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“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
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.