Trophy Wives

  Lucy Did The Only Possible Thing She Could Think Of. She Reached Up To Tangle Her Fingers In Ethan’s Thick Hair And Pulled His Head Down To Hers

  She felt his hand, still around her waist, spread and lift, and next thing she was on tiptoe, planted against the length of him like ivy. He held back slightly, his brow still furrowed in a frown.

  She tugged him closer and he sank into her mouth. Hot and humid, his tongue felt satiny slick, dancing with hers. She fought to breathe. He was so strong. His arms crushed her to him. The tension in his neck, each and every finger spread wide on her back, the muscles in his thighs pressed up against hers—it was all leashed power.

  Her mind shut down. Her blood was roaring. She wanted him unleashed.

  TROPHY WIVES

  Jan Colley

  JAN COLLEY

  lives in Christchurch, New Zealand, with her long-suffering fireman and two cats who don’t appear to suffer much at all. She started writing after selling a business because at tender middle age, she is a firm believer in spending her time doing something she loves. A member of the Romance Writers of New Zealand and Romance Writers of Australia, she is determined that this book will be the first of many. She enjoys reading, traveling and watching rugby, and would be tickled pink to hear from readers. E-mail her at vagabond23@yahoo.com.

  Thanks for the support of romance writing organizations everywhere, and all the multipublished authors who give up their time to help the newbies.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  One

  Her heels clicked across the big expanse of floor, quick and sharp. Head swiveling, she dismissed the individuals milling this way and that. Where was he?

  Who could blame him for not waiting? She was nearly an hour late, after all. Could she never get anything right?

  There. Sitting alone by the domestic arrivals gate. Exactly where he was supposed to be.

  Lucy replaced her impatient expression with a determined smile. Ethan Rae. Mr. Ethan Rae. She started quickly toward him across the concourse of the small airport, mentally chanting an apology. Mr. Rae. I am so sorry.

  Her heels made a cheerful ditty on the polished linoleum. The sound kept up with her, and, as she drew level with the slumped figure in the chair, she was astonished to see no movement.

  He was asleep!

  Hot guilt washed over her and she nervously chewed her bottom lip. She was in so much trouble. Tom had already scalped her for the mix-up over ordering the luxury van that they used to escort clients from the airport to the lodge. By the time she had worked it out, it was too late to do anything else but collect him herself.

  “Wha-a-a-t?” her half brother had practically yelled down the phone. “You can’t pick him up in the Beast. Couldn’t you have ordered him a car—limo, rental—anything?”

  “Everything is booked. There’s an APEC conference on in town, remember?”

  “What about your car?”

  She grimaced. “I’m having it cleaned. Why didn’t you check his arrival time, Tom? We had a deal.”

  “Well, yes,” he conceded, and Lucy was gratified to hear some guilt in his voice. “I’ve got rather a lot on my plate at the moment.” His heavy sigh down the line was timed for maximum sympathy.

  “You’re not the only one. Besides you know how I am. You’re supposed to check these things.” Lucy tried to recall the fax containing details of the man’s booking. “Who ever uses the twenty-four-hour clock, anyway?”

  Tom sighed again. “Well, get here as soon as you can. And apologize like hell. Drinks start at seven-thirty. I need you here.”

  The current object of her agitation snoozed on, oblivious. She felt a headache twinge behind her eyes. She stood, clutching her wallet with both hands in front of her, wondering how to proceed.

  Good suit, she noted, being rather an expert at clothes. Conservative, but expensive. The jacket was unfastened, revealing a stone-colored shirt wrapped around a long, lean torso with impressively broad shoulders. Long legs, crossed at the ankles, thrust into soft leather shoes. Well-tended hands lay on the armrests of the narrow chair, fingers splayed, giving the impression that he was ready to spring into action in an instant.

  The thick hair on his bowed head was the color of bitter chocolate, with a fine tracing of silver at the neatly trimmed sideburns. It would grow wavy, she decided, if it were allowed. His skin was tan and smooth with a dark bluish shadow around his relaxed jaw.

  She guessed he was little more than thirty, younger than she’d expected. Only the very rich could afford to stay at Summerhill, her family homestead, and enjoy the exclusive hunting, trekking and charters they offered. Usually the very rich were older—and accompanied.

  A warm shiver of interest stirred, deep inside. Maybe her day was about to get better, after all.

  The man’s eyelids stirred. Lucy drew herself up to her full five-foot-five, inhaling apprehensively. Apology time. Her mind clicked into her best customer-service mode, her face into a smile she hoped conveyed apology and courtesy. She cleared her throat gently. “Mr. Rae? Ethan Rae?”

  She watched his eyes squeeze tight. His mouth twisted in a grimace, then softened. The fingers of his left hand flexed then curled around the arm of his chair. When she looked back at his face, his eyelids had risen, but, because of his slumped position, he was looking down at her feet. Lucy waited.

  And waited. He appeared to be conducting a fairly thorough examination of her painted toenails, her feet encased in strappy turquoise sandals, then her legs and finally the hem of the sea-green tunic that floated below the waist of her silk pants. He was actually studying her—minutely. Not even bothering to grant her the courtesy and respect of looking at her face.

  Lucy shifted slightly, and the breath that escaped from her lips had no taint of apology now.

  But still he dawdled, his shuttered eyes resting now on her hips, a tiny line creasing his forehead. And then they traveled on, up over the swell of her breasts. Instinctively, she tugged the edge of her blue-green silk shawl a little higher as his eyes lingered over pale skin exposed by the spaghetti straps of her tunic.

  By the time his gaze reached her face, she felt as flushed as a schoolgirl. But it wasn’t schoolgirl indignation she was feeling. Discomfort jostled with appreciation of his dark good looks, and a little thrill of awareness that she wasn’t the only one pleasantly surprised by the meeting. A knowing and rather pleased smile quirked her brows as she met his gaze.

  Not that she cared, but no sign of apology crossed his unwavering look. Pale blue eyes, in shocking contrast to his deeply tanned face, met hers and continued to scrutinize bluntly, curiously, in a haze of drowsy appreciation.

  Lucy lifted her chin. “Mr. Ethan Rae?” She was thankful that there was no hint in her voice of the butterflies that leapt to life in her midriff.

  Still regarding her intently, his head inclined an inch. Lucy exhaled. “Lucy McKinlay.” She offered her hand. “I’ve come to drive you out to Summerhill.”

  He blinked, ignoring her outstretched hand, and slowly raised himself to his feet. She stepped back involuntarily. His long lean frame unwound itself to loom above her, with only inches between them.

  Her heart gave a lazy, rolling thump, just once.

  Ethan Rae stretched and ran one hand through his hair. An interesting little cowlick flicked up at the front, incongruous when matched with his stern and conservative air. She rather liked it.

  His eyes na
rrowed, crinkling at the corners and pierced her with a glittering lance. “Evening.” His voice was deep, lazy.

  Lucy pursed her lips to stop the teasing smile that threatened to erupt. This man was a client. Flirting would be unprofessional and inappropriate.

  But tempting. Very tempting… “I’m sorry I’m late, Mr. Rae.”

  He glanced at the silver timepiece on his wrist. “One hour late.”

  Three short words, but Lucy lost herself in the deep, flowing timbre of his voice. “Sorry,” she said again, too distracted to look contrite. “Do you have luggage?”

  His pale orbs flicked to an expensive-looking bag under the chair beside his.

  Lucy reached for the bag. “You travel light.”

  Ethan Rae intercepted her with his shoulder, all signs of drowsiness gone, and hoisted the bag. “I’ve got it.”

  Lucy turned and led him through the terminal toward the exit, totally aware of his presence behind her, of his eyes on her. She consciously tightened every inch of her spine, lifted her head and walked as if she were on a cat-walk. The shawl dipped down at the back and she did nothing to halt the slide. She didn’t mind at all showing off the almost backless tunic top, loving how the silk swished and rustled with the movement of her thighs. If he wanted to look, he could look. It might take his mind off her tardiness.

  He was the most attractive man her eyes had been treated to in a long while. She obviously spent too much time with older men.

  “Did you have a hard night?” she asked brightly, determined to charm him. It was a seventy-minute drive to their destination. Lust was uncomfortable enough. Disapproving silence would be worse.

  Ethan blinked as the crisp night air touched his face. He drew level with her in long gliding strides. His brows rose at her question but he did not speak.

  A man of few words, she deduced. “You were sleeping.”

  “Long flight,” was his eventual response, matched with a lengthy gaze.

  A man who considers every word uttered to him and by him. The commentary hummed in her brain. “From Sydney?”

  He nodded briefly. “Started a couple of days ago. From Saudi.”

  Lucy nodded and turned to the pay-to-go station, feeding her ticket and some coins into the slot to pay for parking. Then she faced him and took a deep breath. “About the transportation…” She reluctantly gestured toward the filthiest and most ancient four-wheel-drive in the park. “I have to apologize. Again.”

  Ethan stopped and stared disbelievingly. She swung herself up into the driver’s seat of the Land Rover and leaned over to unlock and push open his door. After a few seconds of hesitation, his hand snaked around the passenger door to pull up the lock on the back. Lucy heard the slide of his bag in the back while she gave the passenger seat a quick and ineffectual swipe. Grimacing, nose twitching, he eased himself in beside her and settled back.

  She put the key in the ignition and then turned to face him. “You see, I was supposed to order you a car. But I got the times mixed up.”

  “Yours?” he asked, staring at the dust-covered dash, the mud and plant matter under his expensive shoes, the barely transparent windscreen. Preparing to rest his arm along the doorframe, he thought better of it and leaned forward to stare at a dubious dark stain running along the bottom of the window.

  “No. Mine is—indisposed at the moment,” Lucy told him, backing out of the parking space. “Mrs. Seymour’s horrible little bichon frise indisposed it this afternoon.” Her mouth turned down as she recalled the whining woman from Auckland and her grotty little dog, whom she had gratefully delivered to the airport just a few hours ago. When she glanced at him his brows were raised in query. “Put it this way,” she told him with a wry smile. “You think this smells bad…”

  The Land Rover shuddered to a halt before the arm of the exit station. “By the time I found out about the car mix-up, it was too late to find any other vehicle. Normally, I wouldn’t dream of picking up a client in the Beast.”

  Lucy laboriously wound the window down, then entered the ticket into the slot and watched the barrier arm rock and bounce up. The vehicle lurched forward unsteadily while she rewound the stubborn window. She could feel his gaze on her but kept her eyes on the road ahead.

  “You pick up all your guests looking like that?” His tone had lost the sleepy, lazy quality of before.

  “We’re having cocktails tonight in honor of a VIP. The other guests are welcome to attend. It’s sort of a meet-and-greet thing.” She shot him a welcoming look. “If you’re not too tired.”

  His eyes flashed over her. “Wide awake, suddenly,” he told her enigmatically.

  Lucy felt her face flame in a burst of pleasure and focused on the road. It was nice to be noticed, especially after the day she’d had. A million errands, the loathsome dog and her error over Ethan’s ETA meant she’d only had time for the quickest of showers and a lick of makeup to go with the cocktail outfit that was supposed to impress tonight.

  “McKinlay,” he said, dragging his seatbelt over his shoulder. “You’re part of the Summerhill family.”

  Lucy nodded.

  “What’s your role in the operation?”

  “I run errands. Pick-ups, drop-offs. And I look after the wives and partners of the guests.”

  Ethan squinted at her, nodding slowly. “You look after the trophy wives of the trophy hunters.” It wasn’t a question.

  Lucy was surprised at the disdain in his voice. “We don’t put it quite like that,” she said carefully.

  “No? What would you call a woman who is married—or not—to someone thirty years older and loaded?”

  “Lucky?” Lucy quipped, but judging from the compression of his mouth, he didn’t appreciate her joke.

  She’d have to tread carefully during the next few days and restrain her occasionally irreverent perspective. The VIP they were wining tonight was Magnus Anderson, the founder of the exclusive club that Summerhill was part of. There were fewer than twenty-five lodges worldwide recommended by the club’s bi-annual publication, the revered Global List.

  Magnus and his wife had landed yesterday. They were supposedly here for a week’s delayed honeymoon, but their guest had indicated his displeasure at certain rumors regarding the quality and financial stability of the Summerhill operation. Lucy would do or say nothing to jeopardize their place in the organization.

  If Summerhill were ousted from the club, there was nowhere to go but down.

  “What does entertaining the wives involve?”

  Again, Lucy pondered. “Whatever they want to do to stop them from getting bored and lonely and intruding on their husbands’ hunting. I can provide information, or an itinerary. Transport.” She saw his eyes flick around the filthy cab. “Make bookings. Or I can escort them places.”

  One of his dark brows arched curiously.

  Lucy shrugged. “Shopping. Bungee-jumping. Lunch. Whatever…”

  Ethan frowned out the windscreen. She got the distinct impression that she and her clients had just gone down a notch in his estimation. But an instant later she felt his raking gaze again. “Like a professional companion.”

  “I suppose I am.” She smiled brightly and nodded. “Some like company, but sometimes they just want bookings made or suggestions.”

  “Enjoy it?” he asked, rather tersely.

  Lucy nodded. “Most of the time.”

  He was silent as the big motor swept a roundabout and eased into the light flow of traffic. Several minutes passed until she hit the city limits and headed toward the west coast. Dusk had done its worst and the city lights behind cast a softly mauve glow.

  Ethan stretched back in his seat and yawned widely.

  “Sleep if you want,” she offered. “It’s over an hour’s drive.”

  He rubbed his hands together and leaned forward to peer at the instrument panel. “Colder than I expected. I left forty degrees.”

  “What were you doing in the Middle East?”

  “Developing a tourist re
sort.” He fiddled with the heating dial. “Winter in New Zealand should be a refreshing change.”

  Suddenly a cloud of chaff puffed out from the vents. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched the millions of particles rise up to the cab’s ceiling and then settle, painfully slowly, onto his expensively clad knees.

  Lucy bit her bottom lip and forbade herself to smile. When she dared glance at him again, he was shaking his head.

  “Dare you to laugh,” he murmured, but his mouth had pursed into a reluctant grin.

  Now that was worth waiting for. She allowed her own smile to form. The glint in his pale eyes and a flash of white teeth lit up his face, revealing the leanness of his cheeks and no-nonsense jawline, the straight length of his nose, and his lips—not full but not ungenerous either.

  At least there was a semblance of humor there. The situation wasn’t hopeless. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she told him, rolling her eyes. “Sorry.”

  His wry grunt reassured her. “I know little about Summerhill,” he commented. “It used to be a high-country station, didn’t it?”

  Lucy automatically recited a brief history of her heritage. “The house was built in the late 1860s by a wealthy Scotsman who farmed, at that time, about one hundred thousand acres. Over the years, parts of the land were sold off—to other farmers, to the conservation department. The original family sold the remaining forty thousand acres to my grandfather.”

  She paused as the familiar ache settled over her heart. Her own father had continued to farm in the very toughest high-country conditions to provide for his young family. Until her mother had left when Lucy was eight.

  “Only about half of it is arable. The rest is…” she broke off, a lump in her throat. How to describe it? Unbearably beautiful? Savage and remote? Her own special kingdom? “Mountains, forest, a gorge…” Pride and regret swelled the lump in her throat, rendering her voice uncharacteristically thready. Her heritage had long suffered her indifference. And now, when its importance to her transcended everything else, it might be dangerously late and dependent on others.