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“Is it younger men you prefer?”
Abby’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“You said you came here because of Greg. I saw the way you were looking at each other just now. I’m not a fool, Abby, so don’t take me for one. I suppose this is the reason he was so insistent that you prepare his case. Is it mutual?”
Abby couldn’t believe she was hearing this. “You’re crazy. Me and Greg? I’m eleven years older than he is, for heaven’s sake.”
“I can’t see that making any difference.”
She let out a little hiss of anger. “If this is an indication of what the holiday is going to be like, then I’ve made a serious mistake. It will be no pleasure if you accuse me of trying to seduce your son every time I speak to him.”
“Let’s hope I’m wrong,” Hallam said loftily.
Born in the industrial heart of England, MARGARET MAYO now lives with her husband in a pretty Staffordshire canalside village. Once a secretary, she turned to writing books both at home and in exotic locations, combining her hobby of photography with her research.
Ungentlemanly Behaviour
Margaret Mayo
FOR GILLIAN
HALLAM LANE was nothing as Abby had imagined. After talking to his son she had developed a picture with her mind’s eye of a stern-faced tyrant, possibly not very tall, completely lacking in warmth and affection, and showing Greg no compassion at all in his time of need.
Nothing could have been further from the truth. Greg’s father was in fact well over six feet, fantastically sexy and incredibly good-looking, even though his nose was a little too aquiline, his jaw square and tough, and his dark, thickly lashed eyes had the sort of quality that could melt a woman’s bones merely by their looking at her. And at this moment he was doing just that.
For a few minutes Abby had been able to watch him unobserved. She had arrived early for her appointment and his housekeeper had shown her into a comfortable sitting-room that overlooked the vast gardens of the Lanes’ mansion home. Father and son were somewhere outside and she would fetch them, the woman had said.
A telephone call, however, had delayed her and as Abby had stood and waited, admiring the gardens through the open floor-length windows, the two men had come into view. Greg had been laughing over something his father had said and the older man’s arm had been wrapped companionably about his son’s shoulders.
Then Greg had moved away as Hallam Lane said something else, giving him a playful punch as he did so. There followed a good-natured sparring match, after which the two of them embraced and they had both still been laughing as they’d approached the house.
Upon entering the room Hallam Lane had looked slightly taken aback to see a strange young woman standing there. Now he glanced at his watch. ‘Miss Sommers, I presume? You’re early.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and to Greg, with a warm smile, added, ‘Hello again.’
He returned her smile faintly and looked vaguely uneasy, but Abby had no time to dwell on the reason why because Hallam Lane was holding out his hand. Abby took it and her five feet seven inches immediately felt dwarfed.
Velvet dark eyes studied her closely. ‘Please, take a seat,’ he said.
His voice was deep and gravelly and as sexy as his body—a toe-curling combination that added to her confusion. She had come here prepared to dislike him, to stand up for Greg against him, and already in these first few minutes she had not only seen an unexpected bonhomie between father and son but had felt a threatening attraction herself! A rare experience.
She’d had lots of dates as she’d worked her way through law school, but no serious relationships, nothing long-term, and in fact had spent most of her adult years trying to prove herself, to fight prejudice and succeed in a man’s world. And she had done just that—she didn’t take after her father for nothing. She had inherited his fighting spirit and even at the age of twenty-nine had built up quite a fierce reputation for herself.
Abby enjoyed being a solicitor: she enjoyed the variety of work; she enjoyed fighting for
