The Hired Husband. Judith StacyЧитать онлайн книгу.
“You said you’d stay,” she told him.
“Until my job was done. This is what I do, Rachel. I figure out a recovery plan, then move on.”
Her heart raced. “But you can’t just abandon us.”
“I’ve done all here that I can do.”
“This puts me right back where I started. I don’t know anyone capable of taking over the business,” Rachel said. “I don’t know who to turn to, who to trust. There must be some way I can get you to stay. I’ll increase your fee.”
Mitch pushed out of the chair. “That’s not how I work.”
“I’ll double it again. Triple it.”
“No.”
She squeezed her hands into fists. “There must be some way I can get you to stay. Something I can do. Something I can say.”
“Say you’ll marry me.”
Praise for Judith Stacy
The Nanny
“One of the most entertaining and sweetly satisfying tales I’ve had the pleasure to encounter.”
—The Romance Reader
The Blushing Bride
“Lovable characters that grab your heartstrings…a fun read all the way.”
—Rendezvous
The Dreammaker
“A delightful story of the triumph of love.”
—Rendezvous
The Hired Husband
Judith Stacy
To:
David—For always being my friend, no matter what Judy and Stacy—For having the courage to walk your own paths
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Prologue
Los Angeles, 1897
“I now pronounce you man and wife.” The minister closed his Bible. “You may kiss the bride.”
Rachel Branford glared up at her new husband. “If you even think about kissing me, Mitch Kincade, I swear I’ll bite your lip off.”
She stomped away.
Mitch stood at the altar watching his bride storm past the rows of empty pews, her quick footsteps echoing through the silent church. Back stiff, dark hair drawn in a severe knot beneath her hat, she wore her least favorite dress—she’d made a point of telling him so, the one time she’d spoken to him this morning.
The woman could throw a blanket of frost over everything around her, no doubt about it.
And still, he wanted her.
Even if she couldn’t stand him.
Not that he blamed her, Mitch conceded, as he watched her bustle bobbing down the aisle. Not after the disaster her father had caused and her brother had compounded, the mess that she’d been left to fix…with her body.
But she’d given her word and she’d stuck by it. She’d gone through with the wedding. Why wouldn’t she? Rachel had as much at stake in this marriage as he did.
Now, through that series of unfortunate circumstances, Mitch stood on the verge of having the one thing he’d fought for, sweated blood over and dreamed of for years. So close he could taste it.
“Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord,” Mitch mumbled.
“Excuse me?” the minister asked.
Mitch glanced back at him. “Nothing. Never mind,” he said.
The minister shifted uncomfortably. “Well, uh, congratulations.” He cleared his throat. “And…good luck.”
You’ll need it, his tone implied.
Mitch didn’t disagree.
Drawing in a breath, he popped on his bowler and headed down the aisle after his bride. He’d have what he wanted from Rachel Branford.
One way or the other.
Chapter One
Three weeks earlier
“A nother problem?” Rachel whispered. “No, Uncle Stuart, that can’t be.”
Stuart Parker shook his graying head kindly and leaned closer. “Please, Rachel, we must talk. Privately.” He bobbed his wiry eyebrows toward the other side of the room.
Across the large bedchamber Rachel’s father, Edward Branford, lay in bed, the nurses who attended him huddled nearby.
Her father. The man who’d told her bedtime stories, hugged away her adolescent broken heart and supported her at her mother’s funeral just months ago, now lay propped against his pillows, eyes closed, pale, drawn…dying? Rachel’s heart broke anew each time she looked at him.
“Rachel, please?” Uncle Stuart said.
She led the way out of the bedchamber and down one side of the twin staircases that wrapped the marble foyer. The house, located in the most fashionable district of the city, normally bustled with people and the sounds of life, yet had been like a tomb for weeks. The servants crept about silently, visitors stayed just long enough to inquire about Edward Branford’s health, then quickly departed. Her younger sister and brother rarely ventured out of their bedchambers.
In her father’s study, Rachel closed the door behind Stuart Parker. He was her father’s oldest, closest and most trusted friend. “Uncle” was an honorary title.
The scent of her father’s cigars, the smell of the leather furniture nearly overwhelmed Rachel, and for a moment she wished she’d taken Uncle Stuart to one of the sitting rooms. But she sensed this “problem” he wanted to talk about was important, and here in her father’s study seemed the best place for such a discussion.
Uncle Stuart