The American Earl (6 page)

Matt swallowed, then swallowed again, his throat suddenly so dry he doubted he could speak. Her hair cascaded in poppy-red waves over her shoulders, and her eyes were soft, sleepy, and unafraid. The nervous energy of their earlier encounters was gone. She looked as if her only desire was to climb between two sheets and fall asleep fast. But he only wanted to get into bed…with her…definitely not to sleep.

“Yes?” she repeated.

He stepped closer. She smelled of bath soap, minty toothpaste and the fabric softener in her robe. A good clean country girl, he thought. He wanted to gather her to him, bury his face in her lush, damp red mane…inhale her, taste her.

“On second thought,” he began hesitantly, “maybe you should jot down just a few notes before you go to bed. Include a few personal observations about the Gremmels—meal choices, their son's name, hobbies. I keep records of that sort of thing. You might forget by morning.”

Abby looked puzzled. “All right.”

She started to step back into her suite, but his hand shot out and closed around her wrist, stopping her.
He stared at his fingers as if they were mutinous employees, acting without his permission.

“Anything else?” she asked, her voice sounding husky. It sent a flash of heat through his body. Heat that settled low within him and simmered.

He might have snapped his hand back and said
no.
But as Abby turned toward him, the sweetness of her breath crossed his face, and he unwisely focused on her lips, softly parted. Her mocha eyes widened as they took in his expression.

Later, Matt realized that what happened next had been inevitable from the start. He pulled Abby into his arms and kissed her hard and long. He kept telling himself that at any moment she would let out a protesting screech, or, at the very least, shove him away. But she did neither. And without some negative response from her, he couldn't stop moving his lips over hers…couldn't stop teasing the corners of her sweet mouth with the tip of his tongue…couldn't stop drinking in her lovely essence.

She didn't exactly return his kiss, but she didn't reject it either. This intrigued him. Clearly, she wasn't a woman who gave herself over to every man who made a move on her. He had somehow known that from the moment she popped into his office that Friday afternoon. She was perky and playful, but could be serious when the occasion demanded. She wasn't a shallow flirt or a sleep-around girl, so why was she letting him get away with this?

It was impossible not to test her.

Keeping her lips busy, he slowly moved his hand between their bodies and cautiously rubbed his thumb across one nipple through her robe. She shuddered but didn't tell him to stop. He cupped her breast. She
sighed lightly into his mouth. He kissed the line of her jaw, moved his lips down her throat, and dipped beneath the top edge of her robe. His tongue flicked deliciously over her bare nipple half a dozen times. It took another moment for his mind to register the gentle sounds coming from her throat and her sudden rigidity in his arms, as weak protests.

Releasing her, he watched with regret as she quickly tugged the neckline of her robe back into place. But not before he caught a delightful glimpse of white breast. She was utterly lovely. She even had freckles there. What fun it would be to try to lick them off…one by one.

“I'm sorry!” he blurted out, although he wasn't at all. “I don't know why I did that.” He did know.

She stared at him, her cheeks flushed, her hands trembling and clutching her robe in a bunch under her throat. She was breathing hard. “I told you when I accepted this job—”

He could hear tears edging her trembling voice, and he was instantly sorry he had taken such liberties with her. What he had done was inexcusable, his libido be damned!

“Believe me,” he said hastily, “this has never happened before. I never intended to use my position as your employer to force myself on—” He shook his head, amazed at how insincere he sounded, even to himself. She must think the very worst of him. “I'm terribly sorry, Abby. It won't happen again. I promise.”

She gave him a mystifying look, then dropped her glance to the floor and wiggled her bare toes in the carpeting. “I hope I didn't do anything to encourage…you know—”

Now that she was trying to take some of the blame on herself, he felt somewhat relieved. “Don't even think that. I just reacted. I don't understand why.” Of course he understood why. She was adorable! She was irresistible!

Abby drew a long, slow breath, then let it out and looked up at him shyly through rusty-red eyelashes. “And I don't understand why I didn't stop you sooner. I'm not usually so vulnerable. I even took a self-defense course.” Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “Learned just where to kick a man.”

“Thank you for not using your expertise.” Matt smiled shakily at her. “I swear I'll be on good behavior from now on. Really.”

Abby nodded, turned away, and stepped into the other suite, shutting the door quietly behind her. He heard the lock take hold with a firm click. Wise move, he thought—for even now he still ached for her.

 

Abby leaned against the backside of the door and let her forehead drop with a soft thud against the polished wood. “Don't try too hard to be a good boy, Matt,” she whispered.

It took her a solid five minutes to regulate her breathing, stop trembling and make her way into the bedroom. She let the robe slip from her shoulders to the floor and stood very still in front of the mirrored closet doors, examining her own reflection. She could still feel the tingles aroused by the moist caresses of Matt's tongue across her breast. She quivered. A long, slow stream of heat coursed through her and she closed her eyes, enjoying it until the sensation spent itself out.

Opening her eyes, Abby veered quickly away from
the mirror and grabbed her flannel nightdress out of the dresser drawer. A few minutes earlier, she had put it away with the thought that it was too warm to wear that night. Now all that seemed to matter was completely covering her body.

As Abby lay in bed that night, she wished she hadn't flinched. She wished she hadn't let on that she was shocked, then Matt might have closed his warm mouth over her…and who knew what other wonderful experiences he might have introduced her to before the night was over. She was twenty-five years old and a virgin. Maybe that was the real reason she hadn't told him to stop.

Curiosity.

A
bby was fascinated by New York City, but even more captivated by Matt. She loved the throbbing energy of Manhattan…the hard, gray buildings and immense polished brass doors that captured the sunlight…the sophisticated fashions displayed in the windows of Bloomingdale's, Saks Fifth Avenue and in the chic shops in spectacular Trump Tower. But Matt was an enigma, and that attracted her even more strongly toward him.

He demanded long hours, hard work and perfection from her. But to do her job effectively, she had to have free access to him, for there were dozens of decisions to be made in preparation for each of his meetings. Yet, after their steamy incident in the penthouse, he seemed to intentionally distance himself from her. Sometimes she wouldn't see him all day.

On the fourth day they were in the city, she decided
that she would have to do something to make him feel more comfortable around her. Bergdorf Goodman was on Fifth Avenue and 57th Street, right around the corner from their penthouse. The first chance Abby got, she bolted for the elegant women's clothing store. Abby passed by displays of elegantly sensual garments in lush colors of silk, her eyes skimming over beautiful dresses that she could now afford because of her generous clothing allowance. These would only make it more difficult for her and Matt to work together. The key, she decided, was playing down her appearance. Ultraconservative business clothing, that's what she needed to cool the sensual tension between the two of them.

Abby found two ideal outfits at the precise moment a sales associate spotted her. “That one and that one,” she said, pointing. Fifteen minutes later she had tried them on and was on her way back to the hotel, pleased with her ingenuity.

 

Matt looked for the third time at his watch, then at the door to his employees' suite. It wasn't like Abby to be late for an appointment, but he refrained from knocking for fear she might breeze into the living room in her robe again. He couldn't handle that.

He considered a single, very dry martini, just to steady his nerves, then dismissed the need for liquid courage as ludicrous. What did he have to be nervous about?

The door opened, and there was his answer.
Her.

Abby stepped into the room in a smart black-and-white suit. The collar of the jacket was high, a Mandarin style. The hem of the straight-cut skirt fell demurely below her calves, revealing only her ankles.
She smiled at him, and his eyes immediately went to her lips—not blazing red to compliment the sophistication of the suit, but a petal-soft pink. Her hair was pinned up in a tight chignon. She looked like a schoolmarm, dressed by
Vogue.

“What the bloody hell is
that?
” he demanded.

She blinked at him. “I went shopping today. You don't think this is appropriate for tonight?”

It probably was suitable, he thought. She looked smart, elegant and very beautiful. What bothered him was the underlying intent of the outfit. She couldn't have covered another inch of her body, short of wearing a hooded sweatshirt and pants. Her motive was all too clear.

But the ploy worked in reverse. He found the high collar and sleek black silhouette provocative. A challenge. An invitation to remove every last thread from her body, to touch her, taste her, dishevel her.

“Take it off,” he growled.

“Excuse me?” She was glaring at him, but also looking worried.

“Wear that poppy-red thing you had on the other night,” he grumbled and went to the bar to mix the martini he'd earlier decided against.

“A cocktail dress? To a daytime meeting?”

“Something else then…not that thing.” He didn't hear her leave the room, but thought she must have from the sudden silence in the room. When he turned around, she was still there, observing him coolly.

“Well?” he demanded, sipping the clear, pungent liquid that burned its way down his throat.

“I know why you don't like this outfit and why you've been so difficult to pin down the last few days,” she said.

He studied his drink. It could have used one of those little pearl onions. He tried to concentrate on that shortcoming. Anything to avoid meeting her eyes.

“Did you hear me, Matt?”

He sighed. “So enlighten me. Why don't I like the suit?”

“Because you want to sleep with me but you won't admit it.”

His laugh was too loud and forced to be sincere. “Quite an imagination you have, lady.”

“I don't think so,” she said slowly, her eyes washing over him in an unsettlingly perceptive way. She stepped closer to him, and he had to brace himself from backing away defensively. “I think we're attracted to each other. But we have to find a way to work around those feelings. I can't do my job if you keep disappearing and won't communicate with me.”

He nodded. “I see.” He wasn't admitting anything except that he had made himself scarce the last few days. “Whether or not there's anything happening between the two of us,” he said carefully, “dressing like the matron of a girl's boarding school isn't the answer.”

“I'm just dressing conservatively.”

He couldn't stand it any longer. She was too composed, too sure of herself…and he was falling apart inside. “Damn it, Abby, grow up! You could walk into this room in a bikini and I wouldn't lay a hand on you!”

She tilted her head to one side and observed him doubtfully. “I think I'll stick with this.”

 

The following day Abby didn't have time to brief Matt on his messages until they were on their way to
his afternoon appointment. All morning had been spent with his lawyer, drawing up the contract with a new exporter. Matt had asked her to read the contract and witness his signature. She was flattered that he still was giving her a chance to view the inner workings of his business, even though their original boss–employee relationship had lurched precariously into temporary intimacy.

Beneath the low-key tempo of their business days, an undeniable electricity still flashed between them. By the time they were driving back across the city in the limo, Abby felt as if her flesh was prickling from the back of her neck to the bottoms of her heels. Still she tried to concentrate on the work at hand, which was keeping Matt up to date on his e-mail and phone messages.

“This one, I couldn't figure out,” she said, checking the page she'd printed before they left the hotel.

“Here, look. It's from Scotland. Something about the Knight of Castle Donan?”

He took the slip of paper from her with a laugh.

“It's from my brother Christopher. When we were boys we communicated in code, in the foolish hope my father wouldn't know what we were up to. Christopher was the Knight of Donan, one of the family properties that was passed on to him. He and his bride live in the castle now.” He was reading while he was talking, but his smile gradually faded.

“Is something wrong?”

Matt leaned back into his seat, and she could see the muscles in his handsome face tighten with anxiety. “Nothing that hasn't been wrong for all of our lives.”

Abby laid a hand over his as he crumpled the paper in his fist. “Can I help?”

“Not unless you can talk my brother out of a disaster in the making.”

“What does he want to do?”

“Arrange a family reunion, at my father's estate.”

Abby shook her head, confused. “Why is that a bad idea?”

“Because my father could give a damn about seeing any of us.”

Abby stared at him. What a horrid way to feel, she thought. She waited patiently for more of an explanation. Eventually, Matt's anger seemed to subside.

“I'm sorry, this isn't your concern. Families can be so difficult.” He looked at her. “Of course, growing up in a loving brood on your Illinois farm, you wouldn't understand. You've probably never had someone important to you walk out of your life when you needed them most.”

She stared at Matt, understanding in that precious moment that he'd revealed something to her he probably hadn't meant to. “Your father left you and your brothers?” she asked gently.

“No,” he said tightly, “my mother. She left my father and us three boys without a word of explanation. The earl didn't know what to do with us. Packed us off to boarding school as soon as each of us turned six. Until then there were nannies. We rarely saw him.”

Abby chewed her bottom lip sympathetically. Such a cold childhood. “So Christopher lives in Scotland?”

“Yes, he's the youngest. Just married an American woman. They're restoring the castle. My older
brother, Thomas, told me she's a stunning woman and he was right. She's very good to Christopher's daughter, too. Actually, I haven't seen either of my brothers in over a year.”

“And your father?”

“I haven't seen him since I left England when I turned twenty-one.”

She gasped. “Over ten years!”

His jaw locked. “Don't look at me like that. The man ignored me all my life. Why should I make an effort to play the doting son now? Besides, if he wanted to see me, he's perfectly capable of booking a flight and coming here. He has more money than he knows what to do with, and he's in good health.”

Despite the tough front Matt was putting up, Abby sensed his pain. “Pride sometimes interferes with our speaking our real feelings.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” he barked.

“I just meant, your father might want to tell you that he loves you and is proud of you…he just doesn't know how.”

Matt's face clouded again with anger. But just as quickly his expression softened as he looked down at their hands, hers resting over his. “I'd like to think that. It's just difficult to believe, after all this time—” He broke off, his voice choked with emotion. “I remember her.”

“Your mother?”

He nodded. “I was very young, but I remember how beautiful and soft she was. How her face glowed when she bent down to take me in her arms. She was everything he was not. Tender, affectionate, playful.”

The limo rolled on, past the Broadway billboards and onto 58th Street. Abby wished they had the entire
night to talk like this. She felt so close to Matt, on the verge of breaking down walls and understanding who the man was behind the tough shell of the international executive.

The question came to her, as it must often have come to Matt—if Lady Smythe had loved her children so dearly, why had she left them? He must have seen the question in her eyes.

“For the longest time, I was sure she had gone on holiday. Just forgotten to tell us that she was off to Cannes or Biarritz. But the months became years, and my father refused to speak her name or tell us anything about her reasons for leaving or where she might be.”

“I'm so sorry, Matt,” she whispered, over the fist-sized lump in her throat. She could hardly imagine the depth of his pain.

“I decided as soon as I was old enough, I would leave England and never go back. I'm at peace with myself now. I keep busy. I—” He broke off and looked out the window, and she could tell he was struggling for control of his emotions.

“Did you ever try to find her?” she asked.

He shook his head, unable to speak. He wanted to ask her to please stop talking now. He didn't want to talk. Not about this. Not about the darkest part of his life. But he couldn't even manage those few words.

For years, he'd have given anything to find a way to block out the pain. But there had never been a business coup perfect enough, or a person who touched his life deeply enough, to make the bitter past go away.

But here was Abby, sitting patiently beside him. Her warmth passed through the air between them, and
the touch of her fingers lightly on his hand was soothing. The past didn't leave, but it felt somehow easier to bear.

Reaching up, she stroked the side of his cheek. He turned into her hand. She was an angel.

Matt sensed that he was moving toward her without any conscious effort. The space between them shrank by inches, until he was looking into her pretty eyes, until they were too close to be proper for any but lovers.

“I can't tell you why people leave,” she whispered. “But they do. Even when they love us, or we believe they do…they leave.”

He frowned. What was she telling him? That she too had been abandoned by someone? Not her parents. She'd told him they still lived outside of Chicago. A man, he thought. Someone she'd cared for had hurt her profoundly.

He wasn't aware of the final subtle movement that brought their lips together. But there they were, suddenly, touching…and the effect was like fire racing through his veins. He forgot about the driver on the other side of the privacy screen, forgot about the city, about appointments and deals and profit ratios. The world outside the limo no longer existed.

He pulled Abby to him. She willingly pressed into his chest and returned his kiss with sweet fervor. She tasted like honey and unshed tears—sweet and salty in the same moment. Raking his fingers through her hair, he tugged her head back to kiss her throat. She moaned low, and he felt the vibrations of her pleasure against his lips.

“I wish…I wish,” he gasped between kisses.

“Yes?” she murmured dreamily.

“What are the chances we could cancel this meeting with…I can't even think of the man's name now.” He laughed, irritated with himself for feeling utterly powerless.

“It's too late.” Too late, she thought, for a lot of things. Like stopping the rush of emotions that had engulfed her.

He kissed her once, twice, three times on the lips quickly, stroked her wrists, her throat, swept tendrils of hair away from her misty eyes. “Tonight. After this is over. We are going to continue this.”

She started to open her mouth, not to protest, but to ask him if he was sure this was what he wanted, because she wasn't sure of anything in her own mind or heart. He silenced her with another kiss before she could say a word.