Trophy Wives Read Free

time, about one hundred thousand acres. Over the years, parts of the land were sold off—to other farmers, to the conservation department. The original family sold the remaining forty thousand acres to my grandfather.”
    She paused as the familiar ache settled over her heart. Her own father had continued to farm in the very toughest high-country conditions to provide for his young family. Until her mother had left when Lucy was eight.
    â€œOnly about half of it is arable. The rest is…” she broke off, a lump in her throat. How to describe it? Unbearably beautiful? Savage and remote? Her own special kingdom? “Mountains, forest, a gorge…” Pride and regret swelled the lump in her throat, rendering her voice uncharacteristically thready. Her heritage had long suffered her indifference. And now, when its importance to her transcended everything else, it might be dangerously late and dependent on others.
    She felt Ethan’s interested gaze and shook her head, knowing whatever words she chose would be inadequate. “Well, it’s something. Wild and remote.”
    She ventured a glance. He nodded as if he understood.
    â€œMy half brother, Tom, changed the dynamics of the farm about five years ago to incorporate luxury accommodation and a restaurant, and he set up mountain hunting safaris, trekking and adventure tours.”
    What she didn’t say was that Tom had set up the lodge against their father’s wishes. But her father had no fight left in him and Lucy was off overseas, enjoying herself.
    â€œWho are your main clients?”
    â€œAmericans. Germans. Indonesians. And you Australians.”
    â€œWhat sort of adventure tours?”
    â€œJet-boating. White-water rafting is popular. Heliskiing. Fishing—the Rakaia River that flows through the farm is famous for salmon. Have you been to the South Island before?”
    He shook his head. “My mother owns a small kiwifruit holding in North Island. I try to get over once or twice a year.”
    â€œIt’s quite different,” Lucy explained. “North Island farms seem so…civilized in comparison.”
    â€œWhat do you farm?”
    â€œBeef.” She’d do well to change the subject. The farm wasn’t high on Tom’s list of priorities at the moment. And Tom’s priorities were a mystery to all. “Are you warm enough?”
    As if she’d reminded him, he grunted and absently brushed at the debris on his trousers.
    â€œHow long is your holiday?” she ventured.
    He stifled a yawn and shrugged. “Undecided. Few days, maybe a week.” He faced her and she felt his gaze move over her like a slow burn. “Problem?”
    â€œNo. We’re not too busy at the moment.” If we get kicked out of the club, she thought, business will slow permanently.
    â€œPerhaps I’ll make use of your escort service.”
    â€œPardon?”
    â€œJust think of me as a trophy wife.”
    She laughed. “I think that might be a bit difficult.”
    â€œWhy’s that, Ms. McKinlay?” he asked in that wonderful baritone that washed over her skin like a caress.
    Lucy kept her eyes on the road, but her lips tightened at the effect his deep gravelly voice, slow and so masculine, had on her nerve endings. Calm down, Flirty Luce; he’s out of bounds… “Why don’t you call me Lucy?” Ethan only nodded and she felt a girlish kick of pleasure at the knowledge that he would be staying and might be needing company.
    â€œWho lives at Summerhill?”
    â€œMy half brother, Tom. And Ellie, the housekeeper. She’s been with us forever.” Lucy’s voice softenedfondly. “She was Dad’s primary caregiver when he had the stroke.” She glanced at Ethan. “My father died three months ago.”
    â€œSorry to hear that,” he murmured.
    You wouldn’t be if you had seen him, Lucy thought. Dying was preferable to living the