Kathryn Jensen – The American Earl (страница 2)

But he needed a reliable staff to pull it all off. Tomorrow he would begin interviewing for Belinda’s replacement. But until then…

He glanced down at the business card tossed absently on his desk. Abigail, an old-fashioned name despite her wild beauty. She was young and, if he had accurately read her body language, inexperienced in her trade. Perhaps inexperienced on many levels. There had been that telltale layer of nervousness beneath her bright-eyed enthusiasm. He was probably a fool for trusting a stranger to such an important task. But it was either let her do whatever she could, or ship his entire party off to a restaurant. That would do neither his sales pitch nor his reputation any good. And so, he’d just have to take the risk.

Abby stood in the center of an immense temperature-controlled vault, looking around with all the prickly excitement of a child left unattended in a candy shop. She had been working for the Cup and Saucer for nine months. It beat selling perfume at a department store or waiting on tables at Burger Delite, both of which she’d done while in college and grad school at Northwestern.

Hopefully, those days were behind her. She was a salaried employee now. Minimum wage, true, but with a commission! And she loved her job.

Two days before her twenty-fifth birthday, she had finished graduate work for her master’s degree in retail marketing. The trick then had been to find a job, and she figured she might as well choose one she enjoyed. While still a student, she had loved treating herself to a cappuccino or herb tea at the Cup and Saucer—when she could afford the luxury. But even when cash was hard to come by, she had adored browsing through the rainbow of exotic teas and coffees, the imported sweets, delicate pastries, homemade cranberry-orange muffins and Chunk o’ Chocolate cookies. This was a world in which she’d be content to give up her last breath.

The last time she’d gone home to the little farm south of Alton, Illinois, she had confided her dreams to her mother. “I’ll work for a few years, saving my money, learning everything I need to know about the gourmet food industry,” she explained. “When the time is right, I’ll finance the rest and open my own little shop. Down on the Navy Pier between the arcade and that cute little jewelry store—that would be perfect.” She tingled with excitement.

“How nice, dear,” her mother had said with a patient smile and a pat on her daughter’s arm. She might as well have added, It’s good for a girl to have a hobby until she starts her family. Clearly, confiding in her mother was a wasted effort.

Actually, a family was only part of Abby’s dream. She wanted a husband and babies, of course, but first she wanted to prove to herself that she could be really good at doing something other than making babies.

With a sigh, Abby began selecting jars of imported calamara and Spanish black olives, fresh fruits, wax-sealed wedges of Stilton and Brie cheese, colorfully wrapped packets of crackers and tins of cookies from the shelves around her. She would aim for a balance of sweet and salty, pungently spiced and delightfully mild foods—since she didn’t know the tastes of the guests. Setting her loot aside on a long shelf, she opened the massive door of a walk-in freezer. Inside was a wheeled cart and, along the walls, packaged rolls, pastries, breads and meats.

Abby loaded up the cart, feeling intoxicated with shopping power. Where had the man bought all of this yummy stuff? She took mental notes of brands and country origins. Whoever the guy was, he had great taste and a genius for a supplier. Maybe he too bought from Smythe Imports, since they were in the same building. Actually on the same floor. She couldn’t find a name plaque anywhere to identify the owner of the conference room.

Glancing at her watch, she gasped. She’d been thirty minutes early for her appointment. If she hurried she could still make it without being too late.

By the time forty minutes had flown by, Abby finally finished setting up. The conference room looked inviting and cozy, the way she’d want a room to feel if she’d been traveling and longed for soothing surroundings. The bar included both chilled spring water and hot water for herb teas, along with a variety of wines and ingredients for cocktails. A round buffet table displayed a combination of imported and domestic delicacies.

She was sorely tempted to nibble, as hungry as she was. But there wasn’t even time to hunt down anyone and tell them she was done. Abby dashed breathlessly down the hall, reading off numbers on office doors as she flew past. She was ten minutes late for her meeting but, with any luck, the sales rep would be running late, too. Ordinarily the reps came to the Cup and Saucer, but she had wanted an excuse to see the offices of the prestigious importer.

She found the suite of rooms marked Smythe International and threw her body through the door—only to run into a wall of muscle and suit that let out a deep, “Ooomph.”

“Oh, sorry, I just…” But her apology was cut short as she ricocheted off the barrier and into the doorframe. Two strong hands viced her shoulders, bringing her back onto her feet and holding her upright until she stabilized.

Slowly Abby looked up at the strikingly handsome man she’d met earlier. She frowned, puzzled. “I’m so sorry,” she managed between gasps. “I guess I was in…in too much of a hurry.”

He glared darkly at her. “What’s the problem?”

“There’s no problem at all. I’ve finished setting up your room.”

He scowled critically at her hair, then his eyes slid down over her department-store suit in a way that made her feel self-conscious. “You’ll need to change.”

“Pardon me?”

“That sort of conservative getup hardly does justice to epicurean foods and fine wines.”

She stared up at him, for the first time aware of just how tall he was in comparison to her petite five-foot-three-inch figure. A good four inches over the six-foot mark, she’d guess. Built like Gibraltar. And there was something strangely familiar about him, although she doubted she’d ever met him before. “I think there’s been a slight misunderstanding here.” She tried out a diplomatic smile on him, but it seemed to have no effect. “You see, I have an important meeting. I’m late as it is. I only offered to help because you seemed to be in a bind.”

“Out of the goodness of your heart, right?” His tone was flat with sarcasm.

Abby stiffened, her smile gone. “That’s right. Some people are just plain nice. Now I’m overdue for my appointment with the sales rep for Smythe International. So if you’ll excuse me.” She tried to slip past him, but he stepped smoothly into her path.

“I sent Brian home for the day.”

She frowned. The words didn’t make sense to her. But the way he was looking at her made it impossible for her to untangle them. She could feel his gaze peeling away layers. Of clothing, certainly, but also reaching beneath, as if he were analyzing her for a particular purpose. Abby didn’t like the feeling. But she wasn’t going to let him rattle her anymore than he already had. There were more important matters at hand.

“He can’t have left!” she objected. “I set up the appointment two weeks ago.”

It was as if the man hadn’t heard a word. “Where do you live?”

He was incredible! First he mentally disrobed her. Then he expected her to divulge her home address. “I’m sorry, I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“Oh, bloody hell! I’m not some kind of masher.” The old-fashioned word sounded comical, following on his cursing. And had she imagined a faint foreign accent? British? “I just want to know if you have time to go home and change before the reception. If not, I think Belinda left a few dresses here.” His eyes did their disturbing trick again. “You look to be similar sizes.”

Abby glared at him. “The only place I’m going, since I’ve apparently missed my meeting, is back to work.”

“Ah, yes.” His eyes lifted and so did the corners of his lips. “That little coffee shop over on Oak. I’ve stopped by a few times.” He nodded, keeping his opinion to himself.

“I’m sorry I can’t stay and play hostess for you. But I’m sure you’ll make out fine.”

His expression conveyed that he knew she didn’t have a clue how he’d make out. But he wasn’t going to argue the point. “Call your boss and ask for the rest of the day off. I’ll pay you five bills to smile and make nice to my guests.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Five hundred dollars?” A heartbeat later, the implication of the rest of his sentence struck her. “That isn’t the kind of work I do, Mr.—”

“Matthew Smythe.” He held out a hand for her to shake and at the moment she remembered where she’d seen him before…or at least his photos. The last time had been on the cover of Fortune magazine. She immediately seized his hand as if she’d been ordered to. Then, gradually, the implication of all she’d said up to that moment sank in. She had probably sounded like a madwoman.

“You’re the president of Smythe International,” she murmured weakly. “The third largest import company of its kind in this country.” She had read about him in the Wall Street Journal and Fortune, as well as the society columns in the Tribune. He was always referred to as The American Earl—Lord Matthew Smythe—a member of the British aristocracy who had come to America and made himself a second fortune.