Maureen Child – Society Wives: Love or Money: The Bought-and-Paid-for Wife (страница 13)

They all fell silent a moment, considering, before Emma asked, “Wouldn’t he have tried to blackmail Vanessa though?”

“Would you have paid?” Felicity turned to Vanessa. “If the letter had come to you?”

“Why would I pay when the allegation is false?”

A couple of them exchanged looks, no one met her eye, and in the ensuing silence the bottom fell out of Vanessa’s stomach. “You think I had a lover? While I was married to Stuart?”

“No, sweetie.” Emma put a hand on hers. “Not us.”

“Then … who?”

“There’s been some talk,” Caroline said.

And they hadn’t told her? Hadn’t mentioned these suspicions once? In all this time?

“You have to admit, you do keep parts of your life off-limits.”

Felicity had spoken no less than the truth. Vanessa had been secretive and this was the perfect opportunity to confide in her friends and garner their advice. That’s what friends were for, after all. Not that she had much experience, especially with her peers, and that made this hard task even tougher.

Her intentions were good, but the words lodged in her throat. Before she could coax them free, Lily returned from the bathroom and there was much fussing over how long she’d been gone.

“I ran into Delia Forrester,” she explained. “I couldn’t get away.”

“Poor you,” Caroline murmured.

“Whatever did she want?” Emma asked.

“A favor.” Lily pulled a wry face. “She needs an extra invitation to the polo benefit. Vanessa, it seems she’s invited your good friend Tristan Thorpe.”

Polo turned out to be a hard, fast and physical game—not for sissies as Frank Forrester had maintained. After several chukkers and with the help of some sideline experts, Tristan was catching on to the skilful intricacies of play and enjoying the breakneck end-to-end pace. As Frank’s binoculars rarely strayed from the field, he wondered if the old bloke had been referring to the off-field action rather than the polo itself.

Tristan had a healthy cynicism for the games played by the beautiful people, and this charity benefit had brought out the best—and worst—players. Which brought his thoughts winging straight to Delia.

Frank had introduced his wife as “My favorite blonde,” instantly tying her to the woman he’d referred to as his second-favorite at the Marabella restaurant. In those first few seconds Tristan rejected the connection out of hand. The two women were as different as Vanessa had claimed.

With her glossy facade and saccharine-sweet affectations, Delia was the kind of woman he’d expected—and wanted—to find living in his father’s house. Vanessa Thorpe was not. The truth didn’t slam into him. It had been creeping up on him for days, with every meeting, every new discovery, every disarming touch of warmth or vulnerability.

Acknowledging his error of judgment did unsettle him, however.

If he’d misjudged her character by the width of the Nullabor, could he also be wrong about other things?

Since seeing her response to the letter he’d been thinking a lot about the sender’s motivation. He’d assumed someone had a vendetta against her. Back in Australia he’d believed it—a pushy young social climber could make plenty of enemies without even trying. But since arriving in Eastwick, the worst he’d heard about her was, “She holds her cards close to her chest.”

A loud cheer rolled through the spectators’ gallery, rousing Tristan from his introspection. The local team’s number three had goaled, leveling the score. He’d learned early on that the Argentinean import was a great favorite with the partisan polo crowd.

Vanessa, too, had her fans. This Tristan measured from the locals’ responses to him.

Too polite for blatant rudeness, many met him with a cool look or shook his hand with stiff formality. Others were more direct. Vern Kramer, for example, stated outright that he sympathized with his plight—”You’re his son, after all”—but didn’t approve his tactics. Vern was another of his father’s oldest friends and one of the more vocal sideline polo experts.

Right now he was protesting an umpiring decision with much gusto. His wife took a large step back, disowning him with a wry shake of her head. “He’s not mine. I don’t know him.”

Tristan waited a moment, watching the umpire award a penalty against the local team and smiling at the roasting that ensued. Then he acknowledged Liz Kramer whose large backward step had brought her—unwittingly—to his side. “How are you, Mrs. Kramer?”

“Well, thank you.” Her greeting was polite, her tone frosty. Par for the course, although from Liz it stung. She’d been a close friend of his mother’s, a frequent visitor at their home, and he remembered her fondly. “And you, Tristan? Are you enjoying being back home?”

Not the first time he’d been asked a variation of that question and he didn’t understand the assumption any better with each repetition. “My home is in Sydney,” he said, sick of making the polite answer. “This is a business trip.”

“And are you enjoying that?”

There was a bite to her voice that suggested she knew his business. “Not particularly.”

“Which makes me wonder why you’re persisting.”

“I have my reasons.”

Eyes front, watching a melee of horses and mallets, he felt rather than saw Liz’s gaze fix on his face. “How is your mother?”

“Recovering.”

“She’s been ill?”

He cut her a look and saw genuine concern in her eyes. It suddenly struck him that of all the conversations he’d had since arriving in Eastwick, Liz was the first to ask after his mother. He decided to tell her straight. “Breast cancer. She’s had a tough few years.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

They watched the game in silence for several minutes. Then Liz said, “I hope she found the happiness she was chasing.”

Tristan frowned. “Chasing?”

“When she left your father.”

“I’d hardly define being tossed out with nothing as leaving.”

He tried to keep the bitterness from his voice but wasn’t sure he succeeded. Not when Liz made a soft clucking noise with her tongue, part sympathy, part reprimand. “She took you, Tristan, the most valuable thing from her marriage. Stuart was a long time getting over that.”

But he had got over it. With the help of a beautiful new wife, and that stuck in Tristan’s craw in a dozen disturbing ways now that he’d met Vanessa.

His gaze shifted beyond Liz, and—as he’d had done countless times in the past hours—he unerringly found Vanessa in the crowd. Despite the number and size of the hats blocking his view, despite the subtlety of her dress, despite the way she’d pinned her distinctive hair beneath a pretty little lace and net construction.

The awareness was there, like a visual magnetism. He didn’t seek her out. He looked up and like sunshine, she was there. Since acknowledging how much his attitude to her had changed, since recognizing the dangerous pull of this attraction, he’d kept his distance. Not exactly avoiding her, just proving to himself that he could resist the urge.

“He was so lucky to find Vanessa. She is a treasure.”

He looked back at Liz, found she’d followed the direction of his gaze. “I’ve heard that more than once today,” he said dryly. “A treasure. A good gal. An angel.”

“Feeling like you’ve been cast with horns and a trident?”

“Somewhat.”

With a soft chuckle, Liz lifted her empty champagne flute and looked him in the eye. For the first time he saw the familiar sparkle of her humor. “If you’d like to take the first step toward redemption, you can fetch me a refill.”

Vanessa thought she felt him watching her. Again. But when she turned in that direction—and all day she’d known exactly where he stood, sat, lounged—she found her imagination was playing tricks. Again.

This time he was intent in conversation with Liz Kramer. With his head dipped toward the shorter woman so a lock of sun-tinged hair fell across his forehead, he looked younger and warmer and more at ease than Vanessa had seen him. Then someone moved and blocked her view and she turned away, heart racing and her mouth gone dry.

Anxiety, she decided. And trepidation because of what he might be discussing with Liz and with countless others before her.

And who are you kidding?

Not her pragmatic self, obviously. She knew these responses had nothing to do with their conflict and everything to do with the man.

Was he ignoring her on purpose?

No, Ms. Pragmatist answered. He is doing what he set out to do. Mixing, meeting, talking. And learning absolutely nothing because there was nothing for him to discover—at least nothing that wasn’t rumor and whispers about her secretive side.

Thinking of the talk her friends had told her about took her mind off Tristan, at least. Not that being talked about was a biggie for Vanessa—she’d grown up with fingers pointed her way. That’s the girl with the freakoid brother. Did you hear her daddy got arrested again last night? They’re such a loser family. She didn’t care what others said about her; she did mind that her friends might have believed her capable of infidelity.

And she hated that she’d frozen when she should have told them the reason for her mysterious behavior.

The sea of summer frocks and lightweight suits, of hats and champagne flutes and imported longneck beers shifted again, parting as if by a divine hand to reveal him again. Walking toward her, a bottle of vintage Veuve Clicquot in one hand, a pair of flutes in the other. Dressed simply in a pale gray suit and open-necked white shirt—no more, no less than a hundred other men in the crowd—he commanded attention with his size, his presence, the way he moved with an athlete’s grace and purpose.