Читать книгу The Tycoon's Temptation - Renee Roszel - Страница 11

“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!”