The Millionaire′s Reward
The Millionaire's Reward
Angie Ray
Garek usually detested the symphony.
But seated next to him in the darkened theater, Ellie seemed very small, the top of her head barely reaching his chin. She appeared as fragile and breakable as the strings of the violins being played on stage.
The evening wasn’t turning out the way he’d expected. When he’d picked her up earlier, he’d been stunned by her appearance. From the top of her carefully arranged curls to the beaded silver sheath that hugged her curves, she looked utterly gorgeous.
And he’d told her so. But to his annoyance, his voice was husky, like a teenager’s on his first date.
The light from the stage illuminated her expression, and he watched as her eyes glistened and her lips trembled. The notes and chords, meaningless to him, obviously enthralled her in some way that he couldn't begin to fathom.
But he wished her fascination would be aimed at him….
Dear Reader,
What does romance mean to you? Sure, it could be sharing a candlelit dinner or strolling hand in hand on a spring day. But to me it’s even the smallest of gestures that tells you the person you think hangs the sun and the moon finds you equally unforgettable. As a lifelong romantic who met her future husband nearly twenty years ago, I’m delighted to be heading up Silhouette Romance. These books remind me that no matter what challenges the day has held, finding true love is one of life’s greatest rewards.
Bestselling author Judy Christenberry kicks off another great month with Finding a Family (SR #1762). In this sweet romance, a down-to-earth cowboy goes “shopping” for the perfect woman for his father but instead finds himself the target of Cupid’s arrow! Watch the sparks fly in Melissa McClone’s Blueprint for a Wedding (SR #1763) when a man who has crafted the perfect blueprint for domestic bliss finds himself attracted to an actress who doesn’t believe in happy endings. This month’s “Cinderella” is a feisty Latina, as Angie Ray continues Silhouette Romance’s commitment to offering modern-day fairy tales in The Millionaire’s Reward (SR #1764). Part of the SOULMATES series, Moonlight Magic (SR #1765) by Doris Rangel features a vacationing nurse who falls for a handsome stranger with a particularly vexing habit of vanishing into thin air.
And be sure to stay tuned for next month’s exciting lineup when reader favorites Raye Morgan and Carol Grace return with two classic romances.
Ann Leslie Tuttle
Associate Senior Editor
The Millionaire’s Reward
Angie Ray
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Books by Angie Ray
Silhouette Romance
You’re Marrying Her? #1675
The Millionaire’s Reward #1764
ANGIE RAY
A RITA® Award-winning author for her first novel, Angie Ray has written historical and paranormal novels, but this is her first category romance. The mind of this native Southern Californian is buzzing with ideas for stories, and she loves brainstorming while taking walks. Her husband and two children also provide plenty of distraction, but sooner or later she’s always drawn back to her computer for “just one more scene”—which invariably leads to another book!
Contents
Chapter One (#ucd237dc2-6003-5753-a42b-2fdbeddbc538)
Chapter Two (#uc8ccece0-f517-5abf-90aa-3979fd98df8f)
Chapter Three (#u0106b581-1870-56a5-a8a9-64b345cca0a5)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
The necklace was the gaudiest, ugliest piece of jewelry Garek Wisnewski had ever seen.
Rubies and emeralds vied for glittering supremacy in a bright yellow-gold setting decorated with enough curlicues and whorls to make a Russian czar blink. Any woman wearing this necklace risked blinding innocent bystanders—or being mistaken for a Christmas tree. This bauble had nothing to do with beauty or elegance—it was about money, pure and simple.
“It’s perfect,” he told the chignoned blonde behind the counter who’d been batting her eyelashes at him ever since he entered the store. “I’ll take it.”
“An excellent choice,” she congratulated him. “You have exquisite taste, Mr. Wisnewski.”
“Thank you.”
The young woman didn’t appear to notice the irony in his voice. Placing the necklace in a satin-lined case and ringing up the sale, she chatted vivaciously.“ Women adore rubies and emeralds. They’re so much more interesting than diamonds, don’t you think? I’m sure your girlfriend will love the necklace.”
She paused to check his reaction to her comment, and he recognized the look in her eyes. In the last hellish month, he’d been forced to deal with numerous women, all with similar predatory expressions. He’d devised several strategies to deal with them: attack, retreat and play dead.
He used the attack method only in extreme situations; the blond salesclerk didn’t qualify—at least not yet. Retreat was impossible until he got his credit card back. Which left only one option.
He didn’t offer either a confirmation or a denial of her guess about the necklace’s recipient.
She wasn’t deterred by his lack of response, however. Finishing the transaction, she slid the jewelry case across the glass counter—along with a business card.
“My home phone number’s on the back. If you ever want a private viewing of our…inventory, please call me.”
Garek shoved the box into his pocket, but left the card on the counter. “That won’t be necessary,” he growled.
He strode to the door, almost bumping into another customer who blew into the shop, along with a freezing gust of wind. Short and round, the man stood in the doorway, nose dripping, as he stared up at Garek.
“Hey, I know you!” The man’s Neanderthal forehead cleared and he winked at Garek. “I saw your picture in the Chicago Trumpeter this morning. Hank, right? Heh, heh, heh—”
“Excuse me,” Garek said icily. “You’re blocking the door.”
The man stopped sniggering and quickly stepped aside. Garek exited, shutting the shop door with a bang. He stood on the cold, dark sidewalk, sleet stinging his face and hands.
He yanked on his gloves and wrapped his muffler around the lower half of his face. Annoyance making his steps brisker than usual, he headed down the sidewalk, cursing himself for ever agreeing to talk to that damn reporter.
He’d broken his usual no-interview rule because she’d said she was doing an article on how businessmen had contributed to the revitalization of the city by providing jobs for displaced workers. If he’d known what she really intended, he would have shown her out of his office immediately. Now, because of lowering his guard for one moment, his life had become a living hell. Oh, he’d been mildly amused at first. The ribald jokes from the men. The fluttering glances from the women. But then, he’d started getting letters. Sacks of them. And women started showing up at his office. And his apartment. At restaurants where he was dining…
Lengthening his stride, he stepped over a puddle. Last night had been the final straw. He’d been about to close a deal with a prospective client over smoked pork tenderloin and Yukon Gold mashed potatoes when an enterprising young woman named Lilly Lade had shown up professing to be a singing-telegram girl—but she’d seemed more interested in stripping than singing. While horrified matrons looked on, he’d had to bundle the woman up and forcibly escort her from the restaurant.
Unfortunately, once outside, she’d thrown her arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his mouth. He’d thrust Lilly away, but not before a tabloid photographer had snapped several shots.
Trying to ignore the freezing wind, Garek hunched his shoulders and turned the corner to where his limousine waited. The situation was no longer amusing. In fact, he was damn well fed up—
“Oof!”
A woman made the small sound as she ran into him at full speed. The packages in her arms went flying. And so did she. She landed on her rear in the snow.
Instinctively, he crouched by her side. “Are you all right?”
Her blue eyes, framed by long black lashes, looked slightly dazed, but she nodded. “I’m fine….”
His gaze dropped to her mouth, watching her lips form the words. Her upper lip was long and perfectly straight, with no indentation at all, curling up slightly at the corners. The lower lip was shorter, and fuller, but not much. The effect was amazingly sensual.
He bent closer to hear her over the whistling wind.
“I’m so sorry—”
“It was my fault,” he interrupted, dragging his gaze away from her mouth. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“No, no. I was running, trying to catch my train—oh, my things!”
With only slight support from his steadying arm, she scrambled to her feet and grabbed a box that had fallen onto the ground. A turquoise scarf and tissue paper peeping out from under the crushed lid, she stuffed the box back into her bag.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” He picked up her hat and she crammed it onto her head, the bright red yarn concealing all but a few short black curls.
“Yes, I’m sure.” She smiled ruefully, her teeth very white against the golden hue of her skin, a dimple appearing in her cheek. “My packages have suffered the most, I think.”
“Let me help you,” he said, capturing a bag on the verge of blowing away. He swept several small boxes into it, his attention focused more on her than his task. She didn’t seem to recognize him—a rarity these days. He couldn’t see her figure, wrapped up as it was in a slightly shabby coat that was several sizes too big. But she was small, perhaps an inch or two over five feet, and he’d felt the fine bones of her hand through her mitten when he’d helped her up.
He picked up a tiny pair of pink, yellow and blue tennis shoes. He glanced at the woman again.Young—but not too young to have a child. “There’s mud on these shoes. I’ll replace them and anything else that’s damaged.”
“Oh, no!” she protested immediately. “It’ll wash off. And if it doesn’t, my niece won’t notice a few spots…oh!”
She hurried off to retrieve a baseball rolling slowly down the gutter toward a storm drain. He saw a magazine, its pages fluttering in the wind. “Is this yours?” he called to her as he bent to pick it up.
She glanced over her shoulder and nodded, before reaching for the baseball.
Garek picked up the magazine, then froze as he saw his own face staring up at him from the cover.
His jaw tightened. Ramming the tabloid into the sack, he stalked over to where she crouched in the gutter. As she stood up, he shoved the bag into her arms.
“Here,” he said curtly. “Watch where you’re going next time.”
He stomped away, only to step directly into a puddle. Icy water splashed into the top of his shoe. Cursing under his breath, he squelched down the street to the waiting limo and climbed inside. “Home, Hardeep.”
“Yes, sir,” the chauffeur replied.
The car purring down the street, Garek looked out the window. He saw the woman still standing in the gutter, clutching her bags and staring at the limo. She wore an expression of profound bewilderment.
Anger swept through him. She must have been lurking on the corner, waiting for him. If the magazine hadn’t given her away, he would’ve believed their collision was an accident. He’d even been about to offer her a ride home.
Oh, she was good, better than most. Innocent-looking—except for her mouth. He should have been warned by that mouth….
He sat in brooding silence until the chauffeur stopped in front of his apartment building. Not until he went inside and reached into his pocket did he realize that something was missing.
The emerald-and-ruby necklace was gone.
Cold, wet and tired, Ellie entered her apartment and dumped her bags on the small kitchenette table with a sigh of relief. “Hi, Martina,” she said to her cousin who was checking a large pot on the stove. “How’d you do on your final?”
“Fine. It was easier than I expected.” Martina lifted a steamer, laden with tamales, from the pot and set them on the counter. She glanced over her shoulder, her long, dark hair swinging. Her already well-arched brows rose. “What happened to you, chica?”
Ellie shook her head as she pulled off her coat and wet mittens and walked over to hold her cold hands next to the ancient but blessedly warm furnace. “It’s a long story. Suffice it to say I bumped into Mr. Grinch and missed my train.” She sniffed the air appreciatively. “Those tamales smell awfully good. Can I have one?”
“Well…okay, but just one. They’re for the party tomorrow night. Who’s this Mr. Grinch?”
“Nobody,” Ellie dismissed the unpleasant man. Although in truth, with his sleek leather gloves and expensive limo he’d obviously been somebody. Somebody rich and spoiled who’d suddenly decided she wasn’t worth the time and effort it took to be polite. Sinking into a chair, she peeled back the hot corn husk and bit into the tamale. The spiced meat inside burned her mouth, but she was too hungry to care. “Mmm, this is fantastic, Martina. Better than your father’s. You should sell these. You’d make a fortune.”
“I like cooking…but not that much.” Briskly, Martina piled the tamales into a glass dish. “How was business at the gallery today?”
“Not bad. A lot of people came in. I talked one couple into taking a painting home to try it out. And I sold a sculpture.” Carefully, Ellie broke a piece off the tamale and watched a thin wisp of steam rise into the air. “The woman loved it. She said it reminded her of the feeling she had when she first fell in love. She didn’t even look at the price tag. But when I told her how much it was, she said she couldn’t afford that much, and could I please give her a discount. I told her maybe a small one, but she said she could only pay half the price and so—”
“And so you ended up practically giving it away,” Martina finished for her, shaking her head. “You never could bargain worth a dime. A Hernandez without the haggle gene—it’s unnatural.”
Ellie made a face at her cousin. “I’m getting better.”
“Yeah, right. I thought you said Mr. Vogel was going to have to close the gallery if it didn’t start making a profit.”
Ellie bit her lip. She had said that—and it was the truth. The thought scared her. She’d worked hard, but the gallery had failed to meet its expenses the last three months in a row. If she didn’t figure something out soon, Mr. Vogel wouldn’t be able to afford to keep it open. And then what would Tom and Bertrice and all the other artists who showed their works at the gallery do? What would she do? She loved her job.
Okay, so occasionally she had to clean houses on the side to make ends meet—what was a little drudgery when she had the gallery to look forward to? At Vogel’s, a hundred exciting, unexpected things could happen. A sculptor could come in, eager to debate the merits of his latest creation. A scruffy college student could walk through the door, carrying a portfolio of the most amazing sketches she’d ever seen. Or a customer could come in, someone eager to escape their narrow existence and view the world through a different perspective—a perspective of shape and form and color….
“Sales will pick up,” she told Martina with more confidence than she felt.
“You need to advertise. Business is all about advertising.” Martina, majoring in marketing at a nearby college, considered herself—at age twenty-one—an expert in all things related to business. “And contacts. You need to cultivate the right people.”
Ellie grimaced. “You mean suck up to some rich business executives and their spouses?”
“It’s called networking. You’re such a snob, Ellie.”
“I am not!”
“When it comes to art, you are. My heart bleeds for that poor woman who came to the gallery yesterday—”
“Martina! I told you what she said—”
“Oh, yes, she wanted to know if the painting would be a good investment. It’s not a crime, Ellie, to want to make money.”
“If she wants to make money, she should invest in real estate.” Ellie glanced over her shoulder at the worn leather sofa in the living room—and the multihued artworks that covered every square inch of the wall above. “Art shouldn’t be about money.”
Martina rolled her eyes. “You’re missing the point, Ellie. It is about money—at least for now. You should have found something to sell that woman, not suggested she try another gallery.You need to think like a businessman.” Martina put the tamales in the refrigerator, then approached the bags on the table. “Did you get my magazine?”
“Yes, it’s in there somewhere.” Ellie nibbled her tamale absently. Was Martina right? Was she a snob when it came to art? Maybe. Well, okay, probably. An artist poured so much of himself into a piece, spent so much time and effort to get the composition, the colors, the textures and a thousand other details just exactly right. It seemed wrong somehow to let someone who cared nothing about the artist’s creative endeavor take a piece home.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t worry about right and wrong anymore.
She swallowed a bite of tamale with difficulty. She couldn’t allow the gallery to close because she didn’t like the fact that someone saw dollar signs instead of art when they looked at a painting. She couldn’t afford to demand that people appreciate a painting or a sculpture the way it deserved to be appreciated. “Okay, Martina. From now on, I’ll act like a businessman. I’ll be cold, hard, ruthless—”
“Maybe you can just be practical…what’s this?” Martina let out a low whistle.
Ellie glanced up to see her cousin staring down at the contents of a flat jeweler’s box.
“What’d you do, Ellie? Make a withdrawal at the bank?”
Brushing the soft masa crumbs off her fingers, Ellie got up to look in the box. She gasped when she saw its contents.
Emeralds and rubies flashed in the apartment’s dim light, their sparkle silent testimony to their authenticity.
“Good heavens,” Ellie said faintly. “It must belong to that man—Mr. Grinch.”
“He’s not going to be happy when he finds it missing,” Martina observed.
“No, I don’t think so,” Ellie agreed, wondering who on earth he’d bought such a hideous necklace for. His wife? She couldn’t imagine a snooty society maven ever wearing something so garish. A girlfriend on the side? Much more likely, she thought, wrinkling her nose.
She looked at the name of the jeweler on the white satin under the lid. “I guess I’ll have to take it to the jeweler’s tomorrow.” She sighed. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve—she had two houses to clean and her aunt’s and uncle’s party afterward. She really didn’t have time to make another trip up to Michigan Avenue.
It would serve him right if I didn’t return it until after Christmas, she thought, feeling just a little bit grinchy herself.
“This guy must be really rich.” Martina glanced sideways at Ellie. “I wonder who he is.”
“I have no idea.” And she didn’t want to know.
“Mmm.” Martina was still eyeing her. “Some old guy, I suppose.”
“Not really. Thirty, maybe.”
“Thirty! That’s not bad at all. Good-looking?”
“I didn’t think so,” Ellie lied. In fact, her first impression had been that he was very attractive. When she’d first looked up into his concerned face, her heart had given an odd little thump. He’d seemed so friendly, his greenish eyes smiling down at her…until suddenly, for no reason at all, they’d turned a frosty gray.
She’d fumed over his rudeness all the way home. She’d apologized automatically—but really, the collision had been his fault as much as hers. He hadn’t been looking where he was going and he’d been walking very fast. He’d knocked her off her feet, caused her to drop and damage some of her gifts and made her miss her train, as well. He could have at least offered her a ride. Not that she would have accepted, but still…He’d probably been worried that she’d get his fancy limo dirty.
No, he hadn’t been attractive at all, she realized now. “He was big with mean eyes,” she told her cousin.
“Fat?”
Actually, he’d felt like solid steel when she bumped into him. “I couldn’t tell—he had on an overcoat. But he had a Van Gogh sort of face.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Martina asked. “He only had one ear?”
Ellie laughed and shook her head, but didn’t say any more. It was too hard to explain. In her mind’s eye, she could see the man clearly, the heavy eyebrows, the penetrating eyes, the angular features just slightly asymmetrical….
“Hmmph. I don’t know why rich men all have to be ugly as dirt.” With a sigh, Martina reached into the bag again and pulled out the magazine she’d asked Ellie to buy. “Well, maybe not all rich men,” she amended, holding up the magazine to show Ellie the cover. “Garek Wisnewski is a doll, don’t you think?”
Ellie had grabbed the magazine at the store with barely a glance at the cover. Looking at it now, she stiffened.
Dominating the page was a picture of a half-dressed redhead and a man staring angrily at the camera—a man with familiar cold gray eyes below slashing black brows.
The expression on his face had been exactly the same a few hours ago when he’d left her standing in the gutter.
Ellie looked at the headline above the picture.
Main Course: Hanky Panky, it screamed in eye-popping red print. Dessert: Chicago’s Most Eligible Bachelor.
Chapter Two
Getting in to see Garek Wisnewski was like trying to get in to see the pope.
Ellie had been worried that the office building might be closed on Christmas Eve, but it wasn’t. Employees filled the marble foyer—at least the part Ellie could see from the security desk near the entrance while the guard inspected her ID. He looked at her license closely, as though he suspected it might be a forgery, before demanding to know her business. She told him, then waited, shivering every time someone opened the door and let a blast of cold air in, while the guard made a telephone call, casting suspicious glances at her the whole time.
As ten minutes stretched into twenty, Ellie began to be annoyed. She’d come straight here from cleaning the second house on her schedule and she felt grimy and sweaty. She needed to go home and wash and change for the party. She wanted to be at her uncle’s, not standing in this cold foyer waiting on Garek Wisnewski. She wished she hadn’t let Martina talk her into trying to contact him directly.
“Don’t you see, Ellie?” Martina had said. “This is your chance. Return the necklace and ask him if he needs any art for his office. Maybe he’ll buy something. And if you’re lucky, maybe he’ll ask you out on a date.”
Ellie rolled her eyes. “I doubt he would appreciate anything at Vogel’s. And if he asked me for a date—which he wouldn’t!—there’s no way I would agree to go anywhere with him. I told you how rude he was. Besides, what kind of man gets featured on the cover of tabloids with his ‘exotic dancer’ girlfriend?”
“Maybe that’s why he was rude—because he was embarrassed about the picture.”
Ellie glanced at the scowling face on the magazine cover—and at the redhead wearing a big smile and not much else. The caption identified her as Miss Lilly Lade and stated her occupation.
Embarrassed? Ellie didn’t think so. There’d been too much hard self-assurance in his bearing. Even if he had been, that still didn’t excuse his rudeness. Nor his execrable taste in women—and jewelry. Now the necklace made perfect sense.
But in the end, she hadn’t been able to outargue Martina or her own conscience, which told her that if she really wanted to help everyone who relied on the gallery, she would swallow her pride and go see Garek Wisnewski.
It was the logical thing to do. No matter how rude he’d been, he’d be grateful when she returned his tacky necklace.
After looking up Wisnewski Industries in the phone book and discovering its ritzy address on the Loop, she took the train from her last job into town. When she first saw the skyscraper, it reminded her of a fortress—all gray stone with narrow, impenetrable windows.
The overzealous security guard reinforced the impression.
He finally hung up the phone and turned to her, a clipboard in his hand, his eyes still suspicious. “Fill in your name and address, and I’ll give you a pass to go up. Leave your coat and things here.”
Did he think she had a weapon hidden in a pocket? Ellie shed her wet coat and took the clipboard, filling in the gallery’s address rather than her own. She clipped the plastic pass to the strap of her purse.
Upstairs, she had to run another gauntlet—of navy-suited, gimlet-eyed assistants. At the final desk sat a woman with shiny silver-gray hair cut like a helmet and piercing blue eyes who gazed disapprovingly at Ellie’s jeans and yellow sweater. She made a brief phone call, then escorted Ellie into the inner office.
Wood paneling, plush carpet and heavy furniture met Ellie’s gaze. Trite, but obviously expensive oil landscapes hung on the walls. Directly ahead, seated behind a carved mahogany desk in a thronelike chair, was Mr. Eligible Bachelor himself.
Dressed in a gray pinstripe suit, white shirt and black tie, he looked as conservative as his office, although not quite as elegant. His tie skewed slightly to one side as if he’d tugged at it, and his jacket looked a little tight across the shoulders. His clothes didn’t really suit his blunt features and muscular build.
“So you tracked me down,” he said.
Ellie stared into eyes as cold as the storm outside. “I beg your pardon?”
The cynical lines around his eyes and mouth deepened. “Do you think you’re the first woman to engineer a meeting and come chasing after me?”
She stiffened. He thought she’d bumped into him on purpose in order to meet “Chicago’s Most Eligible Bachelor?” Was that why he’d so abruptly abandoned her on the sidewalk yesterday?
What an ego!
Trying to control her temper, she walked forward and held out the jewelry case. “I came to return this.”
He took the case and flipped up the lid. He stared at the necklace a moment, his expression inscrutable, then closed the box. Leaning back in his chair, he looked at her.
She expected him to thank her, express his gratitude, perhaps even apologize for his rudeness. But he did none of these things.
“I suppose you expect a reward,” he said.
In that instant, Ellie realized she would prefer to scrub Mrs. Petrie’s toilets every day for the rest of her life rather than sell anything from the gallery to this man. He sat there, making no effort to stand or invite her to sit, offering her money instead of thanks, his every action, his every word an insult. She knew this kind of man—one who cared nothing about people or their feelings, one who cared only about money and what it could buy. He would never spend his cold hard cash on something as frivolous as art. Contemporary art especially would be incomprehensible to him.
Ellie clenched her fists. Her first impulse was to refuse with icy politeness, then turn and walk out. But just yesterday she’d promised herself she would think like a businessman. Businessmen weren’t polite—as Garek Wisnewski had just so unpleasantly demonstrated—and they weren’t squeamish about money.
“Yes, I do expect a reward,” she said with all the poise she could muster. She met his gaze directly, calmly, not blinking even when his eyebrows rose.
The corner of his mouth curled upward. “At least you’re honest about it.” He pulled a checkbook from his coat pocket. “How much?”
“Five thousand.” She named the first figure that came into her head.
He stared at her for a long, silent moment.
Putting up her chin, she waited.
She didn’t have to wait very long. With a shrug, he picked up a pen, wrote a check and held it out to her.
Taken off guard, she stared at the slip of paper. She might not have inherited the Hernandez haggle gene, but she’d thought he would know how to negotiate. What kind of businessman handed over five thousand dollars so easily?
“Well?”
Glancing up, she saw him watching her, his eyes narrowed. Quickly, she stepped forward and took the check. She glanced at it, seeing a five followed by the requisite number of zeros. She hesitated again, struggling with her conscience. She was about to give him the check back, when the phone rang.
Garek Wisnewski pressed a button and his assistant’s voice came over the line.
“There’s a delivery here from marketing,” she said.
“Send it in.” His gaze flickered toward Ellie.
Clearly, she was dismissed. His rudeness made her spine stiffen—and subverted her conscience. “Thanks for the check,” she said airily. Stuffing the slip of paper in her purse, she headed for the door.
It opened before she reached it, and a skinny young man—a boy, really—entered, carrying a large, flat, cloth-covered rectangle. Setting it on a cherrywood table, he mumbled, “Mr. Johnson told me to bring this straight up,” then bolted from the room, slamming the door behind him.
Ellie blinked at the boy’s behavior. But probably all of Garek Wisnewski’s employees were terrified of him, she decided, moving toward the door again.
A flutter caught her eye as the cloth slipped from the rectangle. She stopped, her eyes widening at the revealed portrait.
Or rather, at the revealing portrait.
Lilly Lade, in full-breasted, bare-buttocked, dimplethighed glory, rose from a large white clamshell, her red hair contrasting vividly with the bright blue ocean behind her. Two leering “wind gods” hovered at one side, their expressions as crude as the artist’s brushwork.
“Was there something else?”
Ellie jumped at the sound of his harsh voice. “No, not at all.” But she couldn’t resist adding, “I was just thinking this is exactly the kind of painting I would expect you to have.” She smiled sweetly.
His stony gaze dropped to her mouth, then lifted. “You object to nude portraits?”
“No, I object to bad art.”
“Ah. An expert.”
The sarcasm in his voice annoyed her almost as much as his rude stare. “I work in a gallery.”
“The poster store at the mall?”
“Vogel’s in Pilsen,” she snapped. “Specializing in contemporary art. Feel free to stop by if you ever want to buy something with a little higher concept.” Turning on her heel, she grabbed the doorknob and twisted it.
A large hand reached over her shoulder and rested against the door, preventing it from opening. Scowling, she glared over her shoulder. A broad expanse of male chest met her gaze. Quickly she looked up—a long way up. He was bigger than she remembered. How had he managed to cross the room so quickly and silently?
He loomed over her, staring down at her with narrowed eyes. “I’ve already paid—I’m not paying any more. Anything else you want to offer me will have to be for free.”
Outrage stiffened her spine. “There’s nothing I want to offer you,” she said, yanking at the doorknob. It didn’t budge. “Will you please take your hand off the door?”
His gaze wandered over her, lingering on her mouth. “If you change your mind, contact me—but first use that money to buy some clothes that have a little ‘higher concept.”’
He released the door, and she yanked it open, angry enough to spit paint, and stormed out.
When she arrived home at her apartment, she went inside and slammed the door.
Martina came out of the bedroom, dressed in velvet pants and a red sweater, her head tilted as she put a dangling earring in her ear.
“You’re back!” she said. “I was beginning to worry. How’d it go?”
“Fine.” Ellie thrust her coat and boots into the closet, then stalked into the kitchen. “Although I’m thinking of writing a letter to the Chicago Trumpeter.”
Martina, following her into the kitchen, blinked. “You are?”
“Yes, to tell them they made a mistake about Garek Wisnewski.” Ellie took the five-thousand-dollar check from her purse, shoved it in the junk drawer and slammed it shut. “They should have named him Chicago’s Most Obnoxious Bachelor.”
It might have been Christmas Eve with most of the country in festive spirits, but Garek wasn’t sharing their happy mood. As far as he was concerned, the day was the culmination of a perfectly rotten month.
The painting of Lilly Lade—Ted Johnson in marketing’s infantile idea of a joke—had been annoying. The Hernandez woman witnessing the delivery, on top of taking him for five thousand dollars, had been galling. But neither of those compared with the torture that he now endured—Christmas Eve with his sister, Doreen.
“I went to a gala at the country club,” she commented as a maid poured wine in Garek’s glass. “All the right people were there. The Mitchells, the Branwells. Even the Palermos. Their nephew Anthony asked Karen to dance.”
“Anthony Palermo is a total geek,” Karen said, the first words she’d spoken during the meal. “He has hands like wet gym socks and breath like week-old dog food.”
“Karen!” her mother exclaimed. “You mustn’t talk about Anthony like that. The Palermos are one of the most wealthy and distinguished families in Chicago. You should remember that.”
Karen lapsed back into a sullen silence that lasted until the unappetizing meal was finished and Doreen led the way to the living room, where a mountain of presents was piled under a twenty-foot gold-and-silver tree. Karen fell to her knees and started ripping open packages Garek retrieved a slim, flat case from under the tree and handed it to his sister.
Doreen seated herself in a red-brocaded wing chair and unwrapped the gift with admirable restraint, unsealing each taped seam carefully, without any visible excitement. But when she saw the contents of the jeweler’s case, a spark lit up her usually cold gray eyes. “Ahh,” she said.
On the other side of the room, the sound of ripping paper stopped. Karen came and peeked over her mother’s shoulder.
“Good Lord!” she exclaimed, staring at the emerald-and-ruby necklace. “You must have spent a fortune, Uncle Garek!”
Doreen’s mouth pursed. “Karen, don’t be crass.”
Her shoulders hunching, the girl returned to the tree. She opened another present—a notebook computer from Garek. Her face completely expressionless, she set it aside.
Doreen, whose gaze had followed her daughter, barked, “Karen…what do you say to your uncle?”
“Thank you, Uncle Garek.” Karen’s monotone had as much enthusiasm as a zombie’s. Surrounded by the presents she’d opened—piles of clothes, tennis gear, skis, jewelry, purses, shoes—she looked under the now-empty tree. “Is that all?” she whined.
Doreen glared at her daughter. “Karen, I don’t like your tone. Or the expression on your face. If you can’t look and sound more pleasant, then go to your room.”
“Fine.” Tucking the computer under her arm, Karen headed for the door.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with that girl,” Doreen said in a loud voice before her daughter had even left the room. “I’ve told her over and over again that she must be polite to you. Although I can’t blame her for being disappointed. Whatever possessed you to buy a computer?”
Frowning, Garek watched his niece leave the room. “At Thanksgiving I heard her say she wanted one.”
“I wish you would have spoken to me first. We already have a computer. Girls her age prefer feminine things—like jewelry.”
Garek thought of the conversation he’d overheard on his last visit. Karen had been talking on the phone, telling some unseen person that she desperately wanted a new computer. “I think you underestimate Karen.”
Doreen stiffened. “I believe I’m better acquainted with my own daughter’s likes and dislikes than you. You barely know her.”
That was true. He’d been close to Karen when she was younger—she’d been bright and funny and interested in everything. But since becoming a teenager, she’d changed. She’d grown about ten inches into a tall, lanky brunette with a pale complexion and hostile brown eyes. Only rarely did he catch a glimpse of the curious, affectionate child she’d been.
“I’m afraid those terrible friends of hers are having a bad influence on her,” Doreen continued. “One girl’s father is a truck driver! If only I could send her to a decent school, instead of that horrible one she’s attending now.”
“You can afford it.” Garek walked over to the tree, looking at the jumble of gifts Karen had left behind. “If you want to.”
Doreen almost dropped the necklace. She snapped the box closed and glared at him. “You don’t know what it’s like to have your beloved husband die and be reduced to living in poverty—”
“Come off it, Doreen.” Garek nudged the tennis racket with his toe, then bent down and picked it up. He took a practice swing. Lightweight, perfectly balanced, the racket sliced through the air. “Grant divorced you long before he died. And he paid through the nose to get rid of you. If he’d been smart, he would’ve made you sign a prenuptial agreement.”
“I would never sign something like that—I would be grossly insulted if he’d even asked. Besides, I deserved every penny I got in the settlement. It wasn’t my fault he fell for that little slut. I should have gotten more. But I never get my fair share. Just look at Wisnewski Industries. It’s not right that Father left the company to you and…and for heaven’s sake, must you swing that racket? Those ornaments are all Lennox crystal and they cost a fortune. If you break one, I’m going to be very upset—”
“The company was bankrupt.”
His comment successfully diverted her from the safety of her ornaments. “A temporary setback, nothing more. The company is making millions now.”
“Of which you, as a major stockholder, receive a very large portion. I know, since I sign the checks.”
She sniffed. “I can barely maintain my position with those paltry dividends. I’ll never get my name into the Social Register at this rate.”
“What the hell is the Social Register?”
“It’s a book listing the names of an elite group of people. The right kind of people. Like the Palermos. Ones that have a certain background—”
Garek couldn’t believe his ears. “Our grandparents were peasant Polish immigrants. Is that the kind of background you’re talking about?”
Doreen’s nostrils quivered. “Ancestry is only one of the considerations. There are other ways to qualify—like founding a charity for some worthy cause. Ethel started a foundation for the symphony.”
“You hate the symphony.”
Doreen gripped the arms of her chair. “Just because you have no appreciation for music, don’t assume no one else does—”
“Okay, okay.” He shrugged. “If you want to give money to the symphony, fine. Just don’t ask me to make a donation.”
A flush mottled her cheeks. “I shouldn’t have to ask you. It’s the least you could do. That disgusting picture of you and that…that dancer person has undoubtedly hurt my standing with the Social Register committee—”
“I said no, Doreen.”
“Very well.” Lines radiated from her pinched lips. “I’m not going to argue with you. If you won’t help me set up a foundation, I’ll just stick to my regular activities with the Women’s League. Did I tell you Nina Lachland is on a fund-raising committee with me? She tells me a lot about her husband’s business. She told me Wisnewski Industries is trying to buy out the Lachland Company, which was news to me.”
He kept his stance relaxed, but inwardly he tensed. “So?”
“So, did you know there’s another company interested in buying Lachland? Her husband doesn’t like this Ogremark very much—”
“Agramark.”
“Ogremark, Agramark, whatever. But he might change his mind if he found out that you’re having trouble finding financing for the purchase.”
Garek stopped swinging the racket. “Are you trying to blackmail me, Doreen?” he asked very softly.
She smiled. “Of course not. I don’t know why you would say that.”
Garek didn’t smile back. Acquiring Lachland was key to his plan for expanding Wisnewski Industries. Unfortunately, Agramark Inc., a subsidiary of the Calvin G. Hibbert conglomerate, was also pursuing the small shipping company. The conglomerate had all the advantages: financial resources far beyond his own, connections to key players, high-powered lawyers to deal with the legalities. In spite of all this, Garek was determined to make the acquisition and was close to succeeding.
If Doreen didn’t sour the deal.
How the hell had she found out about his difficulty with the financing? He gave her a long, hard look. “I warn you, Doreen, don’t interfere with my business.”
“Business, business, business. That’s all you think about. It’s time you did something for your family. Is that so much to ask for? I don’t want much—all you need to do is sponsor a foundation for me.”
“Is that all?” he asked ironically.
“Actually, now that you mention it, no. I also want an assistant from Wisnewski Industries to handle all the details—I can’t because of my delicate health.”
Doreen was as healthy as a draft horse. She had a similar bone structure to his, with big hands and feet. When she was younger, she’d had a plump, curvaceous figure, appealing in an earthy sort of way. After she married Grant Tarrington, however, she’d lost every spare ounce of fat in an effort to look more “delicate.” Unfortunately, the weight loss only made her look harsh and angular.
“I also want you to stop sabotaging my efforts to be included in the Social Register,” she continued, warming to her subject. “Stop dating disreputable women and find a nice, respectable girl. Someone like Amber Bellair. I talked to her yesterday and we agreed…”
“You agreed what?” Garek asked very quietly.
“You needn’t sound so nasty. We just agreed that you seem…lonely.”
His grip tightened on the tennis racket as he thought of all the plans he’d made and the hours he’d put in to make the Lachland acquisition happen. Once he signed this deal, he could…well, not relax, exactly. But maybe the pressure would ease up some.
He didn’t want to risk losing this deal. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to let Doreen think she could get away with this kind of manipulation every time she wanted something.
“The only problem is that Ethel may not like me setting up a competing foundation,” Doreen said, drumming her manicured nails on the arm of her chair. “She can be a little spiteful. She might even block my Social Register nomination. Perhaps I should find something else to support. Something cultural. Like the ballet. Or art. Art would be very classy. We could open a gallery on Michigan Avenue. Or better yet, River North—”
“A gallery?”
“To exhibit the work of the artists we sponsor. Some up-and-coming young people recommended by the Institute. Not any of those trashy modern artists, but young men and women with real talent…”
She went on, but Garek was no longer listening. He was remembering the woman who’d returned the necklace—Eleanor Hernandez. What was it she’d said? I work at a gallery…specializing in contemporary art…feel free to stop by if you ever want to buy something with a little higher concept.
A greedy little witch—as greedy as Doreen—only with a pair of bright blue eyes and the sexiest mouth he’d ever seen….
“I don’t think I’m being unreasonable, Garek. You can afford it. It wouldn’t hurt you to show a little generosity, you know. I am your only sister—”
“Very well.”
Doreen gaped, her jaw sagging in a way that counteracted the most recent efforts of her plastic surgeon. “You’ll do it?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No. For once, you’re going to have to do what I want.”
Any of the businessmen who’d dealt with Garek Wisnewski would have been highly suspicious—if not downright skeptical—of his sudden acquiescence. But Doreen only smiled smugly, visions of how her name would look printed in the Social Register dancing in her head.
She didn’t even notice the way her brother adjusted his grip on the tennis racket and executed a neat and deadly backhand.
Chapter Three
“It’s your best work ever.”
Tom Scarlatti’s brown eyes lit up behind the thick, round lenses of his glasses. “You think so, Ellie? My roommate said it looked like a two-year-old painted it.”
Ellie studied the canvas propped against the gallery counter. Although he’d used her as a model, the final result bore no discernable resemblance to her. But the free-flowing curves and vivid colors created a sense of space and harmony that was arresting.
“Your roommate is an engineer,” she pointed out. “He knows nothing about art.”
“That’s true.” Tom’s narrow chest expanded a bit. “Actually, I do think Woman in Blue turned out well. I really hate to sell it.”
“If you want, I can put a Not for Sale sticker on it,” she offered. “Although I’m sure you could get an excellent price for it.”
Tom reached out and touched the edge of the canvas with the very tips of his fingers, gently, tenderly. But then his hand dropped limply to his side. “I’ve got to sell it,” he said with a sigh. “My landlord is threatening to evict me. He’s a very unpleasant man. He doesn’t understand about art at all—”
The bell jangled as someone entered Vogel’s. Tom stopped talking, looking toward the door. Ellie turned, a smile forming, only to freeze when she recognized the man walking toward her.
Garek Wisnewski.
What on earth was he doing here? It had been a week since the ugly scene in his office, and she’d done her best to put him out of her mind. But she couldn’t help thinking about him every once in a while—like when she’d gone to her cousin Vincente’s house last weekend and saw his daughter wearing the tiny tennis shoes she’d bought her for Christmas. Or when she’d seen the towering gray walls of Wisnewski Industries through the train window on her way to a job a few days ago. Or when she’d looked in the junk drawer this morning and seen the crumpled five-thousand-dollar check shoved in the back that she hadn’t quite been able to bring herself to cash, ruthless businesswoman or not.
Every time she thought of him, she remembered the ugly necklace and his rudeness when she’d returned it, and she grew angry all over again.
She clutched the gallery keys lying on the counter, wishing she’d locked the door. Had he come here to make another crude proposition?
“Excuse me,” she muttered to Tom, moving out from behind the counter.
Tom sidled toward the door. “I’d b-better go,” he murmured.
Ellie restrained an urge to grab his arm and cling to him—she didn’t want to be left alone with Garek Wisnewski. But she couldn’t do that to Tom. Tom was painfully shy around most people, and well-dressed, high-powered businessmen were the type he most dreaded.
Did Garek Wisnewski always wear a suit? she wondered as she approached him. His clothes made a valiant effort to give him a civilized veneer. They couldn’t disguise, however, the grainy texture of imminent five-o’clock shadow on his jaw—evidence of barely restrained, more primitive male tendencies.
Like predation. Intimidation. Domination.
“Good evening, Mr. Wisnewski.” She kept her tone polite, but cool. Not an easy feat considering the way her senses were humming on full defensive alert. She was conscious of her own clothes—a red cashmere sweater with a tendency to pill, a short black skirt, black tights and chunky black platforms. “May I help you?”
He eyed her consideringly—probably planning to give her some more wardrobe advice, she thought angrily.
“I’m just looking.” He turned his gaze to a flat glass case filled with dirt and trash. “So this is ‘high-concept’ art. Very impressive.”
She bristled at his sardonic tone. Few of the general public recognized or appreciated the skill and creativity that went into contemporary art. A lot of people snickered or looked scornful when they first came in. Usually, though, after she explained a little about the piece and the artist’s concept, most viewed the work with more respect.
She didn’t bother to explain anything to Garek Wisnewski, however. Why waste her time? He’d obviously come to mock her. Didn’t he have better things to do?
Apparently not. He moved on and she followed closely behind, glaring at his big hands clasped behind his broad back—he was so bulky, she didn’t trust him not to knock something over. Although he did walk gracefully, she admitted grudgingly to herself, his shoes making almost no sound on the polished wooden floor.
He gazed at an antique water pump resting on a square glass case filled with lightbulbs. Another light-bulb sprouted from the spigot. His eyebrows rose halfway to his dark combed-back hair.
His expression infuriated her. “It’s time for me to close.” She struggled to keep her tone polite. “Perhaps you could come back some other day.”
“I’ll only be a few more minutes,” he told her, then proceeded to stroll around the gallery as if he had all the time in the world. He eyed the various pieces, his mouth curling in the same sardonic smile she’d noticed in his office. He even laughed at Bertrice’s recycled-trash sculpture of a giant cockroach, although he tried to cover the sound by coughing.
He stopped in front of the counter, looking at the painting Tom had just left.
“I’ll take this one.”
She blinked, wondering if she’d misunderstood. “You want to buy Woman in Blue?”
“Yes.” He arched an eyebrow at her. “Is there a problem?”
“No, no. I’m just surprised.” Stunned might be a more accurate description. “Why do you want to buy it?”
“Do you question all your customers on why they’re purchasing an item?”
“Not usually. But most of my customers like contemporary art.”
“You think I don’t? You shouldn’t be so quick to judge me.” He pulled his wallet from inside his coat pocket and produced a platinum credit card. “Can you have the painting delivered to my office?”
She didn’t take the card. “Woman in Blue won’t fit with the decor of your office. Are you sure you wouldn’t like something else—something that would suit your personality better?” Her gaze rested a moment on the giant cockroach.
His gaze followed hers, and his eyes gleamed, whether with laughter or anger, she couldn’t tell. Anger, she hoped. But he didn’t withdraw the credit card. “I prefer this one.”
She didn’t believe he’d come here just to buy a painting, but even if he had, she wished he would have chosen something else. She didn’t want him to have Woman in Blue. He would never appreciate it, she was sure. She opened her mouth to refuse to sell the painting to him, then paused.
Hadn’t she just recently vowed to think like a businesswoman? To sell to anyone who came through the door? Could she in good conscience refuse the sale when the gallery—and Tom—needed it so much?
The answer was unpalatable but obvious.
With the very tips of her fingers, she took the credit card and rang up the sale. “Thank you, Mr. Wisnewski,” she forced herself to say. “It will be delivered first thing tomorrow.”
“Excellent.” He glanced at his watch, then at her.
“Ms. Hernandez, I need to discuss something with you, but I know you’re anxious to close. Will you have dinner with me so we can talk?”
She stiffened. So he had come here to proposition her again! “No.”
“It’s important,” he said, not even blinking at her refusal. “It concerns the gallery.”
“What about the gallery?” she asked.
“Come to dinner with me, and I’ll tell you.”
“Why can’t you tell me here?”
“I never discuss business on an empty stomach.”
His smile made her even more suspicious. It was the kind of smile that made a woman want to smile back, that made her want to do whatever its owner asked—and oh, didn’t he know it!
“If you’re not interested,” he said when she didn’t respond, “I can always find another gallery.” He took a step toward the door.
“Wait!”
He paused and she bit her lip. She knew he was manipulating her—but her curiosity was too great to resist. “Let me get my hat and coat and lock up,” she muttered.
He didn’t have the limousine tonight. Instead, he had a big black Mercedes with soft leather interior. She paid little attention to the luxury, however.
“What about the gallery?” she asked again when they were driving down the street. “Do you want to buy another painting?”
“Not exactly.” He turned a corner, avoiding a snowdrift that had spilled out into the street. “Do you own the gallery?”
“No, Mr. Vogel does.”
“Ah, then perhaps I should be talking to him.”
“Not really. He hasn’t been active in managing the gallery since his wife died. He’s elderly, and his health is frail, so he lets me run the gallery for him. He trusts me completely.”
“Does he? Then obviously I needn’t have any qualms.”
The dry note in his voice made her bristle, but before she could respond he spoke again. “I’m sorry, but I need to concentrate on my driving. I’ll explain everything over dinner.”
The request was a reasonable one. The road was treacherous, covered with ice and full of potholes, and the pounding sleet made the visibility poor. But in spite of the conditions, Ellie didn’t quite believe him.
At the restaurant, they were quickly seated at a table with white linen tablecloths, china and crystal.
“Have you been here before?” he asked.
“No. Look, what’s this all about?”
He picked up the wine list, his eyebrows rising. “Are you always so impatient?”
“Only when someone is being extremely evasive.”
His eyes gleamed again in that odd manner. For a moment, she thought he was going to put her off once more, but then he said bluntly, “I’m starting an art foundation and I’m looking for artists to sponsor and a gallery to exhibit their work. I think Vogel’s might be perfect.”
Ellie leaned back against the cushioned seat and stared at him. Her heart started to pound. A foundation—it could make a world of difference to the gallery. She could hire art photographers, place ads in expensive magazines, attract the notice of critics and collectors who could transform an unknown artist like Tom into an overnight sensation. She could replace the lighting, fix the elevator and install a sculpture garden on the roof the way she’d dreamed….
The waiter came to the table. While he explained the prix fixe menu for the day, Ellie tried to rein in her excitement. There were a thousand galleries in Chicago, and after speaking with them, what were the chances Wisnewski would choose Vogel’s? Not very high. She needed to convince him that Vogel’s would be the best choice for his foundation to sponsor.
After the waiter left, she leaned forward again. “Vogel’s would be ideal,” she said earnestly. “Our goal is to encourage a climate of excitement, inquiry and dialogue for progressive art. We look for unconventional pieces that are conceptual and theoretically based. You won’t see similar works at other galleries. Everything we handle is unique. The artists are all extraordinarily creative and innovative. Tom Scarlatti, for example, the man at the showroom when you came in earlier. He painted the canvas you bought. I’m sorry I didn’t introduce you. He’s a little shy. But I can arrange for you to meet him another time—”
The sommelier approached the table. Ellie tried to contain her impatience while he discussed with Garek the appropriate vintage to complement their meal. Finally the wine had been decided, the bottle brought and the ritual of pouring and tasting finished, and she was able to continue. “With the right kind of support, I believe Tom could become an important new force in the art world—”
“You appear to think very highly of this Tom Scarlatti,” Garek interrupted.
“Yes, I do.” She picked up her wineglass. “He’s brilliant, a genius in his own way—”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
The wine halfway to her mouth, Ellie paused. She stared at the man sitting across from her.
Cool gray eyes stared back.
“No,” she said slowly. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. Surely you must have a man in your life?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but no, I don’t.” She set the wine down and gave him a direct look. “I’m not interested in having a relationship right now.”
The corners of his mouth twitched at her thinly veiled rebuff. “You want to concentrate on your career? I’m surprised.”
“Why?”
“Because most women, no matter how much they deny it, are still more interested in finding husbands than in building their careers.”
She didn’t like his cynical tone or the implied criticism of women. “Really? I’ve experienced exactly the opposite. Most of the men I meet are desperate to get married. Especially the older ones—the ones your age.”
He straightened a little. “I’m twenty-nine,” he said curtly.
“Oh?” Lowering her eyes to conceal her smile, she picked up the wine again and sipped it.
There was a small silence as she drank. “Only a year or two older than you, surely,” he said.
She set down her glass abruptly.
The waiter returned and placed a dish on the table. “Baby leeks cooked in their own juices,” he announced.
“Just what we needed,” Garek said blandly.
Ellie couldn’t help laughing. “I’m twenty-four,” she admitted. Then, vexed with herself for revealing even this small piece of personal information, she returned to business. “About the gallery—”
He shook his head. “You don’t need to tell me any more about it. I’ve already made up my mind. And I’ve decided on Vogel’s.”
For a second, she thought she must have misheard him. But at the same time, she knew she hadn’t. Joy burst inside her. Vogel’s was saved! She wanted to dance on the table, sing at the top of her lungs, reach across the table and kiss Garek Wisnewski right on the mouth….
Almost as if he could read her mind, his gaze dropped to her lips.
Her mental celebrations came to a screeching halt. He’d looked at her mouth that way in his office. Right before he told her to contact him if she wanted to “offer” him something.
She leaned back in her seat, her smile fading.
What was going on here? This was Garek Wisnewski, the obnoxious jerk who’d knocked her over in the street and grossly insulted her when she came to his office. Garek Wisnewski, the arrogant, money-grubbing businessman who did nothing without calculating the profit. What was the catch?
Judging from the way he was looking at her mouth, she suspected she knew exactly what the catch was.
The waiter returned with more food. Ellie waited until he left before she asked quietly, “And what do you want in return?”
Garek took a bite of the Iowa lamb loin and chewed for what seemed like an awfully long time. “That’s an odd question,” he finally said. “Why does anyone start an art foundation?”
“Because they love art.”
“And you don’t think I do?” He offered her some of the braised legumes, but she shook her head. “I told you not to judge me too quickly,” he said.
He was being evasive. Why? “Why my gallery? You don’t even like me.”
His eyebrows rose. “What gave you that idea?”
“You weren’t exactly polite when I returned the necklace.”
“I apologize for that. Women who seek me out tend to have an ulterior motive.”
“They want to get their picture in the paper?” Ellie guessed.
“They want to get married.”
Ellie choked on her goat cheese and bleeding-heart radishes. The poor man obviously suffered from a serious medical condition—paranoia conceititus. “I have no desire to marry you, I promise.”
He smiled, but with a slight cynical lift to his lip. “That’s why I chose your gallery—you’re honest enough to admit that it’s the money you care about.”
She opened her mouth, then paused. She doubted she could make him change his mind about her—and if she tried, he’d probably accuse her of trying to make him fall in love with her or something else equally ridiculous. “What exactly will this foundation do?” she asked instead.
“The usual. Exhibits—shows, I believe you call them?—featuring the gallery artists. I’ll send an assistant to the gallery tomorrow. She’ll report to you, and you can tell her whatever needs to be done. I also want you to work with her to arrange a special pre-opening event, a silent auction, to be held at my sister’s home. I would expect you to choose the art, naturally.”
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Angie Ray
Garek usually detested the symphony.
But seated next to him in the darkened theater, Ellie seemed very small, the top of her head barely reaching his chin. She appeared as fragile and breakable as the strings of the violins being played on stage.
The evening wasn’t turning out the way he’d expected. When he’d picked her up earlier, he’d been stunned by her appearance. From the top of her carefully arranged curls to the beaded silver sheath that hugged her curves, she looked utterly gorgeous.
And he’d told her so. But to his annoyance, his voice was husky, like a teenager’s on his first date.
The light from the stage illuminated her expression, and he watched as her eyes glistened and her lips trembled. The notes and chords, meaningless to him, obviously enthralled her in some way that he couldn't begin to fathom.
But he wished her fascination would be aimed at him….
Dear Reader,
What does romance mean to you? Sure, it could be sharing a candlelit dinner or strolling hand in hand on a spring day. But to me it’s even the smallest of gestures that tells you the person you think hangs the sun and the moon finds you equally unforgettable. As a lifelong romantic who met her future husband nearly twenty years ago, I’m delighted to be heading up Silhouette Romance. These books remind me that no matter what challenges the day has held, finding true love is one of life’s greatest rewards.
Bestselling author Judy Christenberry kicks off another great month with Finding a Family (SR #1762). In this sweet romance, a down-to-earth cowboy goes “shopping” for the perfect woman for his father but instead finds himself the target of Cupid’s arrow! Watch the sparks fly in Melissa McClone’s Blueprint for a Wedding (SR #1763) when a man who has crafted the perfect blueprint for domestic bliss finds himself attracted to an actress who doesn’t believe in happy endings. This month’s “Cinderella” is a feisty Latina, as Angie Ray continues Silhouette Romance’s commitment to offering modern-day fairy tales in The Millionaire’s Reward (SR #1764). Part of the SOULMATES series, Moonlight Magic (SR #1765) by Doris Rangel features a vacationing nurse who falls for a handsome stranger with a particularly vexing habit of vanishing into thin air.
And be sure to stay tuned for next month’s exciting lineup when reader favorites Raye Morgan and Carol Grace return with two classic romances.
Ann Leslie Tuttle
Associate Senior Editor
The Millionaire’s Reward
Angie Ray
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Books by Angie Ray
Silhouette Romance
You’re Marrying Her? #1675
The Millionaire’s Reward #1764
ANGIE RAY
A RITA® Award-winning author for her first novel, Angie Ray has written historical and paranormal novels, but this is her first category romance. The mind of this native Southern Californian is buzzing with ideas for stories, and she loves brainstorming while taking walks. Her husband and two children also provide plenty of distraction, but sooner or later she’s always drawn back to her computer for “just one more scene”—which invariably leads to another book!
Contents
Chapter One (#ucd237dc2-6003-5753-a42b-2fdbeddbc538)
Chapter Two (#uc8ccece0-f517-5abf-90aa-3979fd98df8f)
Chapter Three (#u0106b581-1870-56a5-a8a9-64b345cca0a5)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
The necklace was the gaudiest, ugliest piece of jewelry Garek Wisnewski had ever seen.
Rubies and emeralds vied for glittering supremacy in a bright yellow-gold setting decorated with enough curlicues and whorls to make a Russian czar blink. Any woman wearing this necklace risked blinding innocent bystanders—or being mistaken for a Christmas tree. This bauble had nothing to do with beauty or elegance—it was about money, pure and simple.
“It’s perfect,” he told the chignoned blonde behind the counter who’d been batting her eyelashes at him ever since he entered the store. “I’ll take it.”
“An excellent choice,” she congratulated him. “You have exquisite taste, Mr. Wisnewski.”
“Thank you.”
The young woman didn’t appear to notice the irony in his voice. Placing the necklace in a satin-lined case and ringing up the sale, she chatted vivaciously.“ Women adore rubies and emeralds. They’re so much more interesting than diamonds, don’t you think? I’m sure your girlfriend will love the necklace.”
She paused to check his reaction to her comment, and he recognized the look in her eyes. In the last hellish month, he’d been forced to deal with numerous women, all with similar predatory expressions. He’d devised several strategies to deal with them: attack, retreat and play dead.
He used the attack method only in extreme situations; the blond salesclerk didn’t qualify—at least not yet. Retreat was impossible until he got his credit card back. Which left only one option.
He didn’t offer either a confirmation or a denial of her guess about the necklace’s recipient.
She wasn’t deterred by his lack of response, however. Finishing the transaction, she slid the jewelry case across the glass counter—along with a business card.
“My home phone number’s on the back. If you ever want a private viewing of our…inventory, please call me.”
Garek shoved the box into his pocket, but left the card on the counter. “That won’t be necessary,” he growled.
He strode to the door, almost bumping into another customer who blew into the shop, along with a freezing gust of wind. Short and round, the man stood in the doorway, nose dripping, as he stared up at Garek.
“Hey, I know you!” The man’s Neanderthal forehead cleared and he winked at Garek. “I saw your picture in the Chicago Trumpeter this morning. Hank, right? Heh, heh, heh—”
“Excuse me,” Garek said icily. “You’re blocking the door.”
The man stopped sniggering and quickly stepped aside. Garek exited, shutting the shop door with a bang. He stood on the cold, dark sidewalk, sleet stinging his face and hands.
He yanked on his gloves and wrapped his muffler around the lower half of his face. Annoyance making his steps brisker than usual, he headed down the sidewalk, cursing himself for ever agreeing to talk to that damn reporter.
He’d broken his usual no-interview rule because she’d said she was doing an article on how businessmen had contributed to the revitalization of the city by providing jobs for displaced workers. If he’d known what she really intended, he would have shown her out of his office immediately. Now, because of lowering his guard for one moment, his life had become a living hell. Oh, he’d been mildly amused at first. The ribald jokes from the men. The fluttering glances from the women. But then, he’d started getting letters. Sacks of them. And women started showing up at his office. And his apartment. At restaurants where he was dining…
Lengthening his stride, he stepped over a puddle. Last night had been the final straw. He’d been about to close a deal with a prospective client over smoked pork tenderloin and Yukon Gold mashed potatoes when an enterprising young woman named Lilly Lade had shown up professing to be a singing-telegram girl—but she’d seemed more interested in stripping than singing. While horrified matrons looked on, he’d had to bundle the woman up and forcibly escort her from the restaurant.
Unfortunately, once outside, she’d thrown her arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his mouth. He’d thrust Lilly away, but not before a tabloid photographer had snapped several shots.
Trying to ignore the freezing wind, Garek hunched his shoulders and turned the corner to where his limousine waited. The situation was no longer amusing. In fact, he was damn well fed up—
“Oof!”
A woman made the small sound as she ran into him at full speed. The packages in her arms went flying. And so did she. She landed on her rear in the snow.
Instinctively, he crouched by her side. “Are you all right?”
Her blue eyes, framed by long black lashes, looked slightly dazed, but she nodded. “I’m fine….”
His gaze dropped to her mouth, watching her lips form the words. Her upper lip was long and perfectly straight, with no indentation at all, curling up slightly at the corners. The lower lip was shorter, and fuller, but not much. The effect was amazingly sensual.
He bent closer to hear her over the whistling wind.
“I’m so sorry—”
“It was my fault,” he interrupted, dragging his gaze away from her mouth. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“No, no. I was running, trying to catch my train—oh, my things!”
With only slight support from his steadying arm, she scrambled to her feet and grabbed a box that had fallen onto the ground. A turquoise scarf and tissue paper peeping out from under the crushed lid, she stuffed the box back into her bag.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” He picked up her hat and she crammed it onto her head, the bright red yarn concealing all but a few short black curls.
“Yes, I’m sure.” She smiled ruefully, her teeth very white against the golden hue of her skin, a dimple appearing in her cheek. “My packages have suffered the most, I think.”
“Let me help you,” he said, capturing a bag on the verge of blowing away. He swept several small boxes into it, his attention focused more on her than his task. She didn’t seem to recognize him—a rarity these days. He couldn’t see her figure, wrapped up as it was in a slightly shabby coat that was several sizes too big. But she was small, perhaps an inch or two over five feet, and he’d felt the fine bones of her hand through her mitten when he’d helped her up.
He picked up a tiny pair of pink, yellow and blue tennis shoes. He glanced at the woman again.Young—but not too young to have a child. “There’s mud on these shoes. I’ll replace them and anything else that’s damaged.”
“Oh, no!” she protested immediately. “It’ll wash off. And if it doesn’t, my niece won’t notice a few spots…oh!”
She hurried off to retrieve a baseball rolling slowly down the gutter toward a storm drain. He saw a magazine, its pages fluttering in the wind. “Is this yours?” he called to her as he bent to pick it up.
She glanced over her shoulder and nodded, before reaching for the baseball.
Garek picked up the magazine, then froze as he saw his own face staring up at him from the cover.
His jaw tightened. Ramming the tabloid into the sack, he stalked over to where she crouched in the gutter. As she stood up, he shoved the bag into her arms.
“Here,” he said curtly. “Watch where you’re going next time.”
He stomped away, only to step directly into a puddle. Icy water splashed into the top of his shoe. Cursing under his breath, he squelched down the street to the waiting limo and climbed inside. “Home, Hardeep.”
“Yes, sir,” the chauffeur replied.
The car purring down the street, Garek looked out the window. He saw the woman still standing in the gutter, clutching her bags and staring at the limo. She wore an expression of profound bewilderment.
Anger swept through him. She must have been lurking on the corner, waiting for him. If the magazine hadn’t given her away, he would’ve believed their collision was an accident. He’d even been about to offer her a ride home.
Oh, she was good, better than most. Innocent-looking—except for her mouth. He should have been warned by that mouth….
He sat in brooding silence until the chauffeur stopped in front of his apartment building. Not until he went inside and reached into his pocket did he realize that something was missing.
The emerald-and-ruby necklace was gone.
Cold, wet and tired, Ellie entered her apartment and dumped her bags on the small kitchenette table with a sigh of relief. “Hi, Martina,” she said to her cousin who was checking a large pot on the stove. “How’d you do on your final?”
“Fine. It was easier than I expected.” Martina lifted a steamer, laden with tamales, from the pot and set them on the counter. She glanced over her shoulder, her long, dark hair swinging. Her already well-arched brows rose. “What happened to you, chica?”
Ellie shook her head as she pulled off her coat and wet mittens and walked over to hold her cold hands next to the ancient but blessedly warm furnace. “It’s a long story. Suffice it to say I bumped into Mr. Grinch and missed my train.” She sniffed the air appreciatively. “Those tamales smell awfully good. Can I have one?”
“Well…okay, but just one. They’re for the party tomorrow night. Who’s this Mr. Grinch?”
“Nobody,” Ellie dismissed the unpleasant man. Although in truth, with his sleek leather gloves and expensive limo he’d obviously been somebody. Somebody rich and spoiled who’d suddenly decided she wasn’t worth the time and effort it took to be polite. Sinking into a chair, she peeled back the hot corn husk and bit into the tamale. The spiced meat inside burned her mouth, but she was too hungry to care. “Mmm, this is fantastic, Martina. Better than your father’s. You should sell these. You’d make a fortune.”
“I like cooking…but not that much.” Briskly, Martina piled the tamales into a glass dish. “How was business at the gallery today?”
“Not bad. A lot of people came in. I talked one couple into taking a painting home to try it out. And I sold a sculpture.” Carefully, Ellie broke a piece off the tamale and watched a thin wisp of steam rise into the air. “The woman loved it. She said it reminded her of the feeling she had when she first fell in love. She didn’t even look at the price tag. But when I told her how much it was, she said she couldn’t afford that much, and could I please give her a discount. I told her maybe a small one, but she said she could only pay half the price and so—”
“And so you ended up practically giving it away,” Martina finished for her, shaking her head. “You never could bargain worth a dime. A Hernandez without the haggle gene—it’s unnatural.”
Ellie made a face at her cousin. “I’m getting better.”
“Yeah, right. I thought you said Mr. Vogel was going to have to close the gallery if it didn’t start making a profit.”
Ellie bit her lip. She had said that—and it was the truth. The thought scared her. She’d worked hard, but the gallery had failed to meet its expenses the last three months in a row. If she didn’t figure something out soon, Mr. Vogel wouldn’t be able to afford to keep it open. And then what would Tom and Bertrice and all the other artists who showed their works at the gallery do? What would she do? She loved her job.
Okay, so occasionally she had to clean houses on the side to make ends meet—what was a little drudgery when she had the gallery to look forward to? At Vogel’s, a hundred exciting, unexpected things could happen. A sculptor could come in, eager to debate the merits of his latest creation. A scruffy college student could walk through the door, carrying a portfolio of the most amazing sketches she’d ever seen. Or a customer could come in, someone eager to escape their narrow existence and view the world through a different perspective—a perspective of shape and form and color….
“Sales will pick up,” she told Martina with more confidence than she felt.
“You need to advertise. Business is all about advertising.” Martina, majoring in marketing at a nearby college, considered herself—at age twenty-one—an expert in all things related to business. “And contacts. You need to cultivate the right people.”
Ellie grimaced. “You mean suck up to some rich business executives and their spouses?”
“It’s called networking. You’re such a snob, Ellie.”
“I am not!”
“When it comes to art, you are. My heart bleeds for that poor woman who came to the gallery yesterday—”
“Martina! I told you what she said—”
“Oh, yes, she wanted to know if the painting would be a good investment. It’s not a crime, Ellie, to want to make money.”
“If she wants to make money, she should invest in real estate.” Ellie glanced over her shoulder at the worn leather sofa in the living room—and the multihued artworks that covered every square inch of the wall above. “Art shouldn’t be about money.”
Martina rolled her eyes. “You’re missing the point, Ellie. It is about money—at least for now. You should have found something to sell that woman, not suggested she try another gallery.You need to think like a businessman.” Martina put the tamales in the refrigerator, then approached the bags on the table. “Did you get my magazine?”
“Yes, it’s in there somewhere.” Ellie nibbled her tamale absently. Was Martina right? Was she a snob when it came to art? Maybe. Well, okay, probably. An artist poured so much of himself into a piece, spent so much time and effort to get the composition, the colors, the textures and a thousand other details just exactly right. It seemed wrong somehow to let someone who cared nothing about the artist’s creative endeavor take a piece home.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t worry about right and wrong anymore.
She swallowed a bite of tamale with difficulty. She couldn’t allow the gallery to close because she didn’t like the fact that someone saw dollar signs instead of art when they looked at a painting. She couldn’t afford to demand that people appreciate a painting or a sculpture the way it deserved to be appreciated. “Okay, Martina. From now on, I’ll act like a businessman. I’ll be cold, hard, ruthless—”
“Maybe you can just be practical…what’s this?” Martina let out a low whistle.
Ellie glanced up to see her cousin staring down at the contents of a flat jeweler’s box.
“What’d you do, Ellie? Make a withdrawal at the bank?”
Brushing the soft masa crumbs off her fingers, Ellie got up to look in the box. She gasped when she saw its contents.
Emeralds and rubies flashed in the apartment’s dim light, their sparkle silent testimony to their authenticity.
“Good heavens,” Ellie said faintly. “It must belong to that man—Mr. Grinch.”
“He’s not going to be happy when he finds it missing,” Martina observed.
“No, I don’t think so,” Ellie agreed, wondering who on earth he’d bought such a hideous necklace for. His wife? She couldn’t imagine a snooty society maven ever wearing something so garish. A girlfriend on the side? Much more likely, she thought, wrinkling her nose.
She looked at the name of the jeweler on the white satin under the lid. “I guess I’ll have to take it to the jeweler’s tomorrow.” She sighed. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve—she had two houses to clean and her aunt’s and uncle’s party afterward. She really didn’t have time to make another trip up to Michigan Avenue.
It would serve him right if I didn’t return it until after Christmas, she thought, feeling just a little bit grinchy herself.
“This guy must be really rich.” Martina glanced sideways at Ellie. “I wonder who he is.”
“I have no idea.” And she didn’t want to know.
“Mmm.” Martina was still eyeing her. “Some old guy, I suppose.”
“Not really. Thirty, maybe.”
“Thirty! That’s not bad at all. Good-looking?”
“I didn’t think so,” Ellie lied. In fact, her first impression had been that he was very attractive. When she’d first looked up into his concerned face, her heart had given an odd little thump. He’d seemed so friendly, his greenish eyes smiling down at her…until suddenly, for no reason at all, they’d turned a frosty gray.
She’d fumed over his rudeness all the way home. She’d apologized automatically—but really, the collision had been his fault as much as hers. He hadn’t been looking where he was going and he’d been walking very fast. He’d knocked her off her feet, caused her to drop and damage some of her gifts and made her miss her train, as well. He could have at least offered her a ride. Not that she would have accepted, but still…He’d probably been worried that she’d get his fancy limo dirty.
No, he hadn’t been attractive at all, she realized now. “He was big with mean eyes,” she told her cousin.
“Fat?”
Actually, he’d felt like solid steel when she bumped into him. “I couldn’t tell—he had on an overcoat. But he had a Van Gogh sort of face.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Martina asked. “He only had one ear?”
Ellie laughed and shook her head, but didn’t say any more. It was too hard to explain. In her mind’s eye, she could see the man clearly, the heavy eyebrows, the penetrating eyes, the angular features just slightly asymmetrical….
“Hmmph. I don’t know why rich men all have to be ugly as dirt.” With a sigh, Martina reached into the bag again and pulled out the magazine she’d asked Ellie to buy. “Well, maybe not all rich men,” she amended, holding up the magazine to show Ellie the cover. “Garek Wisnewski is a doll, don’t you think?”
Ellie had grabbed the magazine at the store with barely a glance at the cover. Looking at it now, she stiffened.
Dominating the page was a picture of a half-dressed redhead and a man staring angrily at the camera—a man with familiar cold gray eyes below slashing black brows.
The expression on his face had been exactly the same a few hours ago when he’d left her standing in the gutter.
Ellie looked at the headline above the picture.
Main Course: Hanky Panky, it screamed in eye-popping red print. Dessert: Chicago’s Most Eligible Bachelor.
Chapter Two
Getting in to see Garek Wisnewski was like trying to get in to see the pope.
Ellie had been worried that the office building might be closed on Christmas Eve, but it wasn’t. Employees filled the marble foyer—at least the part Ellie could see from the security desk near the entrance while the guard inspected her ID. He looked at her license closely, as though he suspected it might be a forgery, before demanding to know her business. She told him, then waited, shivering every time someone opened the door and let a blast of cold air in, while the guard made a telephone call, casting suspicious glances at her the whole time.
As ten minutes stretched into twenty, Ellie began to be annoyed. She’d come straight here from cleaning the second house on her schedule and she felt grimy and sweaty. She needed to go home and wash and change for the party. She wanted to be at her uncle’s, not standing in this cold foyer waiting on Garek Wisnewski. She wished she hadn’t let Martina talk her into trying to contact him directly.
“Don’t you see, Ellie?” Martina had said. “This is your chance. Return the necklace and ask him if he needs any art for his office. Maybe he’ll buy something. And if you’re lucky, maybe he’ll ask you out on a date.”
Ellie rolled her eyes. “I doubt he would appreciate anything at Vogel’s. And if he asked me for a date—which he wouldn’t!—there’s no way I would agree to go anywhere with him. I told you how rude he was. Besides, what kind of man gets featured on the cover of tabloids with his ‘exotic dancer’ girlfriend?”
“Maybe that’s why he was rude—because he was embarrassed about the picture.”
Ellie glanced at the scowling face on the magazine cover—and at the redhead wearing a big smile and not much else. The caption identified her as Miss Lilly Lade and stated her occupation.
Embarrassed? Ellie didn’t think so. There’d been too much hard self-assurance in his bearing. Even if he had been, that still didn’t excuse his rudeness. Nor his execrable taste in women—and jewelry. Now the necklace made perfect sense.
But in the end, she hadn’t been able to outargue Martina or her own conscience, which told her that if she really wanted to help everyone who relied on the gallery, she would swallow her pride and go see Garek Wisnewski.
It was the logical thing to do. No matter how rude he’d been, he’d be grateful when she returned his tacky necklace.
After looking up Wisnewski Industries in the phone book and discovering its ritzy address on the Loop, she took the train from her last job into town. When she first saw the skyscraper, it reminded her of a fortress—all gray stone with narrow, impenetrable windows.
The overzealous security guard reinforced the impression.
He finally hung up the phone and turned to her, a clipboard in his hand, his eyes still suspicious. “Fill in your name and address, and I’ll give you a pass to go up. Leave your coat and things here.”
Did he think she had a weapon hidden in a pocket? Ellie shed her wet coat and took the clipboard, filling in the gallery’s address rather than her own. She clipped the plastic pass to the strap of her purse.
Upstairs, she had to run another gauntlet—of navy-suited, gimlet-eyed assistants. At the final desk sat a woman with shiny silver-gray hair cut like a helmet and piercing blue eyes who gazed disapprovingly at Ellie’s jeans and yellow sweater. She made a brief phone call, then escorted Ellie into the inner office.
Wood paneling, plush carpet and heavy furniture met Ellie’s gaze. Trite, but obviously expensive oil landscapes hung on the walls. Directly ahead, seated behind a carved mahogany desk in a thronelike chair, was Mr. Eligible Bachelor himself.
Dressed in a gray pinstripe suit, white shirt and black tie, he looked as conservative as his office, although not quite as elegant. His tie skewed slightly to one side as if he’d tugged at it, and his jacket looked a little tight across the shoulders. His clothes didn’t really suit his blunt features and muscular build.
“So you tracked me down,” he said.
Ellie stared into eyes as cold as the storm outside. “I beg your pardon?”
The cynical lines around his eyes and mouth deepened. “Do you think you’re the first woman to engineer a meeting and come chasing after me?”
She stiffened. He thought she’d bumped into him on purpose in order to meet “Chicago’s Most Eligible Bachelor?” Was that why he’d so abruptly abandoned her on the sidewalk yesterday?
What an ego!
Trying to control her temper, she walked forward and held out the jewelry case. “I came to return this.”
He took the case and flipped up the lid. He stared at the necklace a moment, his expression inscrutable, then closed the box. Leaning back in his chair, he looked at her.
She expected him to thank her, express his gratitude, perhaps even apologize for his rudeness. But he did none of these things.
“I suppose you expect a reward,” he said.
In that instant, Ellie realized she would prefer to scrub Mrs. Petrie’s toilets every day for the rest of her life rather than sell anything from the gallery to this man. He sat there, making no effort to stand or invite her to sit, offering her money instead of thanks, his every action, his every word an insult. She knew this kind of man—one who cared nothing about people or their feelings, one who cared only about money and what it could buy. He would never spend his cold hard cash on something as frivolous as art. Contemporary art especially would be incomprehensible to him.
Ellie clenched her fists. Her first impulse was to refuse with icy politeness, then turn and walk out. But just yesterday she’d promised herself she would think like a businessman. Businessmen weren’t polite—as Garek Wisnewski had just so unpleasantly demonstrated—and they weren’t squeamish about money.
“Yes, I do expect a reward,” she said with all the poise she could muster. She met his gaze directly, calmly, not blinking even when his eyebrows rose.
The corner of his mouth curled upward. “At least you’re honest about it.” He pulled a checkbook from his coat pocket. “How much?”
“Five thousand.” She named the first figure that came into her head.
He stared at her for a long, silent moment.
Putting up her chin, she waited.
She didn’t have to wait very long. With a shrug, he picked up a pen, wrote a check and held it out to her.
Taken off guard, she stared at the slip of paper. She might not have inherited the Hernandez haggle gene, but she’d thought he would know how to negotiate. What kind of businessman handed over five thousand dollars so easily?
“Well?”
Glancing up, she saw him watching her, his eyes narrowed. Quickly, she stepped forward and took the check. She glanced at it, seeing a five followed by the requisite number of zeros. She hesitated again, struggling with her conscience. She was about to give him the check back, when the phone rang.
Garek Wisnewski pressed a button and his assistant’s voice came over the line.
“There’s a delivery here from marketing,” she said.
“Send it in.” His gaze flickered toward Ellie.
Clearly, she was dismissed. His rudeness made her spine stiffen—and subverted her conscience. “Thanks for the check,” she said airily. Stuffing the slip of paper in her purse, she headed for the door.
It opened before she reached it, and a skinny young man—a boy, really—entered, carrying a large, flat, cloth-covered rectangle. Setting it on a cherrywood table, he mumbled, “Mr. Johnson told me to bring this straight up,” then bolted from the room, slamming the door behind him.
Ellie blinked at the boy’s behavior. But probably all of Garek Wisnewski’s employees were terrified of him, she decided, moving toward the door again.
A flutter caught her eye as the cloth slipped from the rectangle. She stopped, her eyes widening at the revealed portrait.
Or rather, at the revealing portrait.
Lilly Lade, in full-breasted, bare-buttocked, dimplethighed glory, rose from a large white clamshell, her red hair contrasting vividly with the bright blue ocean behind her. Two leering “wind gods” hovered at one side, their expressions as crude as the artist’s brushwork.
“Was there something else?”
Ellie jumped at the sound of his harsh voice. “No, not at all.” But she couldn’t resist adding, “I was just thinking this is exactly the kind of painting I would expect you to have.” She smiled sweetly.
His stony gaze dropped to her mouth, then lifted. “You object to nude portraits?”
“No, I object to bad art.”
“Ah. An expert.”
The sarcasm in his voice annoyed her almost as much as his rude stare. “I work in a gallery.”
“The poster store at the mall?”
“Vogel’s in Pilsen,” she snapped. “Specializing in contemporary art. Feel free to stop by if you ever want to buy something with a little higher concept.” Turning on her heel, she grabbed the doorknob and twisted it.
A large hand reached over her shoulder and rested against the door, preventing it from opening. Scowling, she glared over her shoulder. A broad expanse of male chest met her gaze. Quickly she looked up—a long way up. He was bigger than she remembered. How had he managed to cross the room so quickly and silently?
He loomed over her, staring down at her with narrowed eyes. “I’ve already paid—I’m not paying any more. Anything else you want to offer me will have to be for free.”
Outrage stiffened her spine. “There’s nothing I want to offer you,” she said, yanking at the doorknob. It didn’t budge. “Will you please take your hand off the door?”
His gaze wandered over her, lingering on her mouth. “If you change your mind, contact me—but first use that money to buy some clothes that have a little ‘higher concept.”’
He released the door, and she yanked it open, angry enough to spit paint, and stormed out.
When she arrived home at her apartment, she went inside and slammed the door.
Martina came out of the bedroom, dressed in velvet pants and a red sweater, her head tilted as she put a dangling earring in her ear.
“You’re back!” she said. “I was beginning to worry. How’d it go?”
“Fine.” Ellie thrust her coat and boots into the closet, then stalked into the kitchen. “Although I’m thinking of writing a letter to the Chicago Trumpeter.”
Martina, following her into the kitchen, blinked. “You are?”
“Yes, to tell them they made a mistake about Garek Wisnewski.” Ellie took the five-thousand-dollar check from her purse, shoved it in the junk drawer and slammed it shut. “They should have named him Chicago’s Most Obnoxious Bachelor.”
It might have been Christmas Eve with most of the country in festive spirits, but Garek wasn’t sharing their happy mood. As far as he was concerned, the day was the culmination of a perfectly rotten month.
The painting of Lilly Lade—Ted Johnson in marketing’s infantile idea of a joke—had been annoying. The Hernandez woman witnessing the delivery, on top of taking him for five thousand dollars, had been galling. But neither of those compared with the torture that he now endured—Christmas Eve with his sister, Doreen.
“I went to a gala at the country club,” she commented as a maid poured wine in Garek’s glass. “All the right people were there. The Mitchells, the Branwells. Even the Palermos. Their nephew Anthony asked Karen to dance.”
“Anthony Palermo is a total geek,” Karen said, the first words she’d spoken during the meal. “He has hands like wet gym socks and breath like week-old dog food.”
“Karen!” her mother exclaimed. “You mustn’t talk about Anthony like that. The Palermos are one of the most wealthy and distinguished families in Chicago. You should remember that.”
Karen lapsed back into a sullen silence that lasted until the unappetizing meal was finished and Doreen led the way to the living room, where a mountain of presents was piled under a twenty-foot gold-and-silver tree. Karen fell to her knees and started ripping open packages Garek retrieved a slim, flat case from under the tree and handed it to his sister.
Doreen seated herself in a red-brocaded wing chair and unwrapped the gift with admirable restraint, unsealing each taped seam carefully, without any visible excitement. But when she saw the contents of the jeweler’s case, a spark lit up her usually cold gray eyes. “Ahh,” she said.
On the other side of the room, the sound of ripping paper stopped. Karen came and peeked over her mother’s shoulder.
“Good Lord!” she exclaimed, staring at the emerald-and-ruby necklace. “You must have spent a fortune, Uncle Garek!”
Doreen’s mouth pursed. “Karen, don’t be crass.”
Her shoulders hunching, the girl returned to the tree. She opened another present—a notebook computer from Garek. Her face completely expressionless, she set it aside.
Doreen, whose gaze had followed her daughter, barked, “Karen…what do you say to your uncle?”
“Thank you, Uncle Garek.” Karen’s monotone had as much enthusiasm as a zombie’s. Surrounded by the presents she’d opened—piles of clothes, tennis gear, skis, jewelry, purses, shoes—she looked under the now-empty tree. “Is that all?” she whined.
Doreen glared at her daughter. “Karen, I don’t like your tone. Or the expression on your face. If you can’t look and sound more pleasant, then go to your room.”
“Fine.” Tucking the computer under her arm, Karen headed for the door.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with that girl,” Doreen said in a loud voice before her daughter had even left the room. “I’ve told her over and over again that she must be polite to you. Although I can’t blame her for being disappointed. Whatever possessed you to buy a computer?”
Frowning, Garek watched his niece leave the room. “At Thanksgiving I heard her say she wanted one.”
“I wish you would have spoken to me first. We already have a computer. Girls her age prefer feminine things—like jewelry.”
Garek thought of the conversation he’d overheard on his last visit. Karen had been talking on the phone, telling some unseen person that she desperately wanted a new computer. “I think you underestimate Karen.”
Doreen stiffened. “I believe I’m better acquainted with my own daughter’s likes and dislikes than you. You barely know her.”
That was true. He’d been close to Karen when she was younger—she’d been bright and funny and interested in everything. But since becoming a teenager, she’d changed. She’d grown about ten inches into a tall, lanky brunette with a pale complexion and hostile brown eyes. Only rarely did he catch a glimpse of the curious, affectionate child she’d been.
“I’m afraid those terrible friends of hers are having a bad influence on her,” Doreen continued. “One girl’s father is a truck driver! If only I could send her to a decent school, instead of that horrible one she’s attending now.”
“You can afford it.” Garek walked over to the tree, looking at the jumble of gifts Karen had left behind. “If you want to.”
Doreen almost dropped the necklace. She snapped the box closed and glared at him. “You don’t know what it’s like to have your beloved husband die and be reduced to living in poverty—”
“Come off it, Doreen.” Garek nudged the tennis racket with his toe, then bent down and picked it up. He took a practice swing. Lightweight, perfectly balanced, the racket sliced through the air. “Grant divorced you long before he died. And he paid through the nose to get rid of you. If he’d been smart, he would’ve made you sign a prenuptial agreement.”
“I would never sign something like that—I would be grossly insulted if he’d even asked. Besides, I deserved every penny I got in the settlement. It wasn’t my fault he fell for that little slut. I should have gotten more. But I never get my fair share. Just look at Wisnewski Industries. It’s not right that Father left the company to you and…and for heaven’s sake, must you swing that racket? Those ornaments are all Lennox crystal and they cost a fortune. If you break one, I’m going to be very upset—”
“The company was bankrupt.”
His comment successfully diverted her from the safety of her ornaments. “A temporary setback, nothing more. The company is making millions now.”
“Of which you, as a major stockholder, receive a very large portion. I know, since I sign the checks.”
She sniffed. “I can barely maintain my position with those paltry dividends. I’ll never get my name into the Social Register at this rate.”
“What the hell is the Social Register?”
“It’s a book listing the names of an elite group of people. The right kind of people. Like the Palermos. Ones that have a certain background—”
Garek couldn’t believe his ears. “Our grandparents were peasant Polish immigrants. Is that the kind of background you’re talking about?”
Doreen’s nostrils quivered. “Ancestry is only one of the considerations. There are other ways to qualify—like founding a charity for some worthy cause. Ethel started a foundation for the symphony.”
“You hate the symphony.”
Doreen gripped the arms of her chair. “Just because you have no appreciation for music, don’t assume no one else does—”
“Okay, okay.” He shrugged. “If you want to give money to the symphony, fine. Just don’t ask me to make a donation.”
A flush mottled her cheeks. “I shouldn’t have to ask you. It’s the least you could do. That disgusting picture of you and that…that dancer person has undoubtedly hurt my standing with the Social Register committee—”
“I said no, Doreen.”
“Very well.” Lines radiated from her pinched lips. “I’m not going to argue with you. If you won’t help me set up a foundation, I’ll just stick to my regular activities with the Women’s League. Did I tell you Nina Lachland is on a fund-raising committee with me? She tells me a lot about her husband’s business. She told me Wisnewski Industries is trying to buy out the Lachland Company, which was news to me.”
He kept his stance relaxed, but inwardly he tensed. “So?”
“So, did you know there’s another company interested in buying Lachland? Her husband doesn’t like this Ogremark very much—”
“Agramark.”
“Ogremark, Agramark, whatever. But he might change his mind if he found out that you’re having trouble finding financing for the purchase.”
Garek stopped swinging the racket. “Are you trying to blackmail me, Doreen?” he asked very softly.
She smiled. “Of course not. I don’t know why you would say that.”
Garek didn’t smile back. Acquiring Lachland was key to his plan for expanding Wisnewski Industries. Unfortunately, Agramark Inc., a subsidiary of the Calvin G. Hibbert conglomerate, was also pursuing the small shipping company. The conglomerate had all the advantages: financial resources far beyond his own, connections to key players, high-powered lawyers to deal with the legalities. In spite of all this, Garek was determined to make the acquisition and was close to succeeding.
If Doreen didn’t sour the deal.
How the hell had she found out about his difficulty with the financing? He gave her a long, hard look. “I warn you, Doreen, don’t interfere with my business.”
“Business, business, business. That’s all you think about. It’s time you did something for your family. Is that so much to ask for? I don’t want much—all you need to do is sponsor a foundation for me.”
“Is that all?” he asked ironically.
“Actually, now that you mention it, no. I also want an assistant from Wisnewski Industries to handle all the details—I can’t because of my delicate health.”
Doreen was as healthy as a draft horse. She had a similar bone structure to his, with big hands and feet. When she was younger, she’d had a plump, curvaceous figure, appealing in an earthy sort of way. After she married Grant Tarrington, however, she’d lost every spare ounce of fat in an effort to look more “delicate.” Unfortunately, the weight loss only made her look harsh and angular.
“I also want you to stop sabotaging my efforts to be included in the Social Register,” she continued, warming to her subject. “Stop dating disreputable women and find a nice, respectable girl. Someone like Amber Bellair. I talked to her yesterday and we agreed…”
“You agreed what?” Garek asked very quietly.
“You needn’t sound so nasty. We just agreed that you seem…lonely.”
His grip tightened on the tennis racket as he thought of all the plans he’d made and the hours he’d put in to make the Lachland acquisition happen. Once he signed this deal, he could…well, not relax, exactly. But maybe the pressure would ease up some.
He didn’t want to risk losing this deal. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to let Doreen think she could get away with this kind of manipulation every time she wanted something.
“The only problem is that Ethel may not like me setting up a competing foundation,” Doreen said, drumming her manicured nails on the arm of her chair. “She can be a little spiteful. She might even block my Social Register nomination. Perhaps I should find something else to support. Something cultural. Like the ballet. Or art. Art would be very classy. We could open a gallery on Michigan Avenue. Or better yet, River North—”
“A gallery?”
“To exhibit the work of the artists we sponsor. Some up-and-coming young people recommended by the Institute. Not any of those trashy modern artists, but young men and women with real talent…”
She went on, but Garek was no longer listening. He was remembering the woman who’d returned the necklace—Eleanor Hernandez. What was it she’d said? I work at a gallery…specializing in contemporary art…feel free to stop by if you ever want to buy something with a little higher concept.
A greedy little witch—as greedy as Doreen—only with a pair of bright blue eyes and the sexiest mouth he’d ever seen….
“I don’t think I’m being unreasonable, Garek. You can afford it. It wouldn’t hurt you to show a little generosity, you know. I am your only sister—”
“Very well.”
Doreen gaped, her jaw sagging in a way that counteracted the most recent efforts of her plastic surgeon. “You’ll do it?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No. For once, you’re going to have to do what I want.”
Any of the businessmen who’d dealt with Garek Wisnewski would have been highly suspicious—if not downright skeptical—of his sudden acquiescence. But Doreen only smiled smugly, visions of how her name would look printed in the Social Register dancing in her head.
She didn’t even notice the way her brother adjusted his grip on the tennis racket and executed a neat and deadly backhand.
Chapter Three
“It’s your best work ever.”
Tom Scarlatti’s brown eyes lit up behind the thick, round lenses of his glasses. “You think so, Ellie? My roommate said it looked like a two-year-old painted it.”
Ellie studied the canvas propped against the gallery counter. Although he’d used her as a model, the final result bore no discernable resemblance to her. But the free-flowing curves and vivid colors created a sense of space and harmony that was arresting.
“Your roommate is an engineer,” she pointed out. “He knows nothing about art.”
“That’s true.” Tom’s narrow chest expanded a bit. “Actually, I do think Woman in Blue turned out well. I really hate to sell it.”
“If you want, I can put a Not for Sale sticker on it,” she offered. “Although I’m sure you could get an excellent price for it.”
Tom reached out and touched the edge of the canvas with the very tips of his fingers, gently, tenderly. But then his hand dropped limply to his side. “I’ve got to sell it,” he said with a sigh. “My landlord is threatening to evict me. He’s a very unpleasant man. He doesn’t understand about art at all—”
The bell jangled as someone entered Vogel’s. Tom stopped talking, looking toward the door. Ellie turned, a smile forming, only to freeze when she recognized the man walking toward her.
Garek Wisnewski.
What on earth was he doing here? It had been a week since the ugly scene in his office, and she’d done her best to put him out of her mind. But she couldn’t help thinking about him every once in a while—like when she’d gone to her cousin Vincente’s house last weekend and saw his daughter wearing the tiny tennis shoes she’d bought her for Christmas. Or when she’d seen the towering gray walls of Wisnewski Industries through the train window on her way to a job a few days ago. Or when she’d looked in the junk drawer this morning and seen the crumpled five-thousand-dollar check shoved in the back that she hadn’t quite been able to bring herself to cash, ruthless businesswoman or not.
Every time she thought of him, she remembered the ugly necklace and his rudeness when she’d returned it, and she grew angry all over again.
She clutched the gallery keys lying on the counter, wishing she’d locked the door. Had he come here to make another crude proposition?
“Excuse me,” she muttered to Tom, moving out from behind the counter.
Tom sidled toward the door. “I’d b-better go,” he murmured.
Ellie restrained an urge to grab his arm and cling to him—she didn’t want to be left alone with Garek Wisnewski. But she couldn’t do that to Tom. Tom was painfully shy around most people, and well-dressed, high-powered businessmen were the type he most dreaded.
Did Garek Wisnewski always wear a suit? she wondered as she approached him. His clothes made a valiant effort to give him a civilized veneer. They couldn’t disguise, however, the grainy texture of imminent five-o’clock shadow on his jaw—evidence of barely restrained, more primitive male tendencies.
Like predation. Intimidation. Domination.
“Good evening, Mr. Wisnewski.” She kept her tone polite, but cool. Not an easy feat considering the way her senses were humming on full defensive alert. She was conscious of her own clothes—a red cashmere sweater with a tendency to pill, a short black skirt, black tights and chunky black platforms. “May I help you?”
He eyed her consideringly—probably planning to give her some more wardrobe advice, she thought angrily.
“I’m just looking.” He turned his gaze to a flat glass case filled with dirt and trash. “So this is ‘high-concept’ art. Very impressive.”
She bristled at his sardonic tone. Few of the general public recognized or appreciated the skill and creativity that went into contemporary art. A lot of people snickered or looked scornful when they first came in. Usually, though, after she explained a little about the piece and the artist’s concept, most viewed the work with more respect.
She didn’t bother to explain anything to Garek Wisnewski, however. Why waste her time? He’d obviously come to mock her. Didn’t he have better things to do?
Apparently not. He moved on and she followed closely behind, glaring at his big hands clasped behind his broad back—he was so bulky, she didn’t trust him not to knock something over. Although he did walk gracefully, she admitted grudgingly to herself, his shoes making almost no sound on the polished wooden floor.
He gazed at an antique water pump resting on a square glass case filled with lightbulbs. Another light-bulb sprouted from the spigot. His eyebrows rose halfway to his dark combed-back hair.
His expression infuriated her. “It’s time for me to close.” She struggled to keep her tone polite. “Perhaps you could come back some other day.”
“I’ll only be a few more minutes,” he told her, then proceeded to stroll around the gallery as if he had all the time in the world. He eyed the various pieces, his mouth curling in the same sardonic smile she’d noticed in his office. He even laughed at Bertrice’s recycled-trash sculpture of a giant cockroach, although he tried to cover the sound by coughing.
He stopped in front of the counter, looking at the painting Tom had just left.
“I’ll take this one.”
She blinked, wondering if she’d misunderstood. “You want to buy Woman in Blue?”
“Yes.” He arched an eyebrow at her. “Is there a problem?”
“No, no. I’m just surprised.” Stunned might be a more accurate description. “Why do you want to buy it?”
“Do you question all your customers on why they’re purchasing an item?”
“Not usually. But most of my customers like contemporary art.”
“You think I don’t? You shouldn’t be so quick to judge me.” He pulled his wallet from inside his coat pocket and produced a platinum credit card. “Can you have the painting delivered to my office?”
She didn’t take the card. “Woman in Blue won’t fit with the decor of your office. Are you sure you wouldn’t like something else—something that would suit your personality better?” Her gaze rested a moment on the giant cockroach.
His gaze followed hers, and his eyes gleamed, whether with laughter or anger, she couldn’t tell. Anger, she hoped. But he didn’t withdraw the credit card. “I prefer this one.”
She didn’t believe he’d come here just to buy a painting, but even if he had, she wished he would have chosen something else. She didn’t want him to have Woman in Blue. He would never appreciate it, she was sure. She opened her mouth to refuse to sell the painting to him, then paused.
Hadn’t she just recently vowed to think like a businesswoman? To sell to anyone who came through the door? Could she in good conscience refuse the sale when the gallery—and Tom—needed it so much?
The answer was unpalatable but obvious.
With the very tips of her fingers, she took the credit card and rang up the sale. “Thank you, Mr. Wisnewski,” she forced herself to say. “It will be delivered first thing tomorrow.”
“Excellent.” He glanced at his watch, then at her.
“Ms. Hernandez, I need to discuss something with you, but I know you’re anxious to close. Will you have dinner with me so we can talk?”
She stiffened. So he had come here to proposition her again! “No.”
“It’s important,” he said, not even blinking at her refusal. “It concerns the gallery.”
“What about the gallery?” she asked.
“Come to dinner with me, and I’ll tell you.”
“Why can’t you tell me here?”
“I never discuss business on an empty stomach.”
His smile made her even more suspicious. It was the kind of smile that made a woman want to smile back, that made her want to do whatever its owner asked—and oh, didn’t he know it!
“If you’re not interested,” he said when she didn’t respond, “I can always find another gallery.” He took a step toward the door.
“Wait!”
He paused and she bit her lip. She knew he was manipulating her—but her curiosity was too great to resist. “Let me get my hat and coat and lock up,” she muttered.
He didn’t have the limousine tonight. Instead, he had a big black Mercedes with soft leather interior. She paid little attention to the luxury, however.
“What about the gallery?” she asked again when they were driving down the street. “Do you want to buy another painting?”
“Not exactly.” He turned a corner, avoiding a snowdrift that had spilled out into the street. “Do you own the gallery?”
“No, Mr. Vogel does.”
“Ah, then perhaps I should be talking to him.”
“Not really. He hasn’t been active in managing the gallery since his wife died. He’s elderly, and his health is frail, so he lets me run the gallery for him. He trusts me completely.”
“Does he? Then obviously I needn’t have any qualms.”
The dry note in his voice made her bristle, but before she could respond he spoke again. “I’m sorry, but I need to concentrate on my driving. I’ll explain everything over dinner.”
The request was a reasonable one. The road was treacherous, covered with ice and full of potholes, and the pounding sleet made the visibility poor. But in spite of the conditions, Ellie didn’t quite believe him.
At the restaurant, they were quickly seated at a table with white linen tablecloths, china and crystal.
“Have you been here before?” he asked.
“No. Look, what’s this all about?”
He picked up the wine list, his eyebrows rising. “Are you always so impatient?”
“Only when someone is being extremely evasive.”
His eyes gleamed again in that odd manner. For a moment, she thought he was going to put her off once more, but then he said bluntly, “I’m starting an art foundation and I’m looking for artists to sponsor and a gallery to exhibit their work. I think Vogel’s might be perfect.”
Ellie leaned back against the cushioned seat and stared at him. Her heart started to pound. A foundation—it could make a world of difference to the gallery. She could hire art photographers, place ads in expensive magazines, attract the notice of critics and collectors who could transform an unknown artist like Tom into an overnight sensation. She could replace the lighting, fix the elevator and install a sculpture garden on the roof the way she’d dreamed….
The waiter came to the table. While he explained the prix fixe menu for the day, Ellie tried to rein in her excitement. There were a thousand galleries in Chicago, and after speaking with them, what were the chances Wisnewski would choose Vogel’s? Not very high. She needed to convince him that Vogel’s would be the best choice for his foundation to sponsor.
After the waiter left, she leaned forward again. “Vogel’s would be ideal,” she said earnestly. “Our goal is to encourage a climate of excitement, inquiry and dialogue for progressive art. We look for unconventional pieces that are conceptual and theoretically based. You won’t see similar works at other galleries. Everything we handle is unique. The artists are all extraordinarily creative and innovative. Tom Scarlatti, for example, the man at the showroom when you came in earlier. He painted the canvas you bought. I’m sorry I didn’t introduce you. He’s a little shy. But I can arrange for you to meet him another time—”
The sommelier approached the table. Ellie tried to contain her impatience while he discussed with Garek the appropriate vintage to complement their meal. Finally the wine had been decided, the bottle brought and the ritual of pouring and tasting finished, and she was able to continue. “With the right kind of support, I believe Tom could become an important new force in the art world—”
“You appear to think very highly of this Tom Scarlatti,” Garek interrupted.
“Yes, I do.” She picked up her wineglass. “He’s brilliant, a genius in his own way—”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
The wine halfway to her mouth, Ellie paused. She stared at the man sitting across from her.
Cool gray eyes stared back.
“No,” she said slowly. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. Surely you must have a man in your life?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but no, I don’t.” She set the wine down and gave him a direct look. “I’m not interested in having a relationship right now.”
The corners of his mouth twitched at her thinly veiled rebuff. “You want to concentrate on your career? I’m surprised.”
“Why?”
“Because most women, no matter how much they deny it, are still more interested in finding husbands than in building their careers.”
She didn’t like his cynical tone or the implied criticism of women. “Really? I’ve experienced exactly the opposite. Most of the men I meet are desperate to get married. Especially the older ones—the ones your age.”
He straightened a little. “I’m twenty-nine,” he said curtly.
“Oh?” Lowering her eyes to conceal her smile, she picked up the wine again and sipped it.
There was a small silence as she drank. “Only a year or two older than you, surely,” he said.
She set down her glass abruptly.
The waiter returned and placed a dish on the table. “Baby leeks cooked in their own juices,” he announced.
“Just what we needed,” Garek said blandly.
Ellie couldn’t help laughing. “I’m twenty-four,” she admitted. Then, vexed with herself for revealing even this small piece of personal information, she returned to business. “About the gallery—”
He shook his head. “You don’t need to tell me any more about it. I’ve already made up my mind. And I’ve decided on Vogel’s.”
For a second, she thought she must have misheard him. But at the same time, she knew she hadn’t. Joy burst inside her. Vogel’s was saved! She wanted to dance on the table, sing at the top of her lungs, reach across the table and kiss Garek Wisnewski right on the mouth….
Almost as if he could read her mind, his gaze dropped to her lips.
Her mental celebrations came to a screeching halt. He’d looked at her mouth that way in his office. Right before he told her to contact him if she wanted to “offer” him something.
She leaned back in her seat, her smile fading.
What was going on here? This was Garek Wisnewski, the obnoxious jerk who’d knocked her over in the street and grossly insulted her when she came to his office. Garek Wisnewski, the arrogant, money-grubbing businessman who did nothing without calculating the profit. What was the catch?
Judging from the way he was looking at her mouth, she suspected she knew exactly what the catch was.
The waiter returned with more food. Ellie waited until he left before she asked quietly, “And what do you want in return?”
Garek took a bite of the Iowa lamb loin and chewed for what seemed like an awfully long time. “That’s an odd question,” he finally said. “Why does anyone start an art foundation?”
“Because they love art.”
“And you don’t think I do?” He offered her some of the braised legumes, but she shook her head. “I told you not to judge me too quickly,” he said.
He was being evasive. Why? “Why my gallery? You don’t even like me.”
His eyebrows rose. “What gave you that idea?”
“You weren’t exactly polite when I returned the necklace.”
“I apologize for that. Women who seek me out tend to have an ulterior motive.”
“They want to get their picture in the paper?” Ellie guessed.
“They want to get married.”
Ellie choked on her goat cheese and bleeding-heart radishes. The poor man obviously suffered from a serious medical condition—paranoia conceititus. “I have no desire to marry you, I promise.”
He smiled, but with a slight cynical lift to his lip. “That’s why I chose your gallery—you’re honest enough to admit that it’s the money you care about.”
She opened her mouth, then paused. She doubted she could make him change his mind about her—and if she tried, he’d probably accuse her of trying to make him fall in love with her or something else equally ridiculous. “What exactly will this foundation do?” she asked instead.
“The usual. Exhibits—shows, I believe you call them?—featuring the gallery artists. I’ll send an assistant to the gallery tomorrow. She’ll report to you, and you can tell her whatever needs to be done. I also want you to work with her to arrange a special pre-opening event, a silent auction, to be held at my sister’s home. I would expect you to choose the art, naturally.”
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Angie Ray
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: The Millionaire′s Reward, электронная книга автора Angie Ray на английском языке, в жанре современные любовные романы