Her Man Friday (12 page)

Somehow, Lily refrained from expelling a rude snort of disbelief. She couldn't stop what she knew would come next, however, and steeled herself for Mr. Freiberger's inescapable query, followed by Miranda's insipid reply.

"Montgomery?" he asked.

Miranda nodded. "Montgomery Clift."

To his credit, Mr. Freiberger only arched his eyebrows in mild surprise. "Montgomery Clift is a guest at Ashling? Forgive me, Mrs. Kimball, but I was under the impression that Montgomery Clift was, uh… somewhat incapacitated these days."

"Oh, no, Mr. Freiberger," Miranda assured him. "He's not incapacitated. He's dead."

After only a slight hesitation on his part, God bless the man, Mr. Freiberger replied, "And you don't consider death an incapacitation?"

Miranda tittered prettily. "Oh, no, certainly not. In fact, there's nothing more liberating. Why, in death, one can travel anywhere."

"And I believe," Lily interjected quickly, before Miranda could start off on the whole astral plane thing, "you've already made the acquaintance of Mr. Kimball's sister, Jane."

Beside Miranda, Janey sighed with much impatience. "Yes, yes, we've already met," she agreed shortly, carelessly sweeping a gloved hand down the front of her pale yellow chiffon dress.

Chiffon
gown
, Lily corrected herself automatically, not dress. Janey never wore dresses—only gowns. Gowns and gloves and big ol' hats that could put a person's eye out if they weren't careful, like the vast, botanically enhanced one she was wearing at the moment. Honestly, Lily thought, she might as well plant shrubbery in that thing.

"He's one-forty-two," Janey continued with a quick gesture toward Mr. Freiberger, using the same tone of voice she might use if stating that he were currently covered with slugs. "I have nothing to say to him. Nothing at all."

Then she spun around again and made her way to the bar on the other side of the room. With a watery smile, Miranda followed her daughter, which was just as well, Lily thought, because they both became much more tolerable after a cocktail or two. Well, after
Lily
had a cocktail or two—or ten—anyway.

She couldn't quite mask her surprise—nor her interest—when she turned back to Mr. Freiberger. "Are you really one-forty-two?" she asked before she could stop herself. "That's extraordinary."

He eyed her in confusion for a moment. But before she could elaborate, he suddenly nodded his understanding. "Oh, the IQ thing," he said modestly. "I thought she was talking about my weight. Which is actually one-ninety-eight. It's all solid rock, though," he hastened to add, his voice reflecting his concern that she might find the number excessive where poundage, other than of the mental variety, was concerned.

Solid rock, Lily reiterated to herself. Right. To think that she might need a reminder of such a thing.

"Schuyler's IQ is one-hundred-and-ninety-seven," Lily said, wondering what made her offer up the information. It wasn't as if the two men were competing, after all.

But Mr. Freiberger evidently didn't see it quite that way, because he straightened to an even more impressive height than usual and said, "Oh, yeah? And can he bench press his IQ the way
I
can mine?"

She smiled, striving for a benign expression. "I have no idea, Mr. Freiberger. I would think not, seeing as how Mr. Kimball prefers swimming and tennis over brute force athletics."

He seemed to deflate some at her suggestion that she found brute force unappealing. But even deflated, Leonard Freiberger was quite an intimidating specimen of manhood.

Unable to help herself—he did look so dejected, after all—Lily added, "I myself, however, think that there may be something to be said for brute force on occasion."

Mr. Freiberger brightened some at that, straightening to his full height once again. "Oh, yeah?"

She managed a brief nod and congratulated herself for not acting on her impulse to leap into his arms and claim him as her very own personal love monkey in the most basic, primitive way imaginable, with her own show of brute force. "So long as it's performed in moderation, naturally," she added faintly.

"Well, that goes without saying," he agreed.

For some reason, she suddenly began to grow warm again, and decided that it might be wise to discontinue their discussion—at least while other people were present. So instead, she gestured over her shoulder toward the bar and asked, "Would you care for a cocktail before dinner, Mr. Freiberger?"

"That would be nice, thank you, Miss Rigby. Scotch, if you have it."

She smiled again. "Why, Mr. Freiberger. You forget whose home you're in. Don't you read the papers? Schuyler Kimball has everything."

Leo watched with much interest as the delectable Miss Rigby spun around and made her way across the dining room—
dining room
being a deceptive term, as far as he was concerned.
Veterans Stadium
might have been a more accurate one. With a single, quick assessment, he'd come to the conclusion that the square footage on the room where Schuyler Kimball took his meals was larger than that of Leo's entire townhouse.

He shook his head in silent disbelief. In addition to having an IQ up there with da Vinci's, the man had more money than God. Eleven billion dollars. That was what Schuyler Kimball was worth. Certainly Leo had already known that before coming to Ashling, but witnessing the physical evidence of such enormous wealth was more than a little awe-inspiring. The idea that one individual could possess
billions
of dollars was almost incomprehensible. To think that the man could spend ten
billion
dollars and still be a billionaire… To think about what ten
billion
dollars could buy… To imagine how many people could be fed and housed and clothed with ten
billion
dollars, and Kimball would
still
be a billionaire…

It just wasn't right, Leo thought. He didn't care how hard Kimball had worked or how talented and gifted the man was. There was no reason to hoard all that money, when it could do so much for so many and still leave Kimball a fat and sassy cat. The man should be ashamed of himself, for God's sake, not spreading a little bit around for others to enjoy. And on top of that. .

On top of that, Leo had actually just bragged to a woman that he could bench press his IQ. He groaned inwardly. What a moron. He should have his IQ rechecked. Because ever since coming to Ashling, he'd felt it slipping away little by little. And whenever Lily Rigby walked into a room, well… His IQ went right out the window.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt it necessary to try and impress a woman in order to win her over. Usually, women responded to him with enthusiasm right off the bat, with absolutely no coaxing from the studio audience. And although he definitely sensed interest on Miss Rigby's part, there was something else in her that held her aloof. It was something that also prevented him from acting on his desire to get to know her better.

Partly, in spite of her clear interest, he suspected there was something going on between her and Kimball, however superficial the relationship seemed to be. And he was also hesitant, he had to admit, because, well, at the risk of coming off as an intellectual snob—which, when he got right down to it, he was—Lily Rigby just wasn't as smart as Leo was. And he really preferred women who could keep up with him in the contemplative arena. Not that she was particularly shallow, mind you—well, not
too
shallow—but that whole cat thing from their initial encounter was never far from his thoughts.

Plus, as much as he hated to do it, he still had to view her as an unknown quantity where the missing Kimball millions were concerned. He didn't really think Lily Rigby had anything to do with the money's disappearance—thanks to that cat business—but at this point, he had no leads, and it would be foolish to rule out anyone. Miss Rigby was as likely a suspect as anyone, he supposed.

Yet even at that, something held Leo in check where she was concerned. As gregarious and chatty as she was, there was something standoffish in her nature that warned anyone—male or female—not to get too close. It was almost as if she were hiding something she feared others would discover about her. Then again, Leo had encountered that kind of thing in women before, and it had only made him work that much harder to win them over.

Miss Rigby, he was beginning to think, would be no different in that respect. Ultimately, he was going to want to figure her out, to dress her down and study her thoroughly, until he knew once and for all what made her tick. Because in spite of all his misgivings, she was, quite simply, too tempting to pass up.

He did his best to hide his interest as she made her way back across the room. And given the size of the room, it would probably take her half an hour to make the journey, so Leo took his time drinking in the sight of her. Where her snug little suits and sweater sets had fairly scorched his insides, the black velvet number wrapping her body now set off little explosions throughout. With its long sleeves and modest length, the dress shouldn't have been revealing. But the scooped neck fell just low enough to display the upper swells of her breasts, and the hourglass shape made the most of Miss Rigby's numerous—and dangerous—curves.

For a small woman, she was lush as hell, he thought. And something inside him that was already strung way too tight grew even more taut.

"Johnnie Walker Blue Label over ice. Is that all right?" she asked as she extended the glass toward him.

An exceptional Scotch that, last time he'd checked, ran one hundred dollars a bottle? Leo thought. Gosh, he guessed he'd just have to make do, wouldn't he?

"That will be fine, Miss Rigby. Thank you."

When he curled his fingers around the glass, somehow—he couldn't
begin
to imagine quite how—his hand wound up completely covering hers. They spent a few moments volleying for possession of the glass before Leo finally lifted his free hand to shift the drink there. But even after he'd managed a successful trade off, their fingers remained tangled for another moment more. And as he worked—but not too hard—to free himself from the delicate trap she posed, it occurred to him that in addition to being small and lush, Miss Rigby was also very, very soft. And warm. And tempting.

Oh, boy.

He was just about to forego his personal freedom, to succumb to the urge to tighten his fingers in hers and pull her forward, when she somehow managed to disengage herself from the snare. Without so much as a
Mother-may-I
, she took a giant step backward, curling both hands around her own drink, as if the cut crystal tumbler were a talisman to ward off evil. Her cheeks were stained with pink, though whether the blush was a result of embarrassment or something else entirely, Leo couldn't have said. But relief coursed through him at the realization that he could unbalance her the way he had. Hey, why should he be the only one here who'd lost his equilibrium?

Unsure exactly what kind of comment might be appropriate following what had felt like foreplay for some reason—very public foreplay, at that—Leo lifted his drink to his lips, filling his mouth with the smoky, mellow Scotch that lesser men had never before tasted. And as he rolled the liquor around on his tongue before swallowing, as he savored every last trace of it spilling into his belly, he decided there was a lot to be said for having billions and billions and
billions
of dollars.

As the liquor warmed his insides, his spirits, his very soul, Leo turned to say something else to Miss Rigby. But she'd directed her attention elsewhere, to a point behind him, and every last ounce of her being seemed to be focused on whatever—or whoever—that was. Before he even turned around, Leo knew.

Schuyler Kimball had come down to dinner.