The Tycoon's Temptation. Renee Roszel
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She found herself choking out a scornful laugh. “Yes. That you leave.”
A dark brow rose a fraction before he broke off eye contact, picked up half of one of the sandwiches and took a bite.
“You’re actually eating my aunt’s supper?” She stalked over to plunk herself in front of him, hands on hips. “You’re really going to do that?”
“I’m hungry,” he said. “I haven’t eaten all day, either.” He pulled up a kitchen stool and sat down, holding the half sandwich in her direction. “This is very good.”
“I know it’s very good. I made the chicken salad.”
He took another bite, his lips curving slightly upward. She wondered if it was a minimal smile of appreciation for her culinary talent or merely the way his mouth worked when he chewed.
Exasperated that this gate-crasher was actually making himself at home, Elaine refused to succumb to her hunger pangs in front of him. She tried to ignore the growling coming from the general location of her belly and prayed he couldn’t hear it.
He stood up and headed for the refrigerator. The suddenness of his move unsettled her and she stumbled back a step. “Look,” he said over his shoulder, “you might as well get used to me and quit cringing. I’m not going to do you any physical harm.” He gave her an odd look, as though curious about the earlier manhandling comment she’d let slip. Her cheeks heated. It was true, in the final few weeks before Guy died, she had become afraid of him. His unprovoked, jealous rages had been escalating. He hadn’t become physically abusive, yet, but she’d sensed—feared—
“However, I do plan to be here until I get that meeting with your father-in-law.” He turned away and opened the fridge. After a couple of seconds he pulled out a plastic milk container, glancing her way. “Where are the glasses?”
She indicated a shelf beside the stainless refrigerator.
He grabbed two tumblers, returned to sit on his stool, then filled both glasses with milk. Shoving one in her direction, he began to eat the other half sandwich.
“Are we completely at home, now?” Sarcasm edged her question.
“Not completely,” he said, then finished off the sandwich.
“Really? What a shame. Please tell me how I might make your stay more enjoyable.”
“I could use a shower.” He picked up his glass and watched her reaction over the rim as he downed the milk. Did she detect mockery in his tone? The bum was making fun of her, enjoying her slack-jawed outrage.
Furious he’d turned her gibe to his benefit, she made a guttural sound, something between a growl and a shriek. “You are rude, crude and lewd, sir!”
He set down his glass with a thunk. “You are stubborn, foolish and you suffer from an excess of pride!” He shoved the sandwich plate toward her. “Eat. Your aunt can show me to a room. Tomorrow, when you’ve had some rest and food…” He cast his gaze over her in a thorough, frowning inspection. “…and you’ve had a chance to bathe, you’ll be in a more reasonable frame of mind.” He took his plate and glass to the sink and ran water over them. “You’ll see your options for what they are. Either lose everything to me, or help me. If you decide on option two, you have a chance to keep this property.”
He opened the dishwasher and deposited the dishes inside before facing her. “Not to mention its sentimental value. I understand your husband’s mother and grandmother were born here.” He stood there, Mr. Dressed-To-Kill with his California tan, long wet fingers curled around the stainless-steel counter edge.
He looked like a Gentleman’s Quarterly ideal in that high-priced suit and power tie, tall, dark and threatening, in the sparkling kitchen. Yet all of a sudden something about him was different, less forbidding. What? His hands? Wet with dishwater? That was the only thing that had changed.
“Good night, Mrs. Stuben,” he said, though his gaze continued to probe hers.
Instinctively she fumbled for a nearby dish towel and tossed it to him. “Good—good night.” She didn’t know why it was important to her that he dry those hands. Did she want him to be threatening? Surely not.
He took the towel, wiped his hands, laid it aside and walked out.
Elaine stood there in a daze. After the tapping of his hand-stitched shoes died away, the only sound she could detect was her grumbling stomach. Mitchell Rath, in his baffling act of domesticity, had turned the faucet handle so it no longer dripped. She stared at the silent faucet, then at the sandwich and glass of milk waiting on the nearby countertop.
She didn’t know which concept was more bizarre—the fact that he’d poured her a glass of milk and tidied up his dishes, or that he wanted her to make nice for him with her hostile father-in-law.
Soul-weary she perched on the kitchen stool. With a sigh, she propped her elbows on the counter, resting her head in her hands. Mitchell Rath was a calculating pirate—who did his own dishes. She closed her eyes. “So what if he has a few manners?”
Somewhere in her head a comparison emerged. In all the time she’d been married to Guy, she’d never seen him tidy up after a meal, or serve her a glass of anything. Of course he’d been brought up in the lap of luxury. He’d been accustomed to being waited on and catered to. Elaine had no idea about Mr. Rath’s upbringing. Evidently somebody had taught him the basics of good breeding. “But that doesn’t change the fact that Mr. Mitchell Rath is a blackmailing bastard.”
“What doesn’t change the fact that I’m a blackmailing bastard?”
His voice boomed in the silence, though he hadn’t spoken loudly. Whirling around she almost fell off the stool. “I—I thought you’d gone!” It was one thing for him to know how she felt, but another entirely for him to hear the offensive B-word from her lips. She winced.
His expression gave away nothing. “What doesn’t change the fact that I’m a blackmailing bastard, Mrs. Stuben?” he queried again. The man was like a broken record about getting answers.
She felt terrible about using gutter language. She never did! This breach of her code of conduct was an obvious sign the stress was getting to her. Indicating the sink, she admitted, “You rinsed off your dishes.”
He watched her for a moment, seeming to take in her remark and the incredulous way she’d stated it. The slight crease of his forehead let Elaine know he was surprised she would find fault with that small, civil act, along with everything else about him. “That was my parents’ doing.” His lips twisted sardonically. “Over the years I’ve managed to unlearn most of what they taught me. Forgive the lapse.”
She felt the lash of his mockery and stiffened her spine. “Really! How fortunate that you’ve managed to defy most kindly urges.” She tossed her head in defiance. “What did you come back for, or do you make a habit of eavesdropping on the mutterings of your prey? You must love pain!”
“I love pain as much as the next man.” He approached her. When he loomed large, she shifted away. He noticed her visible rejection and frowned, though this time he refrained from remarking on it. He merely scooped up the sandwich plate. “I came back because I decided to take this to your aunt,” he muttered. “You won’t mind eating something else, right?”
She didn’t respond, just glared. He’d seen the inside of the refrigerator. Did the fact that there was nothing in there but half a jar of pickled beets and three apples cross his selfish, self-centered consciousness? She suppose she could fix herself a bowl of oatmeal and slice an apple over it. He was never going to hear from her lips that there was no chicken salad left, or hardly anything else for that matter.
Still, she wondered why he was taking the meal to her aunt. “She won’t be so easily swayed to your side, you know.”
“But you’re sure I’m ruthless enough to try.”
His cynical