The Hired Husband. Judith Stacy

her place. How many times had Rachel heard her mother say those things?

      She’d have do it quietly, Rachel decided. Give the problem over to this stranger, let him come up with a plan. Then let him implement it and avoid the scandal.

      She lowered her lashes, hoping to look demure when what she really wanted to do was race to San Francisco herself and drag that Mr. Kincade down here tonight.

      “Do you think he can come right away?” she asked.

      “I’ll see to it,” Stuart said.

      “People will wonder why we’ve brought in this hired gun, as you call him, and given him free rein into Father’s business affairs,” Rachel said.

      Uncle Stuart thought for a moment. “He’ll stay here at the house. You can explain that he’s a friend of the family, come to visit and offer assistance.”

      Rachel shook her head. “Entertaining a guest so soon after Mother’s death and during Father’s illness? It’s highly inappropriate.”

      “Then we’ll say he’s a very dear, old family friend,” Uncle Stuart told her. “Besides, it will be excellent cover for Edward’s illness. Everyone will think the company records are being brought to the house for your father to review.”

      Rachel might have mumbled a little curse if her uncle hadn’t been in the room. The very last thing she wanted was to attempt to entertain a guest, especially a withered-up, boring accountant. She’d seen the prune-faced bookkeepers at her father’s offices, hunched over their ledgers, squinting at columns of figures. Having such a man underfoot would surely be a trial. Yet she’d have to do it.

      “All right, then. It’s settled,” she said. “How long will this take?”

      “Two weeks, three at the most,” Uncle Stuart said.

      Rachel sighed with relief. Thank goodness. In only a few weeks time, her life would be back to normal.

       Chapter Two

       “T his one must be a dog. A real dog.”

      “Wouldn’t be the first,” Mitch Kincade said and glanced across the hansom cab at his friend sprawled on the leather seat. They’d arrived at the train station barely an hour ago and headed immediately for the Branford home.

      “She’s what—twenty years old? Isn’t that what the old guy, Parker, said? And she’s not married?” Leo Sinclair leaned his head back and laughed. “She’s a dog, all right.”

      Mitch turned his attention out the window and watched the streets of Los Angeles roll past. In truth, he’d scarcely noticed the details of the Branford family that Stuart Parker had related to him two days ago in San Francisco. All Mitch cared was that Parker had showed up in person—the sign of a desperate situation—and hadn’t blinked an eye when Mitch quoted his fee.

      “Bet me. Come on, bet me,” Leo said, still not letting the topic drop.

      “I won’t bet you.”

      “Because the ol’ girl’s a dog and you know I’m right,” Leo concluded. “And because you’ve still got change from the very first dollar you earned and wouldn’t risk it to save your best friend’s life.”

      “You’re my best friend,” Mitch pointed out, “so it should be obvious why I wouldn’t squander my money on such an endeavor.”

      Mitch saw a little grin pull at Leo’s lips; he seemed pleased at being reminded that the two of them were, in fact, best friends. Fate had thrown them together nearly twenty-five years ago when Mitch was only seven and Leo but five; circumstance kept them together.

      “You and your visions, your plan,” Leo said and waved his arm. “Why can’t you relax? Enjoy life? All you do is work. Why can’t—”

      “—I be more like you?” Mitch shook his head, but admitted to himself that, at the moment, the notion had appeal. The afternoon was warm and though he’d tossed his suit jacket and bowler on the seat next to him, he wasn’t nearly as comfortable as Leo appeared to be in his trousers, open-collar shirt and work boots.

      “And there’s something wrong with that?” Leo asked, sitting a little higher on the seat. “I go where I want. Do what I want, when I feel like it. Take this trip. I was free to come down here with you on a whim. Nothing to hold me back. I’ve already had enough structured time in my life, and so have you.”

      Mitch looked away, wanting no further reminders of the years he and Leo had spent growing up.

      “Don’t tell me you really aren’t considering it,” Leo said. “Marrying this Branford girl, I mean. The ugly one. You’d do it.”

      “The hell I would,” Mitch grumbled.

      “Not even to get what you’ve really been after all these years?” Leo asked.

      Wealth and power. Mitch had made no secret of wanting both for as long as he could remember. The wealth he could manage on his own, and he was well on his way to amassing enough money to launch his own business empire.

      But there was only one way to achieve real power: acceptance among the wealthy elite. For someone like Mitch, the sole option available was to marry into it.

      He’d been offered the hand of many of the daughters of his wealthy clients, clients whose financial futures he’d saved. But he’d turned them all down. Mitch intended to build his empire himself and be beholden to no one.

      That way, no one could take it away.

      “Just don’t be surprised when her father tries to push her off on you.” Leo grinned, then slouched low in the seat, folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes.

      Mitch was glad for the peace and quiet, yet it offered no respite from his thoughts.

      The Branford family. More stupid rich people. He knew their kind. Just because people had money it didn’t make them smart.

      But Mitch was smart. That’s why people of that social circle came to him, begging for his help, paying him well—very well—for his expertise, his ideas, his solutions.

      The Branfords would be no exception. Mitch knew it. He’d take his fee and be on his way in no time, his wallet fatter, his clients forever in his debt.

      He didn’t make it easy for them, though. Mitch never accepted a job when first presented. He insisted on meeting the principals, hearing firsthand what the situation was. Then he accepted the work.

      Mitch picked them. He never allowed them to pick him.

      The hansom swung around a corner, rousing Leo. He sat up and gazed through the window, then turned to Mitch, his eyes wide. “Jesus…”

      Mitch turned. Outside, the West Adams District passed before him. A neighborhood of staid elegance and a solid, stately air. Wide, palm-lined boulevards. Grand mansions.

      The hansom pulled into a driveway of an imposing residence, towering three stories high. Ivory in color, trimmed in deep blue, decorated with carved scrollwork and gingerbread, it sported numerous balconies, a turret room and a black slate roof.

      “Looks like you’ve hit the motherlode this time,” Leo said.

      A very old, very familiar knot twisted in Mitch’s belly. He fought it off.

      “Whatever they’re paying you, ask for more,” Leo advised.

      “Maybe I’ll do just that,” he murmured.

      The hansom drew to a stop just steps away from a large covered entryway surrounded by potted palms and blooming flowers. Mitch shrugged into his jacket.

      “What are you going to do while I’m working?” he asked.

      “Knock around a little. See the sights. Meet some people.”

      Mitch nodded. It was more of a commitment