“I’m Not Going To Make Love
To You Here. Not Now.”

“Why not?” Abby asked.

“You need more time to consider what you’re giving away,” Matt responded.

“I’m more concerned about what I might lose,” she murmured. “And I don’t mean my virginity.”

“What about that husband in the future? He’ll know.”

“Maybe he’ll have to accept me as I am.”

As she was. Beautiful. Abby was pure joy to look upon, to be with. She dragged him out of his world of business deals, competition with himself and with others, even out of the pain of the past. He could see need in her eyes, desire, and he wanted more than anything to give her the pleasure she so longed for.

Yet, did he dare take from her the one treasure she’d safeguarded all her life? Abby claimed she was ready. But could he believe her?

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Silhouette Desire, the ultimate treat for Valentine’s Day—we promise you will find six passionate, powerful and provocative romances every month! And here’s what you can indulge yourself with this February….

The fabulous Peggy Moreland brings you February’s MAN OF THE MONTH, The Way to a Rancher’s Heart. You’ll be enticed by this gruff widowed rancher who must let down his guard for the sake of a younger woman.

The exciting Desire miniseries TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB: LONE STAR JEWELS continues with World’s Most Eligible Texan by Sara Orwig. A world-weary diplomat finds love—and fatherhood—after making a Plain Jane schoolteacher pregnant with his child.

Kathryn Jensen’s The American Earl is an office romance featuring the son of a British earl who falls for his American employee. In Overnight Cinderella by Katherine Garbera, an ugly-duckling heroine transforms herself into a swan to win the love of an alpha male. Kate Little tells the story of a wealthy bachelor captivated by the woman he was trying to protect his younger brother from in The Millionaire Takes a Bride. And Kristi Gold offers His Sheltering Arms, in which a macho ex-cop finds love with the woman he protects.

Make this Valentine’s Day extra-special by spoiling yourself with all six of these alluring Desire titles!

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

The American Earl
Kathryn Jensen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

KATHRYN JENSEN

has written many novels for young readers as well as for adults. She speed walks, works out with weights and enjoys ballroom dancing for exercise, stress reduction and pleasure. Her children are now grown. She lives in Maryland with her writing companion—Sunny, a lovable terrier-mix adopted from a shelter.

Having worked as a hospital switchboard operator, department-store sales associate, bank clerk and elementary school teacher, she now splits her days between writing her own books and teaching fiction writing at two local colleges and through a correspondence course. She enjoys helping new writers get a start, and speaks “at the drop of a hat” at writers’ conferences, libraries and schools across the country.

To Linda Hayes, of Columbia Literary Associates,

a superlative agent and even more valued friend.

May your retirement bring you exciting new adventures

and rich satisfaction. Thank you for everything…KJ

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

One

Matthew Smythe marched into the empty room, his executive assistant trailing in his irate wake like a tiny skiff bobbing helplessly behind a battleship. “Why isn’t this room ready?” he snapped. “Where is Belinda?”

Paula Shapiro gave a weary sigh. “Sir, she quit this morning. Remember?” Like most men, including her own nearly grown sons, the young president of Smythe International only listened to what he wanted to hear.

“That’s ridiculous! The woman only took the job two months ago.”

“I suppose, like the others, she found the work—” Paula searched for a safe word “—demanding. It isn’t easy arranging these things on the spur-of-the-moment.” Or coping with your temperament, she added silently.

“A tasteful reception for a few clients. How difficult can that be?” he grumbled. Matt’s sharp eyes quickly scanned the bare room. A bar should have been set up, along with a table of imported delicacies in front of the expanse of bronzed glass overlooking a breathtaking Chicago skyline. Comfortable seating ought to have replaced the metal folding chairs.

Vaguely, he recalled that his latest in a long line of social secretaries had sounded upset about something earlier that day. But her feminine hysterics had barely made a dent in his busy mind. Perhaps he should have paid better attention. Paula had been out of the office on an errand for him or she would have been aware of the pending emergency. But it was too late now.

He glared at his watch. Less than two hours and his guests would arrive. He raked fingers through thick, dark hair. “What do you suggest we do?”

“I could call your caterer,” Paula suggested doubtfully. “But that won’t sell your products for you.”

Matt shook his head. “And tomorrow around noon, Franco would show up with a smashing spread. No, do it yourself. We have everything you’ll need.”

“Lord Smythe!” Paula’s chin dropped a full two inches, eyes narrowing to slits, fists settling on matronly hips.

Not a good sign, Matt thought. An intelligent, middle-aged woman, Paula sported a froth of blond, permed hair and spectacles with glittering thingies at the pointed corners. She also efficiently managed his office and accepted long hours of work without complaint, for which he paid her generously. But when she used his aristocratic title and that chin fell, he knew he’d gone too far.

“I reminded you just five minutes ago.” Her glare intensified. “I have to take my youngest to a dental appointment today.”

“Oh…well, of course. Sorry. Do you have any other ideas for this reception?” He could set out the food himself, but he wasn’t sure that he’d do a very good job of it. And it still left him in the lurch for a hostess, which had been the other part of Belinda’s job.

“If you’re really in a jam,” a mellow female voice spoke up from the doorway, “I could bring in a few gourmet items I think you’d be pleased with.”

Matt swung around to see a petite young woman standing at the entrance to the conference room. The first thing he noticed was her tumble of red hair. It must have been windy outside, because tendrils had been whisked every which way, yet still gleamed and managed to look terribly becoming as a frame around her elfin features. Her second remarkable feature were her long legs. If she’d been wearing anything less conservative than the navy blue suit, its skirt cut demurely below the knee, she would have been inviting trouble just by stepping outside her home. He studied her further. With the flaming hair, he expected her eyes to be green. They were not. They suggested rich mocha tones and glittered at him enthusiastically. He felt an immediate hot tug from within his body.

“Who are you?” he grumbled.

She produced a business card as swiftly as Annie Oakley drawing her six-shooter. Stepping forward, she thrust the little pink rectangle into his fingers.

“Abigail Benton,” she announced in a crisp voice.

“I represent the Cup and Saucer, a coffee-and-pastry shop here in Chicago. Perhaps you’ve heard of us?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Words bubbled from her pretty lips etched in a luscious berry-rich shade of gloss. “I’m in the building for a meeting, but I’m running early. If you like, I could collect the necessary supplies and set up the room for you. How many are you entertaining tonight?”

He viewed her speculatively. The raised color in her cheeks and the way she pushed herself halfway up onto her toes as she spoke made him suspect she wasn’t as confident as she was pretending to be. Nevertheless, the woman was putting on a damned fine show. And, admittedly, he was in a sticky situation. Anything she could do for him would be better than nothing.

“Three couples and myself,” he said, turning to leave the room. “Paula, show her where everything is then get that young man’s teeth fixed.”

Back in his private office, Matt pulled his guests’ files in front of him, covering the family crest embossed in gold on the black leather of his desk blotter. He began to review the personal as well as professional profiles in each folder. After only a few minutes, he pushed them away in frustration, unable to concentrate. All he could see was that damned explosion of crimson hair…and her eyes. Abigail Benton’s eyes had been remarkable.

Ruthlessly, he forced his thoughts back to the matter at hand.

Although immediate disaster had been averted, he wondered what the devil he was going to do about the rest of this week’s meetings. And next week’s? His schedule was packed. He needed a full-time hostess and social secretary. Smythe International was known for entertaining its business associates in style. Glamorously intimate dinner parties for his foreign exporters. Cozy receptions for American retailers whose upscale shops he supplied. Lavish entertainment had paid off for Matthew Smythe, seventh earl of Brighton. His catalog carried hundreds of delicious items from all over the world—famed Valrona chocolates made in France, Neapolitan coffees, Turkish spices and dainty British biscuits to nibble with a cup of bergamot-scented Earl Grey tea on a lazy afternoon.

But he needed a reliable staff to pull it all off. Tomorrow he would begin interviewing for Belinda’s replacement. But until then…

He glanced down at the business card tossed absently on his desk. Abigail, an old-fashioned name despite her wild beauty. She was young and, if he had accurately read her body language, inexperienced in her trade. Perhaps inexperienced on many levels. There had been that telltale layer of nervousness beneath her bright-eyed enthusiasm. He was probably a fool for trusting a stranger to such an important task. But it was either let her do whatever she could, or ship his entire party off to a restaurant. That would do neither his sales pitch nor his reputation any good. And so, he’d just have to take the risk.

Abby stood in the center of an immense temperature-controlled vault, looking around with all the prickly excitement of a child left unattended in a candy shop. She had been working for the Cup and Saucer for nine months. It beat selling perfume at a department store or waiting on tables at Burger Delite, both of which she’d done while in college and grad school at Northwestern.

Hopefully, those days were behind her. She was a salaried employee now. Minimum wage, true, but with a commission! And she loved her job.

Two days before her twenty-fifth birthday, she had finished graduate work for her master’s degree in retail marketing. The trick then had been to find a job, and she figured she might as well choose one she enjoyed. While still a student, she had loved treating herself to a cappuccino or herb tea at the Cup and Saucer—when she could afford the luxury. But even when cash was hard to come by, she had adored browsing through the rainbow of exotic teas and coffees, the imported sweets, delicate pastries, homemade cranberry-orange muffins and Chunk o’ Chocolate cookies. This was a world in which she’d be content to give up her last breath.

The last time she’d gone home to the little farm south of Alton, Illinois, she had confided her dreams to her mother. “I’ll work for a few years, saving my money, learning everything I need to know about the gourmet food industry,” she explained. “When the time is right, I’ll finance the rest and open my own little shop. Down on the Navy Pier between the arcade and that cute little jewelry store—that would be perfect.” She tingled with excitement.

“How nice, dear,” her mother had said with a patient smile and a pat on her daughter’s arm. She might as well have added, It’s good for a girl to have a hobby until she starts her family. Clearly, confiding in her mother was a wasted effort.

Actually, a family was only part of Abby’s dream. She wanted a husband and babies, of course, but first she wanted to prove to herself that she could be really good at doing something other than making babies.

With a sigh, Abby began selecting jars of imported calamara and Spanish black olives, fresh fruits, wax-sealed wedges of Stilton and Brie cheese, colorfully wrapped packets of crackers and tins of cookies from the shelves around her. She would aim for a balance of sweet and salty, pungently spiced and delightfully mild foods—since she didn’t know the tastes of the guests. Setting her loot aside on a long shelf, she opened the massive door of a walk-in freezer. Inside was a wheeled cart and, along the walls, packaged rolls, pastries, breads and meats.

Abby loaded up the cart, feeling intoxicated with shopping power. Where had the man bought all of this yummy stuff? She took mental notes of brands and country origins. Whoever the guy was, he had great taste and a genius for a supplier. Maybe he too bought from Smythe Imports, since they were in the same building. Actually on the same floor. She couldn’t find a name plaque anywhere to identify the owner of the conference room.

Glancing at her watch, she gasped. She’d been thirty minutes early for her appointment. If she hurried she could still make it without being too late.

By the time forty minutes had flown by, Abby finally finished setting up. The conference room looked inviting and cozy, the way she’d want a room to feel if she’d been traveling and longed for soothing surroundings. The bar included both chilled spring water and hot water for herb teas, along with a variety of wines and ingredients for cocktails. A round buffet table displayed a combination of imported and domestic delicacies.

She was sorely tempted to nibble, as hungry as she was. But there wasn’t even time to hunt down anyone and tell them she was done. Abby dashed breathlessly down the hall, reading off numbers on office doors as she flew past. She was ten minutes late for her meeting but, with any luck, the sales rep would be running late, too. Ordinarily the reps came to the Cup and Saucer, but she had wanted an excuse to see the offices of the prestigious importer.

She found the suite of rooms marked Smythe International and threw her body through the door—only to run into a wall of muscle and suit that let out a deep, “Ooomph.”

“Oh, sorry, I just…” But her apology was cut short as she ricocheted off the barrier and into the doorframe. Two strong hands viced her shoulders, bringing her back onto her feet and holding her upright until she stabilized.

Slowly Abby looked up at the strikingly handsome man she’d met earlier. She frowned, puzzled. “I’m so sorry,” she managed between gasps. “I guess I was in…in too much of a hurry.”

He glared darkly at her. “What’s the problem?”

“There’s no problem at all. I’ve finished setting up your room.”

He scowled critically at her hair, then his eyes slid down over her department-store suit in a way that made her feel self-conscious. “You’ll need to change.”

“Pardon me?”

“That sort of conservative getup hardly does justice to epicurean foods and fine wines.”

She stared up at him, for the first time aware of just how tall he was in comparison to her petite five-foot-three-inch figure. A good four inches over the six-foot mark, she’d guess. Built like Gibraltar. And there was something strangely familiar about him, although she doubted she’d ever met him before. “I think there’s been a slight misunderstanding here.” She tried out a diplomatic smile on him, but it seemed to have no effect. “You see, I have an important meeting. I’m late as it is. I only offered to help because you seemed to be in a bind.”

“Out of the goodness of your heart, right?” His tone was flat with sarcasm.

Abby stiffened, her smile gone. “That’s right. Some people are just plain nice. Now I’m overdue for my appointment with the sales rep for Smythe International. So if you’ll excuse me.” She tried to slip past him, but he stepped smoothly into her path.

“I sent Brian home for the day.”

She frowned. The words didn’t make sense to her. But the way he was looking at her made it impossible for her to untangle them. She could feel his gaze peeling away layers. Of clothing, certainly, but also reaching beneath, as if he were analyzing her for a particular purpose. Abby didn’t like the feeling. But she wasn’t going to let him rattle her anymore than he already had. There were more important matters at hand.

“He can’t have left!” she objected. “I set up the appointment two weeks ago.”

It was as if the man hadn’t heard a word. “Where do you live?”

He was incredible! First he mentally disrobed her. Then he expected her to divulge her home address. “I’m sorry, I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“Oh, bloody hell! I’m not some kind of masher.” The old-fashioned word sounded comical, following on his cursing. And had she imagined a faint foreign accent? British? “I just want to know if you have time to go home and change before the reception. If not, I think Belinda left a few dresses here.” His eyes did their disturbing trick again. “You look to be similar sizes.”

Abby glared at him. “The only place I’m going, since I’ve apparently missed my meeting, is back to work.”

“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?”

“I have a house in Los Angeles,” he said.

“And a penthouse apartment in New York, I hear,” her husband put in with a wink. “As well as property in Bermuda. The 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 me, your hostesses don’t last very long.”

“They obviously haven’t been right for the job,” he countered.

“But I am?”

“I think so.”

She nodded, keeping her thoughts to herself. Matt had never liked being kept waiting. She made him feel painfully restless. He was tempted to shake an answer out of her, but restrained himself.

“And how do I know I won’t find myself out of work in a few weeks?” she asked at last.

“Think, Abby. What the bloody hell are you going to learn serving up cappuccinos to college students? I’m offering you a chance to connect with people who run some of the most prosperous and prestigious companies in the world.”

“I know that!” she snapped, her eyes flashing. “I just need to understand where I stand. And I would want a contract…for a year.”

“You have it,” he said.

She blinked, looking surprised that she’d immediately received what she had asked for. “And my duties will be limited and spelled out in it.” Although she sounded prim and proper, she failed to look the part with her long, silky legs angled across the limo’s black leather cushions.

“Your responsibilities will be catalogued in detail,” he agreed. He wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of acknowledging the unofficial tasks she was so nervous about. He’d never played around with any of his employees.

But he couldn’t help it if his thoughts wandered delightfully in that direction now. Abby smelled wonderful. And that particular shade of red in her hair made him think twice about bothering with blondes and brunettes ever again. She was luminous.

“Because I am not going to sleep with you, Mr. Smythe.”

Well, there it is, he thought. Now he was going to have to pretend that he actually cared about her concerns. “I’m not interested in sleeping with you, Ms. Benton. I would never consider asking any woman for sexual favors in return for employment in my company,” he said carefully. The one thing any executive didn’t need these days was a sexual harassment lawsuit.

She nodded, apparently satisfied. Whether or not she fully believed him, he couldn’t tell. Whether or not he believed himself, he wasn’t sure either. Sleeping with Abigail Benton was becoming an increasingly interesting fantasy. The more she tiptoed around the subject, the more he thought about it.

“What will my salary be?” she asked.

He stopped himself from grinning in triumph. She was ready to talk business. How he loved winning a battle of wits with a worthy opponent. Selecting a pen and slip of paper from the caddy beside the cell phone, Matt wrote a figure.

She delicately plucked the paper from his hand but scrunched up her nose at it. “Do I have to cover my own travel expenses out of this?”

“Of course not.”

She sighed. “My wardrobe is quite limited. I don’t know if I can afford to dress the way you would want me to.”

Oh bother, he thought. He scribbled a higher figure on a second piece of paper, including a generous clothing allowance. She took this one, too.

Her eyes widened, but she sighed again. “I’m sorry. This is more than generous. But, to be honest, it’s not a matter of money. I just don’t feel this will be a secure position for me. More than anything, that’s what I need now.” She looked entreatingly across the car at him. “I want to save up and open my own little gourmet shop down by the lake. And I’ve never intended to leave Chicago, you see. It’s my hometown. I really apprecia—”

He violently dashed off a third amount, twice his original offer. The money was of little consequence to him, but he knew the figure would seem outrageously high to her. Thrusting the paper at her, he leaned back and watched with boyish anticipation as her expression changed from frustration to shock.

“Lord Smythe!”

“Matt.”

She sighed, her eyes softly appealing, as if she hoped he would understand her reticence without demanding further explanation.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. He understood all right. She wanted success without risk. And even then, she was scared she might get what she wished for. Abigail, he thought, you need a healthy shove off your safe little lily pad. And he needed someone like her to continue bringing business his way. Competitors like Joseph Cooper Imports had been breathing down his neck for years. Whatever he had to do to hold them at bay, he’d do.

He wrote one final figure on a fourth scrap. “Last offer,” he said tightly. “Don’t answer me now. Sleep on it.”

She started to speak, but he placed a finger over her lips, silencing them.

“Discuss the offer with your roommate, your parents, your priest—I don’t care who. Call me tomorrow with your answer. If you really want to own your own store, or even a chain of stores someday, you’ll take a chance with me.” She was staring incredulously at the number he’d written. “Look at it this way, the worst that can happen is, I’ll work you harder than you’ve ever worked before. But you’ll have your start-up cash four times faster under my employ than with anyone else. And you’ll know the business inside out.”

The car stopped. The driver came around to open the door. Abby clambered out, a fistful of paper scraps clutched in one hand, her purse and sack of leftovers in the other. She was staring at him in puzzlement, as if hoping, in these last few seconds, she’d discover the ruse he was playing on her.

“No hidden agendas, Ms. Benton. I need smart, dedicated people around me, and I think you’re one of that breed.” He looked at her sharply, making sure she understood he was serious. “Call me. It’s your future.”

Matt flipped a hand at the driver, who closed the door between them. A smile crept outward along his lips. Well, he’d been mostly honest with her. Still, it was a tempting concept—their sleeping together. Very tempting.

As the limo started moving again, he let the thought go. Just let it drift free, like a kite after the string breaks—only he had intentionally cut the cord. If she agreed to work for him, he couldn’t afford to turn her into a mistress. She would be too valuable to him in other ways. And, above all, he was a businessman.

Abby slept not at all that night. It wasn’t until a thin, rosy dawn broke that she dropped off into an uneasy slumber. She heard the alarm and smacked the snooze button once, twice, then tossed the horrid thing against the wall and collapsed, scrunching her pillow down over her head. She didn’t care what time it was, she needed some real sleep.

“So, how’d it go last night?” a too-chipper voice penetrated the layer of fluff.

Abby tentatively peeked out. It was Dee, bless her cold heart, standing in the bedroom doorway, sipping her morning java from a stoneware mug.

“Leave me alone.”

“It’s Saturday. You have to be down at the store by nine, don’t you?”

“Oh God, yes. I wasn’t even thinking.” Abby flung the pillow aside and pressed her fingertips to her temples, squinting into the morning light.

“That bad, huh?” Dee guessed. “Boring people, bad food and the boss-man made a pass at you, poor baby.”

“Not quite.” Abby sat up in bed. “Fascinating people, the best food I’ve ever eaten and Smythe offered me a job that pays four times what I’m making now.”

“Bummer.” Dee’s eyes twinkled mischievously.

“Knock it off. This isn’t funny.”

“So, who’s laughing? Sounds like you walked into a dream. Why are you looking like a stressed-out ostrich instead of jumping for joy on the bed?”

Abby rolled her eyes, at a loss for words to explain her tangled emotions. “Because I don’t trust him. And I don’t trust myself to make the right decision.”

Dee came and sat on the bed beside her. “Tell Mama.”

Abby accepted a sip from her friend’s mug then rolled her eyes with the effort of putting her feelings into words. “He’s…I don’t know…overpowering. You’d have to see him to understand. Matthew Smythe walks into a room, and you just know he’s going to waltz out of there with anything he wants. I’ll bet he signs deals next week with all three of the bigwigs he was entertaining last night. And when he drove me home in his limo—”

“His li-mo-o-o-o?” Dee arched an ebony brow at her.

“Yes, his limo. When he drove me home after his guests had left, he told me he wanted me to come work for him. When I didn’t say yes right away, he kept upping the ante. He swore it was strictly business, no fooling around.”

“They all do,” Dee mused, but didn’t look too unhappy at the thought.

“It sounded as if he meant it. That’s what bothered me.”

“You mean, you wanted him to proposition you?”

“Of course not…at least, I don’t think I did. But when he didn’t I felt kind of…disappointed.” Abby agitatedly fluttered her fingers in the air. “It’s hard to explain. I just don’t trust myself around him. I’m like a spaceship in one of those intergalactic sci-fi flicks. My shields go down.”

Dee laughed. “You’ve really got it bad, girl.”

“The irritating thing is, I know the job is absolutely perfect. It would put me miles ahead in my master plan to open my own place. I’d only have to work for Smythe two, maybe three years…and I’d have all my start-up money plus the experience I’d need to run my own business.”

“But?”

“But I’d have to keep my shields up.”

“And after all this time, you don’t really want to, is that it?”

The all this time brought a painful twinge of remorse to her heart, for the words didn’t refer to the few hours she’d known Lord Matthew Smythe. Dee was referring to the other men who had come into Abby’s life, only to be told that she intended to wait for marriage to sleep with anyone. Richad Wooten, the last one, had nearly made it to the altar. Nearly being the operative word.

Abby nodded slowly, only now admitting to herself what she’d felt all the night before. “I can’t begin to tell you how handsome he is and what he does to my insides.” She hesitated. “And there’s something else.”

“I’m listening.” Dee sipped her coffee, her eyes never leaving Abby’s.

“I’m not sure I believe his promise that it will always be only business between us. And I know that sounds as if I’m contradicting myself—because of what I said about being attracted to him. But I keep asking myself, if he’s lying to me about our getting involved, how can I trust him not to lie about other things—like not firing me after just a few months?”

Dee shrugged. “Good point. You’d be working here in Chicago?”

“Some of the time.” Abby pursed her lips and looked across the bedroom at her collection of tiny crystal animals on the bureau. She’d had some of them since she was in seventh grade, and her parents still added a new one every birthday and Christmas. No matter where she’d lived, even in the dorm at school, they’d been with her. “He travels a lot, keeps offices on the West Coast, in New York, and entertains at his villa in Bermuda.”

“No way.”

“I swear. I’m supposed to accompany him, set up his receptions and parties, play hostess wherever he goes.”

Dee solemnly shook her head. “Definitely a tough life…”

Glaring at her roommate, Abby raised a warning finger. “You’re laughing at me.”

Dee winked. “Now would I do that?”

The phone rang before Abby could heave a pillow at her. Reaching across her rumpled sheets, she picked up the receiver.

Before Abby could answer, a voice boomed through the line. “I want your answer now.”

“Lord Smythe!” Self-consciously, Abby yanked the sheets up over the front of her thin nightdress…then felt silly when Dee laughed at her knee-jerk gesture of modesty. “I haven’t really had a chance to thi—”

“You’ve slept on my proposal,” he stated. “If you don’t know your own mind by now, you won’t know it any better twenty-four hours from now.”

Abby shot a desperate look at Dee, who blinked, looked amused, and was no help at all.

Abby cleared her throat. “Working for you would mean a lot of changes for me. I told you, I’ve never considered leaving Chicago and—”

“Do you have family here?” he asked.

Was she imagining a gentling of his voice? “Not in the city. But my parents live thirty miles away. I have no brothers or sisters.”

“Your parents are in good health?”

“Yes.”

“You have a boyfriend?”

“No,” she answered automatically, although she would have told any other person interviewing her for a job that such information was none of their business.

“No one serious in your life,” he murmured. “And you have no personal commitments. I see.”

What does “I see” mean? she thought frantically.

“Then tell me, Abby,” he asked in a rich baritone that sent curls of warmth through her center, “what is keeping you cemented to this city?”

What indeed? she asked herself. Perhaps it was just that she’d never considered living elsewhere. She felt safe here, comfortable within familiar surroundings. Chicago had never seemed a big city to her, even though she’d grown up on a dairy farm. She loved the distinct neighborhoods of the windy city. She had friends in Greektown, shopped the Arab fruit markets and Jewish bakeries and ate in Polish restaurants. She had never considered needing a larger canvas on which to paint her life. Everything she needed to be happy was right here.

Or so she’d always thought.

“Nothing,” she whispered into the phone. “Nothing keeps me here. It’s just my home.”

He was silent on the other end, and she could tell this was a silence calculated to let her think about what she’d just said. She did think. She considered the advantages he was offering her…and the dangers. Far more risk was involved in working for Matthew Smythe than she’d ever dreamed of taking. Her stomach felt tied in a knot.

Dee nudged her, hard. When Abby looked up, her friend was mouthing the words—Take it! Take it! Take it!

Abby drew a long, deep breath, then let it out very slowly. “I need to give my boss notice.”

“I want you to start today.”

“But I—”

“Monday morning we’ll leave for New York. You’ll need the weekend to familiarize yourself with the company’s products and the accounts we’ll be working on. I’ll want you in my office by noon today.”

Abby covered the receiver and whispered, “I’m negotiating with Attila the Hun!”

Dee chuckled. “Honey, aggression’s bred into ’em.”

Not into every man, Abby thought. They weren’t all as arrogant and bent on having their own way as the entrepreneur aristocrat. Every instinct told her to say no. Just to spite the man. But by doing so she would hurt only herself. There were hundreds…thousands of young women who would leap at the chance to work for Smythe, travel the world and be paid far more than they were worth.

Through the line she thought she could hear another voice. A woman’s. Abby’s ears perked up, but she couldn’t make out the exact words.

Then Matt was back on the phone, his tone noticeably gentler. “If you accept the terms of our agreement and the salary suits you, Paula will be here at the office to brief you. She says just to let her know a convenient time, and she’ll make sure she’s available.” He sounded like a schoolboy who’d been taken to task by his teacher. So there was someone who had found a way to muffle his bark. Interesting, Abby thought.

“I can’t leave my boss at the Cup and Saucer without any help,” she responded cautiously. “If I’m able to find someone today to fill in for me until a full-time replacement is hired, I’ll come to your office as soon as possible. If not, I’ll let you know when I can make it.”

Matt hung up the phone and sat staring at it, considering the conversation he had just had. Abby had never actually said she was taking the job. She simply informed him she would come if and when she could. It was almost as if she was still wrestling with him for control. Control over what, though? He’d always thought that employer–employee relationships were pretty clear-cut. He was the one who was supposed to be the boss!

After Paula left the room, he slid lower in the high-backed Scandinavian chair, clunked his heels on the polished teak desktop and thought about all of this before remembering a scene he’d witnessed recently while jogging through Lake Shore Park. He had been running his usual five miles when he spotted a toddler in a bathing suit, standing at the water’s edge. She was testing the temperature with the toes of one bare foot, giggling and running back from the lapping wavelets, then touching them again, and again—until she finally worked up the courage to wade in up to her ankles, then her knees, then finally to her waist. At which point she had turned and grinned triumphantly at her parents who were watching with amusement from the shore.

Abby was eager to succeed, and bright, he had no doubt of that, but eternally wary.

Caution was a foreign concept to him. Matt supposed his lack of fear came from never having to worry about failing. His family’s money had always provided an excellent safety net. No doubt his brothers felt it, too. When several million sat snugly in a London bank account with your name on it, you didn’t worry about making mistakes. What was the worst that could happen? Your latest business venture would flop. Then you’d have to try something different. But you’d bloody well still have a roof over your head and a meal on your plate the next day.

What mattered most to him wasn’t making more money. Matt could take or leave that. He supposed the drive to succeed that had spurred him on had more to do with showing his father that he didn’t need him, his aristocratic fortune or the estate in the South of England that came with his title. Just as the earl of Suffolk had demonstrated time and again to his sons that he didn’t need them. Matt had come to America the first chance he got and made it on his own—totally on his own—leaving money, valuable social and business connections, and land behind.

But Abby didn’t have scratch.

He knew the type because Paula had been much like her—although somewhat older and with two sons—before she’d come to work for him. Paula used to buy groceries for a month at a time then squirrel them away, making the food last as long as possible. She paid her rent not a day early, keeping it in a savings account to capture those few extra pennies of interest. Nearly all of every paycheck was spent on bills and necessities. Paula had once confided in him that she had maxed out her credit cards months before he hired her.

The idea of Abby ever being able to scrape up enough cash from her old job to start a business was ludicrous.

There were thousands of single people like Paula and Abby—living on the edge but still cherishing their dreams of being out of debt, maybe even owning their own home someday. He didn’t think of himself as a philanthropist, but he liked to believe he was giving the men and women he hired a chance to turn their lives around. Some did. Others failed to take advantage of all he was offering them.

Which would it be for Abby?

Matt tossed two files into his briefcase, ordered his car to be brought around, then returned two important calls. As he strode through the reception area, Paula looked up from her desk.

“Your new gal-Friday called. You were on your line so I took the message. She said she’d be here around two o’clock.”

“Good. You’ll brief her as we discussed?”

Paula nodded, but gave him a strange look. “You won’t be here when she arrives?”

“I have no idea when I’ll be back from my appointments. You can do the honors.”

He hesitated before stepping into the hallway. “Thank you, Paula, for coming in on a Saturday. Will you still have some time to spend with your boys this weekend?”

She laughed at him. “Saturdays, young men have their own agendas. Or don’t you remember the other side of twenty? Tomorrow, though, they’ll take me out for brunch. We splurge on double-yolk omelets once a month.”

Matt smiled, glad to see her beaming with pride. Before too many years, the boys would be applying to colleges. He’d have to look into scholarship possibilities then, or maybe a private grant.

“Have fun tomorrow then. You can leave as soon as you’ve given Abby the lowdown. Tell her to wait for me. She can keep herself busy reading clients’ files until I get here.”

As Matt waited for the elevator, he thought again about Abby. Or maybe it was just a continuation of one long thought that had extended over nearly two days. He would probably be back in the office by five o’clock. By then he would have to come up with a safe method of relating to her. Last night, as he had drifted off to sleep, she had come to him. Those lovely limbs, mocha eyes, the tumble of red hair curling down over her shoulders…amazing.

Now he firmly assured himself that, once they buckled down to a regular work schedule, he would discover enough irritating things about her to shut down his rogue hormones. Then he’d have no more of those thoughts.

Abby was a little surprised that Wanda Evans, her boss at the Cup and Saucer, took her sudden resignation as calmly as she did. “Don’t you worry, dear, I have everything covered here. This sounds like a wonderful opportunity. Good luck.” And that was that.

Her arrival at Smythe International was unremarkable, too. She was met by Paula Shapiro, the woman she’d seen with Matt the day before. Paula introduced herself, with a twinkle in her eyes. “My official title is executive assistant. Plain old secretary would be fine by me. My real job is to keep the man from killing himself and the rest of us with work.”

Abby laughed a little nervously. “He does seem to like getting things done fast…and his own way.”

“Oh, he knows his own mind, that’s for sure. And there’s both heaven and hell to pay when he doesn’t get it. But let me tell you,” Paula whispered confidentially as she took Abby’s arm and guided her past two empty offices then into a quiet conference room, “the best way to handle the man is not to let him think you’re afraid of him. He knows enough not to mess with me, but he scared off his last four hostesses without even realizing he was doing it. Before that, one fell in love with him and, of course, that was the kiss of death as far as Matt is concerned. He keeps business strictly separate from his social life. And the one before that, she got herself engaged to one of his clients and flew off to Paris with him.”

Abby shook her head. This didn’t sound encouraging at all. “I’m curious…how long has each of his hostesses before me lasted?”

“The longest was a year. The shortest, two weeks. I’m hoping you’ll hang in with us a while.” Paula squeezed her arm and waved toward a seat at the long mahogany table piled with tabbed folders. “We could use some stability around here. It’s hard having to work with new people all the time.”

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