The American Earl

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.