The Tycoon's Temptation. Renee Roszel

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

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