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She wasn’t coming. Matthew could feel it in his bones. She had promised, but the nervous little mouse had succumbed to cold feet. He should have offered her more money, Matthew thought as he paced the carpeted hallway and, on every pass, glared at the polished brass elevator doors. He had already welcomed two of his guests and their companions, and ushered them into the reception room.
The elevator dinged; doors slid open. He looked up out of his black mood, a tight smile ready for his remaining guests. Prepared to take a firm forward step to greet them, he faltered at the vision before him.
Abigail had worn no wrap, the night being warm. Her shoulders, lightly freckled with burgundy-wine specks, were bare and as creamy as fresh milk. The dress was strapless, clinging to her as if by sheer will-power. It molded her body, yet didn’t seem slinky or cheap. Its lines were too simple to be couturier; the garment might have been home-sewn. But the exquisite shade of turquoise complimented beautifully the waves of rusty-red hair that spilled over her shoulders and curved round her delicate chin. He liked everything he saw. And everything he imagined hidden by everything he saw.
She stepped off the elevator and looked up at him with a raised brow as if to say, Big deal, so I’m here.
“You’re late,” he said gruffly. “Four of my guests are already inside.”
“Then what are you doing out here?”
Waiting for you! he nearly snapped, but held back. He didn’t want her thinking he doubted she would show. Stepping around to her side, he lifted her hand and slipped it through the crook in his arm. She tensed.
“Relax,” he said, “this is for the sake of appearances.”
“Appearances?” She slanted him a look drenched with suspicion.
“It’s easier for me if my guests assume my hostess is also…” My lover. Why had those words popped into his head when others less suggestive would have done just as well? “That we’re—”
“A couple?” she supplied demurely.
“Exactly. I like to be free to talk business without feeling obligated to flirt.”
“This is a major problem for you?” She flashed him a wicked little grin. “Fending off smitten clients or their girlfriends?”
Coming from her and said in that way, it did sound ridiculous. But yes, occasionally, the overtly sensual way in which women reacted to him had put him in some tight spots. Business was business. Sex had its own time and place in his life but, so far as he was concerned, the two had never been meant to mix.
“If you’re going to be a smartass,” he growled, “I don’t want you here.”
She straightened up and dug in her heels, bringing them both to an instant halt. “You were the one who brought up the subject, Lord Smythe. I have to know something about you if I’m to pretend to be your girlfriend.” Her eyes flashed in challenge at him before softening again. “Did you mean it—about the five hundred dollars?”
“Of course.”
She nodded, satisfied.
It didn’t hurt his feelings that playing his girlfriend seemed so unpleasant a task to her it required substantial compensation. Never liked redheads anyway, he told himself. Although none he’d ever met had been as stunning as this one.
He shoved that thought immediately aside. Down to business…
“There are a few things you need to know before we go in there.” He took a breath and focused on her face, turned up solemnly to meet his. “The rather portly gentleman is Ronald Franklin of—”
“Of Franklin & James, the shops in every mall across this country?” she gasped.
“The same. He and his wife don’t like to be pushed. Not a word to him about products, purchases or marketing strategies. Just keep them company and let them choose what they want to eat and drink. They have a new grandchild, you might want to hit on that angle.”
She nodded and shot him a fleeting look that seemed slightly disapproving, but he couldn’t be sure what she might have found fault with. “And the other couple?”
“Ted Ramsey and his date.”
She didn’t need to say a word. He could tell by the way her eyes lit up that she already knew. She was good. Very good.
“The casino mogul,” Abby murmured after a moment.
“Mogul?” He tipped his head to one side, considering the title, which seemed rather exalted for a real-estate speculator who had started out as a Brooklyn landlord and now built flashy gambling palaces in Vegas and Atlantic City. In Matt’s view, the man had thrown a lot of money around and just been lucky. That kind of fast, sloppy luck didn’t often last. “Call him what you will, he’s considering introducing upscale import shops into his casinos, and the projected volume of sales is hefty. I’d like to be the one to supply him.”
“Understandably. How do I approach him?”
“You don’t, unless you can’t help it. Be polite, but no sexy little smiles or we could lose the sale. The woman with him is new. He’s crazy about her but, word has it, she’s the jealous type. Play up to her. Make her feel like a queen, and avoid eye contact with him.”
She let out a little puff of air and shook her head. “How do you find out all this stuff? Employ moonlighting CIA agents to spy for you?”
“Nothing so dramatic.” He didn’t intend to explain the way he worked to her. “Come on, let’s go.” He gave her arm a tug. “The Duprés should arrive soon; she owns a chain of gift shops throughout New England.”
This time, she let him guide her through the door. The two couples turned toward them, and Matt made the introductions. Abby smoothly peeled the grandparents away after a few minutes and guided them toward the buffet table. He noticed she helped herself to a generous plateful of food, then realized she probably hadn’t had time to eat before returning to the building. Normally he frowned on his employees chowing down in front of guests, but he noticed that the Franklins seemed to take her cue and also served themselves more than a token taste of each item on the table. Perhaps a good sign.
His attention returned to Ramsey and his companion. The man was a short, rude bully. Matt didn’t like his manner or the way he did business, but that was beside the point. He still wanted him as a client, and Ramsey must have sensed it. He started talking money right away while his blond princess stood wide-eyed at the figures being tossed back and forth.
Twenty minutes later, the Duprés arrived. Matt didn’t want to leave Ramsey since he sensed they were closing in on a deal, but he couldn’t ignore his new arrivals. At a signal from him, Abby gracefully excused herself from the Franklins and made her way across the room to greet the newcomers. Minutes later, she’d brought all four of her guests together around the bar and the two women were laughing at something Abby had said. The men were observing her with discreet admiration. Matt was impressed.
He wrapped up his discussion with Ramsey, who excused himself to leave for another appointment. The gleam in the man’s beady, black eyes as he sought out his voluptuous date left Matt with the impression that the setting for the upcoming meeting would more likely include a bed than a desk.
Matt came up behind Abby and rested his hand on her waist. To her credit, she didn’t jump. She turned with a ready smile and looked up at him. “I’m having such a lovely chat with our guests. Did you know Caroline does watercolors? She’s quite an accomplished artist.”
“Oh, no,” Mrs. Franklin objected, beaming nevertheless. “I’m a rank amateur.”
Matt smiled vaguely…then grunted in pain. Was that an elbow jabbing him in the ribs? “Love to see your work,” he blurted out, then glanced down at Abby to make sure he’d gotten the right message.
She looked pleased.
“Oh, I’d be so flattered,” the woman cooed. “Do you make it out to the West Coast very often?”
“I have a house in Los Angeles,” he said.
“And a penthouse apartment in New York, I hear,” her husband put in with a wink. “As well as property in Bermuda. The earl likes a variety of settings.”
Matt nodded. “I also enjoy offering my business colleagues a choice of locations for our meetings. You should all join me in Bermuda for a week this September. It’s a beautiful time of year there; most of the tourists have gone.” There was also the estate in England, given to him by his father. But he hadn’t returned to the country of his birth since his twenty-first birthday.
Mrs. Franklin smiled hopefully at Abby. “Oh, and would we see you there, my dear? Ronald hates shopping, but I so love it when I have company.”
Abby hesitated, looking unsure of what to say.
“I’m trying to convince her,” Matt said quickly, “to spare the time from her busy schedule.” He gave Abby’s hand a hard squeeze. “Right, darling?”
She grinned weakly. “He can be very persuasive.”
By eleven o’clock the remaining guests were taking their leave. Matt called for his driver to deliver the two couples to their hotels. When he came back from seeing them off at the elevator, he found Abby wrapping up leftovers and clearing the buffet table.
“Don’t bother with that,” he said.
“It will spoil if it’s not put away,” she objected.
“The cleaning crew will trash it when they come through in a few hours.”
“You’d waste all of this?” Her eyes were huge at the suggestion. “There must be hundreds of dollars worth of fantastic stuff here.”
“Take it with you if you like.”
“Really?”
Her reaction was charming—as open and guileless as a child’s in her amazement at the unexpected gift of free eats. Yet he’d seen her in action that night, and she had been mature, intelligent and even a little crafty in the way she had handled his guests. He hadn’t heard her pitch one of his products, yet he felt sure his marketing director would receive calls for orders the next day.
He stepped closer to her, watching as she pulled a paper bag out from beneath the table and started packing rewrapped portions of meats, cheeses and pastries into it.
“Thanks, this is really nice of you,” she murmured as she worked quickly. “My roommate and I will eat for a week off of this.”
“Really,” he said, moving still closer. He liked the way she smelled. Not highly cologned, still fresh from her hurried washup hours before.
He wagered she was a woman who favored long, sudsy baths. An enticing thought. A sudden image of her long legs intertwined with his beneath a cloud of bubbles sent a spur of heat into his lower regions. He stepped away from her hastily, forcing his mind back to unfinished business. Taking out his money clip he peeled off five crisp hundred-dollar bills.
When she turned with her bag of food clutched to her chest, her glance dropped to his hand. “Oh, you really don’t have to—”
“Take it.” She obviously could use the money. What was she getting for her little sales job? Not much more than minimum wage, he’d venture.
“But I had a really nice time. I don’t think I really earned all that money, Lord Smythe.”
“Matt,” he heard himself say.
She frowned at him. “All right. Matt. I’m sure I got as much out of tonight as you did. I enjoyed meeting your guests…and this is enough of a bonus.” She held up her bagged goodies.
“Take the bloody money,” he repeated, his voice a notch lower.
She looked warily up into his eyes, like a small animal gauging the next move of a predator. “All righty,” she said and slowly reached out to pluck the bills from his hand.
Their fingertips touched, grazed, and his noticeably warmed. The sensation only lasted for an instant, but he was sure it wasn’t his imagination. He thought he saw her lips tremble. She took a step backward. His glance settled on her bare shoulders. He ached to brush his lips along them.
“I’d better be going now,” she whispered.
“Do you have a car?”
“I’ll call a cab.”
“My driver will be back soon. We’ll drop you off at your place.”
He sensed that she was about to object to this too, but something made her think better of it. Abby’s gently parted lips closed along a smooth line, and she nodded in acquiescence.
She was certainly the most intriguing woman he’d met in a very long time.
Two
The limousine wasn’t one of those silly stretch jobs the length of a bowling alley that teenagers chip in to hire for their proms. Lord Matthew Smythe’s car was all business. It seated only six passengers behind the driver’s privacy screen and was furnished with the essential tools of any corporate president—a cell phone, laptop computer with modem and faxing capability, and miniature television to catch late-breaking financial and political news. The CD player and modest wet bar were his only concessions to entertainment. He admitted they had come in handy when his sole guest happened to be an attractive woman in the mood to relax…with him.
The vehicle was black inside and out—a leather-lined cave that glided through the city or down an endless highway smoothly, silently. He liked it better than any of his houses, for it was simple, efficient, mobile and beautiful. Here, he could think and work without distractions, or just remove himself from the world.
Abby sat as far as possible to one end of the half-moon bench seat, staring out the window with determination. She looked very young and equally vulnerable. He sensed she was at least a little afraid of him—although why he had no idea. He tried not to pay too much attention to her long legs.
“You were very good tonight,” he murmured after they had driven awhile.
A timid smile twitched the corner of her lips. But she didn’t face him, yet. “Thank you.”
“I need a full-time hostess.”
Now she did turn. Her coffee-and-cream eyes were richer, darker in the dim interior of the car. “Are you offering me a job?”
“Yes.” His instincts where people were concerned were always on target. He knew she’d be good.
She looked more thoughtful than surprised. “What does the position entail?”
“Just what you did tonight. Orchestrate my guests’ entertainment and be on hand to greet them with me.”
She tilted her head to observe him critically. “That’s hardly full-time work.”
“You’ll be expected to travel with me to my other locations of business.”
“You have offices as well as houses in L.A., New York and Bermuda?” she asked.
“The villa on Bermuda isn’t really an office—though I’ve probably closed as many deals there as anywhere. My Japanese and German exporters particularly like it.”
Something unsettlingly perceptive twinkled from behind her lovely eyes. “And you expect me to quit my job and fly off with you to party—is that it?”
He tensed, ready to vehemently deny her assessment of his lifestyle. He didn’t party for a living; he had worked damn hard to get where he was. But he refused to let a glorified shop girl drag him into a debate over his business tactics.
“I expect a clever young woman like yourself,” he said slowly, “will choose the better of the two jobs.” If that didn’t satisfy her, she wasn’t as smart as he thought she might be.
She gave him a long look. Yes, he mused, the wheels behind those amazing eyes were turning fast and furiously.
“I gather from the little Paula told me, your hostesses don’t last very long.”
“They obviously haven’t been right for the job,” he countered.
“But I am?”
“I think so.”
She nodded, keeping her thoughts to herself. Matt had never liked being kept waiting. She made him feel painfully restless. He was tempted to shake an answer out of her, but restrained himself.
“And how do I know I won’t find myself out of work in a few weeks?” she asked at last.
“Think, Abby. What the bloody hell are you going to learn serving up cappuccinos to college students? I’m offering you a chance to connect with people who run some of the most prosperous and prestigious companies in the world.”
“I know that!” she snapped, her eyes flashing. “I just need to understand where I stand. And I would want a contract…for a year.”
“You have it,” he said.
She blinked, looking surprised that she’d immediately received what she had asked for. “And my duties will be limited and spelled out in it.” Although she sounded prim and proper, she failed to look the part with her long, silky legs angled across the limo’s black leather cushions.
“Your responsibilities will be catalogued in detail,” he agreed. He wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of acknowledging the unofficial tasks she was so nervous about. He’d never played around with any of his employees.
But he couldn’t help it if his thoughts wandered delightfully in that direction now. Abby smelled wonderful. And that particular shade of red in her hair made him think twice about bothering with blondes and brunettes ever again. She was luminous.
“Because I am not going to sleep with you, Mr. Smythe.”
Well, there it is, he thought. Now he was going to have to pretend that he actually cared about her concerns. “I’m not interested in sleeping with you, Ms. Benton. I would never consider asking any woman for sexual favors in return for employment in my company,” he said carefully. The one thing any executive didn’t need these days was a sexual harassment lawsuit.
She nodded, apparently satisfied. Whether or not she fully believed him, he couldn’t tell. Whether or not he believed himself, he wasn’t sure either. Sleeping with Abigail Benton was becoming an increasingly interesting fantasy. The more she tiptoed around the subject, the more he thought about it.
“What will my salary be?” she asked.
He stopped himself from grinning in triumph. She was ready to talk business. How he loved winning a battle of wits with a worthy opponent. Selecting a pen and slip of paper from the caddy beside the cell phone, Matt wrote a figure.
She delicately plucked the paper from his hand but scrunched up her nose at it. “Do I have to cover my own travel expenses out of this?”
“Of course not.”
She sighed. “My wardrobe is quite limited. I don’t know if I can afford to dress the way you would want me to.”
Oh bother, he thought. He scribbled a higher figure on a second piece of paper, including a generous clothing allowance. She took this one, too.
Her eyes widened, but she sighed again. “I’m sorry. This is more than generous. But, to be honest, it’s not a matter of money. I just don’t feel this will be a secure position for me. More than anything, that’s what I need now.” She looked entreatingly across the car at him. “I want to save up and open my own little gourmet shop down by the lake. And I’ve never intended to leave Chicago, you see. It’s my hometown. I really apprecia—”
He violently dashed off a third amount, twice his original offer. The money was of little consequence to him, but he knew the figure would seem outrageously high to her. Thrusting the paper at her, he leaned back and watched with boyish anticipation as her expression changed from frustration to shock.
“Lord Smythe!”
“Matt.”
She sighed, her eyes softly appealing, as if she hoped he would understand her reticence without demanding further explanation.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. He understood all right. She wanted success without risk. And even then, she was scared she might get what she wished for. Abigail, he thought, you need a healthy shove off your safe little lily pad. And he needed someone like her to continue bringing business his way. Competitors like Joseph Cooper Imports had been breathing down his neck for years. Whatever he had to do to hold them at bay, he’d do.
He wrote one final figure on a fourth scrap. “Last offer,” he said tightly. “Don’t answer me now. Sleep on it.”
She started to speak, but he placed a finger over her lips, silencing them.
“Discuss the offer with your roommate, your parents, your priest—I don’t care who. Call me tomorrow with your answer. If you really want to own your own store, or even a chain of stores someday, you’ll take a chance with me.” She was staring incredulously at the number he’d written. “Look at it this way, the worst that can happen is, I’ll work you harder than you’ve ever worked before. But you’ll have your start-up cash four times faster under my employ than with anyone else. And you’ll know the business inside out.”
The car stopped. The driver came around to open the door. Abby clambered out, a fistful of paper scraps clutched in one hand, her purse and sack of leftovers in the other. She was staring at him in puzzlement, as if hoping, in these last few seconds, she’d discover the ruse he was playing on her.
“No hidden agendas, Ms. Benton. I need smart, dedicated people around me, and I think you’re one of that breed.” He looked at her sharply, making sure she understood he was serious. “Call me. It’s your future.”
Matt flipped a hand at the driver, who closed the door between them. A smile crept outward along his lips. Well, he’d been mostly honest with her. Still, it was a tempting concept—their sleeping together. Very tempting.
As the limo started moving again, he let the thought go. Just let it drift free, like a kite after the string breaks—only he had intentionally cut the cord. If she agreed to work for him, he couldn’t afford to turn her into a mistress. She would be too valuable to him in other ways. And, above all, he was a businessman.
Abby slept not at all that night. It wasn’t until a thin, rosy dawn broke that she dropped off into an uneasy slumber. She heard the alarm and smacked the snooze button once, twice, then tossed the horrid thing against the wall and collapsed, scrunching her pillow down over her head. She didn’t care what time it was, she needed some real sleep.
“So, how’d it go last night?” a too-chipper voice penetrated the layer of fluff.
Abby tentatively peeked out. It was Dee, bless her cold heart, standing in the bedroom doorway, sipping her morning java from a stoneware mug.
“Leave me alone.”
“It’s Saturday. You have to be down at the store by nine, don’t you?”
“Oh God, yes. I wasn’t even thinking.” Abby flung the pillow aside and pressed her fingertips to her temples, squinting into the morning light.
“That bad, huh?” Dee guessed. “Boring people, bad food and the boss-man made a pass at you, poor baby.”
“Not quite.” Abby sat up in bed. “Fascinating people, the best food I’ve ever eaten and Smythe offered me a job that pays four times what I’m making now.”
“Bummer.” Dee’s eyes twinkled mischievously.
“Knock it off. This isn’t funny.”
“So, who’s laughing? Sounds like you walked into a dream. Why are you looking like a stressed-out ostrich instead of jumping for joy on the bed?”
Abby rolled her eyes, at a loss for words to explain her tangled emotions. “Because I don’t trust him. And I don’t trust myself to make the right decision.”
Dee came and sat on the bed beside her. “Tell Mama.”
Abby accepted a sip from her friend’s mug then rolled her eyes with the effort of putting her feelings into words. “He’s…I don’t know…overpowering. You’d have to see him to understand. Matthew Smythe walks into a room, and you just know he’s going to waltz out of there with anything he wants. I’ll bet he signs deals next week with all three of the bigwigs he was entertaining last night. And when he drove me home in his limo—”
“His li-mo-o-o-o?” Dee arched an ebony brow at her.
“Yes, his limo. When he drove me home after his guests had left, he told me he wanted me to come work for him. When I didn’t say yes right away, he kept upping the ante. He swore it was strictly business, no fooling around.”
“They all do,” Dee mused, but didn’t look too unhappy at the thought.
“It sounded as if he meant it. That’s what bothered me.”
“You mean, you wanted him to proposition you?”
“Of course not…at least, I don’t think I did. But when he didn’t I felt kind of…disappointed.” Abby agitatedly fluttered her fingers in the air. “It’s hard to explain. I just don’t trust myself around him. I’m like a spaceship in one of those intergalactic sci-fi flicks. My shields go down.”