The Trophy Wife. Sandra Steffen

he thought, trying to find a comfortable position in jeans that were suddenly a good size too small, if only somebody would break it to his body.

      Four

      “Oh, my, I do believe we’ve found the one!”

      Tripp tried not to wince, honest to God he did, but if André’s voice got any shriller, the trifold mirror was going to shatter.

      “It has style. It says class with a capital C, and it fits you to perfection. Perfection, I say!” André’s eyebrows were chestnut-colored slashes above startling brown eyes that didn’t come close to matching the yellow streaks in his short-cropped hair. “Don’t you agree, Amber?”

      Tripp met Amber’s gaze in the mirror. She smiled demurely. “This jacket looks good, too, André.”

      The double entendre was lost on André. “Good? It looks glorious. What do you think, Doctor?”

      Tripp thought he would have more fun having a kidney transplant. “It’s black,” he said. Every suit jacket he’d tried on had been black.

      André looked to Amber for emotional support. She said, “Black is a formal, classic color that never goes out of style. You can wear it to weddings and funerals, fine restaurants, important galas and everything in between. Montgomery Perkins was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He and his family moved to California from the East Coast twenty-five years ago. His bloodline can be traced back to the Mayflower and beyond. He’s the type of man who would own a closet full of black suits, and expect others to, as well.”

      Tripp stared at her. “How do you know that?”

      She shrugged, then examined her fingernails. “I checked him out. Apparently he’s a very traditional and wealthy physician, one who wouldn’t appreciate a candidate showing up wearing a clown nose or tweed.”

      André fanned himself at her mention of tweed. “Have we found the perfect one, or shall we continue?”