The Tycoon's Temptation

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!”

CHAPTER FOUR

ELAINE ate half of the deep-dish pizza and Mitchell Rath had still not returned to the kitchen. She wondered what he’d been doing all this time, hand-feeding Claire her sandwich? If he was so all-fired hungry, he wasn’t acting much like it.

She was stuffed. Even if it were the best pizza in the world, she couldn’t get another bite down to save her life. She stared daggers toward the empty kitchen door. If he thought she was going to hang around here until he decided to amble back in, he was crazy.

She shut the lid on the pizza box and scooped it up along with his charge card and cell phone. She wanted to be rid of him and his belongings. The only way she could be sure to get it done on her terms was to hunt him down and shove them at him.

She tromped up the stairs and hurried to her aunt’s room. Since her hands were full she knocked lightly with her toe.

“Yes?”

“Aunt Claire, is Mr. Rath in there?”

“Heaven’s no.” She sounded sleepy. “I’m in bed.”

“Do you want me to take your dishes downstairs?”

“Good grief, no, Lainey. I’ll do it in the morning. You get some rest.”

Elaine readjusted her burden when the phone started to slip. “Uh—well, okay. What room did you give Mr. Rath? I have—er—he ordered a pizza.”

“Oh?” Elaine heard a yawn in the word. “That’s nice. He’s in the one next to you.”

“Next to…” She couldn’t quite believe what she heard, so the last word came out in an incredulous squeak. “Me?”

“It’s the nicest room with southern exposure. Being from California, he’s not used to our cold winters. I thought he’d be most comfortable there.”

“And why would we care to make him comfortable?” What was wrong with her aunt? Didn’t she see the man for the bandit he was?

“What, Lainey?”

“I said—”

She heard a throat being cleared and whirled to see the bandit himself approaching along the hall. The sounds of his footsteps were muted by the Oriental rug runners, so he was too near to have missed her last remark.

He’d changed into jeans and a faded red sweatshirt with the gold, block letters University of Southern California splashed across his chest.

“What?” Claire called. “I couldn’t hear that.”

“She said she appreciated your making me comfortable, Claire.”

“Oh? Fine. I told you she’d be in a better humor after she ate. Good night, Mitchell. Good night, Lainey.”

“Good night,” he said, apparently for them both, since Elaine couldn’t manage to do more than glare at him.

His hair was a little mussed, as though he hadn’t smoothed it back after pulling the shirt over his head. That surprised her. She’d assumed he spent his free time preening before a mirror. That tousled, breezy look didn’t fit in with her image of him.

“Let me help you, Mrs. Stuben.” He relieved her of his phone and credit card, depositing them in trouser pockets. “I gather you didn’t eat any pizza.”

“I ate half of it,” she said. “I told you my attitude toward you would not get any better, even on a full stomach.”

“Ah, right.” He nodded, as though just recalling the statement—

Like he’d forgotten! No way! She shoved the box at him. “I hope you like pineapple-onion.”

She wasn’t sure if the guttural sound he made was his reaction to her choice of toppings or a result of the box being heaved into his solar plexus.