His Trophy Wife. Leigh Michaels

      CHAPTER TWO

      SLOAN dropped an ice cube into a glass and added a generous splash of liquor. “Here you go, Joel. Scotch on the rock—singular—just the way you like it.” As he strolled toward the fireplace to hand over the drink, a log burned in two with a crack, and a shower of sparks surged up the chimney and flared against the fire screen. “Dinner will be in just a few minutes, but in the meantime you can bring me up to speed on what’s been going on at Sticks & Stones while I’ve been away.”

      The controller didn’t seem to hear. Though he took the glass, Joel continued to stare at the portrait in oils that hung above the drawing-room mantel. Following his gaze, Sloan contemplated the modernistic portrayal of Morganna—a much younger Morganna, hardly out of her teens—wearing a formal white satin gown, topped with a wine-colored velvet robe and an elaborate, glittery crown, which seemed much too heavy for her slender frame.

      Reel in your tongue, Joel, he wanted to say. “That was painted the year she was Queen of the Carousel Ball.”

      Joel seemed to pull himself back from a distance. “Is that the big dance where all the year’s debutantes are introduced?”

      “And paraded around like merchandise,” Sloan agreed.

      “It’s a beautiful picture.”

      Sloan looked at the portrait again. He found it fascinating that Joel liked it. Sloan had never been fond of the painting, himself, but he hadn’t ever taken the time to figure out why. Was it the artist’s style that turned him off? Generally he liked his art a little more realistic-looking. Or was it the too-fancy costume, which in his opinion made Morganna look like a child playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes? Or was it perhaps the fact that the painting was from a time before he’d met her, a time when Morganna’s world had been so far separated from his that there was no point of intersection?

      Not that it mattered, of course; the painting was ancient history now. He hardly even noticed it anymore, except when someone like Joel commented. He turned his back to the portrait and leaned against the mantel, enjoying the warmth of the fire. “How have things been going at the factory while I’ve been away?”

      Joel sipped his drink and settled into a chair beside the fire. “Well, there are several matters you need to know about. I got my hands on an advance copy of Furnishing Unlimited’s next catalog.”

      Sloan’s eyebrows raised. It was difficult even to get hold of a solid rumor about a head-to-head competitor’s new products, but to have full information even a few days in advance of the formal announcements, set out in the competitor’s own literature, was truly a coup. “How did you manage to pull off that one?”

      Joel reached into his briefcase, propped against the chair leg, and handed over a slick magazine-size booklet. His voice was prim. “I really can’t talk about my source.”

      Which no doubt meant, Sloan thought, that some woman on Furnishing Unlimited’s payroll had slipped it to him. Obviously it wouldn’t do to underestimate Joel; apparently a guy could be a ladies’ man even with a calculator clipped to his belt and a pocket protector full of pens and pencils. “I wouldn’t dream of asking for the details,” he said dryly.

      “They’ve developed a couple of new lines I thought you should see. I marked the pages for you.”

      Sloan flipped open the booklet, pausing at places where Joel had placed a sticky note, to look at Furnishing Unlimited’s new line of modernistic office furniture. “This looks a bit like our current designs.”

      “That’s what I thought. They haven’t exactly done anything shady in adapting what Sticks & Stones did last year. But I believed you should know what they were up to, before it actually hits the market.”

      “I doubt they’ll be able to lure our customers away with poor imitations of our designs, but you’re right about the value of a warning. Put yourself in for a raise, Joel.”

      “Thank you, sir. I’ll do that.”

      Sloan continued to flip pages. “You said there were several things to bring to my attention.”

      “We had to suspend a couple of workers this week. It seems they were running a business on the side, while they were on our time clock. The union steward was quite unhappy with the suspension action and is protesting it. And the men themselves, of course, were livid at being caught.”

      In the hallway outside the drawing room, a flutter of blue silk caught Sloan’s eye. “I’ll call all of them in tomorrow morning and get it settled,” he said absently.

      A moment later Abigail Ashworth appeared in the doorway. “Sloan, my dear,” she exclaimed. “I’m so glad to have a moment with you before Morganna comes down. I feel I should apologize for my bad timing, though, popping in on your first night at home.” Joel rose from his seat, and Abigail’s eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon, I thought you were alone.”

      “You remember my controller, Joel Evans?” Sloan said, and she nodded. “A glass of wine, Abigail?”

      “That would be lovely, dear. You know, it’s awfully good to be home—I could almost thank Robert for making my life so stressful that I couldn’t wait to get out of Phoenix. I’m sure Morganna has told you my silly reason for being here.” She looked expectantly up at him.

      He was just opening his mouth to answer when, from the doorway, Morganna said hastily, “Actually, I haven’t had time, Mother.”

      Sloan’s momentary irritation at her interruption—didn’t she think he could handle her mother?—gave way to a wicked impulsiveness. “First things first,” he murmured. “I’m sure you understand, Abigail, that there are certain…priorities…when a newly married couple is reunited after a time apart.”

      He watched in fascination as Morganna’s face went pink. He was reasonably sure that the cause of her heightened color was pure fury at him for the suggestive comment, but it was equally apparent to Sloan that the onlookers had interpreted it differently. There was a naughty but appreciative gleam in Abigail’s eyes, while Joel shifted his feet and looked thoroughly embarrassed.

      Sloan reached inside his jacket and pulled out a long, slender, black velvet box. “That reminds me, darling. Since I had other things on my mind earlier, I forgot to give you the anniversary gift I brought you from San Francisco.”

      Morganna shook her head. “It’s not our anniversary.”

      “Yes, it is. It’ll be six months next week since our wedding.” He held out a hand in summons, and watched her closely as she slowly crossed the room toward him. Though he was certain Joel and Abigail saw only a pretty hesitancy at claiming her gift, Sloan couldn’t miss the bone-deep reluctance with which she moved. She’d have been more eager, he thought, to approach the guillotine.

      Her dark green dress was one he’d seen her wear at least a dozen times before, and he idly wondered which point she was trying to make tonight by wearing it instead of something new. Was she emphasizing her reluctance to shop for clothes because spending his money left her feeling even more in his debt? Or was she subtly pointing out that she didn’t think he was worth dressing up for?

      In public, where her friends or his business associates might notice, she was always a fashion plate, elegantly garbed and groomed and seldom wearing the same dress twice. If he’d remembered to tell her earlier that Joel was coming for dinner, Morganna would no doubt have come downstairs looking as if she was off to the Carousel Ball immediately after dessert. Sloan had suspected on occasion that she was actually trying to look