The Trophy Wife

The
T
rophy
W
ife

“[A] flawless gem … sharp, brilliant, and strong, the novel is sure to be a girl's best friend—and maybe even a boy's … [Diamond's] convincing action scenes are real enough to leave readers breathless … a clever and genuinely surprising ending tops off a superb thriller.”

—
Booklist
(starred review)

“The pseudonymous Diamond alternates laughs with chills in this tale of marriage, kidnapping, and high finance in the Susan Isaacs/Olivia Goldsmith school of social satire … a strong climax and satisfying epilogue conclude a smart, suspense-packed novel.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“A must-read for anyone who has ever wished revenge on a duplicitous lover… fast-paced … climaxes with a shocking denouement.”

—
Woman's Own

D
iana
D
iamond

 

 

 

THE TROPHY WIFE

Copyright © 2000 by Diana Diamond.
Excerpt from
The Babysitter
copyright © 2001 by Diana Diamond.

Cover photograph by Edward Holub.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 99-098193

ISBN: 0-312-97472-8

Printed in the United States of America

St. Martin's Press hardcover edition / May 2000
St. Martin's Paperbacks edition / August 2001

St. Martin's Paperbacks are published by St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth
Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
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To Bill,
with gratitude
.

A
NGELA LAY BESIDE HIM
, a frost of sweat covering her breasts, her flat stomach heaving with her heavy breath.

“Incredible,” Walter gasped.

She smiled. “You're the one who's incredible”

“I can't believe … I'm still alive.” His words were labored. “You're dangerous!”

She rose up on an elbow and tossed her head to swing her long, light hair away from her face. “You seem to like living dangerously.”

Walter managed the beginning of a laugh. “You bring out the best in me.” He glanced at his watch.

“I hate it when you do that,” Angela said. She let herself fall away from him, back onto her pillow.

“What?”

“When you look at your watch. It's like you're, saying, ‘Time's up, Angela. On to my next conquest.' As if you have something more important to do.”

“You know I have to get back for the limo.”

“Let the damn limo wait.” She turned her back to him. “The drivers get paid the same for waiting as for driving.”

Walter lifted her hair and kissed the back of her neck. “When they wait, they talk. I don't want them talking about us.”

He rolled out of the bed and walked into the bathroom, pausing for an instant before the full-length mirror. His stomach muscles tightened instantly, in a reflex action that didn't even bother to check with his conscious brain. Walter was proud of his physique even if the onset of fifty-something sag was showing. His pectorals, while still prominent, were no longer sharply etched. There was a pleasant softness around his waist. His buns were flattening and his legs were thinning. But overall, he had survived the onset of middle age quite
well. He was in decent shape for any age and in excellent condition for his sedentary lifestyle. True, his sandy hair was thinning and there was puffiness around his deep brown eyes. But he flattered himself that the overall effect was character and maturity, which fitted perfectly on a better-than-decent body.

He closed the glass shower door behind him, turned the faucets absently, and jumped away from the blast of icy water. “Christ,” he cursed. But the anger had nothing to do with the shock of cold. Walter was always angry when he had to leave Angela and go back to the lie that his life had become.

He lied to his wife, Emily, at the beginning of the day when he told her he would be working very late. Lied to Joanne, his secretary, when he asked her to arrange for a late limo to his home in New Jersey horse country. Lied to the other officers at the bank when he lingered until they had all left. Lied to the limo driver whom he met in the bank lobby. And then ended his day with still another lie to his wife as he slipped quietly into bed beside her. Walter hated the lies. They put him at the mercy of small and insignificant people who relished his discomfort and were always a threat to expose him. Lying to inferiors made him feel small.

“Christ,” he cursed again as he adjusted the temperature and stepped under the stream to wash himself clean.

He knew he had to put an end to it. He had to confront the truth. Angela was perfect for him. She shared all of his interests, was enlivened by the same challenges, breathed deeply in the intoxicating air of his success, and aroused passion that he hadn't felt in years. Perhaps Emily had been just as right for him when they had begun their life together. But the fire of their passion had burned down to warm, comfortable embers. His new life with Angela was just beginning to fuel itself with oxygen. There was no limit to how high the flames might climb.

Emily would have to be made to understand. With Angela at his side, there was nothing beyond his reach; no success that he couldn't achieve. He could face challenges that Emily might once have found exhilarating, but now probably would
find frightening, and go to places where she once would have been intrigued, but now would feel hopelessly lost. All she could do was hold him back and that was something that she would never want to do.

His children, too, would have to understand. Their mother was a wonderful woman, intelligent, boundlessly cheerful, physically attractive, generous to a fault. But she could no longer keep pace with him. They would recognize that there were miles on her odometer and while she had all the grace and beauty of a fine sedan, she simply wouldn't be safe traveling in the fast lane where he was now moving. It would be unfair to expect him to slow down so that she could stay by his side.

The shower door clicked open behind him.

“I'm sorry.” Angela's hand reached past him for the washcloth. She moved close to him in the shower and began washing his back. “I keep promising you that I won't be a bitch. And then … I hear myself say something bitchy. I know this isn't easy for you, either.”

“No,” Walter protested, “it's my fault.” He started to turn to her.

She held his shoulder. “Don't. If you turn around you'll never get out of here.”

“I have to tell her. I have to tell her what's happened and explain exactly how I feel. And then I can get my things together, move out, and we can all get on with our lives. I can't keep living a lie. It's not fair to anyone … least of all you.”

“Will you tell her about me?” She wondered.

“Of course.”

“What will you tell her? That I'm a great lay? She'll hate me.”

He turned on her abruptly. “Don't say that, dammit. I loved you before …”

“Before you got into my pants …”

“Stop it!” Walter pushed past her and reached for a towel. “You make me sound like all I'm after is a young piece of ass.”

She followed him into the bedroom, dripping water onto the carpet. “What will you tell her?” Angela persisted.

He dried himself furiously, trying to work off his anger. “I'll tell her that you're wonderful. That you've brought me new life and I can't take another breath without you.”

She looked at him and then slowly shook her head in despair. “Then she'll really hate me.” Angela turned back into the bathroom and stepped into the shower. “It will be easier on her if you just tell her I'm a great lay.”

Walter talked over the hiss of the water as he buttoned his shirt. “She'll understand. She'll want the truth.”

“She'll want me tarred and feathered.”

He stepped in front of the bathroom mirror while he adjusted his tie. “Of course she'll be angry at first. But not at you. I started this. I hit on you. You didn't want anything to do with me.”

Her hand reached out, feeling for a towel along the empty towel bar. Walter took one out of the linen closet and gave it to her. “It was no one's fault,” he went on. “These things happen. We're all sophisticated people.”

Suddenly modest, Angela secured the towel around her before she stepped out from behind the shower door.

“When will you tell her? Tonight, when you get home?”

He shook his head angrily.

“Tomorrow, over breakfast?”

“Damm it, Angela, why are you doing this? You know that I can't tell her now. You know what's at stake.”

She sagged against the wall. “Hollcroft might not step down for another century,” she said mournfully.

“He'll announce it in the next few months,” he told her. “Year end at the latest. I know what I'm talking about. I meet with the man every day. And then I'm heir to the throne. Unless I do something stupid to fuck up … like bringing a marital scandal into the boardroom.”

“It means that much to you?” she asked, sounding as if she already knew the answer.

“To us!” he corrected. “It will affect our whole life together. Isn't that worth waiting a few more months?”

Angela moved into his embrace. “I know, I know,” she admitted. “It's just that even an hour seems too long to me.”

“How do you think I feel? You are my life, Angela, and I want to begin living it. When we're married, it will seem like such a short time to have waited.”

She put on a robe so that she could see him to the door and delayed him for a moment by adjusting the handkerchief in his jacket pocket. “You look terrific,” she said and then kissed him good-bye.

“I love you,” he said as he slipped out and quietly closed the door behind him.

“You lying prick,” Angela laughed to herself as she turned back into her apartment. All he
was
interested in was a young piece of ass, a trophy to flaunt in front of his friends, a woman who would be seen looking over his shoulder in the pages of
Fortune
.

Walter used his security card to open the lock from the side street door to the bank's lobby. Then he proceeded around the center concourse of elevators so that he stepped up behind the uniformed security guard.

“Good night, Harry.”

The guard wheeled around and found him standing in front of one of the cars as if he had just ridden down from his office.

“Long day, Mr. Childs,” Harry sympathized as he turned the sign-out book toward Walter.

“You don't know the half of it,” Walter responded while he checked his watch and made the appropriate entries.

“Your car is waiting,” the guard mentioned.

Walter nodded gratefully and then pushed through the revolving door that opened out onto Park Avenue. Omar, the limousine driver, was instantly standing beside the car, holding the back door open. He offered a sing-song “Good evening, Mr. Childs” in an accent that was either Indian or Pakistani. Then he smiled knowingly, as if he could see semen stains on the front of Walter's trousers. Walter felt his face redden.

The car moved south, crossing town below the crowded theater district, and accelerated into the cut that led into the Lincoln Tunnel. Within minutes, they were on the New Jersey side of the Hudson River, looking back at a panorama of the midtown lights reflected over the water, and of the financial district skyscrapers farther to the south. New York was the most important city in the world, the center of management and finance for all the economies of the global village. Japan might build the automobiles. England might sew the suits. And maybe the Pacific Rim would eventually produce all the electronics. But it was New York that decided what would be produced and raised the money to build the factory. With a one-letter change in a bond rating, New York could turn out the lights of a shoe factory in Italy. A small drop in a stock price on a New York exchange could kill an entire company in Brazil. New York was the most important player in the world and Walter Childs was one of the most important players in New York.