by Judith Stacy
“Bet me. Come on, bet me,” Leo said, still not letting the topic drop.
“I won’t bet you.”
“Because the ol’ girl’s a dog and you know I’m right,” Leo concluded. “And because you’ve still got change from the very first dollar you earned and wouldn’t risk it to save your best friend’s life.”
“You’re my best friend,” Mitch pointed out, “so it should be obvious why I wouldn’t squander my money on such an endeavor.”
Mitch saw a little grin pull at Leo’s lips; he seemed pleased at being reminded that the two of them were, in fact, best friends. Fate had thrown them together nearly twenty-five years ago when Mitch was only seven and Leo but five; circumstance kept them together.
“You and your visions, your plan,” Leo said and waved his arm. “Why can’t you relax? Enjoy life? All you do is work. Why can’t—”
“—I be more like you?” Mitch shook his head, but admitted to himself that, at the moment, the notion had appeal. The afternoon was warm and though he’d tossed his suit jacket and bowler on the seat next to him, he wasn’t nearly as comfortable as Leo appeared to be in his trousers, open-collar shirt and work boots.
“And there’s something wrong with that?” Leo asked, sitting a little higher on the seat. “I go where I want. Do what I want, when I feel like it. Take this trip. I was free to come down here with you on a whim. Nothing to hold me back. I’ve already had enough structured time in my life, and so have you.”
Mitch looked away, wanting no further reminders of the years he and Leo had spent growing up.
“Don’t tell me you really aren’t considering it,” Leo said. “Marrying this Branford girl, I mean. The ugly one. You’d do it.”
“The hell I would,” Mitch grumbled.
“Not even to get what you’ve really been after all these years?” Leo asked.
Wealth and power. Mitch had made no secret of wanting both for as long as he could remember. The wealth he could manage on his own, and he was well on his way to amassing enough money to launch his own business empire.
But there was only one way to achieve real power: acceptance among the wealthy elite. For someone like Mitch, the sole option available was to marry into it.
He’d been offered the hand of many of the daughters of his wealthy clients, clients whose financial futures he’d saved. But he’d turned them all down. Mitch intended to build his empire himself and be beholden to no one.
That way, no one could take it away.
“Just don’t be surprised when her father tries to push her off on you.” Leo grinned, then slouched low in the seat, folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes.
Mitch was glad for the peace and quiet, yet it offered no respite from his thoughts.
The Branford family. More stupid rich people. He knew their kind. Just because people had money it didn’t make them smart.
But Mitch was smart. That’s why people of that social circle came to him, begging for his help, paying him well—very well—for his expertise, his ideas, his solutions.
The Branfords would be no exception. Mitch knew it. He’d take his fee and be on his way in no time, his wallet fatter, his clients forever in his debt.
He didn’t make it easy for them, though. Mitch never accepted a job when first presented. He insisted on meeting the principals, hearing firsthand what the situation was. Then he accepted the work.
Mitch picked them. He never allowed them to pick him.
The hansom swung around a corner, rousing Leo. He sat up and gazed through the window, then turned to Mitch, his eyes wide. “Jesus…”
Mitch turned. Outside, the West Adams District passed before him. A neighborhood of staid elegance and a solid, stately air. Wide, palm-lined boulevards. Grand mansions.
The hansom pulled into a driveway of an imposing residence, towering three stories high. Ivory in color, trimmed in deep blue, decorated with carved scrollwork and gingerbread, it sported numerous balconies, a turret room and a black slate roof.
“Looks like you’ve hit the motherlode this time,” Leo said.
A very old, very familiar knot twisted in Mitch’s belly. He fought it off.
“Whatever they’re paying you, ask for more,” Leo advised.
“Maybe I’ll do just that,” he murmured.
The hansom drew to a stop just steps away from a large covered entryway surrounded by potted palms and blooming flowers. Mitch shrugged into his jacket.
“What are you going to do while I’m working?” he asked.
“Knock around a little. See the sights. Meet some people.”
Mitch nodded. It was more of a commitment than he expected to get from his wandering friend. Leo was apt to disappear for weeks at a time, and return looking worse for wear.
“Watch yourself,” Mitch said.
“Don’t I always?”
“No.” Mitch pulled his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket and peeled off several bills. He held them out to Leo. After a moment’s hesitation, Leo took the money and shoved it deep into his trouser pocket.
“These people can tell you where to find me if you need anything,” Mitch said, nodding toward the house as he returned his wallet to his jacket.
“Try not to yack when you first lay eyes on the Branford’s ugly-duckling daughter,” Leo said with a smile.
“Good advice,” Mitch said, letting Leo have his fun.
He put on his bowler and climbed out of the hansom. The waiting driver accepted Mitch’s fare and tip, then climbed up top again and headed out of the driveway, leaving Mitch alone.
He turned and gazed up at the house. Huge. Expensive. So spectacular that Mitch’s stomach knotted again.
Once more he shoved down the old feelings. He wanted no part of them. Would tolerate none of the memories.
And the Branford’s ugly-duckling daughter? He wouldn’t give her a second look. All he wanted to see was the flash of green when he received his fee.
An old gray-haired butler opened the door when he rang, relieved Mitch of his bowler and gave him entrance.
“You’re expected, Mr. Kincade. This way, sir.”
Mitch followed the butler across the foyer, past the twin staircases that swept up to the second floor, and into a sitting room.
“Refreshments for you, sir,” the butler said, gesturing to a small, round table near the settee. “The others will join you shortly.”
Mitch glanced around the room as the butler’s footsteps faded. A lady’s sitting room, he guessed. Pale pink, flowers, ruffles. On the little table sat a maroon-and-ivory-colored tea service, trimmed with gold. Thin plates, cups and saucers. Trays of miniature cakes. The room smelled of food, tea and cleaning polish.
How many servants had worked to prepare the tea, the cakes? How many had labored to clean this room? Mitch wondered. How many hours of work? How much sweat? How many aches and pains?
He walked to the tea table. He wasn’t usually received in the homes of his clients. They met in bars, restaurants or offices to discuss business. Seldom in their homes. That’s the way Mitch wanted it. Clients, desperate for his help, always did it his way.
He picked up one of the teacups. Thin. Light. Delicate. Where had the set come from? How long had it been in the Branford family? Someone with exquisite taste had selected it. Someone who knew about such things, had access to them. Someone used to having money.
Returning the cup to the saucer, Mitch gazed around the room. Everywhere he looked he saw fine, expensive things. The sort of fine, expensive things he had been allowed to look at a long time ago, but not touch. Not own. Not have for himself.
The house, for all its grandeur, seemed to close in on him. Memories surfaced. Hiding under tables and around corners. Peeking out. Watching, afraid of being caught.
Mitch gave himself a mental shake. His fee just went up.
Rachel hiked up her dress and dashed down the staircase, her mind whirling. She’d heard the door chimes and was relieved to es
cape her younger sister’s bedchamber and her latest crying fit, yet distressed to think that the visitor might be the accountant Uncle Stuart had hired, and that he’d arrived early.
Early. And she wasn’t ready to receive. Rachel touched the back of her dark hair as she hurried across the foyer. She hadn’t checked the sitting room to ensure the servants had set it properly. She hadn’t yet selected the floral bouquet from the garden to scent the room. She hadn’t had time to think of appropriate topics so that she could make conversation with the dull, boring bookkeeper who awaited her.
Rachel cringed inwardly. What would her mother think of her?
She paused near the entrance of the sitting room, smoothed down the front of her green skirt and drew in a breath to calm herself. It certainly wouldn’t do to rush into a room short of breath and lacking in composure.
Rachel had been alarmed when Uncle Stuart had reported that this Mr. Kincade—her knight in shining armor, her uncle had called him—insisted upon meeting with her and the family before making his decision on accepting the job. So much was riding on this meeting. She had to make sure everything went well.
Rachel called upon each and every hostessing skill her mother had ingrained in her since early childhood, lifted her chin and walked calmly into the sitting room.
Then stopped. A tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a dark suit stood with his back to her near the tea service. Her gaze swept the room, then landed on the man once more.
Where was the accountant? This wasn’t him.
Alarm filled her once more. Had Mr. Kincade been insulted that she was late? Had he left? Had her best chance of saving her family’s financial future simply walked out because of a lapse in her hostessing skills?
The man turned his head, saw her, then came around slowly to face her. Rachel’s heart thudded into her throat, setting her pulse to pounding. A jumble of emotions swept her, all too confusing to name.
Except for one. This wasn’t her accountant. It couldn’t be.
This man was huge. Tall. Muscular. Square everywhere—jaw, shoulders, knuckles. And he was handsome. Thick brown hair and blue eyes just short of being beautiful.
This couldn’t be her Mr. Kincade. Never in her life had she seen an accountant who looked like this.
He studied her for a moment, seemingly as lost as she, then came forward. “Miss Branford? I’m Mitch Kincade.”
“No, you’re not.”
He paused and his brows drew together. “I’m positive that I am.”
“You’re Mitch Kincade?” Rachel’s gaze swept him from head to toe, then landed on his face once more. “You’re my knight in shining armor?”
Rachel’s cheeks flushed. Good gracious, had she actually said that aloud?
Mitch’s lips twitched. “You probably don’t recognize me because I left my white steed out front.”
Then he smiled and the most glorious warmth welled inside Rachel, making her smile in return.
“Yes, I’m sure that’s it,” she said, her voice little more than a breathy whisper.
They stared at each other for an awkward moment, then Mitch asked, “Are you Miss Branford? Rachel Branford?”
“Oh, yes.” Rachel felt her cheeks warm. “And I’m so pleased to meet you. Thank you for coming.”
He kept looking at her—studying her, actually—until Rachel realized she suddenly couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
“Would you care for some refreshment?” She blurted out the words, thankful that something intelligent had finally floated through her mind, and walked to the tea service. “I have—”
Rachel stopped, frozen in horror. This was the wrong tea service. Here it was mid-April and the servants had put out the winter service.
She pressed her lips together, holding in a gasp and silently berating herself. She should have checked it herself, should have made sure the table was properly set. This simply wasn’t done. No wonder Mr. Kincade had been staring at the tea service when she walked in.
Rachel turned to him, sure her cheeks had grown even more pink. What could she say? How could she possibly explain this social insult?
“Is Mr. Parker here?” Mitch asked.
A few seconds passed before Rachel realized what he’d asked. “Not yet. But I’m sure Uncle Stuart will be here shortly. Would you care to sit down?”
Hell, yes, he wanted to sit down. Mitch moved to a chair and managed to stay on his feet until Rachel lowered herself onto the settee at his right.
This was Rachel Branford? The ugly duckling of the family?
But she was lovely. Tall, slender. Nicely filling out the front of her shirtwaist. Big brown eyes. Coral lips that made him want to—
“How was your trip?” Rachel asked.
Mitch shifted uncomfortably in the cramped chair. He wasn’t much for making small talk, especially now, looking at Rachel.
She sat erect, back straight, hands folded primly in her lap, feet placed firmly on the floor. A lady. A genuine lady perfectly at ease in this elegant, dignified setting.
“Fine,” he said. She gazed at him, as if expecting more conversation. Mitch cleared his throat and tried again. “The train—”
“Run!”
Mitch surged to his feet as a young girl swept into the room, tears streaming down her face.
“Run!” she shouted at Mitch, then pointed a finger at Rachel. “Get away from her!”
“Chelsey, please.” Rachel rose and said to Mitch, “My sister.”
“Run now! While you still can!”
“She’s fifteen,” Rachel told him in a low voice, as if that explained everything.
Mitch looked back and forth between the two of them, bewildered. Chelsey, in the throes of an all-out hissy fit, and Rachel, somehow managing to remain calm and composed.
Chelsey approached Mitch, not bothering to wipe the tears from her puffy eyes. “She’ll take over your life! She thinks she runs everything around here! Everything!”
“Chelsey, please, this is hardly the time,” Rachel pleaded. “We’ll discuss your situation—”
“It’s not a situation! It’s my education!” Chelsey drew in an anguished gulp of air. “You’re ruining my life!”
“Chelsey—”
She flung out both arms, as if beseeching the heavens. “And no one cares!”
Mitch was nearly overcome with the need to do something. Intervene, get to the bottom of the problem, comfort one of them—both of them. Do something.
But his attention darted to the doorway as a young man ambled inside. Dark haired, brown eyed. He vaguely resembled both Rachel and Chelsey. Their brother, surely.
Mitch guessed the boy fell between the two of them in the family line, probably around sixteen years old.
He ignored Mitch and his sisters, as if he hadn’t noticed any of them in the room, and went to a low cabinet beside the fireplace. Opening the door, he withdrew a bottle of whiskey, then turned.
Mitch’s chest tightened. The left sleeve of his shirt was knotted just below his shoulder. The boy had lost his arm.
“Noah?” Rachel called, making Mitch realize that both she and Chelsey had fallen silent. “Noah, please come meet our guest, Mr. Kincade.”
With practiced ease, the boy pulled the cork from the bottle with his teeth, then caught it in his fingers as he turned up the bottle. He kept walking.
“Noah?”
Rachel spoke again, and Mitch heard the quiet desperation in her voice. A knot wound so tight in his stomach that Mitch didn’t think he could bear it.
Noah managed a salute in Mitch’s direction with the bottle, then disappeared out the door.
A heavy silence hung in the room. No one moved. No one spoke.
Then Chelsey turned to Rachel. “I hate you,” she declared, then put her nose in the air and stomped out of the room.
Mitch watched her go, his gut aching. He turned to Rachel. Her cheeks had lost their pretty little blush. They were white now. Her hands were clenched in front of her.
She looked small and frail, suddenly, yet she stood straight, as if she’d put up a wall to protect herself from…everything?
Mitch took a step toward her. Then stopped.
No. No, he couldn’t do this.
“I hope you’ll excuse my family,” Rachel said softly, unable to meet his eyes. She straightened her shoulders. “Uncle Stuart should be here shortly. He can explain the details of—”
“No.” Mitch shook his head. “No, our deal is off. Forget it.”
He strode out of the room.
Chapter Three
“Wait! Mr. Kincade! Please, wait!”
Mitch didn’t acknowledge the plea he heard behind him as he headed toward the foyer. He was getting out of this place—now.
“Please?”
The desperation in Rachel’s voice touched his conscience. Mitch stopped and turned. Rachel, dress hiked up to ankles, rushed toward him. He fidgeted. He had to get out of here. Leave, and not look back.
But something about Rachel held him in place. A tug he couldn’t fight, at the moment.
“It’s the tea service, isn’t it,” she said, squeezing the words out as if they pained her.
He frowned down at her. “The tea—”
“I knew it,” she declared. She pressed her lips together and, for an instant, Mitch thought she might cry, though he didn’t have the slightest idea why.
“This is my fault. All my fault,” Rachel insisted. “I should have made sure the tea service was—”
“What are you talking about?” Mitch asked, walking closer.
“It’s a winter service. Completely inappropriate for spring. I saw you eyeing it when I walked into the room,” Rachel said.
Mitch just looked at her. She thought he knew the tea set—of all things—was wrong? That he was gentleman enough to realize the error?
For an instant Mitch didn’t know what was worse: to tell her that he didn’t know one tea service from another, or to reveal the real reason he wouldn’t accept the job.