Renee Roszel - The Tycoon's Temptation

“I thought we might dance.”

Her eyes widened. “Dance?”

Mitch fought a surge of frustration at her obvious dismay. Hiding his annoyance, he smiled instead, allowing just a touch of cynicism to show.

He slipped an arm around her waist and lifted his free hand. “You hold this one.”

Elaine swallowed visibly. “I’d rather not.”

“It’s a dance, Elaine,” he grumbled, taking her hand and lacing their fingers together. “Part of the deal was that you and I act like friends.”

Renee Roszel has been writing romance novels since 1983 and simply loves her job. She likes to keep her stories humorous and light, with her heroes gorgeous, sexy and larger than life. She says, “Why not spend your days and nights with the very best?” Luckily for Renee, her husband is gorgeous and sexy, too!

Books by Renee Roszel

HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®

3599—HONEYMOON HITCH*

3603—COMING HOME TO WED*

3644—ACCIDENTAL FIANCÉE*

3660—TO CATCH A BRIDE

3682—HER HIRED HUSBAND

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To TDW3

Wherever you may roam

Be like E.T.

Phone home

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

A HEARTLESS, faceless robber baron was stealing Elaine’s home, and there was nothing on earth she could do to stop it. Jarred from her angry thoughts by a tap on her shoulder, she flicked off the vacuum sweeper and turned around. “Yes, Aunt Claire?”

The older woman wiped her hands on her jeans and blew a salt-and-pepper curl back up to join the kinky corona that stood out from her head. “Supper time, Lainey. Take a break. You’ve been working like a Trojan since five this morning.” When Elaine started to protest, her aunt held up a halting hand. “We’ve got two more weeks before you have to move out of this big old mausoleum. You don’t need to kill yourself trying to clean it all today.”

She pulled a checkered bandanna from the pocket of her red flannel shirt and rubbed at Elaine’s cheek in her big-sisterly way. “How did you get soot on your face just vacuuming?”

Elaine tried to smile at her aunt’s attempt at humor, but her effort failed miserably. She knew the woman who raised her was trying to lift her spirits with teasing banter. As if readying this historic mansion to be handed over to a ruthless pirate were no more unpalatable than a stroll in the park.

Unfortunately, considering Elaine’s awful situation, the biggest genius in the comedy business, doing his most brilliant shtick, wouldn’t get her to crack a smile these days. She was going bankrupt, losing her business and all her savings, plus every penny her aunt could scrape together. This estate had been in her husband’s family for generations, and she’d lost that, too. Not to mention the tragedy of her husband’s death—and the guilt that nagged her, no matter how irrational. No one in her right mind could find a reason to smile.

She swallowed hard, struggling to dislodge the lump of sadness that seemed to permanently reside in her throat. She released her death grip on the vacuum and pushed a stray wisp of her hair under the green scarf she’d wrapped around her head. “I cleaned out the master suite’s fireplace.”

“With your face?” Her aunt wet the bandanna with a little spit and aimed for Elaine’s nose, but she ducked out of reach. “Hold still, Lainey.”

“Please, Aunt Claire.” Elaine rubbed the back of her wrist across her nose, fearing she was making it worse. Still, at twenty-seven she was decades too old to have her face swabbed like that. Wiping her hands on her faded jeans, she sighed long and low. Bone-weary, she had neither the strength nor will to argue. Besides, she supposed she should eat, since she couldn’t recall having a bite all day. Indicating the back of the house, she said, “Okay, let’s go make some sandwiches.”

The booming impact of the door’s heavy, brass knocker echoed like cannon fire in the foyer, ricocheting off the high walls and lofty ceiling of the living room where Elaine and her aunt stood. “Oh, that’s little Harry with my toothpaste and shoe laces.”

The older woman indicated her scuffed hiking boots with a wave. “These old things’ve been broken and knotted so many times I can’t lace ’em past my instep.” Claire waved toward the entry hall, with its scenic wallpaper and generously bunched curtains, all the more opulent with the overlong, purple velvet fabric laying in swathes on the parquet floor. The French, nineteenth-century crystal chandelier sparkled in the late-afternoon sunshine, throwing off rainbows of vivid color, making the place seem like a fantasy castle in the clouds.

Elaine’s breath caught as her gaze drifted across the space, an exotic mix of baroque and rococo. Even after living there a year, every room continued to be an awe-inspiring feast for the eye. With its gilt and inlaid furnishings, hand-painted walls, Aubusson carpets and festooning drapery, the Stuben family home was a rich, eclectic masterpiece.

And now she had lost it to her creditors. For the millionth time a stab of guilt cut deep, making her cringe.

“You get the door, Lainey,” her aunt said as she turned toward the exit to the kitchen. “I’ll start supper.”

Elaine felt her aunt’s urging push. “And pay Harry the fifty cents I promised him for running those things over here for me. He’s saving up for a new bicycle. That clap-trappy piece of junk he rides is a hazard.”

Elaine headed for the foyer. “That twelve-year-old kid will be able to buy a new bike before I can pay for new shoes,” she murmured to herself. Though she could hardly afford it, she didn’t want to ask her aunt for the fifty cents. Thanks to her, Claire’s finances were suffering, too.

Besides, Harry was a great kid. He worked hard at his after-school job. He deserved a safe bicycle.

She pictured freckle-faced Harry Browne in her mind. The heart-tugging, chipped front tooth that showed itself when he grinned. The hole in the knee of oversize jeans, and the backward Chicago Cubs ball cap planted over scraggly red hair. All in all, Harry was a sweet wad of little-boy perfection. She’d agonized over having to lay off his single mom from her job on the kitchen staff. At least she’d managed to find JoBeth Browne work at the nearby supermarket.

Focusing her attention on dislodging two quarters from a hip pocket, Elaine tugged open the mammoth cherrywood door. She extracted the change from her jeans—two quarters and a linty, gray button. The plastic button didn’t look familiar, and from the lint clinging to it, she had a feeling it hadn’t been missed from wherever it belonged. Shoving it back in her hip pocket, she said, “Here you go, sweetie-pie. Thanks for…” She held out the money, looked up, her sentence dying a quick death.

Instead of the twelve-year-old, chipped-toothed moppet she expected to see, a much larger figure loomed on the stone porch. At the moment she found herself staring in the vicinity of a man’s chest. A surge of feminine awareness coursed through her and she instinctively moved back a step, sensing something—or someone—out of the ordinary.