My One And Only (2 page)

What the hell did she call this? he wondered. She'd flown halfway across the country to seek his help without even informing Harrison of her plans. She'd raised the art of prying to an entirely new level.

"Then, in the interest of time, and for the waning ten minutes I promised you, let me give you the simplified version." He couldn't keep the bite out of his voice. "Harrison used his father's power and wealth to seduce my mother. She was an employee at his father's company. When she got pregnant, he lost interest. My grandfather had my mother fired so no one would know Harrison had sired a bastard. Since her boss was forbidden to give her a reference, she had a hard time getting a good job. Harrison didn't feel the need to help with the expenses, so she supplemented her income however she could."

Ethan paused to let the meaning sink in. He could feel his shoulder muscles knotting, but he forged ahead. "Not surprisingly, her health began to fail. She was terrified of putting me in foster care, so she did the only thing she could think of. She took me to Harrison and made it clear that if he didn't put a roof over my head, she'd sue him for child support. The only thing my grandfather hated more than the idea of Harrison's bastard son living in his house was the idea of Harrison's bastard son being paraded through the newspapers. When he realized he couldn't intimidate my mother like he had before, he finally gave in.

"I was six when we went to live there. My mother died a year later. Harrison couldn't make the funeral, but he did pick up the tab for the medical bills."

Abby opened her mouth to respond, but Ethan cut her off. "I
stayed with him and my grandfa
ther because I had no choice. And as soon as I was old enough, I left."

"I'm sorry," she said, the truth of her words reflected in her eyes. The elevator doors slid open.

He stared at her for a second longer, then exited the cramped space. This would be easier if she'd attempted to persuade him that Harrison wasn't such a bad guy, easier still if she'd looked at him with pity or disbelief. The empathy he saw in her expression was worming its way under his skin.

"Don't be," he said over his shoulder. "It can't be changed."

Abby followed him down the narrow hallway, through the security door, and onto the roof of the building. Ethan checked the sky, then met her gaze once more as he waited for her response. He'd just handed her the perfect opportunity to send his rage to the moon. All she had to do was step into the trap, begin offering him reasons to put the past behind him, and he'd have all the excuse he needed.

"No. It can't be changed," she said softly. Abby's face scrunched into an oddly pleasing look of frustration. "Sucks, doesn't it?"

Something inside him went perfectly still. "Excuse me?"

"I said it sucks. No wonder you haven't given the guy the time of day."

"Ms. Lee
—
"

"Geez, if I were you, I probably wouldn't have exercised quite this much restraint."

"Restraint?" His chest had started to hurt. In the distance he heard the approach of a helicopter.

"Sure. I mean, look at you." She indicated him with a wave of her hand. "I knew your reputation before I came out here. Your father's in the computer business, so naturally I knew what you do. Everyone in the industry thinks you work miracles. That merger you negotiated last year for
DataTran—well, people are still talking about it. And obviously"—she looked around—"you get paid pretty well for it. Your own helicopter pad? Very impressive." The noise grew stronger. She was forced to raise her voice.

He had a strong suspicion she was mocking him. "It's practical."

"I'm sure it is." The approaching helicopter had caused the wind to pick up. She shaded her eyes and held his gaze. "Your office furniture probably cost more than I make in six months. Everything you do reeks of success and achievement. Even this junket to Prague—aren't you going because the President asked you to?"

He gritted his teeth. "Yes."

"See, even
he
knows how good you are at this." Sh
e was shouting now. From the corn
er of his eye he could see the helicopter settling on the pad. The gusts from the blades carried across the wide rooftop and beat against them. Abigail's hair was whipping around her head in a mad froth of curls that managed not to look untidy despite the pencil that now sat slightly askew at the nape of her neck. "And with your contacts and your skill," she continued, "had you wanted to, you could have put Harrison out of business years ago. Surely you've thought about it."

She had no idea. Montgomery Data Systems, Harrison's struggling family enterprise, was ripe for takeover. Low capital, high development
debts, ever-narrowing profits made it a prime target. Ethan had watched the firm dwindle, seen its stocks sliding, and deliberately turned his head. To seek revenge, or even to give vent to his anger, would throw open the vault so wide, he might never get the door closed again. "Once or twice," he admitted.

"But you didn't do it. That's the difference between me and you, I guess. If I'd been you, and I had that many reasons for hating Harrison Montgomery, I'd have buried him."

Ethan's fingers tightened on the handle of his briefcase. She couldn't possibly understand. "Ms. Lee—"

She held up her hand. "All I wanted was ten minutes to state my case, Mr. Maddux. You still haven't given them to me."

He glanced over at his pilot. Holding up one hand, he halted the man's progress across the roof. "Whether I gave you ten minutes or ten days, what makes you think you can convince me to help Harrison?"

She shrugged. "Gut feeling, I guess. Don't you ever get those?"

The gut feeling he had right now told him that this woman was trouble—and that if he had a brain in his head, he'd get on that helicopter and never speak to her again. But something tugged— hard—on his resolve. He searched her eyes. Integrity. A hint of desperation. Grit. Moxie. That's
what got him. Against his better judgment, Ethan released the tight rein he had on his resolve. "I won't be back for a week."

"I understand."

Five more seconds passed while he weighed the wisdom of his decision. The relentless pumping of the helicopter blades punctuated the thick tension. Finally, he drew a tight breath. "I'll call you when I get back. You can have ten minutes."

She visibly relaxed. "Thank you."

Ethan nodded. "You're welcome."

Abby tipped her head toward the waiting helicopter. "You'd better go. Your ride is here."

Ethan turned to leave, then gave her a final glance over his shoulder. "For the record," he shouted above the noise, "you got your ten minutes in spite of Harrison—not because. I'm doing this for you. Think about that while I'm gone. I'll call you in a week."

S
he did think about that while he was gone. Abby jammed her key into the lock of her town house in suburban Chicago. Good grief.
I'm doing this for you.
The words had haunted her all the way back from California.

The lock turned, and Abby entered the house with a slight sigh of relief. Safe haven. It always felt that way here. "Rachel," she called as she set her briefcase down in the small foyer. "LuAnne?
I'm home." She dumped her keys on the table. "Where are you guys?"

LuAnne—Abby's closest friend, personal confidante, mental-health advisor, self-appointed life-management consultant, and sometime beautician—came out of the kitchen drying her hands on a dish towel. Abby smiled at the sight of her friend's newly bleached hair. Against the Jamaican woman's mocha skin, the color looked fabulous. But then, most any color did. LuAnne changed her hair color like most people changed their clothes. "Sporting the Marilyn Monroe look these days, Lu?"

LuAnne shrugged. "Blondes have more fun, they say. I wasn't having a lot lately, so I decided it was time for a change." Her previous color had been a strange mix between purple and green.

"I like it."

"Thanks. I'm thinking I like it too."

"Where's my sister?"

"Upstairs doing her homework. And you'd better brace yourself, A
bby. I think she's writing a re
search paper on how thirteen-year-olds don't need baby-sitters."

Abby laughed. "I'll bet. She didn't hassle you, did she?"

"No. Rachel never shows me anything but respect. But you'd better understand that she's starting to feel the need to exert some independence. You hold on too tight, and she'll fight you." LuAnne tossed the dish towel over the arm of the sofa, then tumbled onto the overstuffed cushions. "Dinner was fabulous, darling."

Abby nodded as she reached for the stack of mail on the hall table. She wasn't surprised. In the past two years, her sister had developed a keen interest in gourmet cooking. The cooking classes she was taking, thanks to Harrison Montgomery's influence with a local restaurant owner, were doing wonders for her skill—and for Abby's waistline. "I think I've gained five pounds in the last two months."

"You could stand to," LuAnne told her, blunt as usual. "You work too hard, Abby. I told you six months ago that no man is going to want a woman who's got a figure like a bed slat."

"Hmm." She flipped through the mail, came to one letter, and waved it at her friend. "Oh, look. I may have won a cruise."

"You're trying to change the subject."

"Uh-huh."

"Want to tell me how your day was?"

Ethan's voice popped into her head again—
I'm doing this for you,
"Surreal," she muttered.

"What?"

Abby dropped the mail on the table, stepped out of her pumps, and began unbuttoning her suit jacket as she walked across the living room. She
dropped into the armchair. "I said surreal. I had a surreal day."

"Oh." LuAnne leaned back against the sofa with a broad smile. She tapped her knee with one long red fingernail. "That good?"

"He agreed to listen to me anyway."

"You're kidding!"

"Nope. He's going to call me when he gets back from Prague.
He's on his way to some interna
tional economics conference." She gave LuAnne a dry look. "He's representing the President."

"What president?"

Abby laughed. "Of the United States."

"Oh. Why can't the President represent himself?"

"Because Ethan Maddux knows more about international economics than he does."

LuAnne tucked her feet beneath her. "Well, that's comforting." She drummed her fingers on the arm of the sofa. "I'll bet he's having dinner with the King of Belgium or something."

"There is no King of Belgium," Abby said with a laugh.

"Whatever. Just give me the important stuff. Is he or isn't he as sexy as you heard he was?"

"It was business, Lu."

"Which doesn't mean there wasn't plenty of time for you to notice. You told me that Letty said he was lethal."

"Letty is his aun
t."

"And don't you think it's fascinating that he won't talk to his own father, but his aunt thinks he's the hottest thing going?"

"Letty likes underdogs."

"Abby," LuAnne said skeptically, "a man who has dinner with the King of Belgium is
not
an un
derdog."

"No, I guess not."

"So come on, give, girl. I'm not leaving until you do."

Abby pictured him standing on the helicopter pad with the sun gilding the hard angles of his face. No one would dare call him handsome. There was too much power in his stance and his features were too perfectly carved to use any word as soft as "handsome."

"He's"—she searched for the right word— "dynamic."

"Potent," LuAnne said.

"Yes, I suppose so. You should see the way his staff scurries around him. And it's not terror either. They
adore
the man." Abby closed her eyes and tipped her head back against the nubby fabric of the chair. Lord, it had been a long day.

"How tall?" LuAnne prodded.

"Uh, over six feet, I guess." And solid as a rock, she silently added. With broad shoulders, a trim waist, and lean hips that tapered to impossibly long legs. He was the kind of man a woman simply knew remained in peak physical condition. Every plane would be muscular and hard.

"Hair?"

"Brown." Walnut, she'd call it, with just a touch of red. It was thick, with a hint of a wave. When wet, it probably curled at the ends. The sunlight on the helicopter pad had limned it, making it look soft and touchable.

"Eyes?"

"Um, gray, I guess." Too clear to be called anything as mundane as blue. Actually, what came to mind when she thought about the piercing way he'd studied her was "sterlin
g
silver."

"Bod?"

Hard, lean muscle that radiated with barely contained energy. Any word one usually used to describe the more perfect specimens of the male species would be out of place. "Attractive" was too ordinary; "gorgeous," too soft; "sexy," too unsophisticated. Ethan Maddux had a certain warrior/feline quality to him. Like a black panther, she had decided. He moved with an uncanny combination of grace, agility, and power. He seemed always in control. Every word was carefully chosen. Each movement was deliberate and contained. He wasted nothing, not even a fluttering eyelash. He calculated his surroundings and always, always, seemed to be lying in wait, ready to pounce when necessary.