Читать книгу The Tycoon's Temptation - Renee Roszel - Страница 10

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.