by Judith Stacy
“I don’t believe I’ve ever been timed at this before,” Mitch mused.
He shrugged out of his jacket and dropped it on the settee, causing Rachel to gasp.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Getting comfortable.” He lowered himself onto the settee, then pulled his tie loose and opened the top button of his shirt. “What’s wrong? Don’t think you can control yourself?”
“You sicken me,” she declared, as she dug through another bureau drawer. She scrounged to the bottom and found the pair of Noah’s socks that she sometimes slept in during the cold winter months. Balancing on one foot, then the other, she pulled them on, tugging them over her ankles.
“Champagne?” Mitch asked.
She saw him filling a glass and hurriedly yanked on a pair of gloves, then dashed over.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said. “Consumption of spirits tends to make some men…excited.”
Mitch paused with the glass at his lips. His gaze cut to her and he did a double take, seeing her in the orange plaid scarf, lavender wrapper, red gloves and black socks.
“I believe I can control myself.”
“Well, all right, if you’re sure,” Rachel said.
He sipped his champagne, then filled the other glass.
“Have some,” he said. “After all, it is our wedding night. And we each have something to celebrate.”
Rachel eyed the glass sitting on the little table. “I don’t usually drink…though I imagine I’ll be doing more of it in the coming year.”
She eased into the chair that faced the settee and picked up the glass.
“How did your meeting go with Albert Taft?” she asked, thinking it good to center the conversation on business.
“Problems with his quarry. He wants me to take a look at the books.”
“So that was my competition? Mr. Taft and a rubble-filled hole in the ground?” Rachel sipped the champagne. “He wanted you to work for him, but you chose to marry me instead. I’m flattered.”
Mitch twirled the glass between his fingers. “Were you pleased with the ceremony this afternoon? I know it’s not what you’ve always dreamed of.”
“Hardly,” Rachel said, taking another gulp of champagne.
He’d offered to delay the ceremony until Rachel could plan a small wedding, but she’d refused. No sense putting it off, she decided. No sense trying to make something pretty out of it. And, she had a year to remain married to him. The clock was ticking.
“You looked nice today,” Mitch said.
“I despise that dress. It’s ugly and I hate it and tomorrow I’m going to rip it into shreds and set it on fire.”
Rachel knew she was being catty and insulting, but she couldn’t stop herself. She chugged the last of her champagne and glanced at the mantel clock. “You have fifty-two minutes.”
Mitch refilled her glass. “Did you speak with your uncle Stuart about your father?”
Somewhere between accepting Mitch’s marriage proposal in the study this morning, and dragging her hated “wedding dress” from the back of her redwood closet this afternoon, Uncle Stuart had cornered her about her father.
“He spoke with you about it first, I gather,” Rachel said, taking another swig of champagne.
Mitch nodded. “He mentioned it this morning. He’s very concerned about your father’s well-being.”
“Uncle Stuart recommended a place,” Rachel said. “A facility held in the highest regard, located in the mountains near Lake Arrowhead. Lots of clean air. Top-notch care. Not far from here. Close enough for frequent visits.”
“But you’re still not convinced it’s the right thing to do?”
Rachel stared down at her glass, then looked away. “I keep thinking about what you said. About how difficult it must be on Father to stay in the room they shared, knowing Mother is gone.”
“The change might do him good.”
“It might,” she allowed.
“How are your friend’s wedding plans going?”
Why did he have to be so nice, so considerate, when she was trying so hard to be mad at him?
“Claudia is getting a little more help than she really wants,” she said, thinking of Graham’s intrusive decisions. Rachel drained her glass. “The engagement party is scheduled. We’ll have to attend, the two of us together. Have you been to an engagement party before?”
Mitch shook his head. “Do you think I can be ‘trained’ in time?”
She’d forgotten that she’d hurled that insult at him in the study, yet couldn’t bring herself to back away from it.
“We’ll start tomorrow,” Rachel said, setting aside her glass. “I’ll bring along a big stick, just in case.”
“Now I’m excited,” he told her.
The deep tenor of his voice sent a shock wave through Rachel. Her gaze met his and he seemed to see inside her. Seemed to know that he’d set her heart to beating faster and caused warm ripples to pulse through her.
“Time’s up,” she announced and rose to her feet.
Mitch stood and shrugged into his jacket. He looked at the clock. “My hour isn’t up yet.”
“We’re out of things to talk about,” Rachel said, leading the way to the door. “I don’t know what else we could do.”
“How about this?”
Mitch swung her around and enfolded her in his arms. Pulling her tight against him, he kissed her. Stunned, Rachel hung in his embrace as his lips moved over hers.
But this wasn’t the sort of kiss he’d given her before. His mouth covered hers, hot and wet until she moaned softly and parted her lips. She couldn’t help herself. Then he slid inside, acquainting himself with her intimately.
Still tight in his embrace, he leaned her back and pushed the scarf from her head. He plucked the pins out and her hair spilled free.
Rachel pressed her palms against his chest as her head spun. His kiss overwhelmed her, yet she had no desire to pull away.
His hand slipped lower and cupped her breast. Rachel gasped against his mouth. Mitch moaned and deepened their kiss as his fingers seemed to burn through the fabric of her nightgown and robe. He squeezed gently and slid his thumb over her breast as he angled himself against her. The hardness of him pressed against her thigh. Rachel gasped once more.
When he lifted his head and backed away, Rachel held on, sure she’d fall without his strong arms around her. They gazed at each other. Mitch’s eyes burned hot. Somehow, Rachel knew that she looked the same.
For an instant, she thought he’d kiss her again—did she want him to do just that? But he released her and disappeared out of her room.
Rachel collapsed against the closed door wondering what more her wedding night could have offered.
Chapter Sixteen
Mitch eased back in the desk chair and gazed out the study window at the midmorning sunlight. At the side of the house he saw the crew he’d arranged for; he’d spoken to the foreman already, who was now upstairs.
Rachel had left an hour ago, headed for Claudia’s house and another round of wedding talk. Mitch was sure, though, that their own marriage would dominate the conversation.
He didn’t have to wonder what details Rachel would tell even her closest friend; she was as anxious as he to keep the circumstances of their nuptials quiet. He never had to wonder about Rachel’s intentions on that score.
But he didn’t feel married, Mitch thought, slumping lower in the desk chair. He didn’t know what married should feel like, yet he was pretty sure it had nothing to do with the long night he’d endured, hard and achy, alone in his own bed.
He hadn’t really expected Rachel to allow an intimate relationship between them, given the circumstances surrounding their union. He couldn’t blame her for her decision.
Yet how would he ever manage a whole year of seeing her, smelling her, being close to her, imagining what color underwear she wore everyday?
She’d been insulting and cutting in her remarks to h
im last night in her room, and he couldn’t blame her for that, either. Her words didn’t bother Mitch; he was just glad she was still talking to him.
He didn’t doubt that she’d keep up her part of the bargain. She would see to it that he was properly prepared—trained, as she’d put it—for acceptance by the city’s upper crust. But it would go so much better if she didn’t hate him in the process.
The woman drove him to distraction. Even last night when she’d thrown on nearly every article of clothing she could get her hands on had done nothing to diminish his desire for her.
Such innocence. As if that ridiculous getup could keep him from wanting her.
Mitch’s body hummed with renewed desire. What a loving task it would be to acquaint her with the joys of intimacy. Slowly, gently, with all the patience he could muster—and Mitch had a great deal of patience. He’d take his time, see to her pleasure, make sure she enjoyed it. Why wouldn’t he?
It would only pay incredible dividends in the future. And a year was a very long time.
Mitch pushed himself upright in the chair, his own thoughts jarring him back to reality.
What the hell had he been thinking? Making love to Rachel? Impossible.
He hadn’t married her for that reason. He could find release for his lustful desires at many places in the city. At Stuart Parker’s gentlemen’s club several such locations had been recommended to him, though he hadn’t availed himself of those places yet.
He wanted Rachel for something much more valuable.
With the determination that had gotten him this far in life, Mitch forced into his thoughts recollections of years gone by. The hardship. The hurt. That’s what he needed to think of.
In his mind, Mitch projected himself into the future and envisioned all the things that would soon be his, made possible by the power he’d have. That’s what was important. Not some fantasy about bedding down with Rachel. She was a means to an end, nothing more. He’d worked too hard for too long to lose sight of his goal now.
No matter what color underwear she wore.
“What is the meaning of—of—that!” Rachel demanded as she charged into the study.
Mitch looked up from the ledger in front of him, trying, she was sure, to appear innocent.
He eased back in his chair and looked her up and down, as he always did, as if trying to discern something from her appearance, though Rachel still couldn’t imagine what it was. But she did wish he’d stop doing it. It made her tingle when she didn’t want to.
“What’s what?” Mitch asked.
“That!” Rachel gestured wildly through the house toward the second floor. She’d just returned from Claudia’s, gone to her bedchamber and made the startling discovery.
At Claudia’s, Rachel had immediately told her friend about her marriage to Mitch. Claudia had been shocked and a little hurt that Rachel hadn’t told her ahead of time or asked her to stand up with her.
But Rachel quickly explained that she wanted a simple ceremony out of respect for her family situation. It’s the story Rachel planned to tell everyone. Claudia understood completely. Then she’d launched into her own upcoming wedding.
The two of them sat together for hours looking at dress patterns, color swatches—all in shades of blue, the color Graham insisted on. It seemed the groom had an opinion on almost every aspect of the wedding and Claudia explained all of them to Rachel; she was trying hard to make the ceremony exactly what her husband-to-be wanted. Claudia’s mother joined them later for lunch and happily provided the details of the upcoming engagement party.
It had been a perfect afternoon for Rachel. Then she’d come home to this.
Mitch nodded. “Upstairs? You’re upset about it? I thought you’d be pleased.”
“Pleased?” Rachel’s eyes narrowed. “I insist you do something about this at once!”
Mitch rose from the desk with a grace that always surprised Rachel, even now when she was appalled by his behavior. He moved with confidence, almost arrogance, so sure was he of his own strength. Long arms and legs, muscles everywhere. Wide shoulders and what surely was a hard chest.
Rachel could have found out just how strong his chest was last night if she hadn’t had on those gloves. Her palms were right there, pressed against him, and she could have discovered just—
“Coming?” he asked, stopping ahead of her.
Rachel ducked around him, hoping that he mistook the flush on her cheeks for anger. Because she was angry with him, she reminded herself.
She led the way up the staircase and down the hallway, clipping off her steps with determination while he sauntered beside her, leisurely keeping pace. She charged into her bedchamber and pointed at the door that had been cut into the wall during her absence.
“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded.
“It connects your room to mine,” he said.
“Your room is down the hall,” she declared, pointing again.
“My room is here.” Mitch opened the door and gestured to the adjoining room.
Though the chamber was located in the family wing of the house, it was rarely used. There simply wasn’t a need for it except on rare occasions when the Branfords entertained more overnight guests than the opposing wing could accommodate. Rachel and her mother had often discussed taking out the bedroom furnishings and turning it into a music room, or small library, but had never gotten around to it.
And now Mitch had not only moved in and taken over, he’d installed a connecting doorway to Rachel’s room. As if he could simply come and go when it suited him, just as he’d barged into her room last night.
“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, then didn’t give him a chance to respond. “I want this door sealed, closed—permanently. I insist upon it.”
“I thought this would make you happy.”
Rachel looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Why on earth did you think that?”
“Because you can come and go from my room in complete secrecy, at your leisure.”
“I’ll do no such thing!” Rachel declared, another hot rush accompanying her words. She gestured to the door once more. “I want this door boarded up immediately.”
Mitch tilted his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
She threw him a scathing look. “This is for my own good? Is that what you’re suggesting?”
“Servants talk,” he reminded her. “Unless you don’t mind being whispered about, with everyone wondering why your husband never comes to your room at night.”
Rachel cringed, as surely he knew she’d do, at the thought of the most personal aspect of her life becoming fodder for the servants and, eventually, the city’s rumor mill.
“You know I can’t allow that,” she told him.
Mitch leaned down a little, until she felt the heat of his body against hers. “This way, no one will know what goes on in here between the two of us.”
“Nothing will be going on,” she insisted. “I want this door locked—permanently.”
The tiniest grin pulled at his lips. “Don’t think you can trust yourself to stay on your side?”
The nerve of this man! Rachel fumed and she thrust out her palm. “Give me the keys. Both of them. At once.”
Mitch slid his hands into his trouser pockets, first one and then the other, then patted his jacket side pockets and finally his shirt. Rachel’s gaze followed his every movement.
There was that chest of his again. Darn, if she hadn’t worn those idiotic gloves last night she could have pressed her palm full against him, let her fingertips roam and discovered what lay beneath his shirt.
It wouldn’t have been so outlandish, would it? Given what he’d been doing to her at the time?
Mitch pulled two keys from his vest pocket and placed them in her hand. His fingers brushed her palm, sending a jolt up her arm.
Rachel ignored the sensation and closed her fist around the keys, the metal warm against her palm.
“Thank you
,” she said crisply. “I intend to keep these at all times so that you can never come through that door.”
“Really?”
The subtle challenge in his voice sent a hint of alarm or expectation—something—through Rachel. She saw the sharp intake of his breath and his chest expanded. She braced herself.
Mitch stepped back, drew his leg up and smashed his foot into the connecting door. The casing shattered. Wood splintered. The door flew open and banged against the wall.
Rachel’s mouth fell open as Mitch whipped around. He leaned down until they were face-to-face.
“If I decided to claim my husbandly right, nothing would keep me from you.”
He gave her one last hot look, then stormed out of the room.
Rachel watched him go, too stunned to move.
Chapter Seventeen
He couldn’t face an entire year of the sort of meals Rachel had instructed the cook to prepare.
Mitch left the supper table hungry, as usual. Bad enough that now he faced the most daunting challenge he could imagine, that he slept next door to a woman he couldn’t touch, and that his love life had been reduced to wishful thinking.
But he couldn’t—simply could not—continue to function on the pitiful little meals served in the Branford house. He’d have to do something about it.
Mitch knew that the problems experienced by the family made life for their staff difficult, also. The servants knew everything that went on with the Branfords and they, too, were troubled by them. For that reason, Mitch hadn’t wanted to make things harder on the cook and her staff by requesting changes to the menus and meal preparations.
All that had changed. He would be here for a while, a year, anyway. He couldn’t take it anymore.
Mitch glanced back into the empty dining room and the meal he’d abandoned. He wasn’t even sure what it was. But there wasn’t a potato or drop of gravy on the table and he had to change that.
