Judith Stacy - The Hired Husband

“She’s what—twenty years old? Isn’t that what the old guy, Parker, said? And she’s not married?” Leo Sinclair leaned his head back and laughed. “She’s a dog, all right.”

Mitch turned his attention out the window and watched the streets of Los Angeles roll past. In truth, he’d scarcely noticed the details of the Branford family that Stuart Parker had related to him two days ago in San Francisco. All Mitch cared was that Parker had showed up in person—the sign of a desperate situation—and hadn’t blinked an eye when Mitch quoted his fee.

“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.