The Tycoon's Temptation. Renee Roszel

throughout his formative years, sharing their meager, open-handed existence and witnessing their unapologetic mistakes. Since Mitchell inherited his parents genes, he knew he was genetically predisposed to be a sucker, a chump, a pushover to a sad story, so he’d spent his adult years hardening his heart against pleading and weeping.

      Her lower lip began to tremble and he experienced an unwelcome twinge of compassion. Though he refused to act on it, he couldn’t extract his gaze from that quivering bit of anatomy. She bit down on it, then whirled away. Annoyed with himself for feeling anything, he watched as she escaped.

      She ran from the foyer through a hallway which led into the bowels of the house. He was confused. He’d thought she would rush to her room to pack. In most mansions, bedrooms would be upstairs somewhere over the grand staircase. And this mansion’s staircase was grand, indeed. Massive and gilded, it curved down from a second-floor balcony, spilling regally into the foyer. Its rich, Oriental carpet runner was a striking counterpoint to the gleam of the parquet floor.

      Possibly Mrs. Stuben’s plan was to run straight out a back door to a car, then disappear into greater Chicago. He decided he’d better follow. His game plan didn’t include filing a missing persons report on a headstrong female who plainly would prefer to be devoured by lions than spend one night under the same roof with him.

      “Your preference be damned, lady,” he muttered, the sharp clip of his heels echoing around him as he strode after her.

      It didn’t take long to realize she hadn’t run out the back. He heard female voices, one distressed. That would be Mrs. Green Eyes. The other female sounded concerned and somewhat older.

      “But, Lainey, where will we go? My new floor furnace won’t be delivered before February third. That’s two weeks away. It’s too cold for us to stay there without heat.”

      “A hotel, then,” the younger woman cried.

      “What do we pay with?” There was a pause, and Mitch thought he heard a long, mournful sigh. “We lost my money, too, trying to save your…” The sentence dwindled away.

      “Oh, Aunt Claire,” the younger voice began, “What are we going to do?”

      Mitch had heard enough. Eavesdropping hadn’t been on his agenda, but it gave him the ammunition he needed to coerce little Mrs. Not One Night, Sir! into reconsidering an abrupt departure—no matter how detestable the concept might be for her. She had a great deal to gain if she stayed, and nothing to lose—only some face-to-face time with him. No doubt, in her mind, a distressing price to pay. But blast it, being around The Vulture was survivable.

      He rounded the corner into an industrial-size kitchen with so much shiny stainless steel and white tile he felt as if he might go blind. The only non-white, non-stainless elements in the place were the woman and a couple of plates containing sandwiches and potato chips on the stainless countertop.

      All that soot on Mrs. Stuben’s face didn’t mask the rosy hue of anger in her cheeks. The older woman’s complexion was ruddier than Mrs. Stuben’s, as though she spent much of her time outside. Her bright flannel shirt and flyaway hair gave her an interesting look, like a woman with zest for life. Mitch liked her immediately, then frowned at the thought. He didn’t plan to make friends out of these people. They would be useful, for a time. That was all.

      The pair must have heard him, or the darkness of his suit against all that brightness caught their peripheral visions, for they turned in unison. Mrs. Stuben glared. The other woman stared, looking disconcerted. He could see the family resemblance in the two. The older woman, Mitch guessed to be around fifty. Maturity had ripened her frame by a few pounds, but she looked like a woman in good physical shape. Her nose was longer and thin enough to slice cheese. But she had the same wide-set, green eyes and generous lips as her niece, and was attractive in a scrubbed, no-nonsense way.

      “Take any room in the place,” the young Mrs. Stuben ground out. “We’ll be gone as soon as we pack.”

      Mitch succeeded in suppressing his aggravation, but just barely, and summoned a diplomatic facade. “Thank you.” This would take finesse. It was one business tactic he had little use for. Desperate people didn’t need to be finessed. They knew his offer would be the best of a bad situation. If they were to salvage anything, Mitchell Rath was the man to call. However, the reason he’d come to Chicago would require finesse, so he might as well get some practice.

      “Don’t thank me,” she scoffed. “It’s your house, remember?”

      He nodded. “So it is.” Indicating the second woman, he asked, “And who is this—lovely lady?” He graced the older woman with a smile calculated to charm.

      The pretty Mrs. Stuben glowered, her lips thin. She didn’t look as though she was buying his chivalrous act. She might be a lousy business woman but she was no fool.

      After a tense silence, the second woman, said, “I’m Claire Brooke, Elaine’s aunt.” Her cheeks reddened considerably at his compliment, nearly the same shade as her shirt. Her lips even lifted in a little smile. “I’ve been staying here with Elaine since she—uh—released the staff. To help get the place ready for—its new owner.”

      Mitch had a sense about this woman. She was a giver. A do-gooder. Kindness and generosity fairly oozed from her pores. She reminded him of his own mother and he felt the familiar pang of loss. She died when he was twelve, and it still hurt to recall…he cleared his throat, retaining his smile with difficulty. “How do you do, Mrs. Brooke?”

      “Miss,” she corrected. “I’m one of those old maids or, as a quilter by trade, you might call me a career woman. Whichever label you prefer.”

      “And I’m The Vulture—or The Magician.” He inclined his head in a slight bow. “Whichever label you prefer.”

      “Magician?” Elaine sounded dubious. “Why, because you turn other people’s hard-earned money into yours?”

      The pointed question made him flinch, but he didn’t let her see. “No, Mrs. Stuben. Because I turn wreckage into gold.”

      “That’s what I said. Your gold!”

      He counted to ten, reining in his temper. “Let’s take your company, for instance.” He tried to sound politely instructive. “In your inventory, you had seven hundred identical fabric wall-hangings with a bank logo worked into the design. You couldn’t complete the remaining order on time, so the bank canceled on you and went elsewhere. Now you have seven hundred useless, worthless wall hangings.”

      “It was textile art. Handmade, textile art,” she said stiffly.

      “Whatever.” He waved away her argument. “I found a chain of discount stores willing to buy them, cut them up and make throw pillows out of them. Suddenly they’re no longer worthless.” He shrugged, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Gold.”

      She swallowed, but her glare raged on. Her fiery cheeks and nose, smudged all over with soot, had a peculiar affect on him. He found himself wondering how she might look with a clean face, her hair out from under that rag. Airy wisps of the stuff fluttered here and there. Curly, glinting golden-red in the fluorescent lighting. It looked clean and soft. He pondered how it would feel—

      With a start, he realized where his mind had drifted and mentally shook himself. What the hell is with you, Rath?

      “I repeat,” she muttered. “Your gold.”

      “Not entirely.” He forced his thoughts to businesses and away from her hair. “I paid you a fair price.”

      She eyed heaven.

      “And you were happy to get it,” he added, holding on to his civil tone with difficulty.

      She scowled but didn’t respond.

      “Look, Mrs. Stuben, somebody’s going to do this, it might as well be me.”

      She sputtered, bristling with indignation. “I think Bluebeard used that line, too.”

      Anger