Rendezvous With Revenge. Miranda Lee

coffee-coloured number, Abby decided sensibly, would stay safely behind.

      But when she got back to her room, Miss Blanchford had finished packing for her, and the lace dress was already under several layers of clothes. With the old lady’s intuitive grey eyes upon her, she was not about to wrench the offending garment from the depths of the case, though she staunchly vowed not to wear the darned thing. She didn’t trust herself in it.

      Just do what you’ve been paid to do, Abby, love, came the voice of reason as she snapped the case shut. Nothing more. Nothing less.

      If she did that, and minded her own business, then the only real danger Abby could see was that she might say or do something which would lose her her one remaining job—which would be disastrous for her present depressing financial balance of fifty-five whole dollars in her bank account, plus approximately thirty dollars in her purse.

      Well, you’ll just have to make sure you don’t say or do anything stupid, came her stern self-advice. Stay cool, calm and collected. Don’t resort to too much sarcasm, however provoked. And don’t, for pity’s sake, start drooling over the man—even if he stands before you stark naked in all his masculine glory.

      Abby’s stomach clenched down hard at this last thought. Of course, she had no real idea how Ethan Grant would look naked. Maybe he was all pale and flabby underneath his clothes. Maybe his broad-shouldered, slim-hipped, flat-stomached shape was all an illusion, created by the superbly tailored suits he always wore.

      And maybe pigs might fly, Abby decided ruefully. Ethan worked too damned hard to be flabby. As for being pale... the man had a naturally olive skin, his colouring as dark as a gypsy.

      No, he would look gorgeous naked. Of that she was sure. Gorgeous and sexy and all man.

      ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’ Miss Blanchford asked Abby as she swung the tan leather suitcase off the bed.

      ‘Have I? What?’

      ‘This,’ the old lady said, and produced from her lap the most beautiful perfume dispenser Abby had ever seen. It was made of rose cut glass, and had a pink satin puffer with a silver tassel hanging from it.

      ‘Oh, Miss Blanchford!’ Abby exclaimed, tears pricking her eyes as the old lady pressed it into her hand.

      ‘It’s full of Chanel No. 5. A man-friend gave it to me a couple of years back, but the exotic scent didn’t seem to suit an old spinster like me. However, I think on you, my dear, it might just turn a few gentlemen’s heads.’

      Abby was both touched and tortured by the gift. For she knew that there was only one man’s head she would want to turn this weekend. Yet his was the last one she could afford to!

      CHAPTER FIVE

      THE taxi driver let Abby off outside the tall building which housed Ethan’s rooms, dumping her case on the pavement before speeding off into the heavy city traffic. The fare had come to twenty-two dollars, which left her precisely eight dollars and a few cents in her purse.

      Abby sighed, then glanced at her watch. Only ten past one. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she picked up her suitcase and forged through the revolving glass doors into the foyer. Her stomach still began to churn as she made her way across the coolly tiled floor and over to the bank of lifts. She dropped the heavy suitcase, hitched her matching tan leather carry-all further up her shoulder, and pressed the ‘up’ button.

      The doors opened immediately on an empty lift. Abby picked up her case and was about to step inside when something halted her.

      It was a voice in her head.

      Don’t go, it said. Run!

      Run? But how could she? She’d been paid—up front and in advance. Ethan knew her address. And she was almost broke. There was nowhere to run to.

      The rather irrational fear subsided as Abby rode the lift up to the second floor. Really, what on earth was there to be afraid of, other than her own silly sexual feelings for the man?

      It wasn’t as though Ethan lusted after her. It was a one-way thing, and easily hidden. Lord, she’d hidden it for nearly six months, hadn’t she? She would simply go on doing more of the same for the next few days.

      Of course, she couldn’t help being a bit nervous about the coming weekend away itself. It had been some years since Abby had mixed socially with the type of people who would be at this conference. Still, she had been well brought up, with all the advantages excessive wealth could provide, and she didn’t think that she would embarrass herself or Ethan.

      Her education had been excellent, with the right grammar, manners and etiquette being ground into her from the earliest days. Not even four years in prison had tarnished that style and elegance which seemed unconsciously to cling to girls of her background and upbringing, though she’d certainly learnt to stand up for herself, and to speak bluntly when necessary—not always in the most ladylike language.

      She could well understand Ethan’s ambivalence where her character was concerned. Most of the time she was the polished, refined creature her many nannies and teachers had created, but occasionally the tough survivor she’d had to become in prison would emerge, bringing out a feral cat-like creature, who could snap and snarl with the best of them.

      Abby took some comfort from this new ‘survivor’ aspect of her personality. She could always rely upon it to protect her—emotionally as well as physically. It called a spade a spade and made her see things as they really were, shielding her from that other idealistic and romantic fool who had once resided within herself—the one who’d fallen madly and blindly in love with a handsome creep like Dillon; the one who’d always steadfastly believed that she had to be in love with a man to enjoy sex with him.