LITMIR.BIZ

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was pink and flushed, all right. And if he didn’t get some distance from her quickly, he’d lay her back on the floor—

      “Mr. Kincade?”

      He struggled to his feet and needed to slide into his chair, but he couldn’t leave her on the floor—for his own good as well as hers.

      He offered his hand and she took it. Her small, soft palm pressed against his, sending his desire up another few notches. Another hot wave crashed through him.

      How could this keep happening? When he only touched her hand?

      Thankfully, Rachel got to her feet quickly. Mitch dropped into his chair and snatched up a pencil.

      “I’m—I’m busy,” he grumbled, opening a ledger and flipping through the pages.

      She lingered at his side for a moment, looking down at him. Then she bent low. From the corner of his eye, Mitch saw her bosom, filling out the front of her shirtwaist, coming closer. Then her breath brushed his ear.

      “Your ledger is upside down,” she whispered.

      Mitch’s cheeks flamed. They actually burned. He couldn’t remember a time—not once in his entire life—when that had happened.

      He ground his lips together, pushing through his embarrassment and looked up at her. “I told you I’m very good at this.”

      “I can see that you are, Mr. Kincade,” she said, giving him a knowing, secretive smile.

      Mitch smiled back. He couldn’t help it. Rachel had seen his embarrassment and allowed it to pass without calling attention.

      He wished he’d kissed her on the floor when he’d had the chance.

      “I wanted to see if there’s anything you need,” Rachel said, easing around to the front of the desk again. “I can have Cook make your lunch now, if you’d like.”

      Rachel, or the cook, or somebody had decided on his morning meal for him and brought it to him in the breakfast room. Oatmeal and fruit. He’d been hungry again fifteen minutes later.

      “Nothing now,” Mitch said, thinking maybe he could sneak into the kitchen later and scrounge up a real meal.

      “Oh, well then. All right.”

      Rachel gave him a quick smile but didn’t leave. Silence yawned between them. She ran her finger along the edge of his desk.

      How pretty she was. The thought ran through Mitch’s head as the afternoon sunlight beamed in through the window, highlighting her hair, turning a few strands golden. Her brown eyes sparkled. Her pink lips glistened.

      If she didn’t leave soon, he was going to round this desk and kiss her. On the mouth. Right here in her father’s study.

      “I, uh, I was wondering how things are going?” she said, gesturing around the room to nothing in particular.

      “Fine,” Mitch said, though he hadn’t made as much progress as he’d expected to. But that was Rachel’s fault, thanks to his body’s reaction to his every thought of her.

      Rachel gave him another smile and he tapped his fingernail on the desk. Still, she made no sign of leaving.

      “Did you want to ask a question?” Mitch asked, coming to his senses and realizing that something troubled her.

      “Well…” She cleared her throat and looked at him. “Yes, just something small, really. Before Georgie left he mentioned a factory he was thinking of purchasing. I wondered if you knew whether or not he’d done that.”

      “A factory?”

      “The City Ceramic Works. A Mr. Prescott owned it.”

      Mitch’s gaze bounced around the room to the crates of documents he still had to review. “I haven’t seen anything about it. Not yet, anyway.”

      “Oh.” She sounded disappointed.

      “But I’ll look for it,” he said quickly. “I’ll find out what’s going on with it and—”

      Mitch stopped as Chelsey swept into the room. She drew herself up and narrowed her gaze at Rachel.

      “I’m going out,” Chelsey declared, pushing her chin higher. “Trudy telephoned. She’s home for two days. She invited me over. And I’m going!”

      “Please give Trudy’s family my regards,” Rachel said.

      Chelsey shot her one final scathing look, whipped around and stomped out of the study.

      The girl had worn on Mitch’s nerves the first time he’d laid eyes on her. He didn’t know how Rachel managed.

      “Is there a reason she’s so unhappy?” Mitch asked. “Any reason at all?”

      “Chelsey wants to finish out the term at the Franklin Academy for Young Ladies. It’s in San Bernardino. She’s attended for two years,” Rachel said. “She misses her friends and her studies. I understand that.”

      “Then why isn’t she attending now?”

      “She hasn’t attended since Mother died.”

      “Why not?”

      “Because the family is in mourning. It simply isn’t done.” She spoke the words as if the reasoning should be obvious.

      “Does that have anything to do with the luncheon she spoke of at supper last night?” Mitch asked.

      The reserve Rachel seemed to wrap tightly around her a moment ago, slipped completely. Her shoulders sagged and she pressed her fingers to her forehead.

      “That luncheon…”

      Mitch jumped out of his chair at the distressed look that had overcome Rachel. He didn’t know how a luncheon could do that to a person, but he had to find out.

      “What about it?” he asked, the words coming out more harshly than he’d intended as he rounded the desk to stand next to her.

      With some effort, Rachel drew herself up. “It’s the La-La luncheon,” she said gravely.

      Mitch stopped. “What’s a la-la luncheon?”

      “The Ladies Association of Los Angeles,” she said. “The La-La’s, for short. It’s the premiere women’s organization in the city, and the upcoming luncheon is the single most important event on our annual calendar. The luncheon is always—always—hosted here, in our home.”

      So far, this didn’t seem like too big a problem to Mitch. “And…?”

      “Mrs. Aurora Chalmers—she runs everything in the city—expects me to host the event, as always.”

      “And…?”

      “And it’s really Mother’s event. She always plans it, arranges things and does a beautiful job. But this year—”

      “Your mother’s dead.”

      Rachel nodded, sadness causing her shoulders to droop farther.

      “And it’s too upsetting for you to do it this year,” he concluded.

      She nodded again.

      Mitch shrugged. “Then don’t host the luncheon.”

      Rachel came to life then. “I can’t back out. Good gracious, what will people think? What will they say?”

      “What difference does it make what people think or say?”

      She looked at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses.

      “It makes all the difference in the world,” Rachel declared. “What sort of reflection would that be on Mother, if I didn’t host the luncheon? What would people think of her? Of the family?”

      “Let me get this straight,” Mitch said.

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