Kathryn Jensen - The American Earl

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.

“We’ve done well,” he murmured dismissively. “Look, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, Miss Benton. You have to understand, I’m in a rare fix here. An hour from now, three buyers for prosperous, upscale retail companies, along with their wives and traveling companions, will arrive at this suite.” He shoved strong fingers through his neatly clipped hair. It fell immediately back into place, every hair in line. “Serving samples of the products I bring into this country doesn’t make a strong enough impact to guarantee a sale. I need a partner circling the room, listening for comments, keeping spouses entertained, putting on a gracious face. I need you.” The last three words were very nearly a growl.

“But I don’t—” She was about to protest that she knew nothing about entertaining elite company when the possible benefits of her situation slammed up against her innate shyness. Five hundred dollars and goodwill toward man aside, the experience and contacts gained from such an evening would be invaluable. She’d be a fool to say no! “I’ll change and be back in less than an hour.”

“That dress looks good, too. I don’t know why you’re fussing so much over one little cocktail party.” Abby’s roommate, Dee D’Angello, sat in the center of Abby’s bed, watching her try on the sixth dress in fifteen minutes.

“If you saw in person what he looks like, you’d understand,” Abby said dryly. “The man is gorgeous. And his suit! Better than an Armani. Had to be hand-tailored.” She tugged another dress down over her head and stood before the mirror on her closet door, smoothing out wrinkles. “Do you have any idea of the cost of a tailored suit these days? I’ll bet his tie alone cost more than my take-home pay for a week.”

“Sounds like someone is hung up on yon company prez,” Dee mused.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just trying to survive this night so I can pick up some pointers. Smythe is at the top of the heap I want to be in.”

“You think by spending one evening in the same room with the man, some of his brilliance will rub off on you?”

Abby laughed, shaking her head. “I’m not that naïve. This is a chance to peek inside the real world of the import-export business. Hanging out with Lord Smythe and his high-powered clients for a couple of hours is more valuable than a year of graduate seminars, better than five years standing behind the counter at a place like the Cup and Saucer. This is how the rich and famous do business!”

“All 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.