldering line in its wake.
She concentrated to stop her heart belting against her ribs and mumbled, “So the sales assistant said.”
His lopsided smile lifted higher before his brows drew together, his gaze dropped and he cut his broccoli, which was bathed in a three-cheese sauce. “Were you going to wear those earrings?”
She remembered his hand near her cheek the other night and the buzz of sexual arousal that had ignited a flash fire over her flesh. She would melt if he ever touched her intimately.
She shook herself. As if that would ever happen. Supermodels. Starlets. Billionaire’s daughters—they were the breed of women with whom Tristan normally kept company.
“I’m not sure those earrings will suit,” she said, “but if you think I should wear them…”
Eyes still on his plate, he chewed slowly, then with a barely perceivable shrug dismissed it. “Totally up to you.”
They ate in silence, Tristan deep in thought, Ella still coming to terms with the current seating arrangements, until the phone on the sideboard rang.
Ella’s midsection turned to ice. She hadn’t forgot-ten that curious phone call the other night. Had it been Scarpini or her imagination working overtime? she wondered. Either way, the phone couldn’t simply go unanswered now.
Stomach churning, she rose but Tristan put his hand on her arm. The contact was like the charge of an electric current and her heart catapulted and pounded all the more.
“They can call back,” he told her.
The tension locking her muscles eased a fraction and her rubber band legs lowered her back into her seat. Letting it ring out was more than fine with her.
As the phone stopped, Tristan refilled her wine glass.
“The other night made me realize how little I know about you,” he said, as if he’d suspected something untoward from her body language. But surely that was only her guilty conscience, she thought.
“There’s not much else to tell.” She slid her laden fork into her mouth.
“No surprises other than that half brother?”
Nothing he needed to know about. She smiled and chewed, letting him take from that what he would, but he wasn’t satisfied.
“No royalty in your background,” he joked, “Nobel Peace prizes. No axe murders.”
She coughed as she swallowed. “Why would you say that?”
His smile was amused and a little intrigued. “Ella, I was kidding.”
She let out her breath. Of course he was. He didn’t know about Scarpini’s wild accusation of murder. No reason he ever should.
She patted her mouth with her napkin and apologized. “I don’t know what’s got into me tonight.”
“I do. You’re preoccupied, thinking about starting a new phase in your life. You’ll be missed.” He collected his fork and explained, “You’ve been excellent at keep-ing every aspect of this place running smoothly.”
Her cheeks heated. “You’re being kind.”
“I’m being truthful.” He speared some potato. “I’m surprised no man has snapped you up.”
It took a few moments for his words to sink in. He meant marriage. She groaned. “Now you are being kind.”
His eyes hooked on to hers. “So you’ve never found the right one?”
For a short time, she’d thought she had—a doctor, Sean Milford. She’d been sadly mistaken. “There’s a lot that goes into finding the right one.”
“At the top of most women’s lists would be a man who can support them.”
She slowly frowned. “I’d much rather know I could support myself.”
“Even if it meant cleaning houses for the rest of your life?”
Her chest tightened with indignation. What was he suggesting? “I worked in a doctor’s surgery before I resigned to look after my mother. I could’ve found other employment if I’d chosen to. And I certainly wouldn’t marry someone because they had money, if that’s what you mean.”
His smile was genuine. “I didn’t think you would. But I wasn’t talking about you. You’re not most women.”
Ella concentrated on his wry expression and it dawned. “You think the women you date are after your bank account?” She laughed. Had he looked in the mirror lately? she wondered. She waved her fork. “You’re crazy.”
“And you’re naive.” But his tone said he didn’t mind. “So you’d be as happy marrying a plumber as a CEO of a conglomerate?”
“It would depend on which one I loved.”
His lips twitched. “Ella the romantic.”
“Is there anything wrong with that?”
He smiled that smile. “Quite the contrary.”
He’d angled toward her, about to say more, when the phone rang again.
With a growl, he set his napkin aside. “Whoever that is, they’re not giving up.”
“I’ll get it.” She pushed back her chair.
Already standing, Tristan put his hand firmly on her shoulder. “Tonight you’re a guest at my table. Allow me.”
But she sprang up and wove around him toward the phone. “I insist.”
He frowned then chuckled as he shook his head. “You’re doing a lot of that lately.”
She wouldn’t have insisted if she weren’t worried it might be Scarpini. She didn’t want Tristan talking to that man, because it would mean explaining that sordid episode. And in two weeks, she’d be gone from this house for good. Tristan need never know about her visit from the police.
But she’d answered the phone dozens of times this week. No wrong numbers, no heavy breathing. No sign of Drago Scarpini. Nevertheless, her palms were damp by the time Tristan was seated again and she picked up the phone.
“Barkley residence.”
Three beats of silence then, “Eleanor? That is you, isn’t it?”
A concrete wall hit and knocked the breath out of her. She blindly reached for the sideboard and held on.
“If you’re wondering how I got the number,” Drago Scarpini said, “you can speak with the new reception-ist at your lawyer’s office. Thank you for the ten grand, by the way. It’s a start.”
The solicitor’s office had given out her number? She squeezed the receiver. “I said under no circumstances—”
Ella stopped, but she’d already let slip the acknowledgement Scarpini needed. He was indeed speaking with Eleanor Jacob.
“The receptionist stumbled over herself giving me your number so that a brother and sister could get in touch again.” He chuckled. “Some people are just so helpful.”
She stole a guilty glance at Tristan, who pushed back his chair again.
“Is everything all right?” Tristan asked.
Her brow prickled as perspiration beaded on her upper lip and nausea rolled high in her stomach. Somehow she managed an unconcerned face, nodded at Tristan then turned and, into the receiver, said very quietly but firmly, “Don’t call again.”
His laugh was pure evil. “Eleanor, you can run but you can’t hide. Not forever, anyway. See you soon, bella. Very soon.”
As the line went dead, the floor tilted under her feet, like the deck of a ship going under. Her stomach twisted and the light seemed to fade.
Tristan materialized beside her, his supportive arm around her waist. “You’re not all right,” he said. “Who was that?”
Giddy, she gazed up into his stormy eyes. If she told him that was Scarpini, he’d want to know the rest. She didn’t want Tristan to know…
Her father had told her once that mud sticks. In other words, bad opinions are darn hard to shift. Ella believed in being truthful, but in this case she didn’t want Tristan for even one moment to picture her as her mother’s murderer.
She made an excuse.
“It was a friend wanting to meet me for coffee to-morrow.” Her voice was threadbare but not trembling, thank heaven. “I’d already told her definitely not. It would have to be next week.”
The lie stuck in her throat. Not only did she hate fibbing, even for this good reason, but linking the word friend with Scarpini in any sense made her physically ill.
Tristan’s brows nudged together. “You didn’t seem pleased to hear from your friend.”
Her throat convulsed. “We…have some things to sort out.”
“Nothing I can do to help?”
She started to make another excuse, but he held her arms and willed her to look into his eyes. “Let me help, Ella.”
She held her breath then crumpled and let the whole story spill out.
“The man who says he’s my half brother—Drago Scarpini—that was him on the phone. He phoned a week ago, too, after you’d taken me to dinner that night. He said the money I left from the will was a start. He said he’d see me…see me soon. I’d hoped he’d go away, but—”
A bubble of panic caught in her throat.
“Hey, it’s okay.” Tristan brought her close and rubbed her back. His heat and scent wrapped around her like a warm winter cloak.
When she’d almost stopped trembling, he gently pulled away and looked at her more deeply. “Tell me the rest.”
