R Is for Rebel (6 page)

“No, no, I got it. Thanks so much, Max. You're a good egg.”

“So are you, Abby. Just put on your big-girl pants and I'll see you Thursday morning. I think we'll come into Fulham Wednesday night, so I'll pick you up at Mother's at 8:30 and then we can walk over to Coutts together. Sound good?”

“Okay.”

“Okay? It's all good, Abby.”

“I know. Thanks again, Max.”

“Thank
you
, Abby. Bye.”

The line went dead and Abby was grateful her mother chose that moment to enter the kitchen and see about heading over to Wigmore Hall for the lunchtime concert. Abby didn't think she could stand a solitary minute contemplating the enormity of what she was about to take on.

“Ready to go, Abigail?”

“Sure, let me just run upstairs and grab my bag. I'll meet you in front in five minutes.”

“Okay, dear.” Sylvia put her cup of tea into the sink and then turned to watch as her blossoming youngest daughter left the room, a near-palpable mist of new beginnings trailing in her wake.

***

By Friday morning, Eliot was back at his desk in Geneva ready to rip someone's throat out. The negotiations in Milan were at a dismal standstill. He might as well have taken the flight through London after all, since the small family-owned company of Milanese silk manufacturers had decided they were not very interested in being bought out after all. Family squabbles had erupted the previous weekend, with half the Ramazzotti clan begging for the buyout and the other half digging their heels in and refusing to sell. And to top it off, both sides acted as if Danieli-Fauchard was breathing down their necks, when the reality was the Ramazzotti family had been the ones to initiate the whole screwed up deal.

Abigail had started texting him a couple of times each day, a delightful mix of snarky seduction (
quick
question: why do my fingertips tingle when I think of you?
) and to-do list (
on
my
way
to
meet
with
banker… texting and walking… you have turned me into an absurd multitasker
).

He was becoming desperate to touch her. At seven in the morning on Friday, he finally picked up his phone and dialed her number.

She answered with a throaty, confused, sexy-as-hell voice. “Who's calling?”

“Very funny.”

She hummed and he could picture her smiling with her eyes closed and burying her face deeper into the pillow. “I'm still asleep.”

“Well, wake up. I've had enough of this not-seeing-you nonsense. Will you go out with me tonight? Dinner, that sort of thing?” He heard her rustling around and was beginning to get turned on at the idea of her naked body against all that linen. “What color are your sheets?”

“White,” she said with a small laugh. “Why?”

“Just trying to picture you.” He exhaled. “But as I said, I'm sick of just picturing you. Are you free this weekend?”

“Mmm. I thought it was just dinner… now you want to make it the whole weekend?”

I'd like to make it your whole damn life
, Eliot wanted to say. “Yes. And a plane ride.”

She was definitely waking up now. “A plane ride, is it? Sounds glam. I don't really do glam.”

“Well, then you're in luck. Because it's all blue jeans and dirty work boots and sweatshirts where we're going.”

“Really? Now I
am
interested.”

“It's my grandmother's ninetieth birthday in Iowa and I want you to come with me.”

“Like a family reunion? Sounds serious. I don't know, Eliot—”

“Now wait one minute. How many times have I saved your ass at dinner at your mother's or made you laugh after some endless brunch at Dunlear? You owe me!”

“Okay! Okay!” She laughed. “I guess I sort of do. Fine, I'll do it. But what if people think we're a couple?”

Eliot felt his heart stop, as if someone had punched him hard in the chest. “Well…”
Shit.
Wasn't that what he wanted people to think? “I mean, worse things could happen.”

“Oh my god! You're taking me to meet your family! Are we
going
steady
? How cute!”

Oh
Jesus.
“Abigail. It's me, Eliot. How old are you? I'm inviting you to spend the weekend with me as my very dear friend”—
with
whom
I
am
falling
desperately
in
love
—“and I know you don't give a crap what other people think. Of course I love the idea of you meeting my parents because I think you're really going to hit it off, not out of some weird desire to present you to them or something.”

“Touchy, touchy. Okay. Fine. Yes. I already said yes. Don't get so grumpy. I was just having a little fun with you. Where do you want to meet?”

Eliot gave her the details of the airfield where his private plane would be at four o'clock that afternoon, and Abby made a crack about how much it was going to cost her to offset her carbon footprint if she started hanging out with him on a regular basis.

Abby spent the entire day forcing herself to be cavalier. Bronte called to see if she wanted to meet up for a glass of wine that night and Abby tried to hedge.

“Sorry, can't tonight, Bron.”

“Okay. So, are you coming out to Dunlear tomorrow?” She sounded distracted, like she was just checking in to kill time.

“Probably not. I've got plans.”
Amateur
mistake
.

Bronte's voice turned laser-focused. “Really? What kind of
plans
?”

Abby silently cursed herself for playing right into Bronte's hand.

“Date plans.”

“Oooh! Date plans that involve an incredibly hot multimillionaire luxury goods magnate… or wait! Let me see… is he a billionaire yet? I can't remember…” The clicks of Googling fingertips filled the background.

“I hate you more than a little right now.”

“Oh, get over yourself. You're such an easy mark. So. Are you going out with Eliot or what?”

“Yes.”

“Yes? That's all I'm going to get? One measly
yes
?”

“Yes. That's all you're going to get.” Abby laughed and continued jamming clothes into her backpack. She was not about to start worrying about whether five black turtlenecks and a couple of pairs of jeans were the right thing to wear with a
fashion
magnate
.

“Well!” Bronte tried to sound affronted but she really just sounded pleased. “Okay.” Silence. “No!” Bronte cried. “It's not okay!” She laughed at her own impatience. “Come on! Throw me a fucking bone here! Are you going to be here in London? Oh my god is he staying with you at Northrop House?”

“Oh, right! Wouldn't Mother love that? She'd be posting banns by Monday.”

Abby looked around the pretty room filled with antiques and draped in pale gray Italian silk that was her home when she stayed in London. It had always seemed silly to buy her own apartment in town, but now the Mayfair mansion seemed way too small for two grown, single women to share. Whatever happened between her and Eliot, this was a wake-up call it was time for Abby to get her own place.

“That she would! Well, okay. Be secretive if you like, but please have some fun, and kiss him already. He's obviously crazy about you!”

Abigail stopped packing. “You really think so?” Her emotions were all over the place; she wanted him desperately one minute and was swamped with insecurity the next.

Bronte had sounded like she was getting distracted again, but her attention returned to Abby. “Do you want to meet up for a quick coffee? Seriously. If you're asking me if he's crazy about you, I'm not sure what other glaring facts you're missing. You get that he stares at you all the time when he thinks you're not looking, right? You get that he only listens to you when you start talking—even if he happens to be in the middle of a conversation with an ambitious advertising agent who is literally
begging
for his business—”

Abigail laughed and resumed packing, tucking the phone between her ear and shoulder. “Okay! Okay! I get a bit of that. But… why me?” Her stomach got a little wobbly when she thought about Eliot really liking her with all that drive and attention. All that emotion.

“Are you fishing for compliments? Because you're
you
, of course. You are just… oh, look, I'm not going to sit here and tell you how great you are if you're not even going to tell me where he's taking you for dinner.”

“Iowa.”

“What? I thought you said
Iowa
. You mean, Ee-Wah? That new Asian place over by Camden Lock? I've heard they have the best—”

“Bron! I'm going to Iowa… America.”

“Oh my god.” Bronte burst out laughing so hard she couldn't catch her breath. “You say it like… Papua… New Guinea… Iowa… America… Oh, Eliot is a fucking genius.” She sputtered and caught her breath after laughing harder at Abby's expense.

Pulling the zipper around the oversized backpack and setting it on the floor, Abby said, “Go ahead and have your fun. He invited me to go to his grandmother's ninetieth birthday party. It's hardly a steamy seduction in Paris.”

“Mm-hmm. Whatever you say, Abs.” She was taking a sip of something.

“You know what, Bronte? You're a serious pain in the arse. But I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetie. Have the best time. Seriously.”

“I think I shall. I'll speak with you next week.”

“Okay.”

The phone went dead and Abby put the handset back in the cradle next to her bed. She looked around the room one more time and wondered what in the world she was doing going to Iowa, America, with her
very
good
friend
Eliot Cranbrook.

Abigail took the Tube to Docklands then got the Light Railway out to City Airport. She followed Eliot's directions to the private section of the terminal and caught a glimpse of him through the plate glass before he saw her. He was waiting outside and he looked like something out of an old-fashioned cologne commercial, camel hair coat billowing in the January wind, his gold-brown hair slightly tousled and shining in the reflection of the setting sun. There's no way he could have heard her through the wind and the glass and the distance, but he turned when her breath caught, and when he saw her, damn if his smile didn't burn a hole right through her center.

He pulled open the door and strode toward her across the private waiting room.

“You came.” He pulled her into a hug and Abby thought she hadn't felt nearly so content since he'd deposited her back at her villa in the middle of the Caribbean nearly a week ago. He set her away from him.

“Of course I came!” She smiled up at him and shook her hair in some weird effort to shake off the intensity of his look. “You invited me and I owe you one, remember?”

His smile faded. “I hope that's not the only reason.” He had one arm loosely around her shoulders and was guiding her toward the exit. He opened the door out to the tarmac and pointed to a plane with the tail fin marked EC3714.

“EC for Eliot Cranbrook?” Abby asked with a mischievous grin.

“Look, I'm still a guy. What can I say? I have an ego.”

They walked up the few steps and into the luxurious interior of the private jet.

“Wow.” Abigail raised her head after ducking through the oval door.

Eliot gestured toward her backpack. “May I?”

She shouldered it off and handed it to him.

“I'll put it in the back so you can get stuff out of it during the flight if you want. Okay?”

“Sure.” She was still looking around at the immaculate beige leather of the seats and the wide aisle that ran down the center of the plane. There were ten seats, several of which formed a small sofa with a television near the back. Abby smoothed her hair down in an attempt to smooth her nerves. She suddenly felt very small. She'd stood in the middle of twenty-thousand-acre ranches in New Zealand and felt bigger than she felt right at that moment.

Eliot was talking to the two captains, then laughed at something one of them said and turned to Abby. “All set?”

“Yes, yes,” she chirped. She never chirped. She calmed herself. “Ready. Where should I sit?”

One of the captains was shutting the cabin door while the other was in the cockpit talking into his headpiece with air traffic control. Eliot walked toward her as he took off his overcoat.

“Are you nervous? Are you afraid of flying?” He looked away for a few seconds as he reached into a narrow closet and hung up his coat then held his hand out. “You want to take your coat off?”

Abby stood there in the middle of the plane and gripped the lapels of her fake-shearling coat more tightly around her. “I don't know if this is such a good idea.”

“You can keep your coat on if you want.” He turned to the captain and said, “We're good to go.”

He turned back and put an arm around Abby's shoulders.

“Eliot, I meant—”

“I know what you meant, Abigail. Just relax. I'm not going to bite you.” Her eyes widened and he smiled a mischievous, predatory grin as he pulled them both down to the small sofa. “Unless you want me to, of course.”

Something snapped and Abby felt warm and comfortable and just the right size: happy she was hanging out with Eliot. “You are so bad,” she said as she gave him a small punch on the upper arm and then reached around for her lap belt and buckled it into place. “I'm sorted. And no biting, thank you.”

Eliot snapped his fingers with a loud crack. “Damn. I thought that was a pretty good line.”