The Hired Husband

Mitch didn’t offer his opinion. Who was he to butt into this business? The business of a real family?

Rachel pushed her plate away. “I’ve lost my appetite. But finish your meal. There’s dessert, of course.”

Mitch looked down at his plate. Chicken, he thought now, or maybe not. Something green. No potatoes. No gravy.

He’d starve to death if he didn’t get this job finished soon.

“I can’t eat anything else, either,” he said and rose from the table.

Mitch considered excusing himself, going to the study and getting in another hour or so of work on the Branford family business. But that idea held no appeal as he found himself walking alongside Rachel up the staircase. When they reached the second floor she turned to him.

“You’ll stay, won’t you?” she asked.

In the flickering light of the hall sconces, Mitch saw quiet desperation and hope in her expression. And something else also. Fear.

“Of course, I’ll stay,” he said, his words harsh. “I told you I would.”

She didn’t seem put off by his tone. “Yes, but I know you didn’t want this job. If…if you were to leave—”

“I won’t. I’ll stay until the job is done.”

She gazed at him, wanting him to say more, he was sure.

“What is it?” he asked, unable to stand the suspense. “What more assurance do you want?”

She hesitated another moment. Then, as she’d done earlier today in the foyer, she rose on her toes and whispered in his ear. Her breath, her sweet voice, sent a shiver through him, dissolving his irritation at having his intentions questioned.

“You can do this, can’t you? You can really figure out what’s wrong with Father’s business and fix it?”

He looked down at her and nodded. “I’m very good at this.”

Rachel gave him a hopeful smile.

“I’m very, very good at this,” he told her.

She seemed to relax a little and her fear morphed into something that resembled trust, hinted at faith. Mitch’s chest swelled, bringing on a myriad of emotions, few he’d ever experienced.

“Thank you.” She gave him a little smile, then turned and walked down the hallway to her bedchamber. At the door, she looked back, then disappeared inside.

Something within Mitch, some part of him, seemed to tear away and go along with her.

He ducked into his room and stared into the darkness.

He had to get this job done and leave this place.

Quickly.

Chapter Six

W aking to find another person in his bedchamber was disconcerting enough, but a man?

Mitch couldn’t even remember the last time he’d awakened with a woman in his room.

Morning sunlight drifted in through the tall windows as Mitch went about dressing. When he’d awakened and found a man creeping around his room, his first thought had been that a burglar had broken in. He’d vaulted out of bed and nearly given the gray-haired fellow a heart attack before realizing it was Joseph, his valet.

His valet. Mitch shrugged into his white shirt. He’d never had servants before, beyond the maids who worked at the hotels he called home when he traveled. He hadn’t known exactly what to do with Joseph.

He’d allowed the valet to draw his bath, arrange his shaving kit in the bathroom, lay out his clothing for the day, brush his suit and buff his shoes. But he’d drawn the line when the valet had tried to sift talc in his underdrawers and hold them while he stepped in. He’d sent Joseph on his way.

The bedchamber was silent now as Mitch closed the buttons on his shirtfront and eased cuff links into place. He looked down at his gray trousers. This suit had hung with the two others he owned in the massive redwood closet built to hold dozens more. His few shirts, undershirts, drawers, socks and other belongings took up only a fraction of the space in the dresser.

He’d considered buying himself another suit before making this trip, but had decided against it. He didn’t want to pay the extra charge to have it rushed.

Mitch wondered now if that had been a mistake.

But his suits—few though they may be—were of the current fashion. He knew because he watched what others wore. Powerful, wealthy men always dressed well. Mitch paid attention to everything and everyone around him and figured things out as best he could.

He looped his necktie beneath his collar and stood at the beveled mirror to tie it, anxious to get downstairs, to get to work, to finish this job and leave. He tucked his shirttail into his trousers, fastened them and pulled his suspenders into place.

Mitch had to remind himself not to make the bed, to leave it for the servants. But he put his clothes away and tidied up the bathroom just the same.

No use getting too comfortable living in these circumstances; no servants awaited him at home, in the room he rented over the bakery.

Rachel floated into his mind. If she knew his real circumstances would she be appalled? Would she pity him?

Would she laugh?

Mitch swept his jacket from the rack where Joseph had hung it this morning and stood by the window as he shoved into it. Outside, just as Rachel had promised, the view was spectacular. At least an acre of grounds, Mitch estimated, surrounded the house. Brick walkways, fountains, shrubs, flower beds, towering palms. And with the morning sunshine just seeping over the horizon—

Rachel.

Mitch’s heart lurched and he leaned closer to the window. Yes, it was Rachel. He hadn’t expected to see her, of all people, up at dawn and outside on the grounds. Yet there she sat on a little stool before an easel, facing the sunrise, painting.

Another side of this woman he hadn’t anticipated. She was a lady, of course, as she’d been raised to be, with all the social restrictions necessary to maintain that illusion. Rachel was soft and vulnerable, too.

But he’d seen a streak of grit and determination in her when she’d negotiated his increased salary, brought about by her love and concern for her family. Rachel was a tigress fighting for her loved ones. He hadn’t expected that from her pampered lifestyle.

Nor had he expected himself to be so completely attracted to her.

His body had yearned for her from the moment he’d laid eyes on her. He’d never felt such a strong pull toward a woman—ever. The mere rustling of her skirts drove him crazy with desire. He wanted to hear her voice, smell her hair, learn everything there was to know about her.

But that wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t.

Mitch turned away from the window and stalked out of the room. He knew who he was, knew where he came from.

He also knew where he was going, and nothing would stop him from getting there. Not Rachel and her rustling petticoats. Not his own want for her.

He was here to do a job. That was all. He had a plan—a plan he’d made long ago—and he’d stick to it. He’d have what he wanted in this life. And nothing, not even Rachel Branford and her rustling petticoats, would stop him.