The American Earl. Kathryn Jensen
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