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
