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