“He finally settled?” His low rumbling voice raised the hairs on Carly’s arms and reminded her she was nak*d except for her worn thigh-length nightshirt. She hadn’t bothered with a robe because she’d thought Mitch would be off in his own wing of the monstrous ten-bedroom house.
Wrapping her arms around her middle, she crossed the lush carpet and stopped in front of him before whispering, “Yes. He’s not usually so cranky. Today was a bit much for him, I think.”
Mitch’s slow head-to-toe appraisal set her pulse aflutter. Dark evening beard shadowed his jaw and upper lip, and his slightly rumpled hair looked as if he’d run his hands through the thick strands a few times. He’d removed his suit coat and tie and rolled back the sleeves of his shirt to reveal muscular forearms dusted with dark whorls.
In a word, he looked sexy. And he smelled great. The crisp aroma of his cologne had faded and a more masculine, more alluring scent had taken its place. Mitch’s scent.
Forget it. He’s not your type.
“Well…good night.” She stepped forward and he moved aside.
“Good night.” He turned and walked toward the double doors at the end of the hall. One stood open, revealing the bottom end of a king-size bed covered in a dark green damask spread.
Alarm bells clamored in Carly’s head. “That’s your room?”
“Yes.”
How could she sleep with her door open to listen out for Rhett when she knew Mitch could stroll past at any moment?
Mitch’s gaze turned arctic. “And don’t bother sleepwalking. My door will be locked.”
Anger shrieked through her like steam through a boiling teakettle. Before she could think of an appropriate comeback, Mitch entered his room and shut his door. The lock clicked.
Carly’s short nails bit into her palms and fury chewed her insides. Marlene had been too kind in labeling Mitch Kincaid a rat bastard.
So much for sweet dreams.
Laughter pulled Mitch from the dining room to the kitchen. Surprise halted him in the doorway.Mrs. Duncan had been a fixture at Kincaid Manor since before Mitch’s birth, but he’d never heard the woman laugh. He wasn’t even sure he’d ever seen her smile.
Making airplane noises, the head housekeeper bent over the brat’s high chair with a spoon in her hand and a twinkle in her eyes. Mrs. Duncan could twinkle? She caught sight of Mitch and abruptly stopped buzzing. Her amusement vanished and her lined face settled back into a familiar expressionless cast. She snapped upright.
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realize you were waiting for your breakfast. I’ll bring it right through.” She set the spoon and bowl she held in front of Carly.
Mitch’s gaze shifted to his unwanted guest. Instead of her usual ponytail, Carly’s hair draped her shoulders in a silky smooth curtain of mink brown. The sunlight streaming through the window behind her glinted on a few golden strands.
“Morning, Mitch.” She flashed him one of her brick-melting smiles and a shot of adrenaline negated his need for coffee. Apparently, this Corbin didn’t hold grudges. Or did she merely conceal her vindictiveness better than her sister had?
“Good morning, Carly.” She wore another tracksuit—this one in blinding tangerine with white stripes on the sleeves. He focused on her obnoxiously bright clothing in a failed attempt to wipe the image of last night’s attire from his mind. Her shapeless, oversize T-shirt had been worn almost to the point of transparency. The shadows of her n**ples, navel and the dark curls between her legs had been obvious through the faded fabric.
He’d resented the hell out of his instantaneous response. He didn’t like the woman. How could he possibly desire her?
Because you need to get laid.
But not by her.
She had a bowl in front of her and a glass of orange juice. “Della treated me to her secret recipe apple-cinnamon-raisin oatmeal. You should try it.”
Della? Who was Della?
“Mr. Kincaid prefers bacon and eggs,” Mrs. Duncan said in her usual monotone.
Della was Mrs. Duncan? And Carly was on a first-name basis with her in less than twenty-four hours? As far as he knew, no one in the Kincaid household had ever called the formidable sixty-something woman by her first name.
Carly grimaced. “They’re your arteries. But you’d think after your father’s heart attack you’d be more careful.”
“I am perfectly healthy, thank you.” His cool tone dimmed her smile. “Why aren’t you eating in the dining room?”
“Mr. Messy.” Her nod indicated the slimy child.
“Which is why we should have kept the nanny. You could have eaten in peace.” Yesterday she’d waited until the boy napped to eat lunch.
“Breakfast is one of our favorite times of the day. Isn’t it, munchkin?” She tweaked the child’s nose—the only clean part of his face as far as Mitch could tell. The brat cackled infectiously, stabbing Mitch with a reminder of other children and another time. An old ache invaded his chest.
“Besides, the view from the breakfast nook is gorgeous. But I told Della that you should add a bird feeder or two to the patio. Rhett loves to watch the birds—especially hummingbirds. We’ll pick up some feeders this afternoon after church.”
She attended church?
Probably to confess her fortune-hunting sins. She might try a different brand of ammunition than her twin, but he knew why she’d been prancing around in her nightshirt last night.
Carly’s brown eyes took on a challenging glint. “So…are you going to eat in the dining room by yourself or are you brave enough to join us? Rhett’s almost finished. You and your Armani should be safe from soggy cereal bombs.”
“I’ll join you.” If for no other reason than to keep an eye on his unwanted houseguest—the same reason he’d put her in the suite beside his. He chose the chair farthest away from the alleged cereal-bomb thrower.
“Not a morning person, eh?” Carly asked as she scraped the last of her oatmeal from a bowl and tucked it between her pink lips.
“I prefer to gather my thoughts for the upcoming day and read the business section. Are you?”
“Absolutely. On really hot days, we take our run before we eat.” She leaned over to wipe the boy’s face with a cloth and her jacket and the top she wore beneath it gaped, revealing a glimpse of scalloped white lace on the pale curve of her breast. The sight hit Mitch with an unexpected surge of hunger—and not for bacon and eggs.
No. He would not be attracted to Carly Corbin. Her sister had taken his father for a ride. This twin wasn’t going to get the chance to do the same with Mitch. He made a mental note to call one of his usual dates—women who knew good sex was all he’d give them.
“Perhaps one day I’ll join you on your run.” Again, if only to keep an eye on her. The majority of his neighbors were wealthy and older—prime pickings for attractive gold diggers on the make. Like the Corbin sisters.
“If you can keep up, you’d be welcome. Rhett would love the company.”
Another challenge. She seemed to enjoy issuing them. “I can keep up.”
Mrs. Duncan placed a plate in front of him. Was that a smirk on her lined face?
“What’s with the suit?” Carly asked, recapturing his attention. “Going to church?”
“No. To the office.”
“It’s Sunday,” she enunciated as if he were lacking fifty IQ points.
“I have work to do.”
Carly shook her head and made a face at Mrs. Duncan. “A workaholic and a diet disaster. Just like his father.”
True, but his spine straightened regardless. “How would you know?”
Sadness shadowed her eyes. “Marlene told me.”
“And yet she didn’t tell you about the hundred grand she accepted to have an abortion.”
Carly glared with enough fire to make a lesser man duck for cover. “If you want to talk trash, then you do it when we’re alone. I will not tolerate you making Rhett feel unwanted. And I think you’re lying about the money.”
“I made the transaction myself. And I have a copy of the check with Marlene’s signature on the back.”
“I want to see it.”
The Corbin women were identical in looks and yet not. Marlene had dressed in designer clothing. Her makeup had been flawless, and he’d never seen one single hair out of place. Beautiful, but hard, he’d concluded within seconds of making her acquaintance. And he hadn’t been attracted to her. Nonetheless he’d tried seduction and later threats, but neither had swayed her toward breaking it off with his father. And when he’d finally convinced his father to end the relationship, she’d turned up pregnant a month later.
A calculating woman with an eye out for number one, he’d concluded. He hadn’t seen that side of Carly. Yet. But he would. She camouflaged her mercenary streak well. But sooner or later the facade would crack.
Carly sipped her juice. Without the red gloss her twin had worn, Carly’s mouth looked softer than Marlene’s. Thus far, the only time Carly had shown her hard side was when butting heads with him over the boy. That was to be expected, since the kid was her ticket to Easy Street. Mitch hadn’t figured out her MO yet, but she and Marlene were genetically identical twins—one egg separated in the womb. Carly’s altruistic pretense had to be exactly that. A pretense to cover a mercenary heart.
And once she realized he was onto her, her mouth would twist the way her sister’s had and her eyes would glint like flint. In the meantime, he’d watch Carly Corbin like a hawk does its prey, waiting for the perfect opportunity to swoop in and steal the child from her.
The boy slammed his hands on the high chair tray, startling Mitch. His eggs fell from his fork.
“Man. Man. Man.”
Carly righted the sippy cup. “That’s Mitch. Your brother.”
“Bub. Bub. Bub.”
“That’s right. Your bubba.”
Mitch’s spine fused into a rigid line. He opened his mouth to protest he was no one’s bubba, but the sparkle in Carly’s eyes and something about the angle of her chin, dared him. The witch was trying to provoke him, he realized.
Too bad he refused to be her source of entertainment.
He flicked open his newspaper, concentrated on the financial section and tried to ignore the boy’s chorus of “Bubbas” and the smirks on Carly’s and Mrs. Duncan’s faces.
He wasn’t going to let Carly disrupt his life. In a matter of days—a month at the most—she’d realize she was fighting a losing battle. And then she’d turn over guardianship of the kid.
Peace and a nanny would return to the Kincaid household the day Carly Corbin moved out.
Carly’s body reacted like a Geiger counter nearing radioactive material.The hairs on her arms rose and her pulse stuttered erratically. By the sound of his step and the scent of his cologne she knew who had entered the living room behind her without looking over her shoulder.
Despite its predominantly white decor, the room wasn’t cold or uncomfortable due to the plush rugs on the marble floor, overstuffed upholstery and surprising colorful accents scattered about. She preferred this space to the darker, more masculine den.