The Tycoon's Temptation. Renee Roszel

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      “I thought we might dance.”

      Her eyes widened. “Dance?”

      Mitch fought a surge of frustration at her obvious dismay. Hiding his annoyance, he smiled instead, allowing just a touch of cynicism to show.

      He slipped an arm around her waist and lifted his free hand. “You hold this one.”

      Elaine swallowed visibly. “I’d rather not.”

      “It’s a dance, Elaine,” he grumbled, taking her hand and lacing their fingers together. “Part of the deal was that you and I act like friends.”

      Renee Roszel has been writing romance novels since 1983 and simply loves her job. She likes to keep her stories humorous and light, with her heroes gorgeous, sexy and larger than life. She says, “Why not spend your days and nights with the very best?” Luckily for Renee, her husband is gorgeous and sexy, too!

      Books by Renee Roszel

      HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®

      3599—HONEYMOON HITCH*

      3603—COMING HOME TO WED*

      3644—ACCIDENTAL FIANCÉE*

      3660—TO CATCH A BRIDE

      3682—HER HIRED HUSBAND

      The Tycoon’s Temptation

      Renee Roszel

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MILLS & BOON

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      To TDW3

      Wherever you may roam

      Be like E.T.

      Phone home

      CONTENTS

       CHAPTER ONE

       CHAPTER TWO

       CHAPTER THREE

       CHAPTER FOUR

       CHAPTER FIVE

       CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

       CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER ONE

      A HEARTLESS, faceless robber baron was stealing Elaine’s home, and there was nothing on earth she could do to stop it. Jarred from her angry thoughts by a tap on her shoulder, she flicked off the vacuum sweeper and turned around. “Yes, Aunt Claire?”

      The older woman wiped her hands on her jeans and blew a salt-and-pepper curl back up to join the kinky corona that stood out from her head. “Supper time, Lainey. Take a break. You’ve been working like a Trojan since five this morning.” When Elaine started to protest, her aunt held up a halting hand. “We’ve got two more weeks before you have to move out of this big old mausoleum. You don’t need to kill yourself trying to clean it all today.”

      She pulled a checkered bandanna from the pocket of her red flannel shirt and rubbed at Elaine’s cheek in her big-sisterly way. “How did you get soot on your face just vacuuming?”

      Elaine tried to smile at her aunt’s attempt at humor, but her effort failed miserably. She knew the woman who raised her was trying to lift her spirits with teasing banter. As if readying this historic mansion to be handed over to a ruthless pirate were no more unpalatable than a stroll in the park.

      Unfortunately, considering Elaine’s awful situation, the biggest genius in the comedy business, doing his most brilliant shtick, wouldn’t get her to crack a smile these days. She was going bankrupt, losing her business and all her savings, plus every penny her aunt could scrape together. This estate had been in her husband’s family for generations, and she’d lost that, too. Not to mention the tragedy of her husband’s death—and the guilt that nagged her, no matter how irrational. No one in her right mind could find a reason to smile.

      She swallowed hard, struggling to dislodge the lump of sadness that seemed to permanently reside in her throat. She released her death grip on the vacuum and pushed a stray wisp of her hair under the green scarf she’d wrapped around her head. “I cleaned out the master suite’s fireplace.”

      “With your face?” Her aunt wet the bandanna with a little spit and aimed for Elaine’s nose, but she ducked out of reach. “Hold still, Lainey.”

      “Please, Aunt Claire.” Elaine rubbed the back of her wrist across her nose, fearing she was making it worse. Still, at twenty-seven she was decades too old to have her face swabbed like that. Wiping her hands on her faded jeans, she sighed long and low. Bone-weary, she had neither the strength nor will to argue. Besides, she supposed she should eat, since she couldn’t recall having a bite all day. Indicating the back of the house, she said, “Okay, let’s go make some sandwiches.”

      The booming impact of the door’s heavy, brass knocker echoed like cannon fire in the foyer, ricocheting off the high walls and lofty ceiling of the living room where Elaine and her aunt stood. “Oh, that’s little Harry with my toothpaste and shoe laces.”

      The older woman indicated her scuffed hiking boots with a wave. “These old things’ve been broken and knotted so many times I can’t lace ’em past my instep.” Claire waved toward the entry hall, with its scenic wallpaper and generously bunched curtains, all the more opulent with the overlong, purple velvet fabric laying in swathes on the parquet floor. The French, nineteenth-century crystal chandelier sparkled in the late-afternoon sunshine, throwing off rainbows of vivid color, making the place seem like a fantasy castle in the clouds.

      Elaine’s breath caught as her gaze drifted across the space, an exotic mix of baroque and rococo. Even after living there a year, every room continued to be an awe-inspiring feast for the eye. With its gilt and inlaid furnishings, hand-painted walls, Aubusson carpets and festooning drapery, the Stuben family home was a rich, eclectic masterpiece.

      And