The Trophy Wife by Evie Baxter

Four

My ankle hurt like all get out. Angrily, I kicked off the remaining offending shoe that had been prime suspect in my fall from grace on those steps.

“Stupid, stupid shoes,” I muttered to myself.

“I beg your pardon,” a deep voice growled down at me.

Startled, having temporarily forgotten anything but my pure mortification at the situation I found myself in, I looked up into the mesmerising green depths of Bastian Locke’s eyes, his body sat snug to mine. Those eyes were narrowed in irritation, and I wasn’t sure if that was directed at me or the paparazzi we had encountered. Not that I cared either way.

Paps. Rich men. Chauffeured cars. High heels. I hated them all. None of these things were part of my real life, so what did I care what they thought of me.

“I said,” I enunciated carefully, deliberately goading him, “Stupid, stupid shoes. I hate bloody high heels.”

His mouth almost quirked up in a smile, obviously amused with my attitude. Whatever. “Why wear them then? They look new. Why spend a small fortune on something you profess to hate?”

The offending shoe lay on the floor of the car between us, it’s ubiquitous red sole attesting to just how expensive it had been. With barely a scuff on those soles, they were quite obviously a recent purchase. The man was astute in his observations.

I shrugged. He didn’t deserve an explanation. Once I was back at the hotel, I would never see him again. All I would have was a brief memory of being held in strong arms, my body cradled against the broadest, firmest chest I had ever felt. Momentarily feeling safe. Well, that memory could sustain me through a few more man free years. My life was fine the way it was and besides, Bastian Locke would rear back in horror if he saw the real me. Sophisticated city woman I most certainly was not.

I deliberately slid across the seat, putting some distance between us, and turned away from him, staring out the window as we made our way through the early evening traffic of London. We were almost at our hotel. Soon I would be bidding him farewell and, even better, tomorrow I would be leaving London. Not a moment too soon.

The doormanfor the hotel had the door of the car open almost before we came to a full stop. I went to exit before remembering that I was in my stocking feet, one shoe long since lost and its pair about to be abandoned in the back of a sleek sedan.

“Stay there,” that deep voice barked at me.

Raising my eyebrows, I turned my head to fell Bastian with my most withering stare. “The stairs to the hotel entrance are carpeted. I will come to no harm despite my lack of shoes, I assure you,” I informed him imperiously. Long ago behaviour patterns easily slipped back into.

“You’re hurt. I’ll not have you trying to walk on that ankle until someone has had a look at it first. Now stay there and I’ll come around to help you.” With that he was out his side of the car and in a flash bent down at my door, arm extended to assist me.

Sinking back into my seat I glowered at him. “You’re not carrying me into the hotel.”

“I am, and you’re going to stop being so infuriating and let me.” He grabbed hold of my left hand and tugged me towards him.

“I am not,” I yelped back at him. I knew I sounded very much like Isla in one of her moods but couldn’t help myself. I was afraid to let this man touch me again. Afraid of the things it made me feel.

“Jesus Christ, woman, do you want me to throw you over my shoulder and really make a spectacle of both of us?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. With a firmer tug on my arm, he pulled me to the edge of the seat until I was half out the door. Sliding one arm under my knees and the other behind my back he lifted me into his arms once again.

As he strode up the steps into the hotel, I tucked my face into his neck, trying to hide from the curious glances of the other guests at the hotel and the staff who suddenly seemed to be milling about us. Barely slowing his stride towards the bank of elevators, he requested that a doctor be sent to his room as soon as possible. I tried to protest but he had the audacity to silence me by palming the side of my head and pressing my head back into his neck and instructing me to hush. Seriously? Hush?

As the elevator rose upwards, I blanked out everything, including the presence of the hotel’s assistant manager, who was solicitously escorting us to Bastian’s room, and I just breathed in the wonderous scent that this man exuded. Citrusy, slightly musky, incredibly masculine. Very, very distracting.

Before I knew it, I found myself propped up on the sofa in his suite, my right leg raised and resting on a plush ottoman. Bastian was rustling around the kitchenette and reappeared a moment later with ice wrapped in a tea towel, and in his other hand an amber coloured drink. The drink was placed in my hand as the ice was pressed to what was now a visibly swollen ankle.

“What’s this?” I sniffed at the drink suspiciously.

“Tamdhu.”

I glanced up at him, that answer totally not telling me anything.

“It’s a 31 year old barrel aged whiskey. Not too peaty or smoky. Try it. You’ll like it.”

“I don’t like whiskey,” I informed him.

“You’ve probably never had a good one. Go on, take a sip. It won’t kill you and it will help you relax after a rather traumatic afternoon.”

“Robert said whiskey wasn’t a woman’s drink,” I let slip.

“Robert was, obviously, an idiot. As proven by you in the past couple of days. Try the whiskey, Victoria.”

I took a tentative sip. It didn’t have that smoky, peaty overpowering flavour of the one and only whiskey I had ever tried. This was a different thing altogether. It spread a warming sensation through my mouth and down my throat as I swallowed. Slightly spicy, a hint of honey, rich and decadent. I took another, larger, sip.

“Is this stupidly expensive stuff,” I queried.

“Depends on how you look at it. It is a lot more than the average whiskey that you’ll find in the supermarket. But it isn’t in the same ballpark as some of the McCallan’s that are so popular right now. I buy it because I like it.”

So, he was rich, but not showy. A different breed than my ex-husband. Robert had been all about the show. The cars. The homes. And yes, he had drunk Macallan whiskey, I recalled. He used to brag about the cost to his friends, spending thousands on a bottle that he guzzled so quickly I’d be surprised if he even tasted it. For Robert it had all been about outward appearances. His possessions denoted his place in the world. Including the trophy wife that I had undoubtedly been. He had put me on display from the day he acquired me in his own devious manner.

Lost in reverie, I didn’t hear the knock on the door and was startled back into the here and now by the presence of a doctor. After a thorough examination, he proclaimed my ankle sprained, not broken. He praised Bastian for icing it. Recommended ibuprofen to be taken regularly over the next few days for its anti-inflammatory benefits, and proclaimed that if I stayed off that ankle as much as possible over the coming week, I would be right as rain in no time flat.

I presumed that he wasn’t including driving in the list of forbidden activities. I certainly didn’t ask. Because I would be leaving London first thing in the morning, sprained ankle or not. And I would be behind the wheel of my car when I did so, doctor’s advice be damned.