Millionaire's Woman

by Helen Brooks

  Her expression was bland. “You don’t want to give up being Chicago’s Most Eligible Bachelor.”

  He flinched as she said the stupid title out loud. “Hardly,” he snapped.

  She made a slight choking noise. She didn’t smile, but her eyes gave her away, and he scowled. “It’s not funny,” he told her.

  “No, of course not,” she agreed, coughing.

  “That idiotic newspaper article has caused me more grief than you can possibly imagine.” He stepped back to allow her to precede him into the row.

  She didn’t move, the laughter in her gaze gone. In its place glimmered a different emotion, a softness…sympathy?

  She touched his arm lightly. “Money must be an awful burden in your relationships.”

  The muscles in his forearm contracted at the brush of her fingertips, even as he blinked at her words. He’d always found money to be a great advantage. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because…oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am!” Ellie stepped forward into the row of seats to allow a woman with sharp elbows to pass.

  Garek followed Ellie, turning sideways, to shuffle past the patrons already seated. He waited until they reached their own seats before asking again, “Why would you say that?”

  “What? Oh,” she whispered as the lights dimmed and the curtain rose, “just that it must be terrible to have women interested in you only because of your money.”

  The music started, and she turned her attention to the stage.

  Ignoring the opening strains, Garek stared down at her.

  Amber obviously hadn’t believed him when he said his relationship with Ellie was purely professional, but it was true. He would never be interested in someone as venal as Eleanor Hernandez—she was merely a means to an end.

  Still, he couldn’t help feeling a niggling annoyance, as he sat through the second half of the concert, that she would assume that women were interested in him only because of his money.

  Chapter Five

  Garek took Ellie to a French restaurant the following week. The tuxedoed waiter seated them in the atrium, a secluded area lit by candles, decorated with flowers and featuring a magnificent view of the city skyline. The decor was elegant, the clientele exclusive and the prices exorbitant.

  Naturally, Ellie thought wryly as she ate wild Atlantic salmon and Alsacestyle cabbage and listened to Garek explain a few details of the art foundation. He was obviously used to the best. Which boded well for the foundation. He would make it a success, she was positive. She should be deliriously happy. And she would be, if it weren’t for one thing. Him.

  She looked at the hard angles of his face, listened to the authority in his voice as he recited facts and figures. He had the kind of self-confidence that came from knowing he could make his own way in the world without out help from anybody. She might have admired the trait, envied it, even—if she hadn’t met his ex-girlfriend. It was hard to envy a man who’d been involved with a woman whose eyes were as cold and calculating as Amber Bellair’s.

  “Any questions?” he asked as the waiter set plates of chocolate-raspberry torte in front of them.

  A million, she thought, glancing away from his strong features. Were all the women he knew like Amber Bellair? Did they all look at him like an investor assessing a potentially profitable enterprise? Were they all like painted photographs, flat and artificial?

  “No,” she said, fiddling with her fork.

  “I received the assistant’s report. She said you’ve been extremely busy this last week.”

  Ellie nodded. Preparing for the silent auction and the show took a lot of time. She’d been able to quit her housecleaning jobs since Garek was paying her a generous salary—almost too generous. She couldn’t quite shake the suspicion that he had some ulterior motive. But although she’d tried several times to question him, he remained evasive. He wasn’t one to reveal a lot about himself.

  “Would you like to go over the budget figures?” he asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  His eyebrows rose.

  “I’ve always preferred art and music to math, ”she felt compelled to say. “Balance sheets give me a headache.”

  “Didn’t you say Martina was studying business?” he asked. “Perhaps she could go over the numbers for you.”

  He’d met her cousin when he’d picked Ellie up earlier that evening, and they’d seemed to hit it off immediately. Martina had tossed her mane of long dark hair and smiled flirtatiously at Garek while Ellie got her coat. “You better snap him up quick, El,” Martina had whispered in her ear before they left, “or someone else will. If only I didn’t have a boyfriend!”

  Ellie picked up her fork. “That’s really not necessary,” she murmured to Garek before taking a bite of the torte.

  “You think she won’t be able to understand it?”

  Ellie bristled immediately. “I’m sure she would. She’s graduating in June, a year early. She’s absolutely brilliant.”

  “Is that so?” His mouth curved upward at her defense of Martina, but he didn’t pursue the subject of the budget. “Martina said you’re from Philadelphia,” he said instead.

  “Did she?” What else had her cousin said? Ellie wondered uneasily.

  “Do your parents still live there?”

  “They died in a car accident when I was thirteen.”

  She said it matter-of-factly, but the long-ago loss still had the power to cause a dull ache in her heart.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “That must have been difficult for you.”

  She turned away from his steady gaze and looked out the window at the city lights sparkling in the cold, dark night. She didn’t want him to be sympathetic. “Fortunately, I had relatives who took me in.” She looked back at Garek and forced herself to smile. “What about your family?”

  “My father died of a heart attack eight years ago. My mother remarried and moved to Florida a few years later. I rarely see her. There’s just my sister and me. And my fifteen-year-old niece.”

  Her breath caught. Even less did she want to feel sympathy for him. But it was impossible not to. He recited the facts as unemotionally as she had, but she knew only too well how pain could be hidden under a facade.

  “Are you close to your niece and sister?” she asked, resisting a foolish urge to reach across the table and touch his hand.

  He shrugged. “I don’t have a lot of time. Work keeps me busy.”

  His response should have banished all sympathy for him, but it didn’t. After her parents died, she’d lived with her grandfather, but she’d called her aunt and uncle and cousins almost every day and stayed with them every summer. They’d filled a terrible void in her life. Apparently Garek’s business had performed that function for him.

  But that was his choice, she reminded herself. He could have chosen to reach out to his sister and niece. “You should make time,” she said quietly.

  He sipped his coffee. “Thinking of starting an advice column?”

  She ignored his gentle mockery. “I think it’s a mistake to put work before family.”

  “But what if your family depends on you to work to make money?”

  She frowned. “Your sister and niece depend on you financially?”

  “Not exactly. I’m speaking more hypothetically.”

  “Every situation is different. Everyone must make their own choice.” She twirled a bite of torte in raspberry sauce. “I just think sometimes people end up regretting their choices.”

  “Hmm,” he murmured noncommittally. “Tell me more about your family.”

  She doubted he was really interested, and she didn’t want to get drawn into talking about her grandfather and the messy details of their estrangement, but she went ahead and told him about her uncle Rodrigo and aunt Alma and their six children. The three older were all married with children of their own.

  “Then comes Martina, then Roberto, then Alyssa,” she continued. “Alyssa is about the same age as your niece—she’ll be fou
rteen in March.”

  “How long have you shared an apartment with Martina?”

  “About a year. Ever since I moved to Chicago. I was broke and there aren’t a lot of high-paying jobs for art history majors—”

  “You have a college degree?”

  “Yes, a master’s. Why do you look so surprised?”

  “No reason. Is your cousin Roberto still in high school?”

  “No, he graduated last year.” Just in time to get himself thrown in jail. But she wasn’t going to tell Garek that. “He’s very sweet. Sometimes he takes his machismo a little too seriously, but he has the kindest heart of anyone I know. He’ll play cards with Grandma Pilar for hours, even though she cheats and can’t always remember his name. He can be a little impulsive sometimes, but he always means well. He’s very protective of me.”

  “Do you need protecting?”

  “No, of course not. Although Robbie thinks so. Probably because of…” She paused, vexed with herself for talking too much.

  “Because of Rafe?”

  She straightened. “How do you know about him?”

  “Martina said I was a ‘vast improvement over Rafe.’ Your ex-boyfriend, I take it?”

  “Mmm.” She was definitely going to have to have a talk with Martina. “I brought him to Chicago to meet everyone. Martina and Robbie didn’t like him. And it turned out they were right.”

  “Rafe broke your heart?”

  “No, he just toughened it up a bit.” She felt his gaze on her face. Afraid he would ask her more questions, she added lightly, “Everyone has to have at least one failed love affair. Even you, I’ll bet.”

  He had to think for a while. Either he’d had so many, he couldn’t remember, or he’d never been in love. She wondered which it was.

  “There was Monica Alexander,” he finally said. “I was madly in love with her.”

  “What happened?”

  “She dumped me when my father died and his business declared bankruptcy. I had to leave college to sort out the mess.”

  She grew still, watching him from wide eyes. “How terrible.”

  Garek looked amused. “It wasn’t a huge tragedy. In fact, it was probably the best thing that could have happened to me. I was able to focus all my attention on the business.”

  “But you must have been terribly hurt—and at a time when you needed her the most.”

  He shrugged. “I survived.”

  Obviously. But at what cost? Was that when he’d acquired the air of cynicism that marked his features so strongly now? Was that when he’d begun to have so little faith in people—especially women?

  The meal finished, he drove her home and walked behind her up the outside stairs to her apartment. “The Institute of Art is having a private opening of their new exhibit tomorrow night,” he said. “I’ve arranged for tickets. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  More networking, Ellie thought, stopping in front of her door. And more time spent with Garek Wisnewski. “Wasn’t the symphony enough?”

  “I thought you would like going to the art show.”

  She would love to go, despite a slight lingering doubt about his motives. Once again, how could she refuse? “Okay. Thanks.” She smiled at him.

  His gaze narrowed a bit and drifted over her.

  “What?” she asked, her smile faltering.

  “You’ve got salt on your coat. Hold still.”

  Glancing down, she saw him brushing at a gray mess on her side. She must have grazed against the spray of salt and ice on his car, she realized.

  She swayed a little, and he put his hand on her shoulder, holding her firmly as his gloved fingers swept along her hip, removing the last traces of dirty salt, his touch brisk, efficient, impersonal. When he finished, he released her, said good-night and left.

  She watched him until he got in his car and drove off.

  An uneasy feeling curling in her stomach, she went inside.

  Chapter Six

  Stacy Hatfield, the assistant Garek had assigned to work on the foundation, was bright, enthusiastic and very young—barely eighteen. Ellie would have enjoyed working with her if it weren’t for one thing—the girl had a huge crush on Garek Wisnewski.

  Ellie’s own feelings were growing more and more confused. During the last week and a half, he’d taken her to the art show, several dinners, a play and a basketball game. She kept reminding herself that their relationship was purely business, but sometimes, for a moment or two, she would forget. She’d lain awake all night thinking about him, her thoughts going round and round in circles, until she swore she wasn’t going to think about him at all. But that was difficult to do when Stacy talked about him constantly.

  At the gallery, Ellie tried to escape the girl’s chatter by going upstairs to the framing studio, but Stacy merely packed up her laptop and followed.

  “Mr. Wisnewski’s the best employer I’ve ever had,” Stacy said, her fingers flying over the keyboard. “Actually, he’s the only employer I’ve ever had, unless you count Mrs. Bussey, whose kids I babysat when I was fourteen—she had a nervous breakdown after she had her fourth child in six years—but everyone at the company agrees that Mr. Wisnewski is the best. He is so generous. I told him he was paying you way too little, and he said to double your salary.”

  Startled, Ellie looked up from the long, thin piece of oak she was pretending to inspect. “Stacy! I can’t accept that!”

  “Of course you can. You deserve it. You’ve been working like a dog.”

  It was true—she had been working long hours. But accepting a raise didn’t feel right. If Mr. Vogel had given it to her, she wouldn’t have objected. But Garek…

  “Did you have a good time at the game?” Stacy asked. She had an amazing ability to talk and type at the same time at a combined speed of approximately eight hundred wpm.

  Ellie sat down at the miter box with the piece of oak molding. “It was very nice. We had courtside seats, we ate catered food in a private box at half time, and the Bulls won.” She’d enjoyed herself at the game. Afterward, though—

  “Are you going out with him on Saturday?” Stacy asked, her fingers flying across the keyboard. “It’s his birthday, you know. He’s going to be thirty. Kind of old, but he’s so gorgeous, I almost don’t care.”

  Ellie hadn’t known. Why hadn’t he told her?

  “How is the catalog for the silent auction coming along?” she asked, hoping to divert the girl.

  “Fantastic. The pictures the new photographer took of the art turned out great. He also took a picture of Mr. Wisnewski and Mrs. Tarrington, Mr. Wisnewski’s sister, to send to the newspapers to help publicize the event. I was surprised Mr. Wisnewski agreed to that. He hates any kind of publicity.”

  Ellie usually subdued any impulse to question Stacy about Garek, and she tried to restrain her curiosity now. But somehow, she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “Oh?”

  Stacy needed no further encouragement. “Ever since being named Most Eligible Bachelor he’s been hounded by women,” the girl said. “I read in the Chicago Trumpeter that a woman waited for him in a parking garage, then jumped on the hood of his car and started kissing the windshield. She left red-lipstick imprints all over the glass before he could get her off. Another woman broke into his house and stole all his underwear and put it up for sale on eBay. The police caught her and arrested her, but not before she’d sold a pair of boxer shorts to a woman living in a Florida retirement community. He threatened to sue the Chicago Trumpeter and they’ve backed off for the last month or so, but we still get women calling or coming to the office on some pretext, hoping to meet him.”

  Ellie bent over the miter box, the whine of the saw ringing in her ears as she remembered Garek’s surliness when she’d bumped into him on the sidewalk. What had he said in his office the next day? So you managed to track me down.

  She still couldn’t really excuse his rudeness to her. But she could understand it. She even sympathized with him in a way—she hated the press
, also.

  She didn’t want to like him. She didn’t want to be aware of him. But it was hard not to be. At the art show, she’d been conscious of his hand at the small of her back as he guided her from painting to painting, his bulk protecting her from being jostled by the crowd. When he took her to dinner, she was conscious of his hands on her shoulders as he helped her off and on with her coat. At the play, a comedy, she’d been distracted several times by his deep, rather rusty-sounding laugh; that had been bad enough, but then afterward, she’d neglected to button her coat before they went outside. Greeted by a blast of icy cold wind, she’d started to tug off her gloves, but he’d grabbed her hands and pulled her into a sheltered doorway. “I’ll do your coat up for you,” he’d said, and proceeded to fasten each button from her throat to her hemline.

  She’d tried not to let his closeness affect her. She’d tried to ignore the increasingly familiar curling sensation low in the pit of her stomach. Just as she’d tried, a few days later, at the basketball game, not to notice the way his hair grew to a point at the nape of his neck; the way he listened silently, intently, to what she said; the masculine scents of wool and leather that clung to him; and the amusing contrast of the floral scent of his hair.

  A gift of shampoo from his niece, he’d said when she impulsively asked about it last night after inviting him into her apartment for coffee. Sitting next to her on the couch, he’d immediately put down his cup and leaned over to sniff her hair.

  “Mmm, strawberry, I think.” He lifted a strand of her hair and ran it through his fingers.

  Her entire scalp prickled at his touch. He continued to stroke her hair, his fingers gradually weaving their way deeper and deeper into its thickness until he was cradling her head, holding her completely still as he stared down at her mouth with a dark, intense look in his eyes.

  Her heart pounded against the wall of her chest as if trying to get out. She knew she should pull away. She knew letting him kiss her was opening the door to all kinds of trouble. But the feeling inside her didn’t respond to arguments. The feeling wasn’t logical. It wasn’t sensible. It was just there. Hot and needy and demanding. One kiss, it told her rational self. Just one kiss…