"I don't have a date," she spat out before she thought better of it.
"Ah."
Abby didn't even attempt to decipher that remark. "As it happens, my sister has a cooking class this afternoon. She has one every Tuesday afternoon, which I don't suppose your surveillance reports revealed about the details of my life. She cooks with a chef at four-thirty on Tuesdays, and she and I eat dinner together at six, after her class. So I can't break that date. And I don't even want to."
"With a chef?" he probed. "No kidding?"
God, the man was insufferable. He actually managed to sound interested. "Rachel's got kind of a flare for gourmet cooking," Abby said, out of some perverse desire to overburden him with information. "She wants to open her own restaurant."
"Like your parents had?" he asked.
Abby swallowed. So he knew that as well. There were few holes in his information, it seemed. "Yes. And actually, she's quite good."
"Good, There's nothing like an excellent meal to chase away the lingering effects of jet lag. I'll look forward to it."
"You can't come."
"Why not?"
"Because you can't." She realized her voice had risen several decibels, and reached for her patience. "Because you can't," she said again, more quietly.
"Ms. Lee, does it occur to you that I'm offering to fly halfway across the country and give you my undivided attention for the bulk of an entire evening? Do you have any idea how much people usually pay for that privilege?"
She did, and it was true that she'd have much longer than the allotted ten minutes to plead her case. A case that needed Ethan Maddux's magic touch. "Why are you doing this to me?"
"I'm not doing it to you," he insisted. "I'm doing it for you. I told you that."
"I don't think—"
"That's my final offer, Abigail." His use of her first name startled her. It sounded strangely warm, wrapped in the husky tone of his voice. "Take it or leave it."
She let several seconds tick by while she gazed at the jumble of reports on her desk. Harrison Montgomery, a quiet voice reminded her, had saved her life. Surely that was worth one dinner with Ethan Maddux. She fought an apprehensive shiver as she shifted the phone to her other ear, positive that he had an ulterior motive. No way was he going to all this trouble simply because she'd had the nerve to ask. Clearly, he wanted something.
And despite the insistent clanging of warning bells in her head, she couldn't resist finding out what it was. "All right," she said at last. "We'll see you at six. Don't be late." She hung up without bothering to give him directions to her house. Let his informants find that out for him.
three
Several hours later, Abby warily watched Ethan across her kitchen table. He looked absurdly at ease with his suit jacket and tie slung over the back of a chair and his pristine white shirt cuffs rolled back to expose tanned forearms. He was happily devouring a second helping of Barbecued Salmon Gravlax while he plied Rachel with questions about the recipe. Abby took the opportunity to picture him wearing an apron and cooking. It made her feel better.
"The hard part," Rachel was saying, "was cutting the salmon. Monsieur Billaud makes it looks so easy."
"It tastes incredible," Ethan assured her.
"Thanks," she said wistfully, "but it's supposed to look good too. Monsieur Billaud says that presentation is half the success or failure of a dish."
Ethan slanted Abby an amused look. "Spoken like a true Frenchman," he drawled.
Rachel shook her head. "He's very good. His restaurant is one of the most popular in town."
Abby folded her hands on the table and tried hard not to be annoyed with him. Why did he have to be so damned charming? "Rachel's been studying with him for over a year."
"Yeah." Rachel nodded. "Next year I hope I can take lessons from Pio Baldovino, but I don't think Uncle Harrison knows him as well as he does Monsieur Billaud."
Abby noted the slight lift of Ethan's eyebrows at Rachel's mention of Harrison, but he said nothing. Rachel propped her chin on her hand and continued. "Monsieur Billaud says that if I do well enough in Baldovino's institute competition, I might have a chance."
"Competition?" Ethan pressed.
"Uh-huh. Every year Baldovino hosts a charity event where chefs compete for prizes."
"Most of them represent restaurants," Abby added.
Rachel shrugged. "It's very competitive. And everybody's older than me."
"Harrison agreed to sponsor her," Abby told Ethan. "But she has to accrue enough hours to qualify."
Ethan looked at her inquiringly. "How do you get hours when you don't work in a restaurant?"
"Good question," Rachel said. "But actually, Abby and I figured it out. I'm doing the baking for the Montgomery Foundation's Memorial Day event and assisting the caterer for the annual fund-raising ball."
"Monsieur Billaud has agreed to account for her hours," Abby explained.
Ethan finished the last of his meal, then set his napkin down. "If it's all as good as this, I'm sure you'll do well," he told Rachel. "I can't remember the last time I had a better meal."
Rachel beamed at him. "Thanks. Want dessert?"
"You bet." He rose from his chair with fluid grace and reached for the plates. "I'll clear, you serve."
From the corner of her eye Abby noted her sister's near swoon. Rachel had been falling under his spell from the moment the man walked in the door. Which, she thought irritably, would leave her with a hearty mess to clean up once he took his charm and sophistication back to California. The last thing she needed in Rachel's developing war for too much independence too soon was a lethal crush on a man like Ethan.
Abby placed a gently restraining hand on Rachel's shoulder as she got up. "Sit, Rach. I'll get it."
"It's in the refrigerator," Rachel told her. Her gaze strayed to Ethan, who was putting dishes in the sink. Her eyes lingered, Abby noted, on his rear end. Not that she blamed her. He looked every bit as compelling from that angle as he had seated at the table. "I already put it on a plate," Rachel said.
Ethan continued a steady stream of casual conversation, politely answering Rachel's questions about his trip to Prague and what kind of food they'd served at the conference. Disaster didn't strike until they were all seated again. Abby had just swallowed a forkful of something rich and excessively chocolate when Rachel pinned Ethan with a shrewd look and asked, "So why do you hate Uncle Harrison so much?"
An uneasy silence descended on the kitchen. Abby raised her eyebrows and slowly slid the fork from her lips. Ethan leaned back in his chair and asked himself, for the tenth time that evening, just what the hell he'd been thinking of in making this trip. He wasn't interested in Harrison's business or his financial disaster. He especially wasn't interested in expending time and energy trying to dig the Montgomerys out of a hole of their own making.
He was physically and mentally beat.
Functioning on less than three hours of sleep and suffering a jet-lag hangover, he needed a hot shower and a soft bed. He flicked a glance at Abby, who was watching him closely. But for reasons he didn't even want to consider, he hadn't been able to resist seeing her, not even when she'd forced his hand by making him fly to Chicago.
On the flight, he'd carefully considered his strategy. He'd find out exactly who Abigail Lee was, what she did—or didn't do—for Harrison Montgomery, and then he'd inform her that hell would freeze over before he'd help bail out Harrison's company He'd counted on her trying to change his mind. He'd counted on being tempted.
He had not counted on being quietly seduced by the patience in her gaze or the way she waited for him to make the first move. Nor had he planned on the decided effect that the sight of her clad in a faded sweatshirt and worn jeans would have on his travel-weary body.
And he certainly hadn't counted on an interrogation from her younger sister. Carefully, Ethan set his fork down and looked at Rachel. "I do not hate Harrison Montgomery." Despised, yes. Resented, maybe. But hate—that was too stro
ng a word to describe the absolute empty feeling Ethan had when he thought about his father. Hate required too much passion. And Ethan had steadfast rules against excessive passion.
Rachel's eyebrows drew together in confusion. "Everyone says you do. Even Abby."
Abby gave her a sharp look. "Rachel—"
"Well, you do," her sister interrupted. "And I talked to Carlton." At the mention of his cousin, she looked at Ethan again. "And he says you and Uncle Harrison practically killed each other once."
Ethan quirked an eyebrow. "I suppose no one has ever told you that Montgomerys have a tendency to exaggerate."
"Well, yeah," Rachel went on, "but Carlton says things got really, really ugly and Uncle Harrison told you that you could never come back. I mean—"
Abby broke in. "It's none of our business, Rachel."
Rachel shrugged. "I just wanted to know, is all. I mean, what did he do to you anyway?"
"It's a long story," Ethan said.
Rachel frowned. "He's really a nice guy, you know?"
"You think so?" Ethan sat back in his chair.
"Sure. He kind of takes care of us."
"Rachel, I don't think—"
"Oh, come on, Abby." Rachel twirled her fork between her fingers. "He gave Abby a job after our parents got killed. Did you know that?"
Ethan nodded. His silver gaze now rested steadily on Abby's face. Her color was heightening. "Yes."
"She couldn't do anything."
Abby's patience seemed to snap. "Cut it out, Rachel. That's not true."
"Well, I mean, it's not like you could type or something. You told me yourself you had no idea why he hired you."
"He felt sorry for me, that's why."
Rachel snorted. "I guess so." She looked at Ethan. "Abby had been interviewing all that day."
"He's not interested," Abby told her sister.
"Yes, I am," Ethan insisted.
Rachel took the cue. "It was pouring rain and she was late for her appointment with Uncle Harrison's personnel manager."
"I missed the El," Abby explained. "And I didn't have enough cash for a cab."
"She had to walk fifteen blocks up Michigan."
Ethan folded his hands on his stomach and studied her. She was uncomfortable, but hadn't tried to shut the story down again. "I remember the summer thunderstorms here. Frog stranglers, my mother used to call them."
"This one came off the lake," Abby said. "I was drenched. I had mud splashed all over my legs, and runs in my stockings. By the time I got to MDS, the security guard had left for the night." She shook her head with a slight laugh. "And it's a good thing too. If he'd seen me, he'd have thought I was a vagrant. Someone exited the building, and I slipped through the door so I could dry off in the lobby. I just sat down and started crying."
"Uncle Harrison found her like that," Rachel supplied.
Ethan waited. Abby continued. "He probably stopped to talk to me to make sure I wasn't planning to sleep in the building that night."
Rachel pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. "Whatever. That's when he gave you a job."
"In the mail room," Abby said.
"And Abby went to work for him, and thanks to Uncle Harrison, I didn't get put in foster care."
Ethan's temples had begun to throb. "How generous of him."
Rachel nodded enthusiastically. "So now Abby runs his foundation, and he kind of, you know, looks out for us. It's like having a father, only not."
Ethan knew that feeling well. Abby laid her hand on Rachel's arm. "Rachel, I think that's enough."
"I just wanted to know what the big deal is between you," Rachel told Ethan again. She shrugged. "I mean, after what Carlton told me, I was expecting you to be a real jerk."
"Rachel!"
"Well, I was," she told her sister. She looked at Ethan again. "But you seem nice enough, and he's not like an ogre or something. It just seems weird, is all."
Ethan had to agree with her there. The benefactor of the Lee family bore little or no resemblance to the hard, distant man he remembered. He thought the matter over, then made a characteristically quick decision. "I'll make a deal with you," he told Rachel. Abby gave him a shrewd look.
Rachel's eyes brightened. "Okay."
"If I can have dinner here again, say next Tuesday night, we'll talk about Harrison." He let his gaze rest on Abby. "I'll tell you the whole story."
"Cool."
Abby frowned. "I don't think—"
Ethan cut in smoothly. "I'll need at least a week to go over the figures. I'm assuming you have them for me?"
She nodded.
"It's settled, then." He glanced at Rachel. "Dinner next Tuesday, and we'll see how many of Harrison's problems we can solve."
Abby's jaw clenched so tight he thought he might hear her teeth crack. "Rachel, do you have homework?" she asked.
Her sister gave her a cross look. "Is that your way of telling me to go to my room?"
"I just want to know if you have homework."
"Yes."
"Then you should go do it. It's getting late."
"What if I want to listen to you and Ethan?"
Abby said nothing. She merely stared at her sister for long seconds until Rachel made a frustrated sound and rose to her feet. "Fine." She scooped up a couple of plates. "But next week I'm staying until the end." She slid the dishes into the sink. "Next week we're having trout almondine. Is that okay with you?" she asked Ethan.
"Yes."
"Great. I'm pretty sure I couldn't have talked Monsieur Billaud out of it anyway. He's on this seafood kick." She turned to go. "Nice meeting you," she told Ethan.
"Nice meeting you, Rachel."
"See ya." She pushed through the swinging door. It glided shut with a swoosh in her wake.
Abby rose from the table and finished gathering the last few dishes. "I'm sorry she put you on the spot like that."
A smile played at the corners of his mouth. "If she decides to give up cooking, she can always consider journalism."
"Or espionage. She interrogates better than anyone I've ever known."
"I wasn't uncomfortable."
Abby shrugged but didn't respond. "You asked about the numbers. There's a file on the coffee table in the living room." She indicated the door with a tilt of her head. "What you need is in there."
He studied her for a minute as she tidied up the kitchen. She seemed tense, and unless he missed his guess, also anxious. This wasn't the confident woman who'd come to see him in San Francisco. She was scared.
Abby continued to busy herself at the counter. "I'll be there in a minute," she told him without meeting his gaze.
He hesitated, then stood. He'd lived with Harrison long enough to recognize a dismissal when he heard one.
An hour later, Ethan glanced at Abby over the top of the page he'd been trying to read for the past five minutes. She pretended to inspect the room, to look, he supposed, at anything but him as he surveyed the evidence of Harrison's pending financial ruin. Deliberately, he set the stack of papers aside.
He was about to make an irrevocable choice. And he didn't want Harrison's financial statements cluttering his mind. "There's something we need to talk about," he said carefully.
She took her time meeting his gaze. Slow and easy, deliberate and controlled, he noted. Something about her made most of the women he knew seem a little crass. He had a sudden vision of always-perfectly-dressed, always-perfectly-groomed Pamela. Abby made his ex-fiancée seem harsh around the edges. Though Pamela wouldn't have been caught dead in jeans and a sweatshirt, Abby wore them with an unpracticed elegance, which told him, somehow, that she'd have lace on underneath. She was that kind of woman—full of secrets.
"You don't have to sugarcoat this for me," she assured him. "Things are bad, aren't they?"
"You could say that."
She pressed her lips together in grim acceptance. Full lips. Lips he'd thought about innumerable times while in Prague. "I knew it." She san
k more deeply into the heavily cushioned sofa. "It's disastrous."
He tapped the report with his index finger. "From what I've seen, that's an understatement."
"Is there anything…"
"I can't tell you that after an hour of looking over the numbers. I told you that I need a week."
"I understand."
He tapped one long finger on the arm of his chair as he watched her. He was trying to figure out just what it was about the woman that caused him to seriously consider having anything to do with Harrison's life. "If I did decide to do this, I'd have to give it my full attention," he said carefully.
"I'm aware of that."
"Can you give me a reason why I should?"
She swallowed, and her lips parted slightly. Ethan considered that a very good sign. She wasn't nervous, just aware of the undercurrent that ran between them. He'd suspected as much but hadn't had the chance, until now, to really watch for the signs. He'd kept his attention deliberately on Rachel during dinner, not wanting to bait Abby until he had her alone.
"You told Rachel you'd come back next week for dinner," Abby pointed out.
"I was seduced"—he deliberately cradled the word—"by that chocolate thing."
Her lips twitched in that charming little half smile that tickled nerve endings. How long, he wondered, would he have to know her before she'd smile that way when she thought about him? "She's good."
"She's excellent."
"If it makes you feel any better, you aren't the only one to cave in when faced with one of Rachel's desserts. I've made some pretty major concessions while she was waving a plate in front of my nose."
"Hmm."
"She does this cheesecake thing that's out of this world."
She was warming to the topic, he realized. When Abby was particularly lost in a subject, she used her hands a lot, as if she were manipulating the air in front of her to help make a point.
"Good?" he asked.
She rolled her eyes in exaggerated bliss. "God, you can't imagine. I think I put on four pounds that day."
His gaze dropped to the lush swell of her hips. The faded denim hugged generous womanly curves that made his hands tingle. There wasn't a sharp angle on her.
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