young herself and found it extremely easy to develop a rapport with them.
When Greg came to see her she had liked him on sight and immediately agreed to handle his case, but he had suggested that she meet his father first, said he would need his parent’s approval. ‘I think, when he suggested I use your firm, he thought that Sommers was a man,’ he had said wryly. ‘My father is actually very much against professional women. You’ll need to persuade him that you’re the right person.’
When she’d pointed out that at eighteen he did not need his father’s permission he had shrugged wistfully. ‘I’d rather not go against him.’
This was when Abby had drawn up a mental image of a browbeating little man. Little men were always the worst, she had found in the course of her profession; it was as though they had something to prove. Not for one fleeting moment had she expected to be confronted by this physically perfect male specimen.
He had thick black hair frosted with silver at the temples and above his ears, and beneath a black cashmere sweater and black worsted trousers was the suggestion of hard muscles—a man in the prime of his life, a man who took good care of himself.
He sat down opposite her and Greg took a seat next to his father. There was no resemblance between them; Greg had mid-brown hair, quiet grey eyes and a gentle face—he would never stop a woman’s heart just by looking at her. She presumed he took after his mother and wondered why the woman wasn’t present.
Hallam Lane, on the other hand, had ‘sexy male animal’ stamped all over him, and together with an air of wealth and authority it was enough to stop any girl dead in her tracks.
Abby found her eyes drawn to his mouth, to wide, generous lips that suggested further lethal sensuality. They were the most kissable lips she had ever seen, and as she and Hallam Lane sat there for a second or two weighing each other up she unconsciously touched the tip of her tongue to her own lips—and it was only when she saw his faint frown that she realised what she was doing and that he was putting the wrong interpretation on it.
Shaking off the alien feeling of attraction towards this big man, Abby became all businesswoman, sitting up that little bit straighter, glad she had dressed for the part today. Often, in her office, she wore something casual—young clients were not so intimidated that way—but this morning, in order to impress Greg’s father, she had put on one of her severely cut suits that she normally saved for court appearances.
Her long, deeply waved Titian hair was pinned into a French pleat so that it was tidy and out of the way. She wore no earrings—in fact nothing in the way of jewellery except a garnet ring that had belonged to her mother—and only the very minimum of make-up.
She had thought, when she’d checked in the mirror before leaving the house, that she looked every inch a conservative, responsible young woman. Greg’s father could not possibly take exception to her. Abby unfortunately had no idea that, whatever she wore, it did not hide the fact that she was an extraordinarily sensual person. Nothing she could do would ever hide it.
‘Let’s get to the point, shall we, Mr Lane?’ Her tone was brisk and completely businesslike, and there was a deliberate blankness in her expression. ‘Your son has expressed a wish that you and I meet. He seems to think it necessary to have your approval before I take on his case.’
Hallam Lane nodded slowly, his eyes penetrating hers with an intensity that was unnerving. ‘That is correct. You sound as though you find it strange?’
Abby shrugged, trying to quell the awareness that trickled through her veins. ‘He is of age,’ she pointed out levelly. ‘Parents don’t usually interfere. Although getting to know you will no doubt help me gain a better picture of Greg and his background.’
‘Interfere?’ He picked up on that one word, and thick brows drew together. ‘I am not interfering, Sommers. I merely have my son’s best interests at heart. I want to make sure that he has the best legal representation possible.’
‘Of course.’ Realising the foolishness of getting on this man’s wrong side so early in proceedings, Abby immediately apologised. ‘It was an unfortunate choice of word, Mr Lane. I assure you I meant nothing derogatory whatsoever.’
He gave a wintry smile. ‘I’m pleased to hear it. But the fact of the matter remains that I am not prepared to allow a woman to handle my son’s case. I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey.’
‘Why ever not?’ Abby had come up against discrimination like this many times before. With her slender, willowy figure and richly coloured hair no man ever took her seriously. She had a bubbly personality, a vibrant, lively face, and walked with an unconscious sway to her hips. No one ever believed that she was a solicitor.
Now she drew her fine brows together over beautiful, wide green eyes. ‘Don’t you think your son should be the one to make that decision?’ Although Greg had warned her about his father’s prejudice it still came as something of a surprise.
‘Not when it’s my money that will be paying your bill,’ he pointed out crisply.
It was an unnecessarily sharp retort and Abby took it as a personal insult. Her chin lifted and her eyes sparked. ‘Are you under the impression that female solicitors do not do as good a job as a man?’
Unfortunately, as she spoke, Abby felt a pin fall out of the pleat in her hair and she silently cursed. If there was any occasion when she needed to look professional this was it; she needed to prove herself to this man—perhaps more so than with anyone else she had ever met. Before she’d come to the house today she had formed the opinion that he was a hard man to deal with—and already in these first few minutes he was proving her right.
As she quickly raised her hand to check that none of her hair had fallen out of place she was conscious of Hallam Lane’s dark eyes following the movement, openly and insolently appraising the way her grey jacket moulded to her breasts as they were brought into prominence by the action of her arm. It was a typical male reaction and made her blood boil.
She dropped her hand immediately but still his eyes carried on their deliberate scrutiny, moving down the entire length of her body, slow inch by slow inch, missing nothing, not stopping until they reached her narrow feet, clad in black leather court shoes.
It was not the normal, casual glance a man gave a woman—not indeed. She felt as though she had been stripped naked, every article of clothing divested from her body. She drew in a deep, angry breath. ‘If you’ve quite finished, Mr Lane, I’d like an answer to my question.’
Her clear green eyes were brightly indignant, her lashes, darkened by mascara, quivered—as did every inch of her. She was beginning to see why Greg had insisted on getting his father’s approval. He was quite a man, Hallam Lane.
Black eyes connected with hers. ‘As a matter of fact, yes, I have no faith in women solicitors. What’s happened to Neville Sommers? Has he retired?’
A shadow crossed her face. ‘My father died,’ she told him bluntly. It had been a black day in the Sommers household.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said immediately. ‘I didn’t know. He was a good man. The best.’ There was genuine compassion in his voice.
‘And I have taken his place,’ she added proudly, challenge in her green eyes.
Hallam Lane looked at her narrowly. ‘Under the circumstances I would have expected your company to suggest one of the older partners.’
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