Luxury Model Wife (15 page)

“…to pick up a little something from Victoria’s Secret. Black, to match my boots. Or maybe lavender. Which do you like better? I’ll slip the lace over my skin right after my hot bubble bath.”

Oh, she was good. Steve was moaning out loud now, like he’d been ravaged in the wild.

“You like bubble baths?” she asked. Oh so innocent.

He imagined them reclining inside an antique porcelain claw-foot tub with the water steaming around their shoulders. She would lie against the length of his body, inside his lap, while he leaned his weight against the back of the tub.

In this position he could watch her breasts rise and fall above the ebb and flow of the water as silken bubbles rode across her skin. She would lean the crown of her hair against his shoulder and sip wine while he caressed her breasts with wet, slick hands. Then he’d glide his fingers between her legs and circle the tender bud that would bring her pleasure. She’d spread her legs for him and moan…

Did he just groan into the phone?

Steve sat straighter in the driver’s seat and tried to pull himself together. But that was hard—er—
difficult
since the throbbing between his legs had become painful.

“Did you hear me?” Victoria whispered.

He cleared his throat. “Oh yeah, I’d love a bubble bath.” He readjusted the fly of his jeans. “With you.” He looked out the side window and started the mental count backward from one hundred to one. That sometimes worked.

“See you Saturday night,” she said, with more promise than an oversized wishing well.

“You can count on that.” Sweat had gathered along the nape of his neck with the image of her lying spread-eagle on the burnished copper comforter on his bed, her long, dark hair flowing across his pillows.

She’d reduced him to a puddle inside his car.

How the hell did he get so lucky?

Chapter Nine

When Victoria opened her front door at nine o’clock sharp on Saturday night, she smiled up at him and his heart leapt. Steve entered the foyer and then stepped back a pace to admire Victoria’s outfit. She’d surpassed his fantasies in her cowgirl boots and jeans.

“You look phenomenal,” he said, a huge grin spreading across his face. He’d never seen her in denims and she wore them like a second skin. The jeans were practically painted across the curve of her hips and fell in perfect lines down the length of her long, slender legs.

On her feet were the black leather boots she’d promised, etched with fine white lines, and handsomely carved with intricate Southwestern-style markings. He noted with amusement that she’d broken them in. He had to stifle a chuckle as he imagined her clomping around her elegant Federal-style mansion wearing western boots and a thousand-dollar designer skirt.

“I didn’t know you wore jeans,” he said, while his eyes lifted to her open-necked blouse of polished cotton plaid. She’d left the shirt unbuttoned to the swell of her breasts, drawing Steve’s eyes like a magnet. He wondered if the new lingerie she’d promised lay beneath.

Victoria shrugged. “I used to. I come from humble beginnings, Steve. I’m not the Van Orr stock you might imagine.”

Steve wrapped her in his arms and spoke against her neck. “All the better for me. That pedestal I’ve put you on is getting tougher to reach.”

He kissed her softly on the cheek and then placed another kiss on her mouth. Her lips tasted like fresh peppermint and sweet raspberries. Mouthwash and lip gloss.

She kissed him back and then led him inside the house. “Would you like a drink before we go?”

His brown leather western boots tapped the floor as he followed her. It had been years since he’d visited the red brick mansion, but the familiar feel of the place surrounded him like a warm blanket.

He remembered the stylized walls, hand-woven Oriental rugs, and rare furnishings that had lured photographers and magazine editors to this door for decades. The Van Orr reputation for flawless taste remained unsurpassed in Pennsylvania. Steve’s father had helped cultivate that distinction.

An unexpected pang of resentment struck, slowing Steve’s pace, with the realization that James and Lydia Van Orr’s celebrated style was largely due to Gregory Carlson’s world-class expertise and eye for perfection. He paused at the doorway of James’s empty study to take in the sight of the only remaining piece of furniture: a rare seventeenth-century French desk that still sat in the center. Victoria waited a few feet away.

Steve’s father had chosen that desk for James.

Though Gregory Carlson had been born to parents with little money and no pedigree, he’d become renowned across continents for his honesty, impeccable taste, and fine acquisitions. James Van Orr might have been a giant during his lifetime, but Gregory had been James’s equal in every way. Steve wondered if his father knew that when he hauled that desk into this house with his own two hands and strong back.

Most of the estate pieces were gone now, locked in the Carlson’s shop or warehouse, but Steve recalled the original placement of every missing item. He could almost smell the lemon polish and saddle soap that had lingered in the air above their former resting places, and hear the sounds of the staff bustling about like contented ghosts. If he moved closer to the kitchen, he might smell the fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies Mrs. Forrester made especially for him and Jimmy during their fathers’ visits. His nostrils flared with the fragrant memories and his mouth watered.

He moved from the room to follow Victoria, scanning the rich chair rail, hand-carved crown moldings, and expensive window treatments of the near-empty house while their footsteps echoed down the hall to a sitting room. Victoria had redecorated this once masculine hideaway with cozy, feminine furniture. Clearly, this was personal living space Victoria had created inside the cavernous mansion.

Steve looked back over his shoulder and registered that the Van Orr estate had been pretentious in the extreme. Still was. As a child the building had seemed like a presidential palace. In reality, the boxy mansion was too big, too bulky, and too intimidating to be comfortable.

Now that he thought about it, Jimmy had never been happy here. The décor was cold and formal; his parents were always busy and often away, and if it weren’t for the servants, Jimmy would practically have lived alone. All during their teens he’d said he wanted out. His old friend had escaped at his first opportunity.

Steve turned back to Victoria. She didn’t belong here any more than he or Jimmy had. They’d been invited to this house like kids on a play date, wearing oversized, hand-me-down clothes.

She poured vodka martinis and motioned for Steve to take the leather chair near the bar.

“Except for this sitting room, the house is just as I remembered,” he said, tasting his drink, but keeping his new perspective to himself. “I can fill in the missing furniture like it was yesterday.” He’d often sat in this room with Jimmy, drinking Cokes in summer as kids and, later, cold beer while their fathers conducted business in the study.

Regret caught in his throat at the memory of his lost friendship, but he cleared it away, and said to Victoria, “If you weren’t born into society, you adapted well. I’d never have guessed your background was less than Van Orr caliber.”

Victoria made a sound of dismissal. “You know perfectly well I was James’s requisite trophy wife. Isn’t that a luxury every wealthy older man indulges for his second marriage?”

She sipped her drink. “I know that sounds cynical. I also know James loved me. The truth is, I gave him honest devotion and the chance to relive his youthful vigor during our time together. In return, he offered the first real home I’d ever known. We had a satisfying, stable marriage.”

“Satisfying?” Steve asked the question that had dogged him since the day they met, though he’d sworn he’d bite his tongue off before he let the question slip. He couldn’t help himself—he had to know. He met her eyes and refused to look away.

The implication hung between them like humid air before a storm. He noted the defensive flash in Victoria’s return gaze and would have pressed for an answer had her expression not turned pained.

He withdrew the question. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her. “I’m sorry. I had no right to ask.”

He lifted his glass. “May I pour myself another?” He wouldn’t drink it, but at least he could break the tension in the room with the distraction.

Victoria nodded toward the bar. The tightness around her mouth eased.

Steve wasn’t sure why he wanted to know if James had fulfilled her as a woman, but the question wouldn’t let him rest.

Liar
.
You know exactly why.

He puffed out his cheeks and released a quick breath.
I want to be the one who ignites her passion. Who shows her the power of romantic love.

He refilled both their martini glasses and turned his attention to the open doorway of the adjoining room. Inside the glass-enclosed sun porch was a gymnasium complete with weight training machines, treadmill, boxing equipment, punching bags, and sandbags that hung from the ceiling.

“Are those yours?” Obvious questions still needed answers.

“Yes. I box every day to vent my emotions and stay in shape.”

She touched the tip of her index finger to the rim of her glass and ran circles around the top, creating chimes with the movement. “I don’t spar with people anymore, though. I only did that in college.”

Steve left his drink on a side table and walked toward the gym. Victoria set her drink down and followed. He looked around the room at the professional-grade equipment and whistled. This woman meant business. He took another look at Victoria Van Orr in her skinny jeans and cowgirl boots and considered her multifaceted personality. It might take years to peel away her layers and find her hidden center.

He had time.

“Have you ever boxed?” she asked, bringing his attention back to the gym.

“No, but I’ve always wanted to try.”

She nodded toward a basket on the floor filled with gloves. “Help yourself.”

He assumed the pairs that closed at the wrists with Velcro were the gloves she wore when she trained alone. The traditional, laced pairs had to be tied by a partner. He slid the latter over his hands and waited while she tied the strings tight with her slim, nimble fingers. Then she showed him how to position his body and hold his arms so he wouldn’t damage his wrists against the sandbag.

“Go ahead, hit it a few times. Be sure to pivot your back foot to add power to your follow-through.”

Steve practiced a series of self-conscious, tentative jabs, but grew bolder as Victoria egged him on. The impact of his padded hands against the sandbag made his muscles flex in a way that made him feel—well, powerful.

He turned toward Victoria and grinned. “You’re right, this is great. I should add a sandbag to my weight-training regimen.” He looked down at her hands. “Aren’t you going to box?”

“No, I’ll just watch you. Try a few uppercuts this time.”

Steve swung, connected with the bag, and then repeated the movements. He was getting the hang of this.

Victoria stepped closer and slid her fingers under the edge of his shirtsleeve to touch his biceps. “Hit the sandbag again.”

She gripped his arm as it shot forward. “Feel how these muscles expanded?” She ran her hand down the length of his bare arm, brought it up again, and squeezed. “Boxing will help define these already developed areas. It will make you feel more commanding and in control.”

She met his eyes. “And improve your stamina.”

Steve felt heat rise up the back of his neck while her hand lingered on his skin. He returned her gaze. “My stamina is exceptional.” He watched her tongue slide over her lower lip while her eyes glittered.

Victoria took a step closer, ran her palm down the front of his button-down shirt from his shoulder to his waist and then wrapped both arms around him. “Really? Except for that warm-up, you’ve never exercised with me.”

There was good reason Victoria had snagged a billionaire. This woman knew how and when to flirt.

Steve wrapped his arms around her shoulders and locked her tight between the bends in his elbows and the breadth of his chest. “How about now?” he said, lowering his mouth to cover hers in a deep, deliberate kiss. Her lips were pliant and warm, and his body responded as she leaned into him. He increased the intensity of his kiss and her hips lifted ever so slightly against his erection, pulling a groan from his throat as his tongue sought hers.

She pressed her palms against his chest and broke the kiss. “I’ll let you know when.” The corners of her mouth lifted.

The woman was merciless.

He tightened his hold on her waist. Steve used the pivot she’d taught him to spin her around and press her back against the sandbag.

She gave a little gasp at the sudden movement and their eyes met when he pressed the full length of his torso against hers. The counterforce of the heavy sandbag held her steady, though her body yielded under his.

“That was quite a move,” she said. “But you’re in no position to follow through, are you?” She dragged her eyes from his face to his disabled hands and grinned in triumph.

Of course, she was right. Unless he used his teeth to untie the laces, he was completely at Victoria’s mercy.

Not a bad concept.

“I’m in no rush.” He grinned back and dropped his gloved arms to his sides while holding Victoria’s appraising stare. “As I said, I’ve got stamina. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

She didn’t look away, but seemed to consider him in ways he couldn’t read.

“Why get involved?” she demanded suddenly, tilting her head with the new challenge.

“Haven’t you figured out yet that I care for you? This isn’t just about sex.” He was drawn to her in every way possible.

Victoria issued an impatient sigh. “Caring about someone and trusting them enough to build a relationship are two different stories.” She glanced down, but not before he saw the flickers of fear and uncertainty in her eyes.

She’d finally drawn the line in the sand. Their relationship wouldn’t go further until there was mutual trust.