glowered, her lips thin. She didn’t look as though she was buying his chivalrous act. She might be a lousy business woman but she was no fool.
After a tense silence, the second woman, said, “I’m Claire Brooke, Elaine’s aunt.” Her cheeks reddened considerably at his compliment, nearly the same shade as her shirt. Her lips even lifted in a little smile. “I’ve been staying here with Elaine since she—uh—released the staff. To help get the place ready for—its new owner.”
Mitch had a sense about this woman. She was a giver. A do-gooder. Kindness and generosity fairly oozed from her pores. She reminded him of his own mother and he felt the familiar pang of loss. She died when he was twelve, and it still hurt to recall…he cleared his throat, retaining his smile with difficulty. “How do you do, Mrs. Brooke?”
“Miss,” she corrected. “I’m one of those old maids or, as a quilter by trade, you might call me a career woman. Whichever label you prefer.”
“And I’m The Vulture—or The Magician.” He inclined his head in a slight bow. “Whichever label you prefer.”
“Magician?” Elaine sounded dubious. “Why, because you turn other people’s hard-earned money into yours?”
The pointed question made him flinch, but he didn’t let her see. “No, Mrs. Stuben. Because I turn wreckage into gold.”
“That’s what I said. Your gold!”
He counted to ten, reining in his temper. “Let’s take your company, for instance.” He tried to sound politely instructive. “In your inventory, you had seven hundred identical fabric wall-hangings with a bank logo worked into the design. You couldn’t complete the remaining order on time, so the bank canceled on you and went elsewhere. Now you have seven hundred useless, worthless wall hangings.”
“It was textile art. Handmade, textile art,” she said stiffly.
“Whatever.” He waved away her argument. “I found a chain of discount stores willing to buy them, cut them up and make throw pillows out of them. Suddenly they’re no longer worthless.” He shrugged, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Gold.”
She swallowed, but her glare raged on. Her fiery cheeks and nose, smudged all over with soot, had a peculiar affect on him. He found himself wondering how she might look with a clean face, her hair out from under that rag. Airy wisps of the stuff fluttered here and there. Curly, glinting golden-red in the fluorescent lighting. It looked clean and soft. He pondered how it would feel—
With a start, he realized where his mind had drifted and mentally shook himself. What the hell is with you, Rath?
“I repeat,” she muttered. “Your gold.”
“Not entirely.” He forced his thoughts to businesses and away from her hair. “I paid you a fair price.”
She eyed heaven.
“And you were happy to get it,” he added, holding on to his civil tone with difficulty.
She scowled but didn’t respond.
“Look, Mrs. Stuben, somebody’s going to do this, it might as well be me.”
She sputtered, bristling with indignation. “I think Bluebeard used that line, too.”
Anger singed the edges of his control. Why did these people hate him? He was doing them a favor. Without him, they’d have nothing. Didn’t they understand that? He kept his expression respectful, tried to be reasonable. “It’s just a business. You can always start another one.”
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,
