The Tycoon's Temptation. Renee Roszel

      She gasped, eyes glistening with affront. “How can you be that callous? To me, this carcass you’re so casual about tearing apart wasn’t just a business. It had a heart and soul.” She stood straight and proud, trembling with impotent rage. “Mine!”

      He watched a lone tear channel a rivulet through the soot on her cheek. His gut went sour, his mood veering sharply toward pity, but he fought the feeling with all his strength.

      “For your information, Sir—”

      “The name’s Mitchell Rath, Mrs. Stuben,” he cut in. “Call me Mitch.”

      The hurt and anger in her emerald eyes slashed at his protective barrier like barbed wire but he managed to preserve his composed mask. “For your information, Mitch, those textiles I designed were hand-made works of art. My seamstresses and I were painstakingly bringing them to life on fabric I designed. I’ll have you know they were worth four times what you paid!”

      “They were worth what you could get for them,” he countered. “To be honest, you were lucky I found anybody who’d take those things.”

      Her lips dropped open. From her aghast expression, he knew he might as well have told her she had ugly children.

      Claire’s smile was gone now, and she looked upset. Apparently she, too, had been stung by his “those things” remark. Good going, Rath, Mitch told himself. Now for some really big laughs, go rip the wings off a few butterflies. “I’m sorry if I offended you,” he said, meaning it. “I’m sure they were—very beautiful.”

      “Don’t bother to apologize, Mr.—Mitch.” Elaine tugged on her aunt’s hand. “You’re right. They were just things, worthless and useless, no matter how lovingly they were created. And the money you paid me was just enough to allow me to compensate my workers. Thank you so much.”

      With her aunt in tow, she made it to the door before she halted to glare at him. They were close now. He could detect her scent, a vague whiff of flowers, coupled with the smell of fireplace soot. The combination made a singular impression on him. So did the fury in her eyes.

      “Have you ever known the joy of creating something unique and beautiful, Mr. Rath?” She paused only a beat. “Whatever kick you get from the bloodlust of destruction is a pitiful substitute for real contentment.”

      He extended an arm, clamping his hand on the opposite doorjamb to block her exit. He was tired of sparring. It had been a long day, and he was at the end of his patience. “We can debate my contentment or lack of it some other time. Right now, I have a proposition for you, and I don’t intend to let you walk out on me again before you hear my offer.”

      “Offer?” Claire asked.

      Mitch glanced at the older woman, her ruddy features inquisitive. When he turned back to Elaine, her expression was deeply suspicious. “‘Offer?”’ she echoed, sounding skeptical. “Our business is finished. I have nothing left to loot.”

      Her infernal references to thievery galled him, but blast it, he needed her. He couldn’t let his pride and her animosity short-circuit his plans. “If you choose to use the term ‘loot,’ let’s use it.” Holding his temper in check he spoke quietly, evenly. “For allowing me to loot two weeks of your time and expertise, I might be willing to let you keep this.” He extended his arm to indicate the mansion.

      She followed the sweep of his hand, then eyed him with distrust. “Keep—the—the house?”

      He nodded, watching her face. He could practically see the wheels whirring out of control. She couldn’t fathom what he meant.

      “I don’t understand,” she breathed, almost too quietly to hear.

      He knew that from her incredulous expression. He also knew that second by second she was forming grave doubts about what sort of expertise she had that would buy back a multimillion dollar estate. Her features hardened. Her eyes went wide, conveying fury and shock. “Are you out of your—”

      “No, Mrs. Stuben,” he interrupted. “I don’t intend to—loot—your body, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

      Elaine’s cheeks burned with humiliation at his accurate guess about the indecent conclusion she’d jumped to. He pursed his lips as though to hide a smirk. She could almost hear him thinking, Why, Elaine Stuben, what a dirty mind you have behind that dirty face!

      “Please explain exactly what you mean, Mr. Rath,” Claire said, fluttering like a protective, though ineffectual, mother hen before the Big Bad Wolf.

      Elaine heard her aunt’s question, but couldn’t take her eyes off Mitchell Rath, looming there, blocking her escape. Dark eyes glinted. His chiseled features held sensuous sway over her, and she couldn’t seem to move.

      How could she despise this man, yet be incapable of pulling her gaze from his? Rakish good looks were no excuse for surrendering one’s principles! She grappled with her self-control and her good sense. “Yes,” she finally managed, her voice raspy. “What exactly do you mean? What offer?”

      He lounged against the door frame, one hand clasping the jamb near her. He looked so cool and unflappable, yet somewhere beneath that surface she sensed a restive energy. Though his expression, his body language, were the epitome of cold, calculating reserve, under the surface he was generating enough erotic heat to melt the polar ice caps. Against her will and better judgment this strange incompatibility and inconsistency in his character drew her, intrigued her.

      Looking into those eyes she was once again struck by his deliberate isolation, his don’t-get-too-close vibe. It was almost as though Mitchell Rath resented her. He resented her? She wanted to laugh out loud at that crazy notion. Obviously his nearness was affecting her like an electrical power station, causing interference, making her thinking processes go staticky.

      “It’s simply this, Mrs. Stuben,” he said, breaking into her unsettled thoughts. “I want some face time with the great Paul Stuben. As his daughter-in-law, you have access and influence. Get me a meeting with the man and I might allow you to keep this house.”

      “My—my heavens,” whispered Claire. “That’s quite a thing to say.”

      Elaine agreed with her aunt’s astonished comment and stared at Mitchell Rath. This twist threw her for a loop. “A—a meeting?” she repeated, still attempting to assimilate his words.

      He lifted his hand away from the door and crossed his arms before him. “It won’t be as simple as it sounds. I’ve tried to get a face-to-face with him for a month. The great leader of Stuben Department Stores refuses to take my calls.”

      His offer was sinking in now and she shook her head. “Well, if it’s a meeting with Paul Stuben you’re after you don’t want my help. He hates me.” The recollection of her distraught father-in-law’s harsh accusations came rushing back. She slumped against the wall, dropping eye contact. “He blames me for Guy’s death.”

      No sound came from Mitchell Rath. Elaine kept her gaze lowered, watching her hands clasp, unclasp and reclasp. Another stab of depression cut deep. She knew she was being ridiculous to take his charges to heart. She would never have wished Guy to die. But the very day she’d planned to tell him it was over…that very day he died. She couldn’t shake the sickening sense of responsibility.

      “It’s true, Mr. Rath,” Claire softly filled the gap. “Guy died in a plane crash. He built the contraption from a kit, an experimental aircraft. Elaine only suggested he get a hobby. She had no idea he would pick anything so dangerous as—”

      “He doesn’t need our life history, Aunt Claire.” Elaine reluctantly lifted her gaze to meet Mitch’s. To save her husband’s ancestral home would be something she’d do in a minute if she could, no matter how hard she had to work. But her father-in-law’s hatred, his crushing grief over Guy’s death, well, the division was too insurmountable, literally etched in stone—a gravestone. “I can’t be of help to you. Paul Stuben hasn’t spoken to me since Guy’s funeral.”