His Trophy Wife. Leigh Michaels

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      Morganna was painfully aware that the neckline of her teal satin pajamas plunged even lower than that of the average ball gown, and she knew it was apparent that she was wearing nothing except the thin, clingy satin. But she was equally determined not to admit that she’d even noticed his inspection, much less that it had raised her hackles. So she smothered the urge to draw the blankets up to her shoulders. “You haven’t learned to knock? Or were you hoping to catch me before I had a chance to make myself decent?”

      “I thought your mother would expect me to have the run of the place.” He set the tray on the side of the bed and sat down beside it. “And as for looking decent—you’re a lot more than decent. In fact, you’re downright tasty this morning.”

      “How sweet of you to notice. However, let’s not change the subject away from my mother.” Morganna’s voice was low but full of acid. “I’m so glad we had that heart-to-heart talk last night, Sloan, so you’d know exactly how to go about sabotaging my efforts. You understood perfectly well that I didn’t want her to know about this room, so of course at the first opportunity you made sure to point it out to her!”

      “She was already in the hall. So was Selby, on his way to deliver your breakfast. At that point, keeping Abigail from finding out that we don’t share a room was no longer an option, Sleeping Beauty. The question now is damage control. So what would you rather she think? That your private and personal bedroom is really an armed fort complete with moat, or that we’ve made an amicable arrangement to use two rooms in order to preserve our mutual comfort?”

      Morganna bit her lip and thought it over. “I guess, when you put it that way…”

      “I thought you’d see the sense of it.” He pulled the door open again. “Come on in, Abigail. I’ll ask Selby to bring an extra cup.”

      “I don’t want to interrupt,” Abigail began.

      “Please do,” he said gently. “As a matter of fact, your daughter was just giving me a piece of her mind.”

      Morganna tried to smother her gasp.

      Sloan didn’t look at her. “She didn’t want me to confess to you that I snore so badly that she moved out of our bedroom.”

      It wasn’t bad for a spur-of-the-moment story, Morganna thought. It might even work.

      Sloan leaned over the bed and gave a playful tug to her satin lapel. “It seems that my beloved doesn’t want to admit to you that I might be less than perfect.”

      The back of his fingers brushed, not quite innocently, against the slick satin over her breast. Automatically Morganna tried to pull away, but her restless sleep had left her too tangled in the sheets to move far.

      “I can certainly understand that philosophy,” Abigail agreed.

      “Besides, she thinks it’s much more romantic when I come dashing in from down the hall to help fasten her dress. Or, for that matter, to unfasten her dress…”

      “That’ll be enough,” Morganna muttered.

      Sloan grinned and bent closer. “Would you rather say thank you for the rescue now or later?” he murmured. “I could ask your mother to step outside for a few minutes. And there’s nothing so pressing at the office that it can’t wait for a little while.”

      “Later,” Morganna said through gritted teeth. “Much later.”

      “Good. Anticipation makes everything better, I’ve found.” He pushed a lock of her hair back and his lips brushed the sensitive skin just under her ear. Then he straightened. “I’ll take you both out for dinner tonight.”

      As soon as he was gone, Morganna tossed a pillow toward the foot of the bed. “Make yourself at home, Mother. You’re up awfully early, aren’t you?”

      Abigail hitched up her tailored trousers and settled onto the bed. “Not really. I’ve gotten in the habit of playing tennis at 6:00 a.m. It gets so hot in Phoenix in the summer, you know, that early morning is the only reasonable time to exercise. And with the time difference, this is just exactly when I’d be getting ready to hit the court. What are your plans for the day, darling?”

      “I really don’t have any,” Morganna admitted.

      “Well, you mustn’t rearrange your schedule to suit me. I have friends I can call, you know, when you’re going to be busy. Though we really must do some shopping sometime.”

      “Sloan wasn’t supposed to tell you—” Morganna stopped abruptly.

      “Tell me what? That you could use some clothes? Do you think I can’t see that for myself? Honestly, dear, that dress you were wearing last night is at least three years old. You wore it when you were Emily Hamilton’s bridesmaid.”

      “I still like it.”

      “Then let’s look for something similar. In purple, maybe—that would look nice with your coloring. And don’t tell me you don’t have the money. Considering things like that diamond bracelet, I doubt Sloan keeps you on a short allowance.” Abigail paused. “In any case, I’ve always felt badly that I didn’t have time or money to do more in the way of a trousseau for you, Morganna. But now that I’m settled so well, I’d like to make up for that.”

      With Sloan’s money. Morganna bit her tongue and didn’t say it. She couldn’t voice her suspicions to Abigail that it might have been Sloan himself and not the life insurance company who had provided that sizable cashier’s check to secure her mother’s future. As long as Abigail had no reason to believe she was living on her son-in-law’s charity, Morganna couldn’t bear to hurt her by suggesting it. It wasn’t as if she had firsthand knowledge, after all—only a bone-deep fear that even Sloan couldn’t have forced the company to pay a claim they didn’t feel they owed because the policyholder had so clearly committed suicide.

      “Sure, Mom,” she said with resignation. “I’d love to go shopping.”

      “And while we’re out,” Abigail added briskly, “I need to stop at the country club pro shop and get some tennis balls.”

      “There should be some in the hall closet downstairs. And you can borrow my racquet, if you didn’t bring yours.”

      “Racquet? Oh, no, dear, I just need the balls. But they must be brand-new ones. And I’ll have to buy some lightweight fabric, too. Is your grandmother’s old sewing machine still set up in the back bedroom?”

      Morganna was startled. “Yes. But whatever do you need it for?”

      “To sew pockets in the back of Sloan’s pajama jackets, just big enough to hold a tennis ball. It will keep him from sleeping on his back, and that’s supposed to be a sure-fire cure for snoring.” Abigail frowned. “Unless…Honey, he does wear pajamas—doesn’t he?”