Every Breath You Take Read Online Free

your eyes are blue.”
    “I wonder how that happened,” he said in a bored drawl.
    “Your moth—” Olivia cut the sentence off; then she changed her mind and decided he had a right to know. Might even want to know. “I remember that your mother had beautiful, deep blue eyes. I’d never seen eyes as blue as hers before or since—until now.”
    She waited for him to ask for more information abouthis mother, but instead, he folded his arms across his chest and stared down at her, looking coldly impatient and very bored. Olivia pulled her gaze from his and pointed to a small portrait just beyond the one of George Hebert. “What do you think of him?” she asked, drawing Mitchell’s attention to a portly gentleman wearing a starched shirt with a tie striped in shades of pink, blue, and yellow.
    “I think he had appalling taste in neckties,” Mitchell replied curtly, and walked away.
    Olivia glanced at Caroline, who slowly shook her head, silently stating the obvious: Olivia had made a mistake by mentioning his mother and another mistake by trying to make Mitchell acknowledge his relationship to the men in the portraits.
    Olivia watched him move from one painting to the next—a tall, broad-shouldered man who was looking at portraits of men who frequently resembled him so strongly that he had to feel as if he were looking in a mirror, a slightly blurry one at times, but a mirror nonetheless. Pride was causing him to deny the resemblance as well as his heritage, but as she studied him from across the room, she marveled at the futility of his effort. His forebears were tall, like he was, their bearing proud, their intellects extraordinary, their temperaments—uncertain. Just like his.
    She thought of his criticism of the striped necktie her father-in-law had worn, and as she looked at Mitchell’s profile, amusement lifted her spirits a little. From the toes of Mitchell’s gleaming black Italian loafers to his custom-tailored charcoal suit and snowy white shirt to the impeccable cut of his thick black hair, Mitchell was—as all Wyatt men were—tastefully conservative and immaculately groomed.
    However, three things she’d discovered about him while they looked at the portraits set him distinctly apartfrom his forebears: his dry sense of humor, his smooth urbane charm, and that smile of his. The combination was positively lethal—lethal enough to make even an old woman like her feel a little giddy. The Wyatt men were forceful and dynamic, but generally had little humor and even less charm. If they were Humphrey Bogarts, then Mitchell was Cary Grant, but with a hard jaw and chilly blue eyes.
    “This will not take long,” Cecil said in an abrupt voice as he stalked into the room.
    Olivia stiffened inwardly and watched her brother walk to his desk. It irritated her that Cecil was two years older than she but arthritis hadn’t bent his spine. “Sit down,” he ordered.
    Mitchell walked over to Olivia and pulled a chair out for her; then he walked over to the corner of Cecil’s desk, shoved his hands into his pants pockets, and lifted his brows. “I said sit,” Cecil warned him.
    An expression of icy amusement flicked across Mitchell’s face, and he looked around behind him.
    “What are you looking for?” asked Cecil.
    “Your dog,” Mitchell replied.
    Olivia stiffened and Caroline drew in a sharp breath. Cecil stared hard at him, his expression resentful … and then, almost respectful. “As you wish,” he said; then he switched his gaze to Olivia and Caroline. “I wanted the two of you present because I feel that I owe it to Mitchell to say this in front of the entire family, and as fate would have it, we are the only adults left in this family.”
    Returning his gaze to Mitchell, he said, “Many years ago, pride and anger prompted me to do you a grave injustice, and I want to admit that now, in front of your aunt and your sister-in-law. My anger had nothing to do with you; it had to do with your father