Bound by the Kincaid Baby / The Millionaire's Miracle: Bound by the Kincaid Baby / The Millionaire's Miracle. Emilie Rose

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СКАЧАТЬ ultimate objective by the end of the year. She wanted Mitch to love Rhett as much as she did. Nothing less would do.

      She yanked on her nightie and pulled open the bathroom door. Steam wafted into the bedroom from behind her. Glancing at the big four-poster bed, she anticipated sinking into the thick mattress, but first she needed to check on Rhett one last time. She crossed the hall.

      This morning, a team of employees had removed the furniture from the blue room and replaced it with obviously new nursery furniture. After lunch, Mitch had surprised her by dismissing them and helping her unload her car himself during Rhett’s nap.

      So he wasn’t a complete jerk and he wasn’t afraid of hard work. But not once had she seen him try to connect with Rhett, and that annoyed her like a festering splinter. A child needed the love and support of his family. All of his family. And he needed to know he was loved and that the one in charge would do the right thing. No matter how difficult.

      Rhett had been overwound after a day full of changes, but had finally gone out like a light thirty minutes ago. Carly straightened the lightweight blanket covering him and bent to kiss his forehead. She couldn’t possibly love him any more if he were her own.

      A sound behind her made her straighten and turn. Mitch stood in the open doorway silhouetted by the light she’d left burning in her bedroom.

      “He finally settled?” His low rumbling voice raised the hairs on Carly’s arms and reminded her she was naked except for her worn thigh-length nightshirt. She hadn’t bothered with a robe because she’d thought Mitch would be off in his own wing of the monstrous ten-bedroom house.

      Wrapping her arms around her middle, she crossed the lush carpet and stopped in front of him before whispering, “Yes. He’s not usually so cranky. Today was a bit much for him, I think.”

      Mitch’s slow head-to-toe appraisal set her pulse aflutter. Dark evening beard shadowed his jaw and upper lip, and his slightly rumpled hair looked as if he’d run his hands through the thick strands a few times. He’d removed his suit coat and tie and rolled back the sleeves of his shirt to reveal muscular forearms dusted with dark whorls.

      In a word, he looked sexy. And he smelled great. The crisp aroma of his cologne had faded and a more masculine, more alluring scent had taken its place. Mitch’s scent.

      Forget it. He’s not your type.

      “Well…good night.” She stepped forward and he moved aside.

      “Good night.” He turned and walked toward the double doors at the end of the hall. One stood open, revealing the bottom end of a king-size bed covered in a dark green damask spread.

      Alarm bells clamored in Carly’s head. “That’s your room?”

      “Yes.”

      How could she sleep with her door open to listen out for Rhett when she knew Mitch could stroll past at any moment?

      Mitch’s gaze turned arctic. “And don’t bother sleepwalking. My door will be locked.”

      Anger shrieked through her like steam through a boiling teakettle. Before she could think of an appropriate comeback, Mitch entered his room and shut his door. The lock clicked.

      Carly’s short nails bit into her palms and fury chewed her insides. Marlene had been too kind in labeling Mitch Kincaid a rat bastard.

      So much for sweet dreams.

      Laughter pulled Mitch from the dining room to the kitchen. Surprise halted him in the doorway.

      Mrs. Duncan had been a fixture at Kincaid Manor since before Mitch’s birth, but he’d never heard the woman laugh. He wasn’t even sure he’d ever seen her smile.

      Making airplane noises, the head housekeeper bent over the brat’s high chair with a spoon in her hand and a twinkle in her eyes. Mrs. Duncan could twinkle? She caught sight of Mitch and abruptly stopped buzzing. Her amusement vanished and her lined face settled back into a familiar expressionless cast. She snapped upright.

      “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realize you were waiting for your breakfast. I’ll bring it right through.” She set the spoon and bowl she held in front of Carly.

      Mitch’s gaze shifted to his unwanted guest. Instead of her usual ponytail, Carly’s hair draped her shoulders in a silky smooth curtain of mink brown. The sunlight streaming through the window behind her glinted on a few golden strands.

      “Morning, Mitch.” She flashed him one of her brick-melting smiles and a shot of adrenaline negated his need for coffee. Apparently, this Corbin didn’t hold grudges. Or did she merely conceal her vindictiveness better than her sister had?

      “Good morning, Carly.” She wore another tracksuit—this one in blinding tangerine with white stripes on the sleeves. He focused on her obnoxiously bright clothing in a failed attempt to wipe the image of last night’s attire from his mind. Her shapeless, oversize T-shirt had been worn almost to the point of transparency. The shadows of her nipples, navel and the dark curls between her legs had been obvious through the faded fabric.

      He’d resented the hell out of his instantaneous response. He didn’t like the woman. How could he possibly desire her?

      Because you need to get laid.

      But not by her.

      She had a bowl in front of her and a glass of orange juice. “Della treated me to her secret recipe apple-cinnamon-raisin oatmeal. You should try it.”

      Della? Who was Della?

      “Mr. Kincaid prefers bacon and eggs,” Mrs. Duncan said in her usual monotone.

      Della was Mrs. Duncan? And Carly was on a first-name basis with her in less than twenty-four hours? As far as he knew, no one in the Kincaid household had ever called the formidable sixty-something woman by her first name.

      Carly grimaced. “They’re your arteries. But you’d think after your father’s heart attack you’d be more careful.”

      “I am perfectly healthy, thank you.” His cool tone dimmed her smile. “Why aren’t you eating in the dining room?”

      “Mr. Messy.” Her nod indicated the slimy child.

      “Which is why we should have kept the nanny. You could have eaten in peace.” Yesterday she’d waited until the boy napped to eat lunch.

      “Breakfast is one of our favorite times of the day. Isn’t it, munchkin?” She tweaked the child’s nose—the only clean part of his face as far as Mitch could tell. The brat cackled infectiously, stabbing Mitch with a reminder of other children and another time. An old ache invaded his chest.

      “Besides, the view from the breakfast nook is gorgeous. But I told Della that you should add a bird feeder or two to the patio. Rhett loves to watch the birds—especially hummingbirds. We’ll pick up some feeders this afternoon after church.”

      She attended church?

      Probably to confess her fortune-hunting sins. She might try a different brand of ammunition than her twin, but he knew why she’d been prancing around in her nightshirt last night.

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