Читать книгу The Hired Husband - Judith Stacy - Страница 14

W aking to find another person in his bedchamber was disconcerting enough, but a man?

Mitch couldn’t even remember the last time he’d awakened with a woman in his room.

Morning sunlight drifted in through the tall windows as Mitch went about dressing. When he’d awakened and found a man creeping around his room, his first thought had been that a burglar had broken in. He’d vaulted out of bed and nearly given the gray-haired fellow a heart attack before realizing it was Joseph, his valet.

His valet. Mitch shrugged into his white shirt. He’d never had servants before, beyond the maids who worked at the hotels he called home when he traveled. He hadn’t known exactly what to do with Joseph.

He’d allowed the valet to draw his bath, arrange his shaving kit in the bathroom, lay out his clothing for the day, brush his suit and buff his shoes. But he’d drawn the line when the valet had tried to sift talc in his underdrawers and hold them while he stepped in. He’d sent Joseph on his way.

The bedchamber was silent now as Mitch closed the buttons on his shirtfront and eased cuff links into place. He looked down at his gray trousers. This suit had hung with the two others he owned in the massive redwood closet built to hold dozens more. His few shirts, undershirts, drawers, socks and other belongings took up only a fraction of the space in the dresser.

He’d considered buying himself another suit before making this trip, but had decided against it. He didn’t want to pay the extra charge to have it rushed.

Mitch wondered now if that had been a mistake.

But his suits—few though they may be—were of the current fashion. He knew because he watched what others wore. Powerful, wealthy men always dressed well. Mitch paid attention to everything and everyone around him and figured things out as best he could.

He looped his necktie beneath his collar and stood at the beveled mirror to tie it, anxious to get downstairs, to get to work, to finish this job and leave. He tucked his shirttail into his trousers, fastened them and pulled his suspenders into place.

Mitch had to remind himself not to make the bed, to leave it for the servants. But he put his clothes away and tidied up the bathroom just the same.

No use getting too comfortable living in these circumstances; no servants awaited him at home, in the room he rented over the bakery.

Rachel floated into his mind. If she knew his real circumstances would she be appalled? Would she pity him?

Would she laugh?

Mitch swept his jacket from the rack where Joseph had hung it this morning and stood by the window as he shoved into it. Outside, just as Rachel had promised, the view was spectacular. At least an acre of grounds, Mitch estimated, surrounded the house. Brick walkways, fountains, shrubs, flower beds, towering palms. And with the morning sunshine just seeping over the horizon—

Rachel.

Mitch’s heart lurched and he leaned closer to the window. Yes, it was Rachel. He hadn’t expected to see her, of all people, up at dawn and outside on the grounds. Yet there she sat on a little stool before an easel, facing the sunrise, painting.

Another side of this woman he hadn’t anticipated. She was a lady, of course, as she’d been raised to be, with all the social restrictions necessary to maintain that illusion. Rachel was soft and vulnerable, too.

But he’d seen a streak of grit and determination in her when she’d negotiated his increased salary, brought about by her love and concern for her family. Rachel was a tigress fighting for her loved ones. He hadn’t expected that from her pampered lifestyle.

Nor had he expected himself to be so completely attracted to her.

His body had yearned for her from the moment he’d laid eyes on her. He’d never felt such a strong pull toward a woman—ever. The mere rustling of her skirts drove him crazy with desire. He wanted to hear her voice, smell her hair, learn everything there was to know about her.

But that wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t.

Mitch turned away from the window and stalked out of the room. He knew who he was, knew where he came from.

He also knew where he was going, and nothing would stop him from getting there. Not Rachel and her rustling petticoats. Not his own want for her.

He was here to do a job. That was all. He had a plan—a plan he’d made long ago—and he’d stick to it. He’d have what he wanted in this life. And nothing, not even Rachel Branford and her rustling petticoats, would stop him.

A strange sensation zipped up Rachel’s spine seconds before she heard the brush of shoes against the grass. She knew—somehow, she knew—who approached.

“Good morning.”

Mitch’s rich voice floated over her. She turned to find him standing a few feet away, gazing at her intently. So intently that for an instant she forgot how completely unprepared she was to see anyone—especially him—at this early hour.

When she’d looked out her window and seen the spectacular sunrise, she’d thrown on a day dress, no corset or petticoats. She twisted her hair into a careless knot, grabbed her art supplies and hurried outside. She’d kicked off her slippers to feel the grass against her toes and set to work trying to capture the sunrise.

She wasn’t fit to be seen by anyone. It simply wasn’t done.

Yet he looked so handsome standing there. From her seat on her little stool, he seemed even taller. The color of his suit and the necktie he wore complimented his hair, his eyes.

Eyes that, for a moment, seemed to see straight through her and know that her heart beat a little faster at the sight of him.

Determinedly, Rachel turned back to her easel. “I have only a few minutes to scrutinize the sunrise,” she told him, dabbing at her sketchbook with her brush.

He stepped closer and positioned himself beside her. His nearness sent a rush through her, producing a wiggly trail of paint across the paper.

“Is that supposed to be the sun?” he asked, leaning down, squinting at her work.

“Yes.” Rachel picked up more paint with her brush and swept it across the paper.

He leaned in a little farther until his face was even with hers. “Your sun looks like a circle.”

“I’m not painting the actual sun. I’m capturing its colors.” Rachel put down her brush and sighed. “Or trying to. What I need is a spectacular shade of pink, but I’m not finding it this morning.”

“You’re quitting?” Mitch asked.

“Yes, for now.” Rachel rose from the stool.

“Can I see your other paintings?” Mitch asked.

“No,” she said, holding the sketchbook closer. Occasionally, she showed her work to others, but never the things she’d put in this particular book.

“Why not?”

She backed up a little. “It’s…personal.”

“I was in a museum once,” Mitch said, easing a little closer. “There were pictures of naked people all over the place. Is that what you’ve got in your book? Naked people?”

“Are you offering to model?” she asked.

Rachel gasped. Her eyes widened. Goodness, had she actually said that aloud? Heat rushed up her neck and fanned across her cheeks. She saw Mitch draw in a quick breath and his gaze dip—and not to the sketchbook she clutched below her bosom.

How embarrassing. How humiliating. Rachel wanted to melt into the ground and disappear. How could she have said that aloud—how could she have even thought it?

Then Mitch reached out and cupped her chin. He lifted it until her gaze met his.

“Now there’s a spectacular shade of pink,” he said softly, rubbing his thumb over her cheek.

Her embarrassment fled. He’d done that before, turned her emotions with a look, a word…now with a touch.

Mitch leaned down and kissed her. He splayed his fingers across her cheek and touched his lips to hers. Rachel gasped as he settled his mouth over hers and moved with exquisite slowness.

He lifted his head and gazed into her eyes.

“You’re a bit pink now yourself,” she whispered.

“Shall I model for you?”

She smiled gently, caught up completely in this private moment with him. “Is that covered in the exorbitant fee I’m paying you?”

He grinned. “No extra charge.”

She looked at him for a few seconds, as if considering his offer, then shook her head. “I’m afraid that simply isn’t done.”

“My offer stands.”

“How very generous of you.”

He studied her and for an instant Rachel thought he might kiss her again. Instead, he backed up a step.

“I’d better get inside and earn my fee,” he told her.

Rachel watched as he headed toward the house, her head spinning slightly. Good gracious, what had just happened?

And how would she ever be able to ask Mitch the question that meant so much to her—without thinking of their kiss?

How the hell was he supposed to stay away from the woman when even the sound of her voice drew his attention? Sent his imagination reeling? Ratcheted up his desire?

Mitch pushed himself out of the desk chair and paced across the study. He’d been here since breakfast trying to work, trying to concentrate, trying to keep thoughts of Rachel out of his mind, and he’d failed miserably.

He’d tried to keep his body under control, but had failed miserably at that, too.

He’d kissed her. This morning in the yard he’d leaned down, put his mouth on hers and kissed her. Then he’d offered to model nude for her painting.

Mitch shook his head. Good God, what was wrong with him? He had to get Rachel out of his mind.

That was proving more difficult as the day passed.

Earlier, her friend had arrived and the two of them had been in the sitting room down the hall ever since. Whatever the two were discussing must have been important—to them, anyway. Mitch had heard nothing but giggling, gasping and a steady low murmur, all of which kept reminding him of how sweet Rachel’s kiss had been, kept him from concentrating on his work.

He paced to the door and gazed down the hall. He couldn’t see inside. What was Rachel wearing? he wondered. The same yellow thing she’d had on this morning when he’d looked out his bedchamber window and seen her painting at her easel? Had she changed clothing?

He hoped so. If he walked in on her now and saw her dressed as she’d been this morning—obviously without the armor of under things women wore—he didn’t know how he’d control himself.

Still, he wondered what sort of clothing she might have changed into. If he walked past the doorway, glanced inside he could—

Mitch drew himself up and pushed the thought from his mind. What the hell was wrong with him? Determinedly, he stalked back to his desk.

A few minutes later, the voices of the women grew louder. A cloud of the most delicate scent floated into the study. Mitch looked up as Rachel and Claudia walked past his doorway, heading toward the foyer.

Blue. She had on blue. A fresh wave of desire surged through Mitch. He leaned sideways, watching her drift down the hallway until he nearly fell out of his chair. He caught himself in time but sent a stack of ledgers tumbling onto the floor.

“Damn it…” Mitch grumbled under his breath as he dropped to his knees, gathering the ledgers.

Good God, what was he doing? Acting like a schoolboy instead of a grown man. Letting Rachel occupy so much of his thoughts that he—

“Mr. Kincade?”

Mitch’s head jerked up and he saw Rachel walk into the study. He dropped the ledgers again.

“Let me help you,” she said, coming toward him.

“No,” he barked, grabbing for the ledgers.

To his horror, she sank to her knees beside him. Her scent cascaded over him. She was so near that if he leaned forward, just a little, he could touch her. Kiss her. Lay his mouth against hers and once more feel the warmth of—

“Are you ill, Mr. Kincade?” she asked, gazing at him with concern.

Mitch drew back, clutching the ledgers against him, unsure whether or not she’d spoken.

“You look a little flushed.” Rachel smiled. “A little pink.”

He was pink and flushed, all right. And if he didn’t get some distance from her quickly, he’d lay her back on the floor—

“Mr. Kincade?”

He struggled to his feet and needed to slide into his chair, but he couldn’t leave her on the floor—for his own good as well as hers.

He offered his hand and she took it. Her small, soft palm pressed against his, sending his desire up another few notches. Another hot wave crashed through him.

How could this keep happening? When he only touched her hand?

Thankfully, Rachel got to her feet quickly. Mitch dropped into his chair and snatched up a pencil.

“I’m—I’m busy,” he grumbled, opening a ledger and flipping through the pages.

She lingered at his side for a moment, looking down at him. Then she bent low. From the corner of his eye, Mitch saw her bosom, filling out the front of her shirtwaist, coming closer. Then her breath brushed his ear.

“Your ledger is upside down,” she whispered.

Mitch’s cheeks flamed. They actually burned. He couldn’t remember a time—not once in his entire life—when that had happened.

He ground his lips together, pushing through his embarrassment and looked up at her. “I told you I’m very good at this.”

“I can see that you are, Mr. Kincade,” she said, giving him a knowing, secretive smile.

Mitch smiled back. He couldn’t help it. Rachel had seen his embarrassment and allowed it to pass without calling attention.

He wished he’d kissed her on the floor when he’d had the chance.

“I wanted to see if there’s anything you need,” Rachel said, easing around to the front of the desk again. “I can have Cook make your lunch now, if you’d like.”

Rachel, or the cook, or somebody had decided on his morning meal for him and brought it to him in the breakfast room. Oatmeal and fruit. He’d been hungry again fifteen minutes later.

“Nothing now,” Mitch said, thinking maybe he could sneak into the kitchen later and scrounge up a real meal.

“Oh, well then. All right.”

Rachel gave him a quick smile but didn’t leave. Silence yawned between them. She ran her finger along the edge of his desk.

How pretty she was. The thought ran through Mitch’s head as the afternoon sunlight beamed in through the window, highlighting her hair, turning a few strands golden. Her brown eyes sparkled. Her pink lips glistened.

If she didn’t leave soon, he was going to round this desk and kiss her. On the mouth. Right here in her father’s study.

“I, uh, I was wondering how things are going?” she said, gesturing around the room to nothing in particular.

“Fine,” Mitch said, though he hadn’t made as much progress as he’d expected to. But that was Rachel’s fault, thanks to his body’s reaction to his every thought of her.

Rachel gave him another smile and he tapped his fingernail on the desk. Still, she made no sign of leaving.

“Did you want to ask a question?” Mitch asked, coming to his senses and realizing that something troubled her.

“Well…” She cleared her throat and looked at him. “Yes, just something small, really. Before Georgie left he mentioned a factory he was thinking of purchasing. I wondered if you knew whether or not he’d done that.”

“A factory?”

“The City Ceramic Works. A Mr. Prescott owned it.”

Mitch’s gaze bounced around the room to the crates of documents he still had to review. “I haven’t seen anything about it. Not yet, anyway.”

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed.

“But I’ll look for it,” he said quickly. “I’ll find out what’s going on with it and—”

Mitch stopped as Chelsey swept into the room. She drew herself up and narrowed her gaze at Rachel.

“I’m going out,” Chelsey declared, pushing her chin higher. “Trudy telephoned. She’s home for two days. She invited me over. And I’m going!”

“Please give Trudy’s family my regards,” Rachel said.

Chelsey shot her one final scathing look, whipped around and stomped out of the study.

The girl had worn on Mitch’s nerves the first time he’d laid eyes on her. He didn’t know how Rachel managed.

“Is there a reason she’s so unhappy?” Mitch asked. “Any reason at all?”

“Chelsey wants to finish out the term at the Franklin Academy for Young Ladies. It’s in San Bernardino. She’s attended for two years,” Rachel said. “She misses her friends and her studies. I understand that.”

“Then why isn’t she attending now?”

“She hasn’t attended since Mother died.”

“Why not?”

“Because the family is in mourning. It simply isn’t done.” She spoke the words as if the reasoning should be obvious.

“Does that have anything to do with the luncheon she spoke of at supper last night?” Mitch asked.

The reserve Rachel seemed to wrap tightly around her a moment ago, slipped completely. Her shoulders sagged and she pressed her fingers to her forehead.

“That luncheon…”

Mitch jumped out of his chair at the distressed look that had overcome Rachel. He didn’t know how a luncheon could do that to a person, but he had to find out.

“What about it?” he asked, the words coming out more harshly than he’d intended as he rounded the desk to stand next to her.

With some effort, Rachel drew herself up. “It’s the La-La luncheon,” she said gravely.

Mitch stopped. “What’s a la-la luncheon?”

“The Ladies Association of Los Angeles,” she said. “The La-La’s, for short. It’s the premiere women’s organization in the city, and the upcoming luncheon is the single most important event on our annual calendar. The luncheon is always—always—hosted here, in our home.”

So far, this didn’t seem like too big a problem to Mitch. “And…?”

“Mrs. Aurora Chalmers—she runs everything in the city—expects me to host the event, as always.”

“And…?”

“And it’s really Mother’s event. She always plans it, arranges things and does a beautiful job. But this year—”

“Your mother’s dead.”

Rachel nodded, sadness causing her shoulders to droop farther.

“And it’s too upsetting for you to do it this year,” he concluded.

She nodded again.

Mitch shrugged. “Then don’t host the luncheon.”

Rachel came to life then. “I can’t back out. Good gracious, what will people think? What will they say?”

“What difference does it make what people think or say?”

She looked at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses.

“It makes all the difference in the world,” Rachel declared. “What sort of reflection would that be on Mother, if I didn’t host the luncheon? What would people think of her? Of the family?”

“Let me get this straight,” Mitch said. “Chelsey can’t return to school, but you can host a luncheon?”

“These are two entirely different circumstances,” Rachel insisted. “There are parties, dances and outings at the school. This luncheon is for a service organization.”

Mitch didn’t really see the distinction, but he let it go and said, “You don’t have to host the luncheon. Not if you don’t want to.”

Rachel’s shoulders sagged again. “I’m afraid you simply don’t understand.”

She left the study. Mitch’s heart ached watching her go. She was right. He didn’t understand.