by Helen Brooks
“I’m willing to take that chance,” Garek interrupted. “I’ve made my decision.”
“Very well,” Larry said, his voice as stiff as the hair covering his bald spot. “If you’ll just sign the annulment papers, I’ll go.”
Garek glanced down at the last document, then set it aside also. “I have a meeting shortly. I’ll do it later.”
“All you have to do is sign it.”
“I want to look it over,” Garek said coldly. He turned his attention to some other papers. Without looking at his lawyer, he said, “That will be all, Larry.”
When Garek heard the door close, he looked up. He stared at nothing in particular for several seconds. Then, slowly, he picked up the annulment papers again. He flipped to the back page where Ellie had signed the document.
He studied her signature for a long moment—the delicate pen strokes, the looping “E” in “Eleanor,” the elegant “H” in “Hernandez.”
An image flashed through his head of the morning he’d woken in Ellie’s apartment. He’d immediately been aware that something was wrong—the pillowcase under his cheek was cheap cotton instead of silk, cold air stung the parts of his skin not covered by a heavy, fluffy comforter, and there was a heady scent nearby—one that made his body harden instantly. He’d opened his eyes slowly.
He’d seen dark tousled curls; long, black lashes lying heavily on delicately flushed cheeks; and red, soft lips, slightly parted, inviting him to lean over and kiss her…
He’d closed his eyes again and waited until she got up and left the room. Only then had he risen and dressed. But instead of leaving immediately, he’d looked around her room, noticing the antique iron bed frame and old-fashioned quilt that contrasted oddly with the abstract paintings hanging on the wall. On the whitewashed dresser was a small oval frame with a picture of two people. The man, blond with blue eyes, had a cheerful smile. The woman had dark hair and eyes and her face was solemn, a few lines giving her a more careworn expression than the man. The two of them hadn’t been looking at each other, but there was an indefinable aura about them, something about the way the man’s hand held the woman’s arm so tenderly and the way the woman tilted her head toward the man, that had made Garek stare at the picture for a long, long time…
Garek set the annulment papers down on his desk. Closing the file, he picked up the phone and dialed.
Chapter Eleven
She wouldn’t talk to him.
Garek grew more and more annoyed as the day wore on and Ellie didn’t answer the phone or return his calls. He went to the gallery, but Tom, the timid artist, told him in a quaking voice that she wasn’t going to be in that day—or tomorrow, either. He went to her apartment, but either she wasn’t home, or she refused to answer the door.
By the next day, he was at the end of his patience. He called and left a message on her answering machine.
“If you want to keep your job at Vogel’s, you’d better present yourself at my office at 3:00 p.m. sharp this afternoon.”
She called several times after that, but Garek told Mrs. Grist not to put the calls through.
That afternoon, at precisely three o’clock, she stalked into his office, quivering with indignation.
“What are you up to now?” Stopping by the leather chair in front of his desk, Ellie glared at Garek. “Are you going to try to talk Mr. Vogel into firing me? He won’t listen to you. He’ll believe me—”
“I won’t be talking to Vogel anymore at all.” Garek stood up slowly. He looked more controlled than usual, his tie straight, his hair neatly combed, his jacket lying smoothly across his shoulders. His expression was harder and more remote than ever. “I just purchased the gallery from him.”
Ellie grew very still, staring into his eyes. Surrounded by short, black lashes, they were as gray as the sky outside, as cold as the water in Lake Michigan.
She swallowed, even that small movement difficult and painful. “I don’t believe you,” she whispered. “Mr. Vogel would have told me.”
But even as she spoke the words, Ellie knew they weren’t necessarily true. Al Vogel was growing increasingly frail and forgetful—and although she hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself, she’d known he would have to sell the gallery soon.
“Ask him.”
Ellie felt stunned. Garek might be lying—but she doubted it. What would be the point? The office had seemed warm when she first came in, but now she felt cold in spite of her thick, cableknit sweater. She pressed her forearm against her middle, against the queasiness in her stomach. The gallery—her gallery—purchased by Garek Wisnewski. She was at his mercy—as was everyone Vogel’s supported.
And didn’t he know it. He stood there behind his enormous desk, surrounded by his fancy furniture, like a king waiting to hear a penitent’s plea. He was waiting for her to apologize, she realized. Waiting for her to beg for mercy. Her nails dug into the thick yarn of her sweater. As if she would ever give him that satisfaction.
“So,” she said proudly, pressing her forearm more tightly against her roiling stomach. “Did you summon me here to fire me? Or to tell me you’re closing the gallery? Or just to gloat?”
“All very attractive options, but first I want to ask you about something else. I understand you donated a certain sculpture to the Art Institute. In my name.”
It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Although now, in retrospect…
But it was too late for caution, too late for regrets.
She lifted her chin. “Yes, I did give Bertrice’s sculpture to the museum. I told them there was only one condition—they had to display your name prominently. Everyone who goes to the museum will look at that cockroach, then look at the name Garek Wisnewski. I’m sure that everyone who knows you will immediately understand the connection—”
“You may be right,” he said in a disgustingly calm voice. “Tell me something—was it worth five thousand dollars?”
“It was worth ten times that amount!” She shivered, but from rage now, not cold. “I know this is beyond your comprehension, but I don’t want your money, I never did! I only took that five thousand dollars because you were so rude. But now I’m glad I took it because it helped Bertrice, and I’m glad that out of all the misery you’ve caused, at least one person benefited, and I’m glad that the whole world can see now what an insect you really are—”
“Are you finished?”
She gripped the back of the leather chair. “Yes. I am. Will you at least wait until I can find another place to take the art before you close Vogel’s?”
“I’m not closing the gallery.”
She thought she must have misheard him. “What did you say?”
“I want the gallery to stay open—and I want you to continue to run it.”
Tense and disbelieving, she stared at him. “Why?”
“Maybe I’m afraid you’ll sell your story about our marriage to the tabloids.”
“I said I was only going to do that if you turned Robbie in,” she pointed out.
“Are you saying that I can close the gallery and not worry about reprisals?”
“Yes. I mean, no…that is—”
“Would you go out to dinner with me?”
He couldn’t be serious. And yet, his eyes were dark and intent, his mouth a straight, unsmiling line.
“I’m surprised you’d want to go out with a ‘criminal’ like me,” she said, trying to gather her scattered wits.
“I’m making an exception in your case.”
“Why?”
“Does there have to be a reason?”
“Yes,” she said decisively. “There does.”
He put his hands in his pockets. “I suppose I thought we could be…friends.”
“Friends?” she repeated in disbelief. After using her, insulting her and accusing her of trying to trap him into marriage, he wanted to be friends? She didn’t think so. “No, thank you,” she said coldly. “I’m very particular about my friends.”
He didn’t
seem offended by her rudeness. “I can be a very good friend.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I can put a lot more money into the art foundation. I can move your gallery to the fashionable part of town. I can—”
“Are you trying to bribe me into going out with you?” she asked.
“No, of course not.”
“That’s good. Because the answer is still no.”
His gaze was inscrutable. “The silent auction Stacy Hatfield arranged is this Saturday at my sister’s.”
“So?”
“You have to be there. It’s business.”
“I’m sure Stacy can handle it.”
“It’s imperative that you be present. Donors like to see the people involved before they give money.”
“They can see your sister and you.”
His eyes narrowed. “I can also be a very bad enemy.”
She gaped at him. “Are you threatening me now?”
“I’m only trying to ensure the foundation is a success,” he said smoothly. “I’ve invested a lot of money in it.”
“Yeah, right. I suppose I have no choice, then.” She glared at him. “Tell me, do you always have to blackmail women into a date?”
“No,” he said grimly. “You’re the first.”
“You should never have made me go through with this,” Doreen Tarrington hissed at Garek as she smiled and nodded at a couple helping themselves to shrimp and prosciutto appetizers. “It’s going to be a disaster.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Garek drawled in a bored tone. His sister had been nagging at him ever since he’d ordered her to go ahead with the dinner party. She’d whined and complained and dragged her sizeten feet, but in the end, when faced with the prospect of paying the cost of her next facelift herself, she’d reluctantly agreed.
“I warn you, Garek,” Doreen said in threatening accents, “if that tawdry little girlfriend of yours or her car-toon-character friend embarrass me in front of my friends I will never speak to you again.”
Garek thought of several unkind responses, but managed to restrain himself. His object wasn’t to be at odds with his sister all evening. “I’m sure Ellie and Caspar will behave in a perfectly normal manner,” he responded, his gaze turning to the couple in question.
A slight frown creased his forehead. He hadn’t expected Ellie to bring Caspar along. Apparently, Stacy Hatfield had told Ellie to choose an artist for the guests to meet. That would have been fine—if Ellie had picked just about anyone other than Roberto’s friend.
Originally, when Garek’s only purpose was to punish his sister, he would have been delighted by Caspar’s presence. Now, he only wanted everything to go smoothly.
Looking at Caspar’s gangly form and Ellie’s overly bright smile and stiff back, he began to suspect that he’d made a few miscalculations…
Suddenly, Ellie turned her head and her gaze met his. Even across the crowded room, he could see the way her eyes flashed.
The dinner bell rang. She looked away and began to move with the other guests toward the dining room.
Garek followed, aware of a slight sense of trepidation.
Ellie didn’t want to be there. She didn’t want to be in this ugly, overly ornate house, with its fussy details and chairs and sofas that seemed to shout, “We are expensive pieces of furniture!” She did not want to talk and try to be polite to the snobbish Mrs. Tarrington whose nose quivered every time she came near and who seemed to regard her like an insect she’d found in her salad. And, most of all, she didn’t want to be sitting in this dining room, eating bouillabaisse, forced to look at Garek Wisnewski every time she raised her gaze from her soup.
She glared across the table at him, but he didn’t appear to notice, so deep in conversation was he with Amber Bellair, his blond ex-girlfriend. Amber’s “little black dress” made Ellie’s simple blue frock look like something from a thrift store—which, in fact, it was.
Garek, in his dark suit that fit snugly across his shoulders, made the perfect companion for the blonde—although the garish colors of the tie Ellie had given him for his birthday clashed horribly with Amber’s simple elegance. Why was he wearing it? To remind Ellie how naive and stupid she’d been when she’d given it to him?
She couldn’t imagine what he hoped to gain by this whole charade. She didn’t believe for a second his sorry excuse that he just wanted to be “friends.” More likely he wanted to continue with his plan to annoy his sister.
Well, she had no intention of cooperating. No matter how rude Mrs. Tarrington was.
Ellie looked a little anxiously at Caspar, who was sitting at the opposite end of the table. She’d originally intended to bring one of the gallery artists, but she’d felt obliged to warn them that the hostess did not care for contemporaryart, and in fact was openly hostile toward it. They’d all refused to attend—no big surprise there. Caspar, however, had begged to come, saying that it was his big chance to make contact with some people who might buy his work. She’d been so angry at Garek, she’d finally agreed, thinking that the whole evening would be a farce, anyway. She’d thought that Garek and Doreen would probably like the ex-convict’s vapid paintings.
But now Ellie regretted her temper. She hated to subject any artist—however questionable his talent—to Garek’s snobbish sister. Fortunately, Caspar seemed oblivious to Doreen’s gibes, and the other guests weren’t as bad as Ellie had expected. Most of them, in contrast to their hostess, were very friendly. In fact, many were genuinely interested in art, and one or two were even extraordinarily knowledgeable.
But then there were a few…
Brandon Carlyle, apompous, middle-aged lawyer, was presently telling everyone about his favorite restaurant.
“There’s a place at the foot of the Swiss Alps,” he droned at a peculiarly slow speed, “that I highly recommend. The food is all of the finest quality. They serve blue oxtail soup seasoned and cooked to perfection. I’ve had blue oxtail soup in New York and in Paris, but in my opinion, it’s not quite as good.”
“Oh, come on, Brandon.” Sam Kroner, a man in his middle thirties with blond hair and smiling blue eyes, leaned forward to address the other man. “The best food is always the food you catch yourself. When Bonnie and I were on vacation in Alaska, we caught a trout that was the best I’ve ever tasted. Isn’t that right, BonBon?”
Sam’s wife nodded. “The only bad part was cleaning it—”
“The best fish I ever had was in Hawaii,” Doreen interrupted, her loud voice carrying clearly to where Ellie sat halfway down the table. “It was absolutely delicious. Remember, Amber? You and Garek had dinner at that little place in Honolulu once, I believe.”
“Yes, I remember. It was good. Very good.”
Amber looked at Garek in a way that made Ellie think the blonde wasn’t just talking about the fish.
“Tell us, Ms. Hernandez,” Doreen went on. “What is your favorite restaurant?”
Ellie looked up and glanced at the faces around the table. Everyone seemed to be staring at her. “The Taco Palace,” she said. “It has the best fish tacos you can imagine.”
Sarah Carlyle laughed, causing some soup to drip from her spoon onto her white dress. Still smiling, she dabbed at the greenish stain with her napkin. “The Taco Palace? I’ve never heard of it. But I love fish tacos. Where is it?”
“Near the corner of Twenty-fifth and Kedzie in Little Village.”
“I like Mexican food, too,” Sam said. “Do they make enchiladas?”
“The best,” Ellie assured him. “Although I have towarn you, I may be a little biased. My uncle owns the place.”
Peter Branwell, who owned a national chain of restaurants, looked up from his soup. “Your uncle owns the Taco Palace? I’ve heard of it—it has an excellent reputation for inexpensive, high-quality food. Has your uncle ever thought of franchising?”
“No, he prefers to keep the restaurant family-owned and operated.”
Doreen gave a tinklin
g laugh. “Family-owned and operated? You make it sound as if you’ve actually worked there.”
Ellie met her gaze calmly. “I have. As a waitress.”
“A waitress?” Doreen waved at the maid to remove the soup bowls. “Not a profession most people would aspire to. But perhaps you come from a long line of waitresses?”
“No, my mother cleaned houses.”
“Dear me. And your father?”
A rueful smile curved Ellie’s lips. “Poor Papa. He was most often unemployed, I’m afraid. His last job was as a usedcar salesman.”
“I’ve bought used cars for the last twenty years,” Sam commented as the maid set a dessert plate in front of him. “Maybe I bought one from your father. Hernandez…Hmm, it doesn’t ring a bell. What was his first name?”
“I doubt you knew him—we lived in Philadelphia.” Ellie reached toward the two forks above her plate. She hesitated, then picked up one and took a bite of her dessert. “Mmm, cherries jubilee, my favorite.”
“Ahem.” Doreen cleared her throat delicately and pointedly picked up another fork. “After hearing about your background, I can see why some of the finer aspects of etiquette must be bewildering to you.”
Ellie switched forks and smiled sweetly. “Oh, no, not at all. My mother taught me that truly good manners mean making other people comfortable.”
Ellie thought she saw Garek smile, but then he covered his mouth with his hand and coughed. “It’s time to proceed with the silent auction,” he said, rising to his feet. “We have a special item this evening, from Vogel’s Gallery. The artist, Caspar Egilbert, will tell you about it. Caspar?”
Caspar, who’d been deep in conversation with the Palermos at the other end of the table, stood also, pushing his lank brown hair back from his face. The motion caused the sleeves of his ill-fitting brown suit to hike up, exposing his bony wrists. He ambled over to the easel. “I created this painting especially for this occasion. It is symbolic of the many influences in my life, and my love and appreciation for my mother.” He whipped off the covering, revealing…breasts.
