at the café down again this weekend I’ll lose my job there, and I simply can’t afford that.’ She couldn’t afford to lose this job either, which was why she was being so diplomatic. She’d have just loved to tell the dear doctor exactly what he could do with his proposition.
‘How much do you earn in one weekend?’
‘Why?’
He sighed. ‘Just answer the question, please, Miss Richmond.’
‘One hundred and twenty dollars, plus tips.’
‘I see. How long would it take for you to get another similar job, if you lost that one?’
‘What? Oh, I...I couldn’t say exactly. Sometimes you can be lucky, but it could take weeks and weeks.’
‘Three months tops, would you say?’
‘Y-yes.’ What was he getting at? Why didn’t he just let the matter drop? She wasn’t going to say yes, no matter how much he offered her.
He picked up a small calculator lying on his desk. ‘Thirteen weeks times one-twenty equals one thousand, five hundred and sixty dollars,’ he calculated aloud. ‘I would assume a girl like you would get plenty of tips, so I’ll up it to two thousand dollars—up front and in advance. What do you say to that, Abby? Not bad pay for three days’ work. More than enough to make ends meet till you get another job.’
His use of her first name did not escape Abby, and it sealed his fate even more than his demeaning offer. ‘I’m sorry, but I must refuse again, Dr Grant. I’m simply not a good enough actress for the part. I think Sylvia’s right. I think you should hire yourself a professional.’
‘But I don’t want a professional, Abby,’ he returned coolly. ‘I want you.’
She just stared at him, her mouth going dry. My God, if she didn’t know him better, she might think that he really meant that.
‘Maybe I should clarify that last statement,’ he went on drily, a single eyebrow lifting at her obvious surprise. ‘The reason I said I wanted you specifically is because I know that underneath your oh, so cool politeness you can’t stand a bar of me. I have no wish to have to fire you afterwards because you’ve stupidly fallen in love with me. On top of that, I would imagine that in the right clothes you could be quite lovely. Yes...’ His eyes drifted down from her face to the swell of her breasts. ‘Quite lovely.’
Abby didn’t know which part of his speech infuriated her the most. Certainly the condescending and lukewarm ‘quite lovely’ kept going round and round in her head. My God, if she set her mind to it, she could knock this supercilious devil’s eyes out!
‘Aren’t you afraid my underlying dislike might show through?’ she asked through gritted teeth.
‘No. I have great faith in the acting ability of women. Besides, I never take out females who fawn all over me. Of course, under the circumstances, I will only expect you to pretend to be a friend, not my live-in lover. Consequently I will change the booking to twin rooms.’
Abby only just managed to hide her contempt. So Evelyn had been expected to sleep with him during this little jaunt, play the part of his wife without ever expecting to get the part for real.
Charming.
For all Dillon’s subsequent betrayal, he’d at least been prepared to pull out all the stops in winning her heart before expecting her to become his lover. Nothing had been too much trouble—flowers, chocolates, candlelit dinners. He’d swept her off to bed with sweet words ringing in her ears and promises of forever. Whereas Ethan Grant promised his women nothing...except a cold-blooded, machine-like performance between the sheets.
Why, then, did Abby find herself suddenly wanting to experience that machine-like performance? Why, for pity’s sake? It went against everything she’d ever believed about herself.
Heat rushed into her cheeks at the appalling thoughts which sprang into her mind.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, flustered now. ‘It... it’s quite out of the question. I simply can’t.’
‘There’s no such word as can’t,’ he bit out. ‘So what’s the problem, then? I would have thought two thousand dollars would have smoothed over any antagonism you felt towards me. Believe it or not, I can be quite personable company when I want to be. Look, don’t say no straight away. Think it over and give me a ring at home on Sunday night around eight. Sylvia will be out, so you needn’t worry about any awkwardness there.’
Abby decided that it would be much easier to refuse for the second and last time over the telephone. It was hard to sound convincing when one was blushing and stammering. And when underneath one was insanely tempted to say yes. My God, she must be going mad!
‘All right,’ she agreed shakily.
When the beginnings of a smug smile pulled at her employer’s disdainful mouth, Abby’s heart immediately stopped its stupid fluttering. He believed she’d say yes, that the money he’d offered would override any qualms she might have.
Abby’s heart hardened further as she recognised that he might even suspect that underneath her surface hostility she was sexually attracted to him. This last suspicion closed the door on the subject. Nothing on earth would ever make her say yes now. Nothing!
CHAPTER THREE
NOTHING, as it turned out, except fate, and an old lady’s heartbreak.
The first nail in Abby’s coffin came the next day, when she quit her waitressing job after the boss pawed at her bottom one time too many. Then, on that same Saturday night, some rotten thug broke in and burgled Miss Blanchford’s room. The poor old thing was so distressed that Abby spent the whole of Sunday trying to comfort her.
‘It’ll be all right, Miss Blanchford,’ Abby soothed, after the police had finally left at around four in the afternoon. They were sitting in Miss Blanchford’s room, which was the biggest and best in the ancient old boarding bouse, its large window overlooking the rather ramshackle front garden. Unfortunately, it had been this same window which had given the thief easy entry into the downstairs room.
Miss Blanchford shook her head as two big tears trickled down her wrinkled cheeks. ‘All gone,’ she said with a strangled sob. ‘Five years’ savings. All gone.’
Abby bit her bottom lip to stop herself from crying as well. The poor old thing. But, oh...if only she’d put her money in the bank, instead of in a biscuit tin under her bed.
The police thought the thief was probably someone who’d once lived in the same boarding house and had learnt about Miss Blanchford’s distrust of banks—not an uncommon thing with survivors of the great Depression. Unfortunately, the police also thought there was little hope of finding the perpetrator and recovering the money, although they hadn’t said as much to Miss Blanchford. Abby had insisted on that. The poor old love was upset enough as it was.
The real tragedy was that the money had been to buy an electric wheelchair. Miss Blanchford was suffering a degenerative muscular disease which was making it harder and harder for her to get around in her handpropelled chair.
‘What am I going to do, Abby?’ the old lady cried. ‘I don’t want to go into one of
