The American Earl (2 page)

“Ah, yes.” His eyes lifted and so did the corners of his lips. “That little coffee shop over on Oak. I've stopped by a few times.” He nodded, keeping his opinion to himself.

“I'm sorry I can't stay and play hostess for you. But I'm sure you'll make out fine.”

His expression conveyed that he knew she didn't have a clue how he'd make out. But he wasn't going to argue the point. “Call your boss and ask for the rest of the day off. I'll pay you five bills to smile and make nice to my guests.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Five
hundred
dollars?” A heartbeat later, the implication of the rest of his sentence struck her. “That isn't the kind of work I do, Mr.—”

“Matthew Smythe.” He held out a hand for her to shake and at the moment she remembered where she'd seen him before…or at least his photos. The last time had been on the cover of
Fortune
magazine. She immediately seized his hand as if she'd been ordered to. Then, gradually, the implication of all she'd said up to that moment sank in. She had probably sounded like a madwoman.

“You're the president of Smythe International,” she murmured weakly. “The third largest import company of its kind in this country.” She had read
about him in the
Wall Street Journal
and
Fortune,
as well as the society columns in the
Tribune.
He was always referred to as The American Earl—Lord Matthew Smythe—a member of the British aristocracy who had come to America and made himself a second fortune.

“We've done well,” he murmured dismissively. “Look, I don't want you to take this the wrong way, Miss Benton. You have to understand, I'm in a rare fix here. An hour from now, three buyers for prosperous, upscale retail companies, along with their wives and traveling companions, will arrive at this suite.” He shoved strong fingers through his neatly clipped hair. It fell immediately back into place, every hair in line. “Serving samples of the products I bring into this country doesn't make a strong enough impact to guarantee a sale. I need a partner circling the room, listening for comments, keeping spouses entertained, putting on a gracious face.
I need you.
” The last three words were very nearly a growl.

“But I don't—” She was about to protest that she knew nothing about entertaining elite company when the possible benefits of her situation slammed up against her innate shyness. Five hundred dollars and goodwill toward man aside, the experience and contacts gained from such an evening would be invaluable. She'd be a fool to say no! “I'll change and be back in less than an hour.”

 

“That dress looks good, too. I don't know why you're fussing so much over one little cocktail party.” Abby's roommate, Dee D'Angello, sat in the center of Abby's bed, watching her try on the sixth dress in fifteen minutes.

“If you saw in person what
he
looks like, you'd understand,” Abby said dryly. “The man is gorgeous. And his suit! Better than an Armani. Had to be hand-tailored.” She tugged another dress down over her head and stood before the mirror on her closet door, smoothing out wrinkles. “Do you have any idea of the cost of a tailored suit these days? I'll bet his tie alone cost more than my take-home pay for a week.”

“Sounds like someone is hung up on yon company prez,” Dee mused.

“Don't be ridiculous. I'm just trying to survive this night so I can pick up some pointers. Smythe is at the top of the heap I want to be in.”

“You think by spending one evening in the same room with the man, some of his brilliance will rub off on you?”

Abby laughed, shaking her head. “I'm not that naïve. This is a chance to peek inside the real world of the import-export business. Hanging out with Lord Smythe and his high-powered clients for a couple of hours is more valuable than a year of graduate seminars, better than five years standing behind the counter at a place like the Cup and Saucer. This is how the rich and famous do business!”

“All well and good,” Dee admitted, “but be careful. The wealthy live fast lives. People who have more money than they know what to do with use it to get into trouble.”

Abby wriggled her toes into a pair of beige sling-backs and studied the effect. “What are you saying?” she asked absently.

“Don't commit yourself to more than you can afford to give.” Dee gave her a knowing look from beneath dark, lowered eyelashes.

Abby laughed. “You mean I shouldn't jump into bed with one of Smythe's clients just to cement a deal for him? Don't worry, I won't.”

“What about Smythe himself? The man sounds pretty yummy.”

Abby considered this new and admittedly interesting possibility then sighed. “He may be great to look at, but the earl has an ego the size of Mount Rushmore and a pompous attitude that would put the British monarchy to shame. No way would I ever consider getting involved with him.”

“Right,” Dee muttered, plucking a turquoise silk sheath from the bed. “Go with this one.”

“Are you sure?” More to the point, was
she
sure? Did she really want to step out of her safe, simple world to sip cocktails and swap market savvy with people whose incomes were ten…maybe a hundred times hers?

Then she remembered Smythe's powerful presence, the way he'd physically blocked her retreat from the reception room until she'd agreed to return. He might as well have handcuffed her to the furniture! Oddly enough, his aggressiveness had excited her at the time. Now, she wondered if it was wise to let a few pleasant chills overwhelm good judgment.

There was still time to back out. She didn't owe the man a thing, she told herself. She could simply retreat into the safe niche she'd carved for herself at the little neighborhood shop two blocks from the campus.

But something beckoned to her from the fifteenth-floor suite overlooking exclusive Lake Shore Drive and the steely waters of Lake Michigan. She knew in the space of one breath that she would go to him.

 

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?”