“I thought we might dance.”

Her eyes widened. “Dance?”

Mitch fought a surge of frustration at her obvious dismay. Hiding his annoyance, he smiled instead, allowing just a touch of cynicism to show.

He slipped an arm around her waist and lifted his free hand. “You hold this one.”

Elaine swallowed visibly. “I’d rather not.”

“It’s a dance, Elaine,” he grumbled, taking her hand and lacing their fingers together. “Part of the deal was that you and I act like friends.”

Renee Roszel has been writing romance novels since 1983 and simply loves her job. She likes to keep her stories humorous and light, with her heroes gorgeous, sexy and larger than life. She says, “Why not spend your days and nights with the very best?” Luckily for Renee, her husband is gorgeous and sexy, too!

Books by Renee Roszel

HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®

3599—HONEYMOON HITCH*

3603—COMING HOME TO WED*

3644—ACCIDENTAL FIANCÉE*

3660—TO CATCH A BRIDE

3682—HER HIRED HUSBAND

The Tycoon’s Temptation
Renee Roszel

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To TDW3

Wherever you may roam

Be like E.T.

Phone home

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE

A HEARTLESS, faceless robber baron was stealing Elaine’s home, and there was nothing on earth she could do to stop it. Jarred from her angry thoughts by a tap on her shoulder, she flicked off the vacuum sweeper and turned around. “Yes, Aunt Claire?”

The older woman wiped her hands on her jeans and blew a salt-and-pepper curl back up to join the kinky corona that stood out from her head. “Supper time, Lainey. Take a break. You’ve been working like a Trojan since five this morning.” When Elaine started to protest, her aunt held up a halting hand. “We’ve got two more weeks before you have to move out of this big old mausoleum. You don’t need to kill yourself trying to clean it all today.”

She pulled a checkered bandanna from the pocket of her red flannel shirt and rubbed at Elaine’s cheek in her big-sisterly way. “How did you get soot on your face just vacuuming?”

Elaine tried to smile at her aunt’s attempt at humor, but her effort failed miserably. She knew the woman who raised her was trying to lift her spirits with teasing banter. As if readying this historic mansion to be handed over to a ruthless pirate were no more unpalatable than a stroll in the park.

Unfortunately, considering Elaine’s awful situation, the biggest genius in the comedy business, doing his most brilliant shtick, wouldn’t get her to crack a smile these days. She was going bankrupt, losing her business and all her savings, plus every penny her aunt could scrape together. This estate had been in her husband’s family for generations, and she’d lost that, too. Not to mention the tragedy of her husband’s death—and the guilt that nagged her, no matter how irrational. No one in her right mind could find a reason to smile.

She swallowed hard, struggling to dislodge the lump of sadness that seemed to permanently reside in her throat. She released her death grip on the vacuum and pushed a stray wisp of her hair under the green scarf she’d wrapped around her head. “I cleaned out the master suite’s fireplace.”

“With your face?” Her aunt wet the bandanna with a little spit and aimed for Elaine’s nose, but she ducked out of reach. “Hold still, Lainey.”

“Please, Aunt Claire.” Elaine rubbed the back of her wrist across her nose, fearing she was making it worse. Still, at twenty-seven she was decades too old to have her face swabbed like that. Wiping her hands on her faded jeans, she sighed long and low. Bone-weary, she had neither the strength nor will to argue. Besides, she supposed she should eat, since she couldn’t recall having a bite all day. Indicating the back of the house, she said, “Okay, let’s go make some sandwiches.”

The booming impact of the door’s heavy, brass knocker echoed like cannon fire in the foyer, ricocheting off the high walls and lofty ceiling of the living room where Elaine and her aunt stood. “Oh, that’s little Harry with my toothpaste and shoe laces.”

The older woman indicated her scuffed hiking boots with a wave. “These old things’ve been broken and knotted so many times I can’t lace ’em past my instep.” Claire waved toward the entry hall, with its scenic wallpaper and generously bunched curtains, all the more opulent with the overlong, purple velvet fabric laying in swathes on the parquet floor. The French, nineteenth-century crystal chandelier sparkled in the late-afternoon sunshine, throwing off rainbows of vivid color, making the place seem like a fantasy castle in the clouds.

Elaine’s breath caught as her gaze drifted across the space, an exotic mix of baroque and rococo. Even after living there a year, every room continued to be an awe-inspiring feast for the eye. With its gilt and inlaid furnishings, hand-painted walls, Aubusson carpets and festooning drapery, the Stuben family home was a rich, eclectic masterpiece.

And now she had lost it to her creditors. For the millionth time a stab of guilt cut deep, making her cringe.

“You get the door, Lainey,” her aunt said as she turned toward the exit to the kitchen. “I’ll start supper.”

Elaine felt her aunt’s urging push. “And pay Harry the fifty cents I promised him for running those things over here for me. He’s saving up for a new bicycle. That clap-trappy piece of junk he rides is a hazard.”

Elaine headed for the foyer. “That twelve-year-old kid will be able to buy a new bike before I can pay for new shoes,” she murmured to herself. Though she could hardly afford it, she didn’t want to ask her aunt for the fifty cents. Thanks to her, Claire’s finances were suffering, too.

Besides, Harry was a great kid. He worked hard at his after-school job. He deserved a safe bicycle.

She pictured freckle-faced Harry Browne in her mind. The heart-tugging, chipped front tooth that showed itself when he grinned. The hole in the knee of oversize jeans, and the backward Chicago Cubs ball cap planted over scraggly red hair. All in all, Harry was a sweet wad of little-boy perfection. She’d agonized over having to lay off his single mom from her job on the kitchen staff. At least she’d managed to find JoBeth Browne work at the nearby supermarket.

Focusing her attention on dislodging two quarters from a hip pocket, Elaine tugged open the mammoth cherrywood door. She extracted the change from her jeans—two quarters and a linty, gray button. The plastic button didn’t look familiar, and from the lint clinging to it, she had a feeling it hadn’t been missed from wherever it belonged. Shoving it back in her hip pocket, she said, “Here you go, sweetie-pie. Thanks for…” She held out the money, looked up, her sentence dying a quick death.

Instead of the twelve-year-old, chipped-toothed moppet she expected to see, a much larger figure loomed on the stone porch. At the moment she found herself staring in the vicinity of a man’s chest. A surge of feminine awareness coursed through her and she instinctively moved back a step, sensing something—or someone—out of the ordinary.

Backlit by a pale winter sun on the verge of setting, the towering stranger was clad in a black cashmere trench coat. Impressively built, his six-and-a-half-foot frame almost filled the stone archway. Though Elaine was five-eight, and far from anorexic, she seemed to shrink by half, and felt peculiarly fragile.

Though her glimpse had been a paltry second or two, she felt something she couldn’t quite put a name to. It was the sort of awe one might get when gazing at a mighty fortress—unconquerable mortar and stone. What an odd thought to have about a flesh-and-blood person! She shook herself and focused on the man’s face.

His eyes drew her first, the deep blue of a clear night sky. Heavy-lidded with thick, ebony lashes, they held a striking allure that stirred something deep inside her. At first glance they seemed like two pools of boundless darkness, yet as she stared, she sensed more than saw, a hint of heat in their depths. It was like being conscious of a faraway cabin with a welcoming fire. Yet at the same time being filled with fear that the warm haven might be too distant to be reached before succumbing to the wintry chill. That unmistakable reserve, that “stand back” quality, intimidated her. She swallowed, startled to notice her throat had gone bone-dry.

Those deceptively sleepy eyelids slid down slightly, narrowing his gaze. Well-formed lips curved in a wry grin for a couple of heartbeats before he dropped his gaze. Lifting hands swathed in supple, black leather, he began to remove his gloves, tugging one finger at a time. She watched the slow, deliberate movements in some kind of weird trance.

Once he’d removed the gloves, he placed them together, folded them fingers-over-palm, then deposited them in his overcoat pocket. When he finally resumed eye contact, he lifted a hand. “You’re welcome,” he said, pinching the silver she held between his fingers. With hardly any effort he extracted the coins and tossed them in the air. They glittered for an instant before landing with a light ka-chink in the center of his palm. “People rarely meet me at the door with money and endearments.” He pocketed the change.

His pleasant baritone registered more on Elaine’s spine than in her consciousness. A tingle frolicked up and down her back at the throaty sound. But the words were jumbled, making little sense. Obviously her mind wasn’t functioning up to par. She blinked several times in an attempt to jump-start her brain cells.

After a third and forth blink, one thing managed to get through. He was making fun of her. The next fact that registered was that he’d actually taken fifty cents she couldn’t afford to toss away.

Her momentary mental lapse ended and she experienced a wave of annoyance, giving him a critical once-over. Besides the expensive coat, he wore a high-priced, black suit and polished, hand-sewn wingtips. Her late husband had worn hand-sewn shoes, too, so she knew something about quality men’s wear. That maroon and gold tie he sported cost five hundred dollars if it cost a dime.

Even though this stranger’s expression had lost even the brief semblance of a grin, his hawkish features were elegant and arresting. His hair, the color of a raven’s wing, was scrupulously trimmed. He was the epitome of an upper-echelon executive. Maybe he was an old Harvard chum of her late husband’s. But if he’d come to pay his last respects he was late by nearly half a year.

As Elaine scanned his face, she sensed he did not give away smiles freely, but when he did, it would be quite a sight. Though the Chicago temperature on that January day was well below freezing, and several inches of white lingered on the lawn from the last snowfall, that thought about his smile sent an unruly heat racing through her, a heat that started in her belly and spread outward.

She gulped in a breath of frigid air, confused about where all this unwarranted feminine appreciation was coming from. Grappling for composure, she cleared her throat. “Um—may I help you?”

He arched a brow as though that should be obvious. “I’m here to see the mistress of the house.”

She was a little insulted that he assumed she was the help. If the truth were told, Elaine had been forced to discharge the household staff months ago. Sneaking a peek at herself, in jeans, sneakers and the dull brown turtleneck sweater, she faced the fact she didn’t look much like the mistress of a stately mansion.

She straightened her shoulders. “Please, state your business.”

He watched her for a moment before replying, “I’d be happy to.” After a pause, he added, “To the mistress of the house.”

Elaine was annoyed by the man’s impertinence. Well, he could go jump for all she cared. “Then you can’t see her. Mrs. Stuben is a busy woman.” She surprised herself, being so brusque. Not to mention she was lying. After all, he was “seeing” the mistress of the mansion right now. At least she’d be its mistress for fourteen more days.

Maybe it was this past, horrible year since her ill-conceived marriage. Guy’s sudden change from doting and sensitive suitor before the wedding, then on the honeymoon witnessing his shocking metamorphosis. Before her eyes he’d become a domineering, controlling brute with a sick need to have his ego constantly stroked. Not to mention his jealous rages every time she spoke to another man.

Then his sudden, tragic death five months ago. And after that, her day-and-night battle to save her Internet business. Maybe all of that together had made up the ingredients for the mortar that had given her this go-to-Hades grit. Or maybe she was simply so exhausted, so world-weary, she didn’t have the capacity to guard her tongue any longer.

Whatever it was, her outburst caused Mr. Tall, Dark and Trouble to lift an eyebrow at her. That was the second eyebrow lift in as many minutes! “Look, it’s cold,” she said less snappishly. “State your business or move along.”

He crossed his arms, the pause an eloquent warning. “Please tell the busy Mrs. Stuben, Mitchell Rath would appreciate an audience.”

“Mitchell Ra…” She’d almost repeated his entire name before she realized saying it aloud would not make the news any more palatable. “You—you’re Mitchell Rath?”

He nodded, then held out a hand as though he expected her to take it. “And you’re the very busy Mrs. Stuben.”

He surprised her by referring to her by her name. Resentment heated her cheeks. He hadn’t been taken in by her huffy impersonation of a domestic. “What—what—how do you know I’m Mrs. Stuben?” She refused to take his hand—the hand of the robber baron who was picking the bones of her company, buying her out for pennies on the dollar and stealing her home!

His gaze roved casually up to the cotton scarf covering her hair, then slid slowly, deliberately, downward to settle on her scuffed and dingy sneakers. After ponderous seconds, the critical excursion apparently complete, his eyes once again met hers. “How do I know you’re Mrs. Stuben?” His lips drooped sensuously at the corners in a facial shrug. “You can’t be the help,” he drawled. “They dress better.”

He gave her enough time to grasp his taunt but not enough to respond before he reached out, barely touching the tip of her nose. She caught a whiff of a woodsy aftershave. “What is that on your face?”

The soot! She’d forgotten about the dratted soot!

She cringed. Not only was this man profiting from her financial ruin, he found it necessary to ridicule her, too! Furious and too tired to watch her mouth, she said, “It’s vulture repellent! Obviously I sh-should have used more!”

She stared him down, her eyes telegraphing the question, How do you like being ridiculed?

He blinked, but Elaine couldn’t tell if a wince had been involved or not. “You’re shivering, Mrs. Stuben.” He indicated the foyer. “Why don’t we move our mutual admiration society meeting inside before you catch pneumonia?”

A rattling, clanking noise caught Elaine’s attention. She spotted Harry peddling down the long, snow-cleared curricular drive. Her unwelcome companion turned as the twelve-year-old pumped his skinny legs, steering the bike around the sporty silver Mercedes parked at the bottom of the flagstone stairs.

Harry hopped off his bike on the run and scampered up the half-dozen steps, shucking his backpack as he came. “Miz Elaine, here’s Miz Claire’s package.” He sounded a little winded, and his breath frosted the air. Showing off his chipped-tooth grin, he held out the crumpled brown sack he’d extracted from his pack. His attention skittered to the tall man. “Hi,” he said, oblivious to the fact that he was speaking to the notorious “Vulture,” renowned for swooping in on dying Internet businesses, buying up the carcasses and selling off the bones for personal gain. He’d made himself a wealthy man dismembering the remains of such broken businesses. And now he was dismembering hers.

“Hello,” Mitchell Rath said, startling Elaine out of her furious musings. She shot him a look, surprised to see him grin at the boy. Even in profile, she experienced a feminine flutter at that glitter of white teeth. She hurriedly shifted her gaze to Harry. “Hi, Mr. Browne,” she said with as much enthusiasm as her gloomy mood would allow. “Want to come in for cocoa?”

He shook his head, repositioning the red and blue Cubs cap. “Gotta get back to help Mom at the store. Mr. Goff said he’d give me two whole dollars if I’d sweep out the back room and break down some boxes.”

“Two dollars, huh?” Elaine managed a smile. Henry was such a super kid she couldn’t help herself. “I’d better let you get going, then.” She reached in her pocket, then remembered who’d snatched Harry’s fifty cents. She cast her tall nemesis a frown. “You have his money.” She had to bite her tongue to keep from adding, “Of course, pocketing other people’s cash is what you do!”

She sensed he got her message, by the slight narrowing of his eyes. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out several bills and handed them to the boy.

Harry fingered the bills and Elaine thought she saw a five among them. There had to be at least eight dollars there.

“Holy cow! Thanks, mister!” Harry’s grin grew broad. Aiming a hand toward the sports car, he asked, “Those your wheels?”

The man in black nodded. “It’s a rental.”

Harry’s wolf whistle astonished Elaine. She’d never heard him whistle with such heartfelt, grown-up gusto. “Someday I’m gonna own me cool wheels like that, dude.”

The tall man chuckled, the sound deep and rich in the cold, gray stillness. “I imagine you will.”

The man’s light compliment seemed to mean a great deal to Harry, for his eyes went wide and his grin grew broader. “You really think so?”

“Absolutely.” The man winked. “I’m never wrong.”

“Gee-thanks!” Turning back for a quick wave, he added, “Miz Elaine, call Mom at the store if you need anything tomorrow. See ya.” He faced Mitchell Rath again, and paused. “See ya?” The question was almost a plea.

“You bet.”

Elaine flicked the man a frown, irked at him for leading the boy on that way. It wasn’t as though Harry hadn’t already had a father abandon him. Did he really need men like Mitchell Rath making him careless, absurd promises? Arranging her expression to feign lightheartedness, she waved at Harry. “I’ll see you tomorrow—for sure!”

“’kay!” He grabbed up his bike and clanked away.

“Well?” came a deep voice, too close for comfort.

She jerked to glare at her offensive caller. With the remnants of a smile lingering on his lips he was pulse-poundingly handsome. Furious with her hormones for their demented betrayal, she glowered at him. “Well, what?”

“Do we go inside?” He eyed her, his expression challenging. “For the record, Mrs. Stuben, it is my house.”

She bristled. “Not for two weeks!”

His jaw worked and Elaine had the distinct impression he was disturbed. She experienced a swell of gratitude. Good! For once she was upsetting him! When he shrugged out of his coat and moved toward her, she lurched a step backward. “What are you doing?”

Undaunted by her suspicious recoil, he slung his coat over her shoulders. The voluminous cashmere engulfed her all the way to her ankles. She was shocked by how toasty warm it was, almost like being cloaked in an electric blanket, yet its warmth was all male animal, all his. The same, woodsy scent floated around her, uninvited yet irresistibly pleasant, capturing her senses.

“If you intend to stand out here debating the issue for the whole two weeks, you’ll need a coat.”

“I only intend to stand here debating as long as you’re here!”

“Try two weeks.”

“Two—t-two…” Her voice faltered and died. This time her stutter wasn’t due to the winter chill, but to the suggestion that he would be in Chicago for two weeks. It was the worst possible melodrama she could dream up—even in her most horrifying nightmare. She couldn’t have heard right. “You—you’re not staying?” she demanded in disbelief.

He pursed his lips. Apparently his lack of response was supposed to be all the answer she needed.

Elaine feared she had lost her mind to frostbite. The coat had come too late to save her gray matter. Why on earth would he threaten her this way? How could this happen? Why was he here two weeks early? Was it possible he planned to steal even her final few days in this place that had been her home for the past year? There was so much to do. Packing and cleaning and—and besides, she hadn’t found another job or place to live.

He stared at her for a slow count of three, then shook his head as though her bullheadedness was beyond belief. Grasping her arm, he hauled her into the foyer. “Why, thank you, a tour of the house would be very nice.”

The door boomed shut as Mr. Rath took it upon himself to move them both inside. She jerked from his grasp and spun on him. “Never put your hands on me! I’ve had all the controlling I can take for one…” No, Elaine! You will not blurt out your personal problems to this man! Another voice in her head tried to say something about how doting and attentive Guy had been when they’d met. With the distinction of an Ivy League MBA, a first-class family pedigree and the believable veneer of charm, he’d been impossible to say no to. Not to the whirlwind courtship or the marriage. After that it had been too late.

Guy’s unreasoning jealousy and bullying temperament had been a shock. Mere days after the wedding she wasn’t allowed to make a move without Guy’s permission. And her associations with male clients in her e-business had sent him into fits of rage.

He’d charged into her textile art e-business with big ideas for expansion. Fearful of his explosive temper, she hadn’t known how to extricate herself from his tyranny. He essentially took over what Elaine had been slowly and steadily building for five years. What had begun as a small outlet for handmade quilts was evolving into a respected market for the discriminating customer in search of custom textile art.

Guy’s petty jealousies and tin-god attitude coupled with his billowing ego turned out to be calamitous for Elaine’s marriage as well as her business. He’d scorned her worries, dived in headfirst pitching marketing schemes, negotiating contracts, making promises she and her crew of talented seamstresses could not physically meet.

“For one—what?”

The question yanked her from her dark musings and she started, refocusing her anger in a more appropriate direction. Toward the man who’d plundered her business. She mustn’t be angry at the dead. Though on the very day Guy died, she’d finally found the courage to walk out. Their seven-month marriage and business partnership had been a nightmare. She’d already packed a bag and had planned to tell him it was over that night. Instead, the tragic news of his death had come. From that day until this, she hadn’t been able to shed the irrational belief her desire to get out of a bad marriage had somehow sealed his fate.

She swallowed over a lump in her throat. With Guy Stuben dead, the clout of his family name was gone. Almost before Elaine could take a breath, the loan was called. The last five months had been worse than five years in Hades as she’d struggled to live up to the merciless contract Guy had pledged them to. Floundering in overwhelming debt and working under impossible conditions, she’d fought with every fiber of her being to save her company.

She exhaled long and low. All that was in the past now. The business was gone. All her money, gone. Claire’s too. The physical bits and pieces of her company belonged to Mitchell Rath, including this estate. She needed to face that and come to terms with it. She needed to begin to work through her feelings of guilt. Start over, get a job, save enough to begin her textile art e-business again. On her own terms this time. No more stupid, rash decisions about men, either!

“You’ve had all the controlling for one—what,” he repeated slowly, as though he already knew but insisted that she say it out loud.

Not likely, Mr. Rath! You may have picked the bones of my business carcass but you aren’t going to feast on my personal life! She glared at him. “Nothing. Forget it,” she said. “What do you care?”

His gaze hardened for a split second, but he didn’t immediately respond. It was almost as though she’d hurt his feelings. Ha! That was a laugh. What feelings?

His gaze probed for a moment before he shrugged and let his attention drift away to scan the elegant foyer. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to pry.” His voice was full and rich, very pleasant to listen to. Elaine sensed it was the sort of voice that made women turn and search a room to discover its source. “I’ll take that, if you’re through with it,” he said.

She was confused and frowned.

He inclined his head toward her. “My coat.”

Feeling stupid for letting herself get sidetracked by anything so frivolously superficial as a voice, she shrugged off the overcoat, shoving it at him.

“Thank you,” he said. “Now, if you’ll show me to my room?”

She stared, dumbfounded. After a few thundering heartbeats she found the ability to speak. “Your room?” How dare he assume she would let him stay! His company lawyers had promised her she had two more weeks of ownership before he was to take possession. It hadn’t been in writing, but she’d assumed the man would keep his word! “Try the Holiday Inn.”

“Or—the master suite?” He glanced around, seemingly looking for something. “That would be traditional.”

“Tr-tra…” She was speechless. “That’s my room.”

He walked away from her, toward the foyer closet. After he’d hung up his coat, he turned, his dark eyes mesmerizing. Elaine refused to be affected, telling herself the glittering hue was perfect for the cold, heartless creature that he was. And she’d thought she’d seen warmth in their depths! Double ha!

His head dipped in a nod. “Since the master suite is taken, something with a southern exposure, then?” His behavior was oddly suggestive of a chivalrous enemy granting a small concession.

“‘Southern exposure?”’ she echoed, highly dubious. “I’d think you’d want the coldest room in the house—to keep the ice water in your veins sufficiently chilled!”

The room held a deathly hush. His gaze grasped hers and held. His eyes sparked with indignant anger, with just a touch of Mount Olympus aloofness to let her know he would not strike out. That steely gaze combined with the eerie sensuality he radiated was getting under her skin. She didn’t like the torrid effect it had on her. He was the dreaded Vulture, for heaven’s sake!

“I realize this is an imposition, Mrs. Stuben.” His voice shattering the stillness, made her jump. “I’ll try not to cause you any undue stress.”

She regained her poise with difficulty, disconcerted and angry with herself for allowing this heartless android to affect her in any way but with utter loathing. “You can’t be serious.”

“About not wanting to cause you stress?”

She choked out a derisive laugh. “Oh sure! That’ll happen. No, not about your oh-so-fake desire not to cause me undue stress, about suggesting I would consider staying under the same roof with you!” She shook her head vehemently. “Not one night, sir!” She lifted her chin, grim as death. “Let alone two whole weeks!”

He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, looking princely even as his nostrils flared with offense. “Of course, it’s your decision.”

His seeming ease at her threat to walk out made her see red. “You have no compunctions about throwing people out of their homes?”

He slanted her a look that seemed to say, “Whose home?”

“Well, according to the agreement, I’m supposed to be able to stay here for two more weeks!”

“I didn’t ask you to leave, Mrs. Stuben.”

That was true enough. Flustered and furious, she crossed her arms and pointedly looked away. A quick, disturbing thought struck like a two-by-four to the back of the head, and she gasped. “So that’s your game?” She aimed an accusing finger at his chest. “You won’t make me leave, but you know I won’t stay.” She moved a step toward him, itching to slap his handsome face. “Brilliant strategy! You can take away a person’s home weeks early, and without violating any contracts, because you’re too detestable to be around!”

Though he didn’t immediately respond to her savaging, she detected a definite deepening of his tan.

He watched her for a long, tense moment, his expression closed. The only sign that he wasn’t a statue was the occasional flare of his nostrils.

With the drawn-out assault of his narrowed gaze, Elaine began to tremble.

“Well, then, Mrs. Stuben,” he said at last, his voice low and controlled. “Don’t let me keep you.”

CHAPTER TWO

THE woman who’d met Mitch at the door gaped at him, clearly not expecting his quiet invitation that she leave. Mitch was a little surprised, himself, since that wasn’t what he wanted. His whole plan, his reason for being there, depended on Elaine Stuben. She couldn’t move out. He wouldn’t allow it.

Those wide, green eyes blinked several times. He sensed she was struggling to hold back tears and cursed inwardly. He hated this. He hated being here. He was accustomed to cutting a check and having his lawyers deal with the human side of these transactions.

Long ago he’d insulated himself from the world’s wretched and disenfranchised, disciplined his emotions to resist the pull of liquid-eyed pleas. It was a lesson his parents taught him all too thoroughly throughout his formative years, sharing their meager, open-handed existence and witnessing their unapologetic mistakes. Since Mitchell inherited his parents genes, he knew he was genetically predisposed to be a sucker, a chump, a pushover to a sad story, so he’d spent his adult years hardening his heart against pleading and weeping.

Her lower lip began to tremble and he experienced an unwelcome twinge of compassion. Though he refused to act on it, he couldn’t extract his gaze from that quivering bit of anatomy. She bit down on it, then whirled away. Annoyed with himself for feeling anything, he watched as she escaped.

She ran from the foyer through a hallway which led into the bowels of the house. He was confused. He’d thought she would rush to her room to pack. In most mansions, bedrooms would be upstairs somewhere over the grand staircase. And this mansion’s staircase was grand, indeed. Massive and gilded, it curved down from a second-floor balcony, spilling regally into the foyer. Its rich, Oriental carpet runner was a striking counterpoint to the gleam of the parquet floor.

Possibly Mrs. Stuben’s plan was to run straight out a back door to a car, then disappear into greater Chicago. He decided he’d better follow. His game plan didn’t include filing a missing persons report on a headstrong female who plainly would prefer to be devoured by lions than spend one night under the same roof with him.

“Your preference be damned, lady,” he muttered, the sharp clip of his heels echoing around him as he strode after her.

It didn’t take long to realize she hadn’t run out the back. He heard female voices, one distressed. That would be Mrs. Green Eyes. The other female sounded concerned and somewhat older.

“But, Lainey, where will we go? My new floor furnace won’t be delivered before February third. That’s two weeks away. It’s too cold for us to stay there without heat.”

“A hotel, then,” the younger woman cried.

“What do we pay with?” There was a pause, and Mitch thought he heard a long, mournful sigh. “We lost my money, too, trying to save your…” The sentence dwindled away.

“Oh, Aunt Claire,” the younger voice began, “What are we going to do?”

Mitch had heard enough. Eavesdropping hadn’t been on his agenda, but it gave him the ammunition he needed to coerce little Mrs. Not One Night, Sir! into reconsidering an abrupt departure—no matter how detestable the concept might be for her. She had a great deal to gain if she stayed, and nothing to lose—only some face-to-face time with him. No doubt, in her mind, a distressing price to pay. But blast it, being around The Vulture was survivable.

He rounded the corner into an industrial-size kitchen with so much shiny stainless steel and white tile he felt as if he might go blind. The only non-white, non-stainless elements in the place were the woman and a couple of plates containing sandwiches and potato chips on the stainless countertop.

All that soot on Mrs. Stuben’s face didn’t mask the rosy hue of anger in her cheeks. The older woman’s complexion was ruddier than Mrs. Stuben’s, as though she spent much of her time outside. Her bright flannel shirt and flyaway hair gave her an interesting look, like a woman with zest for life. Mitch liked her immediately, then frowned at the thought. He didn’t plan to make friends out of these people. They would be useful, for a time. That was all.

The pair must have heard him, or the darkness of his suit against all that brightness caught their peripheral visions, for they turned in unison. Mrs. Stuben glared. The other woman stared, looking disconcerted. He could see the family resemblance in the two. The older woman, Mitch guessed to be around fifty. Maturity had ripened her frame by a few pounds, but she looked like a woman in good physical shape. Her nose was longer and thin enough to slice cheese. But she had the same wide-set, green eyes and generous lips as her niece, and was attractive in a scrubbed, no-nonsense way.

“Take any room in the place,” the young Mrs. Stuben ground out. “We’ll be gone as soon as we pack.”

Mitch succeeded in suppressing his aggravation, but just barely, and summoned a diplomatic facade. “Thank you.” This would take finesse. It was one business tactic he had little use for. Desperate people didn’t need to be finessed. They knew his offer would be the best of a bad situation. If they were to salvage anything, Mitchell Rath was the man to call. However, the reason he’d come to Chicago would require finesse, so he might as well get some practice.

“Don’t thank me,” she scoffed. “It’s your house, remember?”

He nodded. “So it is.” Indicating the second woman, he asked, “And who is this—lovely lady?” He graced the older woman with a smile calculated to charm.

The pretty Mrs. Stuben glowered, her lips thin. She didn’t look as though she was buying his chivalrous act. She might be a lousy business woman but she was no fool.

After a tense silence, the second woman, said, “I’m Claire Brooke, Elaine’s aunt.” Her cheeks reddened considerably at his compliment, nearly the same shade as her shirt. Her lips even lifted in a little smile. “I’ve been staying here with Elaine since she—uh—released the staff. To help get the place ready for—its new owner.”

Mitch had a sense about this woman. She was a giver. A do-gooder. Kindness and generosity fairly oozed from her pores. She reminded him of his own mother and he felt the familiar pang of loss. She died when he was twelve, and it still hurt to recall…he cleared his throat, retaining his smile with difficulty. “How do you do, Mrs. Brooke?”

“Miss,” she corrected. “I’m one of those old maids or, as a quilter by trade, you might call me a career woman. Whichever label you prefer.”

“And I’m The Vulture—or The Magician.” He inclined his head in a slight bow. “Whichever label you prefer.”

“Magician?” Elaine sounded dubious. “Why, because you turn other people’s hard-earned money into yours?”

The pointed question made him flinch, but he didn’t let her see. “No, Mrs. Stuben. Because I turn wreckage into gold.”

“That’s what I said. Your gold!”

He counted to ten, reining in his temper. “Let’s take your company, for instance.” He tried to sound politely instructive. “In your inventory, you had seven hundred identical fabric wall-hangings with a bank logo worked into the design. You couldn’t complete the remaining order on time, so the bank canceled on you and went elsewhere. Now you have seven hundred useless, worthless wall hangings.”

“It was textile art. Handmade, textile art,” she said stiffly.

“Whatever.” He waved away her argument. “I found a chain of discount stores willing to buy them, cut them up and make throw pillows out of them. Suddenly they’re no longer worthless.” He shrugged, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Gold.”

She swallowed, but her glare raged on. Her fiery cheeks and nose, smudged all over with soot, had a peculiar affect on him. He found himself wondering how she might look with a clean face, her hair out from under that rag. Airy wisps of the stuff fluttered here and there. Curly, glinting golden-red in the fluorescent lighting. It looked clean and soft. He pondered how it would feel—

With a start, he realized where his mind had drifted and mentally shook himself. What the hell is with you, Rath?

“I repeat,” she muttered. “Your gold.”

“Not entirely.” He forced his thoughts to businesses and away from her hair. “I paid you a fair price.”

She eyed heaven.

“And you were happy to get it,” he added, holding on to his civil tone with difficulty.

She scowled but didn’t respond.

“Look, Mrs. Stuben, somebody’s going to do this, it might as well be me.”

She sputtered, bristling with indignation. “I think Bluebeard used that line, too.”

Anger singed the edges of his control. Why did these people hate him? He was doing them a favor. Without him, they’d have nothing. Didn’t they understand that? He kept his expression respectful, tried to be reasonable. “It’s just a business. You can always start another one.”

She gasped, eyes glistening with affront. “How can you be that callous? To me, this carcass you’re so casual about tearing apart wasn’t just a business. It had a heart and soul.” She stood straight and proud, trembling with impotent rage. “Mine!”

He watched a lone tear channel a rivulet through the soot on her cheek. His gut went sour, his mood veering sharply toward pity, but he fought the feeling with all his strength.

“For your information, Sir—”

“The name’s Mitchell Rath, Mrs. Stuben,” he cut in. “Call me Mitch.”

The hurt and anger in her emerald eyes slashed at his protective barrier like barbed wire but he managed to preserve his composed mask. “For your information, Mitch, those textiles I designed were hand-made works of art. My seamstresses and I were painstakingly bringing them to life on fabric I designed. I’ll have you know they were worth four times what you paid!”

“They were worth what you could get for them,” he countered. “To be honest, you were lucky I found anybody who’d take those things.”

Her lips dropped open. From her aghast expression, he knew he might as well have told her she had ugly children.

Claire’s smile was gone now, and she looked upset. Apparently she, too, had been stung by his “those things” remark. Good going, Rath, Mitch told himself. Now for some really big laughs, go rip the wings off a few butterflies. “I’m sorry if I offended you,” he said, meaning it. “I’m sure they were—very beautiful.”

“Don’t bother to apologize, Mr.—Mitch.” Elaine tugged on her aunt’s hand. “You’re right. They were just things, worthless and useless, no matter how lovingly they were created. And the money you paid me was just enough to allow me to compensate my workers. Thank you so much.”

With her aunt in tow, she made it to the door before she halted to glare at him. They were close now. He could detect her scent, a vague whiff of flowers, coupled with the smell of fireplace soot. The combination made a singular impression on him. So did the fury in her eyes.

“Have you ever known the joy of creating something unique and beautiful, Mr. Rath?” She paused only a beat. “Whatever kick you get from the bloodlust of destruction is a pitiful substitute for real contentment.”

He extended an arm, clamping his hand on the opposite doorjamb to block her exit. He was tired of sparring. It had been a long day, and he was at the end of his patience. “We can debate my contentment or lack of it some other time. Right now, I have a proposition for you, and I don’t intend to let you walk out on me again before you hear my offer.”

“Offer?” Claire asked.

Mitch glanced at the older woman, her ruddy features inquisitive. When he turned back to Elaine, her expression was deeply suspicious. “‘Offer?”’ she echoed, sounding skeptical. “Our business is finished. I have nothing left to loot.”

Her infernal references to thievery galled him, but blast it, he needed her. He couldn’t let his pride and her animosity short-circuit his plans. “If you choose to use the term ‘loot,’ let’s use it.” Holding his temper in check he spoke quietly, evenly. “For allowing me to loot two weeks of your time and expertise, I might be willing to let you keep this.” He extended his arm to indicate the mansion.

She followed the sweep of his hand, then eyed him with distrust. “Keep—the—the house?”

He nodded, watching her face. He could practically see the wheels whirring out of control. She couldn’t fathom what he meant.

“I don’t understand,” she breathed, almost too quietly to hear.

He knew that from her incredulous expression. He also knew that second by second she was forming grave doubts about what sort of expertise she had that would buy back a multimillion dollar estate. Her features hardened. Her eyes went wide, conveying fury and shock. “Are you out of your—”

“No, Mrs. Stuben,” he interrupted. “I don’t intend to—loot—your body, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Elaine’s cheeks burned with humiliation at his accurate guess about the indecent conclusion she’d jumped to. He pursed his lips as though to hide a smirk. She could almost hear him thinking, Why, Elaine Stuben, what a dirty mind you have behind that dirty face!

“Please explain exactly what you mean, Mr. Rath,” Claire said, fluttering like a protective, though ineffectual, mother hen before the Big Bad Wolf.

Elaine heard her aunt’s question, but couldn’t take her eyes off Mitchell Rath, looming there, blocking her escape. Dark eyes glinted. His chiseled features held sensuous sway over her, and she couldn’t seem to move.

How could she despise this man, yet be incapable of pulling her gaze from his? Rakish good looks were no excuse for surrendering one’s principles! She grappled with her self-control and her good sense. “Yes,” she finally managed, her voice raspy. “What exactly do you mean? What offer?”

He lounged against the door frame, one hand clasping the jamb near her. He looked so cool and unflappable, yet somewhere beneath that surface she sensed a restive energy. Though his expression, his body language, were the epitome of cold, calculating reserve, under the surface he was generating enough erotic heat to melt the polar ice caps. Against her will and better judgment this strange incompatibility and inconsistency in his character drew her, intrigued her.

Looking into those eyes she was once again struck by his deliberate isolation, his don’t-get-too-close vibe. It was almost as though Mitchell Rath resented her. He resented her? She wanted to laugh out loud at that crazy notion. Obviously his nearness was affecting her like an electrical power station, causing interference, making her thinking processes go staticky.

“It’s simply this, Mrs. Stuben,” he said, breaking into her unsettled thoughts. “I want some face time with the great Paul Stuben. As his daughter-in-law, you have access and influence. Get me a meeting with the man and I might allow you to keep this house.”

“My—my heavens,” whispered Claire. “That’s quite a thing to say.”

Elaine agreed with her aunt’s astonished comment and stared at Mitchell Rath. This twist threw her for a loop. “A—a meeting?” she repeated, still attempting to assimilate his words.

He lifted his hand away from the door and crossed his arms before him. “It won’t be as simple as it sounds. I’ve tried to get a face-to-face with him for a month. The great leader of Stuben Department Stores refuses to take my calls.”

His offer was sinking in now and she shook her head. “Well, if it’s a meeting with Paul Stuben you’re after you don’t want my help. He hates me.” The recollection of her distraught father-in-law’s harsh accusations came rushing back. She slumped against the wall, dropping eye contact. “He blames me for Guy’s death.”

No sound came from Mitchell Rath. Elaine kept her gaze lowered, watching her hands clasp, unclasp and reclasp. Another stab of depression cut deep. She knew she was being ridiculous to take his charges to heart. She would never have wished Guy to die. But the very day she’d planned to tell him it was over…that very day he died. She couldn’t shake the sickening sense of responsibility.

“It’s true, Mr. Rath,” Claire softly filled the gap. “Guy died in a plane crash. He built the contraption from a kit, an experimental aircraft. Elaine only suggested he get a hobby. She had no idea he would pick anything so dangerous as—”

“He doesn’t need our life history, Aunt Claire.” Elaine reluctantly lifted her gaze to meet Mitch’s. To save her husband’s ancestral home would be something she’d do in a minute if she could, no matter how hard she had to work. But her father-in-law’s hatred, his crushing grief over Guy’s death, well, the division was too insurmountable, literally etched in stone—a gravestone. “I can’t be of help to you. Paul Stuben hasn’t spoken to me since Guy’s funeral.”

Mitchell Rath’s features hardened in a blatant declaration of his displeasure. “I see.” As he ingested this bitter pill his cheek muscles bunched, giving his square jawline dramatic impact.

Among the conflicting emotions Elaine experienced as she watched the display was a surge of satisfaction. Before her eyes the villain in the last, sad chapter in the death of her company was suffering a defeat. She imagined witnessing such a moment in Mitchell Rath’s life would be the privilege of only a handful of individuals, and should be cherished appropriately.

Her euphoria didn’t last more than a few heartbeats before Mr. Rath’s expression changed.

With the suddenness of a slap, Elaine found herself confronted by a smile, so sexy, dazzling—and scheming—she shivered with downright dread.

CHAPTER THREE

“YOU may not be one of his favorite people, Mrs. Stuben,” he said. “But you have access. For instance his country club? Isn’t that right?”

“I suppose, as a member of the fam—”

“And you get invitations to the same parties and charity events?”

“Well, yes, from time to—”

“And, you do want to keep this fine old home, so you don’t have to move?”

She could never stay here now. After all, had Guy lived, she would have been long gone. She could never think of this mansion as hers. But she would love to see the place stay in the Stuben family. If she could save the estate to help make amends to Paul Stuben—well, she’d give anything to do that.

But Mr. Rath didn’t need to know the details. He would just interrupt with another argument before she could explain, anyway, so she nodded, remaining mute.

“Then you can be of help to both of us.”

“Lainey,” Claire interjected. “It can’t hurt to try, can it?”

Elaine flicked her gaze to Claire then back to Mitchell Rath. She felt like he’d dropped her from a great height, leaving her dizzy and bruised. How could he continue to dangle the manor before her like a carrot in front of a hungry rabbit, demanding the impossible as though it were simple? Didn’t he get it? She shook her head as much to search for words this money grubbing tyrant would understand as to make her feelings plain. “Listen to me! Both of you! Paul Stuben hates me. He would no more listen to anything I had to say or trouble himself to meet anybody I was with than he would—kiss a rattlesnake!”

“Don’t be too sure,” Mitch said. “Word has it that he’s been doing some bizarre things lately.”

“What are you saying?”

“He’s making bad business decisions, acting eccentrically. Throwing fits at board meetings. Haven’t you heard the rumblings that he’s teetering on mental collapse, intent on bringing down his empire?”

Elaine could only stare in disbelief. “No…”

“Lainey hasn’t seen her father-in-law in months,” Claire said. “She has nothing to do with the department stores, and certainly hasn’t had money for shopping sprees.”

“I haven’t seen Paul since Guy’s funeral,” Elaine murmured, recalling how rude and irrational he’d been right after Guy’s death. She still bled from his accusations. Had his grief and bitterness caused his mental health to suffer? Was her father-in-law so lost in sorrow he would willfully destroy a century-old department store empire, famous for its refinement and good taste? “Is that even possible?” she whispered aloud.

“It’s happening.”

She shot Mr. Rath a perplexed look, having lost the thread of their conversation. “What’s happening?”

His eyebrows dipped as though he thought she was so feeble-minded she couldn’t follow a simple discussion. Naturally he would think that. After all, hadn’t he just bought the leavings of her late, lamented company? Biting resentment shot through her at the reminder that he had something she wanted badly, something she had loved and nurtured with her heart and soul. Something he didn’t give a flip about!

“The board of directors is nervous,” he went on. “They’re afraid he’s going to run the firm into the ground. If he does, I want to be at the head of the line to buy out what’s left.”

His blunt admission appalled her. “You—you want to use me to help you get first chance at the leavings? You actually think I’d be party to such a contemptible plan?”

“Face it, Mrs. Stuben.” He eyed her levelly. “If your father-in-law has had a breakdown, and if the worst happens, somebody’s going to swoop in to pick the carcass clean. When he loses everything, do you want to have lost the family home, too? Wouldn’t you prefer that I’m the vulture doing the swooping? At least, that way you’d still have a roof over your head.”

“He has a strong argument,” Claire said, looking imploringly at her niece.

Elaine tasted bile at the awful idea and swallowed several times to rid herself of the taste. “That’s blackmail!”

His chin lifted a notch, almost as though her accusation stung. Or was that brief impression of distress a figment of her overwrought imagination? His features remained composed. “It’s just business, Mrs. Stuben.”

“Lainey?”

Elaine shifted toward her aunt, but continued to glare at Mitchell Rath for another beat before she could drag her gaze away. “What is it, Aunt Claire?”

“I know it’s none of my business, and Mr. Rath is well-known to be a ruthless businessman.” She flitted a sheepish glance at him. “No offense meant.”

His sober half nod was his only response.

Claire faced Elaine. “But he’s right when he says it’s just business. Why even in the quilting game I’ve run up against a few old biddies who would rip out your heart for your last fat quarter of calico.” She made a sad face. “Like I said, it’s none of my business. I only want the best for you.”

She touched Elaine’s cheek with affection. “I’m going upstairs so you two can talk.” She glanced at Mitch. “I’m sure you’re hungry. There’s a chicken salad sandwich on the counter and milk in the fridge.” She headed out the door, adding, “Elaine hasn’t had a bite all day, and when she misses a meal she’s grouchy. Eat. Both of you. You’ll feel better.”

Before Elaine could grasp her aunt’s outlandish counsel and even more outlandish suggestion that her worst enemy join her for supper, the older woman had disappeared.

The silence became so deafening Elaine could hear the distant drip-drip-drip of a faucet.

“Maybe you’d better eat.” His baritone voice echoed in the cavernous kitchen.

She sharpened her glare. “Even a full stomach would not improve my attitude toward you.”

His glance lifted from her and he looked down the hall, apparently following her aunt’s departure. “It couldn’t hurt.”

She fisted her hands, the desire to punch his nose so strong she had to physically press her arms against her sides to restrain herself. “I would rather chew nails.”

Resuming eye contact with her, he pursed his lips, the pause long. If he were anybody else, Elaine would have thought he might be counting to ten to hold on to his temper. “Whether you eat or not while I’m here is your business, but I intend to show Paul Stuben my good intentions,” he said. “Let him see me as a magician rather than a predator. All I ask is that you make it clear you’re pleased with how I’ve helped you.”

“Pleased with…how you’ve helped me?” She rolled her eyes, hoping the theatrical move would make the absurdity of his suggestion abundantly clear. “You don’t need me, Mr. Rath. You need an actress with no moral fiber.”

His jaw muscles did their sexy-bunching act again, so Elaine forced her gaze to the knot in his fancy tie.

“I think I’ll eat,” he said, removing himself from her glare.

“You—you’ll what?” she stammered. When she managed to break free of her shocked paralysis, she spun to watch him walk to the kitchen counter. He indicated the plates of food. “Any preferences?”

She found herself choking out a scornful laugh. “Yes. That you leave.”

A dark brow rose a fraction before he broke off eye contact, picked up half of one of the sandwiches and took a bite.

“You’re actually eating my aunt’s supper?” She stalked over to plunk herself in front of him, hands on hips. “You’re really going to do that?”

“I’m hungry,” he said. “I haven’t eaten all day, either.” He pulled up a kitchen stool and sat down, holding the half sandwich in her direction. “This is very good.”

“I know it’s very good. I made the chicken salad.”

He took another bite, his lips curving slightly upward. She wondered if it was a minimal smile of appreciation for her culinary talent or merely the way his mouth worked when he chewed.

Exasperated that this gate-crasher was actually making himself at home, Elaine refused to succumb to her hunger pangs in front of him. She tried to ignore the growling coming from the general location of her belly and prayed he couldn’t hear it.

He stood up and headed for the refrigerator. The suddenness of his move unsettled her and she stumbled back a step. “Look,” he said over his shoulder, “you might as well get used to me and quit cringing. I’m not going to do you any physical harm.” He gave her an odd look, as though curious about the earlier manhandling comment she’d let slip. Her cheeks heated. It was true, in the final few weeks before Guy died, she had become afraid of him. His unprovoked, jealous rages had been escalating. He hadn’t become physically abusive, yet, but she’d sensed—feared—

“However, I do plan to be here until I get that meeting with your father-in-law.” He turned away and opened the fridge. After a couple of seconds he pulled out a plastic milk container, glancing her way. “Where are the glasses?”

She indicated a shelf beside the stainless refrigerator.

He grabbed two tumblers, returned to sit on his stool, then filled both glasses with milk. Shoving one in her direction, he began to eat the other half sandwich.

“Are we completely at home, now?” Sarcasm edged her question.

“Not completely,” he said, then finished off the sandwich.

“Really? What a shame. Please tell me how I might make your stay more enjoyable.”

“I could use a shower.” He picked up his glass and watched her reaction over the rim as he downed the milk. Did she detect mockery in his tone? The bum was making fun of her, enjoying her slack-jawed outrage.

Furious he’d turned her gibe to his benefit, she made a guttural sound, something between a growl and a shriek. “You are rude, crude and lewd, sir!”

He set down his glass with a thunk. “You are stubborn, foolish and you suffer from an excess of pride!” He shoved the sandwich plate toward her. “Eat. Your aunt can show me to a room. Tomorrow, when you’ve had some rest and food…” He cast his gaze over her in a thorough, frowning inspection. “…and you’ve had a chance to bathe, you’ll be in a more reasonable frame of mind.” He took his plate and glass to the sink and ran water over them. “You’ll see your options for what they are. Either lose everything to me, or help me. If you decide on option two, you have a chance to keep this property.”

He opened the dishwasher and deposited the dishes inside before facing her. “Not to mention its sentimental value. I understand your husband’s mother and grandmother were born here.” He stood there, Mr. Dressed-To-Kill with his California tan, long wet fingers curled around the stainless-steel counter edge.

He looked like a Gentleman’s Quarterly ideal in that high-priced suit and power tie, tall, dark and threatening, in the sparkling kitchen. Yet all of a sudden something about him was different, less forbidding. What? His hands? Wet with dishwater? That was the only thing that had changed.

“Good night, Mrs. Stuben,” he said, though his gaze continued to probe hers.

Instinctively she fumbled for a nearby dish towel and tossed it to him. “Good—good night.” She didn’t know why it was important to her that he dry those hands. Did she want him to be threatening? Surely not.

He took the towel, wiped his hands, laid it aside and walked out.

Elaine stood there in a daze. After the tapping of his hand-stitched shoes died away, the only sound she could detect was her grumbling stomach. Mitchell Rath, in his baffling act of domesticity, had turned the faucet handle so it no longer dripped. She stared at the silent faucet, then at the sandwich and glass of milk waiting on the nearby countertop.

She didn’t know which concept was more bizarre—the fact that he’d poured her a glass of milk and tidied up his dishes, or that he wanted her to make nice for him with her hostile father-in-law.

Soul-weary she perched on the kitchen stool. With a sigh, she propped her elbows on the counter, resting her head in her hands. Mitchell Rath was a calculating pirate—who did his own dishes. She closed her eyes. “So what if he has a few manners?”

Somewhere in her head a comparison emerged. In all the time she’d been married to Guy, she’d never seen him tidy up after a meal, or serve her a glass of anything. Of course he’d been brought up in the lap of luxury. He’d been accustomed to being waited on and catered to. Elaine had no idea about Mr. Rath’s upbringing. Evidently somebody had taught him the basics of good breeding. “But that doesn’t change the fact that Mr. Mitchell Rath is a blackmailing bastard.”

“What doesn’t change the fact that I’m a blackmailing bastard?”

His voice boomed in the silence, though he hadn’t spoken loudly. Whirling around she almost fell off the stool. “I—I thought you’d gone!” It was one thing for him to know how she felt, but another entirely for him to hear the offensive B-word from her lips. She winced.

His expression gave away nothing. “What doesn’t change the fact that I’m a blackmailing bastard, Mrs. Stuben?” he queried again. The man was like a broken record about getting answers.

She felt terrible about using gutter language. She never did! This breach of her code of conduct was an obvious sign the stress was getting to her. Indicating the sink, she admitted, “You rinsed off your dishes.”

He watched her for a moment, seeming to take in her remark and the incredulous way she’d stated it. The slight crease of his forehead let Elaine know he was surprised she would find fault with that small, civil act, along with everything else about him. “That was my parents’ doing.” His lips twisted sardonically. “Over the years I’ve managed to unlearn most of what they taught me. Forgive the lapse.”

She felt the lash of his mockery and stiffened her spine. “Really! How fortunate that you’ve managed to defy most kindly urges.” She tossed her head in defiance. “What did you come back for, or do you make a habit of eavesdropping on the mutterings of your prey? You must love pain!”

“I love pain as much as the next man.” He approached her. When he loomed large, she shifted away. He noticed her visible rejection and frowned, though this time he refrained from remarking on it. He merely scooped up the sandwich plate. “I came back because I decided to take this to your aunt,” he muttered. “You won’t mind eating something else, right?”

She didn’t respond, just glared. He’d seen the inside of the refrigerator. Did the fact that there was nothing in there but half a jar of pickled beets and three apples cross his selfish, self-centered consciousness? She suppose she could fix herself a bowl of oatmeal and slice an apple over it. He was never going to hear from her lips that there was no chicken salad left, or hardly anything else for that matter.

Still, she wondered why he was taking the meal to her aunt. “She won’t be so easily swayed to your side, you know.”

“But you’re sure I’m ruthless enough to try.”

His cynical remark stopped her cold and she could only stare.

He indicated the upper floors with a small gesture. “Where’s her room?”

“At the top of the staircase,” she offered slowly, trying to figure his angle. “Turn left.” She pointed in the general direction, grimly wishing she could break into his thoughts. Read his conniving mind. “First door on your left.”

He nodded, flicked a tiny cell phone from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to her. “I’m still hungry.” He fished out a leather wallet and produced a platinum charge card, tossing it on the countertop. “Order a pizza. I hear Chicago is world famous for it.” He returned the wallet to an inside jacket pocket, lifted the milk glass and turned away.

He’d nearly reached the door before she could lift her gaze from the phone he’d placed in her hand. “Er—what toppings do you want?”

“Your choice.” He shifted to look at her. “Order whatever you think a vulture would appreciate. Only keep in mind, you’ll be eating it, too.” His gaze held hers for an instant longer, then he was gone.

She frowned after him. Had that parting shot been pure sarcasm or was he actually buying her supper? Had he noticed the bareness of the refrigerator after all, or was he merely concerned with filling his own belly?

Elaine was bewildered, and she didn’t like the feeling. Were these seemingly kind acts as cunning as he implied, or were they the result of the burdensome thoughtfulness ingrained in him by his parents?

She looked down at the charge card and picked it up, fingering it. Considering the fact that she’d made no secret of her dislike, he was being amazingly trusting, leaving her alone with his platinum charge card! Perplexed, she clutched it, shaking her head. The man was a disturbing mix of all-business aloofness and open-handed gallantry.

Taking no chances this time, she hopped off the stool, tiptoed to the kitchen door and peered down the long, empty hall. He really was gone. She slumped against the wall and stared at the phone in one hand and the plastic charge card in the other. “Okay, Elaine,” she muttered, “So he’s a gallant, blackmailing bastard!”

CHAPTER FOUR

ELAINE ate half of the deep-dish pizza and Mitchell Rath had still not returned to the kitchen. She wondered what he’d been doing all this time, hand-feeding Claire her sandwich? If he was so all-fired hungry, he wasn’t acting much like it.

She was stuffed. Even if it were the best pizza in the world, she couldn’t get another bite down to save her life. She stared daggers toward the empty kitchen door. If he thought she was going to hang around here until he decided to amble back in, he was crazy.

She shut the lid on the pizza box and scooped it up along with his charge card and cell phone. She wanted to be rid of him and his belongings. The only way she could be sure to get it done on her terms was to hunt him down and shove them at him.

She tromped up the stairs and hurried to her aunt’s room. Since her hands were full she knocked lightly with her toe.

“Yes?”

“Aunt Claire, is Mr. Rath in there?”

“Heaven’s no.” She sounded sleepy. “I’m in bed.”

“Do you want me to take your dishes downstairs?”

“Good grief, no, Lainey. I’ll do it in the morning. You get some rest.”

Elaine readjusted her burden when the phone started to slip. “Uh—well, okay. What room did you give Mr. Rath? I have—er—he ordered a pizza.”

“Oh?” Elaine heard a yawn in the word. “That’s nice. He’s in the one next to you.”

“Next to…” She couldn’t quite believe what she heard, so the last word came out in an incredulous squeak. “Me?”

“It’s the nicest room with southern exposure. Being from California, he’s not used to our cold winters. I thought he’d be most comfortable there.”

“And why would we care to make him comfortable?” What was wrong with her aunt? Didn’t she see the man for the bandit he was?

“What, Lainey?”

“I said—”

She heard a throat being cleared and whirled to see the bandit himself approaching along the hall. The sounds of his footsteps were muted by the Oriental rug runners, so he was too near to have missed her last remark.

He’d changed into jeans and a faded red sweatshirt with the gold, block letters University of Southern California splashed across his chest.

“What?” Claire called. “I couldn’t hear that.”

“She said she appreciated your making me comfortable, Claire.”

“Oh? Fine. I told you she’d be in a better humor after she ate. Good night, Mitchell. Good night, Lainey.”

“Good night,” he said, apparently for them both, since Elaine couldn’t manage to do more than glare at him.

His hair was a little mussed, as though he hadn’t smoothed it back after pulling the shirt over his head. That surprised her. She’d assumed he spent his free time preening before a mirror. That tousled, breezy look didn’t fit in with her image of him.

“Let me help you, Mrs. Stuben.” He relieved her of his phone and credit card, depositing them in trouser pockets. “I gather you didn’t eat any pizza.”

“I ate half of it,” she said. “I told you my attitude toward you would not get any better, even on a full stomach.”

“Ah, right.” He nodded, as though just recalling the statement—

Like he’d forgotten! No way! She shoved the box at him. “I hope you like pineapple-onion.”

She wasn’t sure if the guttural sound he made was his reaction to her choice of toppings or a result of the box being heaved into his solar plexus.

“A fruit and vegetable pizza?” His eyes glinted his displeasure. “I’m sure it will be—nutritious.”

She felt that stunning impact of his aggravation in the pit of her stomach—a hot jab that nearly buckled her knees. Sucking in a breath, she shifted her gaze away. Scrupulously avoiding eye contact, she made a big production of brushing imaginary pizza crumbs from her sweater. “Well—I’ll be off to bed. I have a long day tom—”

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