"But you didn't do it. That's the difference between me and you, I guess. If I'd been you, and I had that many reasons for hating Harrison Montgomery, I'd have buried him."
Ethan's fingers tightened on the handle of his briefcase. She couldn't possibly understand. "Ms. Lee—"
She held up her hand. "All I wanted was ten minutes to state my case, Mr. Maddux. You still haven't given them to me."
He glanced over at his pilot. Holding up one hand, he halted the man's progress across the roof. "Whether I gave you ten minutes or ten days, what makes you think you can convince me to help Harrison?"
She shrugged. "Gut feeling, I guess. Don't you ever get those?"
The gut feeling he had right now told him that this woman was trouble—and that if he had a brain in his head, he'd get on that helicopter and never speak to her again. But something tugged— hard—on his resolve. He searched her eyes. Integrity. A hint of desperation. Grit. Moxie. That's what got him. Against his better judgment, Ethan released the tight rein he had on his resolve. "I won't be back for a week."
"I understand."
Five more seconds passed while he weighed the wisdom of his decision. The relentless pumping of the helicopter blades punctuated the thick tension. Finally, he drew a tight breath. "I'll call you when I get back. You can have ten minutes."
She visibly relaxed. "Thank you."
Ethan nodded. "You're welcome."
Abby tipped her head toward the waiting helicopter. "You'd better go. Your ride is here."
Ethan turned to leave, then gave her a final glance over his shoulder. "For the record," he shouted above the noise, "you got your ten minutes in spite of Harrison—not because. I'm doing this for you. Think about that while I'm gone. I'll call you in a week."
She did think about that while he was gone. Abby jammed her key into the lock of her town house in suburban Chicago. Good grief. I'm doing this for you. The words had haunted her all the way back from California.
The lock turned, and Abby entered the house with a slight sigh of relief. Safe haven. It always felt that way here. "Rachel," she called as she set her briefcase down in the small foyer. "LuAnne? I'm home." She dumped her keys on the table. "Where are you guys?"
LuAnne—Abby's closest friend, personal confidante, mental-health advisor, self-appointed life-management consultant, and sometime beautician—came out of the kitchen drying her hands on a dish towel. Abby smiled at the sight of her friend's newly bleached hair. Against the Jamaican woman's mocha skin, the color looked fabulous. But then, most any color did. LuAnne changed her hair color like most people changed their clothes. "Sporting the Marilyn Monroe look these days, Lu?"
LuAnne shrugged. "Blondes have more fun, they say. I wasn't having a lot lately, so I decided it was time for a change." Her previous color had been a strange mix between purple and green.
"I like it."
"Thanks. I'm thinking I like it too."
"Where's my sister?"
"Upstairs doing her homework. And you'd better brace yourself, Abby. I think she's writing a research paper on how thirteen-year-olds don't need baby-sitters."
Abby laughed. "I'll bet. She didn't hassle you, did she?"
"No. Rachel never shows me anything but respect. But you'd better understand that she's starting to feel the need to exert some independence. You hold on too tight, and she'll fight you." LuAnne tossed the dish towel over the arm of the sofa, then tumbled onto the overstuffed cushions. "Dinner was fabulous, darling."
Abby nodded as she reached for the stack of mail on the hall table. She wasn't surprised. In the past two years, her sister had developed a keen interest in gourmet cooking. The cooking classes she was taking, thanks to Harrison Montgomery's influence with a local restaurant owner, were doing wonders for her skill—and for Abby's waistline. "I think I've gained five pounds in the last two months."
"You could stand to," LuAnne told her, blunt as usual. "You work too hard, Abby. I told you six months ago that no man is going to want a woman who's got a figure like a bed slat."
"Hmm." She flipped through the mail, came to one letter, and waved it at her friend. "Oh, look. I may have won a cruise."
"You're trying to change the subject."
"Uh-huh."
"Want to tell me how your day was?"
Ethan's voice popped into her head again—I'm doing this for you, "Surreal," she muttered.
"What?"
Abby dropped the mail on the table, stepped out of her pumps, and began unbuttoning her suit jacket as she walked across the living room. She dropped into the armchair. "I said surreal. I had a surreal day."
"Oh." LuAnne leaned back against the sofa with a broad smile. She tapped her knee with one long red fingernail. "That good?"
"He agreed to listen to me anyway."
"You're kidding!"
"Nope. He's going to call me when he gets back from Prague. He's on his way to some international economics conference." She gave LuAnne a dry look. "He's representing the President."
"What president?"
Abby laughed. "Of the United States."
"Oh. Why can't the President represent himself?"
"Because Ethan Maddux knows more about international economics than he does."
LuAnne tucked her feet beneath her. "Well, that's comforting." She drummed her fingers on the arm of the sofa. "I'll bet he's having dinner with the King of Belgium or something."
"There is no King of Belgium," Abby said with a laugh.
"Whatever. Just give me the important stuff. Is he or isn't he as sexy as you heard he was?"
"It was business, Lu."
"Which doesn't mean there wasn't plenty of time for you to notice. You told me that Letty said he was lethal."
"Letty is his aunt."
"And don't you think it's fascinating that he won't talk to his own father, but his aunt thinks he's the hottest thing going?"
"Letty likes underdogs."
"Abby," LuAnne said skeptically, "a man who has dinner with the King of Belgium is not an underdog."
"No, I guess not."
"So come on, give, girl. I'm not leaving until you do."
Abby pictured him standing on the helicopter pad with the sun gilding the hard angles of his face. No one would dare call him handsome. There was too much power in his stance and his features were too perfectly carved to use any word as soft as "handsome."
"He's"—she searched for the right word— "dynamic."
"Potent," LuAnne said.
"Yes, I suppose so. You should see the way his staff scurries around him. And it's not terror either. They adore the man." Abby closed her eyes and tipped her head back against the nubby fabric of the chair. Lord, it had been a long day.
"How tall?" LuAnne prodded.
"Uh, over six feet, I guess." And solid as a rock, she silently added. With broad shoulders, a trim waist, and lean hips that tapered to impossibly long legs. He was the kind of man a woman simply knew remained in peak physical condition. Every plane would be muscular and hard.
"Hair?"
"Brown." Walnut, she'd call it, with just a touch of red. It was thick, with a hint of a wave. When wet, it probably curled at the ends. The sunlight on the helicopter pad had limned it, making it look soft and touchable.
"Eyes?"
"Um, gray, I guess." Too clear to be called anything as mundane as blue. Actually, what came to mind when she thought about the piercing way he'd studied her was "sterling silver."
"Bod?"
Hard, lean muscle that radiated with barely contained energy. Any word one usually used to describe the more perfect specimens of the male species would be out of place. "Attractive" was too ordinary; "gorgeous," too soft; "sexy," too unsophisticated. Ethan Maddux had a certain warrior/feline quality to him. Like a black panther, she had decided. He moved with an uncanny combination of grace, agility, and power. He seemed always in control. Every word was carefully chosen. Each movement was deliberate and contained. He wasted nothing, not e
ven a fluttering eyelash. He calculated his surroundings and always, always, seemed to be lying in wait, ready to pounce when necessary.
Abby took a deep breath and forced herself to answer LuAnne's inquisitive gaze. "He was wearing a suit," she said evasively. Although the flawlessly tailored navy blue serge had done little to disguise his physique.
"What size?"
"What?"
"What size suit?" LuAnne said, watching her with obvious glee.
"How should I know?"
"Take a guess."
"I don't know. Forty, forty-two maybe."
"Long or extra long?" LuAnne drawled the words.
At the not-so-subtle double entendre, Abby gave her a look. "Probably extra long—but I didn't check the label. He has very broad shoulders."
"I bet he usually dates Amazons."
"And you're basing that opinion on what?"
"Men like that normally do. They like to be noticed, so they pick women who complement them physically. I'll bet he hardly goes out in public without some gorgeous woman draped over his arm—and the two of them look like a matched set."
Abby laughed. "If he does, he probably feels right at home with the King of Belgium."
"I'd say he has a thing for blondes with big boobs, long legs, and great musculature. They all have that sophisticated bored look." LuAnne pursed her lips and lifted her chin. "You know, like they aren't secretly wishing they were alone with the guy so they could tear his clothes off and get at him."
"Well, whatever he likes or doesn't like, he didn't throw me out. At least he agreed to talk to me."
"Did he tell you why?"
I'm doing this for you. "No. Just said he'd call."
LuAnne nodded. "Well, it's something anyway. Do you really think he can bail Harrison out of this mess?"
"If anyone can do it, Ethan Maddux can."
LuAnne unfurled her legs from the sofa, stood, and stretched her arms high above her head. "I hope so. Look, I gotta go. Shop opens tomorrow at eight."
"I know."
"You coming in next week for your appointment?"
"Wouldn't miss it."
"Okay. I'll grill you some more then."
"There's something to look forward to."
LuAnne laughed as she retrieved her enormous purse from the end of the couch. "Get some rest, Abby. You look beat."
"It was a long day."
"I know." LuAnne squeezed her friend's shoulder as she passed the armchair. "Rachel's not really mad at you, by the way. Just frustrated with being thirteen."
"I'll talk to her."
"Good plan. I put a plate in the oven for you. Your dinner should be hot."
"Thanks, Lu. For everything."
"No problem." She headed for the door. "Oh, and if Rachel mentions anything about dying her hair green, it wasn't my idea."
Abby groaned. "Great."
LuAnne said good-bye and let herself out of the house. Abby relished the quiet for several minutes, then levered herself out of her chair. Lord, even her bones ached. She fought a wave of fatigue as she moved through the ground floor, retrieving her plate, a fork, and a glass of water before she set the alarm and headed upstairs. The spicy smell of the food was making her stomach growl. Between her flight schedule and her nerves, she hadn't been able to eat a real meal all day. She was feeling the effects of the two bags of pretzels and the Bloody Mary mix she'd consumed on the plane.
She reached her sister's room and knocked gently with the rim of the glass. "Rach—can I come in?"
"Yes." Terse, but not angry. A good sign.
Abby shoved the door open with her foot, but stayed just outside the room. Rachel sat at her desk, one hand on an open textbook while the other drummed a pencil on the edge. "Did you have a good day?" The computer monitor on the desk displayed a spiraling wave of color. Behind the screen saver, Abby suspected she'd find an open Internet connection with four to five instant messages waiting for her sister's attention.
Rachel looked up from the book. "It was okay."
"Mine was long."
"What time did you leave this morning?"
"Four-thirty."
"I was surprised when I got up and found LuAnne here."
"I told you I had an early flight."
"I could have gotten myself ready for school."
"I didn't think you should have to."
Rachel's jaw squared. The stubborn expression looked just like their father's. "I don't need a baby-sitter."
"LuAnne is not a baby-sitter."
"What would you call it?"
"She's just here in case you need something."
"I can take care of myself."
Abby drew a calming breath. "I know."
"Then why can't I stay here alone?"
"We've been over this, Rachel. I'm not comfortable with that."
"So? It's not like you're my mother."
Abby let the barb pass. "I'm sorry it makes you so angry but I'm not ready to leave you here by yourself."
"I'm old enough to be a baby-sitter, you know. Lots of my friends do it."
Lots of her friends, Abby thought, hadn't seen their parents being murdered while they themselves were hiding inside a closet. "I'm sure they do."
"But I can't."
"Not right now."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not ready for that."
"But I am," Rachel insisted.
Abby studied her sister's face in the glow of the desk lamp. She'd inherited their father's coloring and build. Her hair was a dark, rich brown. Her eyes, wide and expressive, could easily have been his mirror image. The familiar ache started in the center of Abby's chest and spread outward. "Look, I'm willing to talk to you about it. Just not tonight. I'm tired. And it's late. I've got to go to bed, and so do you."
"It's only eleven. Why do I—"
"Rachel." Abby's voice held a warning note.
Her sister knew better than to push her luck. She slammed the textbook shut. "Oh, all right. God, Abby, you're so uptight."
Probably. "Right now, I'm just beat." She held up the plate. "And thanks, by the way, for dinner. I haven't had anything but airplane food today."
Rachel's gaze flicked to the plate. "It's chicken Tetrazzini. It's pretty good, but I think I used too much sage."
"LuAnne said it's fabulous."
"LuAnne likes to exaggerate." Rachel jerked back the covers on her bed and slipped between them.
Abby felt a slight pang. The days of tucking her sister into bed had sped by. She hadn't relished them like she should have. "Good night, Rachel. I love you."
Rachel mumbled something indecipherable beneath her breath. Abby hesitated for a moment longer, then flicked the light switch by the door. "I'll see you in the morning."
"Okay."
She closed the door of her sister's room and leaned back against the wall. A wave of longing overcame her as she thought about her parents. How she wished she could talk to her mother, ask her advice. Rachel's need for independence was growing, and Abby found it increasingly difficult to let go of her own fears and give her sister more freedom. The older Rachel got, the less able Abby was to provide the necessary parental care. This particular argument, about Rachel's desire to stay home by herself, had been brewing for weeks. And Abby was no closer to making a decision.
Incredibly weary, she made her way down the hall to her room. She ate what she could of her meal, went through the mechanical motions of getting ready for bed. By the time she crawled under the sheets, fatigue was squeezing her like a vise. She replayed her conversation with Rachel in her head, searching for clues, probing for anything that might make this transition easier.
But the voice she heard as sleep drew nearer wasn't her sister's. It was deep and husky and seductive, and it said, I'm doing this for you.
two
"Abby?" Marcie Edwards, Abby's assistant, was watching her curiously two days later. "Earth to Abby."
Abby blinked. "Oh, sorry, Marcie. I guess I'm a
little distracted."
"You could say that." Marcie leaned back in the chair across from Abby's desk and regarded her with a frank stare. "In fact, you could say you haven't exactly been yourself since you got back from San Francisco."
Abby winced. That much was true. Since her head-on collision with Ethan Maddux, she'd been hard-pressed to concentrate on business. "You noticed."
Marcie's eyebrows lifted. "Yesterday you asked me four times if I'd sent the contract to the caterer."
Abby dropped her pencil onto her desk with a sigh. "You ought to fire me."
That won a slight laugh. "As if. This place would go to hell in a handbasket without you."
"If I don't get my act together, it might anyway." Abby pushed aside the stack of papers on her desk. Among them were several pink message slips from Harrison's relatives. News was beginning to spread about the possible takeover of MDS, and the Montgomery clan was starting to panic. Abby reminded herself that while she could offer them empathy, how Harrison ran his family and, to a certain extent, how he ran his company were none of her business. "All right," she told Marcie, "what have we got on the schedule today?"
"You're supposed to confirm the hotel contract. I think you should call Hector and talk to him about the setup. There's some confusion about the union contract and how it's affected by the caterers needing to do their own table prep."
Abby nodded. "Okay. Have we got a report from Drysdale about the response rate?"
Marcie thumbed through the folder in her lap. She produced the report and passed it to Abby. "We have four hundred and fifty confirmed so far. We're way ahead of last year."
Abby scanned the report. As usual, their greatest response was coming from their $1,000-plus donors. "We've only sold three corporate tables."
"Roland is making phone calls this week. That'll pick up once he contacts everyone personally."
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