Taking her hand from the phone, she said, “Ally—”
“Can't find it? I could've sworn—”
“Quentin says he'll call you from his phone. He's looking now.”
“What?” Allison's voice rose suspiciously. “Where are you guys?”
“Home. I mean, I am. Quentin just left.”
There was a definite pause. “I'll catch up with you soon,” Allison said quickly. “I think that's Quentin calling now.”
Liz slumped into a chair. There was no way she and Quentin were going to finish what they started.
Thank God Allison had called!
After all these years of treating her like a pesky kid, it would figure the darn man would start paying attention just when she was facing her greatest crisis.
Not that he was truly interested in her, she reminded herself. He just didn't want her near his brothers. Because he didn't approve of sperm donations. And beyond that, he might have been curious enough to kiss her.
But that was all.
She bit her lip. She needed the Whittaker account, particularly now, when she might have to take a maternity leave and temporarily shut down Precious Bundles. On the other hand, dealing with Quentin was like handling a lighted stick of dy***ite.
Her only choice was to avoid him as much as possible. On Tuesday she had an appointment at a reputable fertility clinic and sperm bank in Boston. The sooner she got pregnant, the sooner Quentin would know how ridiculous it was for him to think she'd seduce Matt or Noah.
* * *
Quentin swirled the Merlot in his glass for the umpteenth time and tried to focus on the conversation happening around him.
Usually he was a natural at these charitable social events. BookSmart was holding its annual black-tie dinner—a fund-raiser for adult literacy—in the ballroom of the Stoneridge Hotel.
He should have been in his element. His eyes drifted again to the woman across the room. He guessed he shouldn't be surprised that the enterprising Elizabeth Donovan was donating her time to raising literacy. And it figured she'd be shimmering in a satiny green strapless dress and matching heels.
As if the woman didn't glow already. Long waves of chestnut locks caught the light as she bent her head toward Eric Lazarus.
Quentin's eyes narrowed. Lazarus. They were about the same age and height but he liked to think the similarities ended there. If anyone deserved the reputation of a womanizing playboy, it was the young stockbroker.
The guy had had the federal Securities and Exchange Commission sniffing around him a while back. Too bad, they hadn't come up with anything. Rumors of Lazarus skating at the edge of the law had swirled for years.
The lights blinked in the lobby where the crowd stood, and the doors to the large ballroom opened, revealing dozens of elaborately set tables.
Lazarus was helping Elizabeth into her seat when Quentin arrived at the table he'd also been designated to be seated at for dinner.
“Lazarus,” he acknowledged with the barest dip of his head.
The man's eyes flickered before a practiced smile reached his lips. “Quentin. Good to see you.”
Lazarus would pant and roll over for a chance to invest for Whittaker Enterprises. Quentin wondered which would hold the greater appeal this evening: Elizabeth's beauty or his money. His lips twisted as he settled into the chair on Elizabeth's left, Lazarus having already staked a claim to the one on the right.
Up close, he noticed that her strapless gown showcased a large expanse of flawless skin, her collarbone defining her bare neck, which was framed by thick, curling auburn locks that cascaded down her back. He wondered what it would feel like to bury his hands in that thick mass….
“I didn't realize you'd be here,” he said, breaking the silence.
She turned to face him, her face impassive. “There are lots of empty seats left.” She nodded to the other side of the table, and the room in general.
He refused to take the bait and ignored her uncharacteristic rudeness. “This one suits me fine.”
He figured it was at least understandable that she'd be miffed at him. Not that he'd been unreasonable at her house on Friday night. When it came to potential fortune hunters, particularly those with strong reasons to need a financial bailout, he'd learned the hard way you couldn't be too careful.
Of course, he'd interrogated Noah, who'd set the record straight about his “date” with Elizabeth. His brother had exhibited no small amount of amusement at the questioning, but he'd found out enough to know the dinner had come about at Noah's instigation.
On the other hand, despite Noah's persistence, he'd refused to disclose what had happened after he'd driven off with Elizabeth. It was bad enough that Allison knew he'd been in Elizabeth's house that night. There was no point in letting them know just how badly he'd acted.
Which meant, he supposed, that he owed Elizabeth an apology. Given that she was pointedly turned away from him and conversing with Lazarus, he knew it wasn't going to be an easy one to give.
Elizabeth smoothed her napkin in her lap. “No, I haven't been to that new Italian restaurant. I've heard it's wonderful.”
“Well, I'll just have to see about changing that,” Lazarus said smoothly.
Quentin muttered a curse. If he had to jump in, there was no time like the present. “Business doing well these days, I gather.”
Lazarus homed in, a gleam in his eyes. “Never better. I've got a little pre-IPO pharmaceutical company that's just a gem. I can't sell enough shares, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, I do,” Quentin murmured. Sounded just like the type of super-speculative investment that a slick salesman like Lazarus would be peddling. “Sounds interesting.”
Next to him Elizabeth nibbled at her dinner salad and focused her gaze on the animated stockbroker.
“Interesting isn't the word.” Eric warmed to his subject. “We're talking major medical breakthrough for Alzheimer's here. As soon as the FDA approves this drug, this baby is going to go through the roof.”
Eric reached inside his tux jacket and pulled out a business card. “You know, Quent, you and I go way back. That's why I want you to get on the ground floor of the next best thing.”
Quentin took the proffered card. Of course he'd have to burn it the second he got near a match.
By the time the main course of filet mignon was served, he knew Elizabeth had to make conversation with him. The head of the charity was sitting at their table, and it wouldn't do for the newest board member—as he'd recently discovered—to be rude to one of the major benefactors. Whittaker Enterprises had given well into the seven figures to BookSmart.