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Mitch had never slept in a bedchamber this grand. He’d seen such a room, but only to peek inside when no one was looking.
“Mr. Kincade?”
Rachel’s voice freed him from the memories.
“The room is fine,” he said.
She looked relieved. “Supper will be served at six. We’ll eat in the—”
“That’s not necessary,” Mitch told her.
Rachel huffed. “Why are you making it so difficult to extend you even the simplest courtesy?”
“I made it clear to you when I accepted this job that I’m only here to work. Nothing more.”
“Yes, you’re here for the money. I do remember that,” Rachel said. Then she smiled. “The cost of your meals won’t be deducted from your fee, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Mitch just looked at her, fighting off the urge to smile back.
“Besides, we haven’t had a guest for supper in a while,” Rachel said. “A new face at the table will be welcome.”
“Fine, then,” Mitch agreed.
Rachel headed for the door. She stopped and looked back. “If there’s anything you need, anything at all, all you need do is—”
“Ask?” Mitch finished the sentence for her, remembering her remark in the study that had set his blood to boiling and brought a blush to her cheeks.
Rachel smiled sweetly. “Yes, just ask…Joseph.”
She disappeared out of the room, closing the door behind her.
Desire roiled through him again. God, how he wanted her.
Mitch found his way to the dining room at six sharp. He was certain that somewhere in the house was a breakfast room and a formal dining room for larger gatherings.
But this room held a small table that seated six. The room was cozy, decorated in shades of green. The table was set with china, crystal, linens and a floral arrangement. It sparkled in the light of the overhead chandelier.
All that silverware. Mitch studied it. Which fork, which spoon for which dish? And the stemware. So many different pieces.
Rachel and her younger sister took his attention. They were arguing. Or at least Chelsey was arguing; Rachel seemed to be doing her best to stay calm and fend off the barrage of hostile words and accusations.
They stopped abruptly at the sight of Mitch. Rachel looked embarrassed, Chelsey angry.
“Good evening,” Rachel said.
She seemed relieved at seeing him, even though her smile was forced, and for some reason that pleased Mitch.
“Let’s all have a seat, shall we?” she suggested.
Mitch seated both Rachel and Chelsey across the table from each other in the spots he was certain they’d occupied all their lives. The two end positions, designated for their mother and father, remained conspicuously empty. Mitch took the chair next to Chelsey.
Noah ambled in a few minutes later and murmured a brief greeting as he sat down. The boy looked pale and drawn. His clothes—shirt and jacket, but no necktie—hung loosely on him. His brown wavy hair curled around his collar. Mitch hadn’t noticed these things earlier when he’d seen Noah. He couldn’t help but notice now that the boy smelled of liquor.
Rachel made an attempt at small talk as the soup was served which brought a contemptuous response from Chelsey. Noah remained silent. When the main course was served—beef, maybe, and something green—Noah looked at his plate and his cheeks flashed bright red. He rose from the table and walked away.
“Noah?” Rachel called. “Noah, please, don’t—”
“There. You’ve done it again!” Chelsey shouted.
“Chelsey, please don’t raise your voice at the supper table,” Rachel said, casting an embarrassed look at Mitch. “We have a guest and—”
“You always worry about the wrong things!” Chelsey declared. “Like that ridiculous luncheon! You care more about that stupid occasion than you do us!”
“Chelsey, that’s not true—”
“That horrid Mrs. Chalmers means more to you than we do!”
“Of course not—”
“It’s true!” Chelsey burst into tears and raced out of the room.
It was all Mitch could do to stay in his chair. He wanted to go after Chelsey and find out why she was crying, then give the cook a verbal lashing for embarrassing Noah with the meal preparation.
But the look on Rachel’s face kept Mitch from leaving the room. Mortified, embarrassed, troubled. Yet she kept her chin up and blinked back tears of her own. He wanted to round the table, slip his arm around her, lay her head against his shoulder and make everything all right for her.
Yet he didn’t dare.
Instead, Mitch caught Rachel’s gaze across the table.
“Thanks for insisting I join you for supper. These family occasions are certainly special,” he said and smiled.
For a few horrible seconds, Mitch thought Rachel might actually burst into tears at his gentle teasing. Then she smiled. Then she laughed. A quick giggle that took the edge off her emotions.
“I wanted your first evening with us to be memorable,” Rachel told him.
“And you’ve succeeded beyond your wildest hope.”
They shared another moment of smiling silence. Then Mitch asked, “Is there a reason Chelsey dislikes you so much?”
“I’m ruining her life,” Rachel reported.
“I see,” Mitch replied, though he still had no idea what was going on between the sisters.
Rachel’s smile faded. “But I truly wish I knew what to do about Noah. He’s sullen and moody, almost never speaks. He stays locked up in his room nearly all the time.”
And he drinks too much, Mitch thought.
“The doctor insists this is normal, that Noah needs to come to terms with…what happened…in his own way.” Rachel shook her head. “But I feel so helpless, and I don’t know what to do. I don’t even understand what’s wrong.”
Mitch didn’t offer his opinion. Who was he to butt into this business? The business of a real family?
Rachel pushed her plate away. “I’ve lost my appetite. But finish your meal. There’s dessert, of course.”
Mitch looked down at his plate. Chicken, he thought now, or maybe not. Something green. No potatoes. No gravy.
He’d starve to death if he didn’t get this job finished soon.
“I can’t eat anything else, either,” he said and rose from the table.
Mitch considered excusing himself, going to the study and getting in another hour or so of work on the Branford family business. But that idea held no appeal as he found himself walking alongside Rachel up the staircase. When they reached the second floor she turned to him.
“You’ll stay, won’t you?” she asked.
In the flickering light of the hall sconces, Mitch saw quiet desperation and hope in her expression. And something else also. Fear.
“Of course, I’ll stay,” he said, his words harsh. “I told you I would.”
She didn’t seem put off by his tone. “Yes, but I know you didn’t want this job. If…if you were to leave—”
“I won’t. I’ll stay until the job is done.”
She gazed at him, wanting him to say more, he was sure.
“What is it?” he asked, unable to stand the suspense. “What more assurance do you want?”
She hesitated another moment. Then, as she’d done earlier today in the foyer, she rose on her toes and whispered in his ear. Her breath, her sweet voice, sent a shiver through him, dissolving his irritation at having his intentions questioned.
“You can do this, can’t you? You can really figure out what’s wrong with Father’s business and fix it?”
He looked down at her and nodded. “I’m very good at this.”
Rachel gave him a hopeful smile.
“I’m very, very good at this,” he told her.
She seemed to relax a little and her fear morphed into something that resembled trust, hinted at faith. Mitch’s chest swelled, bringing on a myriad of emotions, few he’d ever experienced.
“Thank you.” She gave him a little smile, then turned and walked down the hallway to her bedchamber. At the door, she looked back, then disappeared inside.
Something within Mitch, some part of him, seemed to tear away and go along with her.
He ducked into his room and stared into the darkness.
He had to get this job done and leave this place.
Quickly.
Chapter Six
W aking to find another person in his bedchamber was disconcerting enough, but a man?
Mitch couldn’t even remember the last time he’d awakened with a woman in his room.
Morning sunlight drifted in through the tall windows as Mitch went about dressing. When he’d awakened and found a man creeping around his room, his first thought had been that a burglar had broken in. He’d vaulted out of bed and nearly given the gray-haired fellow a heart attack before realizing it was Joseph, his valet.
His valet. Mitch shrugged into his white shirt. He’d never had servants before, beyond the maids who worked at the hotels he called home when he traveled. He hadn’t known exactly what to do with Joseph.
He’d allowed the valet to draw his bath, arrange his shaving kit in the bathroom, lay out his clothing for the day, brush his suit and buff his shoes. But he’d drawn the line when the valet had tried to sift talc in his underdrawers and hold them while he stepped in. He’d sent Joseph on his way.
The bedchamber was silent now as Mitch closed the buttons on his shirtfront and eased cuff links into place. He looked down at his gray trousers. This suit had hung with the two others he owned in the massive redwood closet built to hold dozens more. His few shirts, undershirts, drawers, socks and other belongings took up only a fraction of the space in the dresser.
He’d considered buying himself another suit before making this trip, but had decided against it. He didn’t want to pay the extra charge to have it rushed.
Mitch wondered now if that had been a mistake.
But his suits—few though they may be—were of the current fashion. He knew because he watched what others wore. Powerful, wealthy men always dressed well. Mitch paid attention to everything and everyone around him and figured things out as best he could.
He looped his necktie beneath his collar and stood at the beveled mirror to tie it, anxious to get downstairs, to get to work, to finish this job and leave. He tucked his shirttail into his trousers, fastened them and pulled his suspenders into place.
Mitch had to remind himself not to make the bed, to leave it for the servants. But he put his clothes away and tidied up the bathroom just the same.
No use getting too comfortable living in these circumstances; no servants awaited him at home, in the room he rented over the bakery.
Rachel floated into his mind. If she knew his real circumstances would she be appalled? Would she pity him?
Would she laugh?
Mitch swept his jacket from the rack where Joseph had hung it this morning and stood by the window as he shoved into it. Outside, just as Rachel had promised, the view was spectacular. At least an acre of grounds, Mitch estimated, surrounded the house. Brick walkways, fountains, shrubs, flower beds, towering palms. And with the morning sunshine just seeping over the horizon—
Rachel.
Mitch’s heart lurched and he leaned closer to the window. Yes, it was Rachel. He hadn’t expected to see her, of all people, up at dawn and outside on the grounds. Yet there she sat on a little stool before an easel, facing the sunrise, painting.
Another side of this woman he hadn’t anticipated. She was a lady, of course, as she’d been raised to be, with all the social restrictions necessary to maintain that illusion. Rachel was soft and vulnerable, too.
But he’d seen a streak of grit and determination in her when she’d negotiated his increased salary, brought about by her love and concern for her family. Rachel was a tigress fighting for her loved ones. He hadn’t expected that from her pampered lifestyle.
Nor had he expected himself to be so completely attracted to her.
His body had yearned for her from the moment he’d laid eyes on her. He’d never felt such a strong pull toward a woman—ever. The mere rustling of her skirts drove him crazy with desire. He wanted to hear her voice, smell her hair, learn everything there was to know about her.
But that wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t.
Mitch turned away from the window and stalked out of the room. He knew who he was, knew where he came from.
He also knew where he was going, and nothing would stop him from getting there. Not Rachel and her rustling petticoats. Not his own want for her.
He was here to do a job. That was all. He had a plan—a plan he’d made long ago—and he’d stick to it. He’d have what he wanted in this life. And nothing, not even Rachel Branford and her rustling petticoats, would stop him.
