Millionaire's Woman

by Helen Brooks

  “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 lightbulb 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 inBlue. 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.