The Mistress Deal

by Sandra Field

  “So your answer’s no.” He moved toward the door. “Don’t forget to buy Wednesday’s paper, will you? You’ll see a whole new side to your stepfather, and—trust me—it won’t be based on gossip.”

  She couldn’t bear that. She couldn’t. Her only alternative was to toe the line. Do as Reece Callahan had proposed. Because Lauren was under no illusions; even if she could afford to sue Reece, and even if by some remote chance she won, the damage would have been done. Wallace’s name would always be linked with dishonor. She said coldly, “I was merely pointing out the pitfalls of your course of action.”

  “How altruistic of you.”

  “If I do this, it would be an act. Only an act. In private I wouldn’t allow you to come within ten feet of me.”

  “You’re assuming I’d want to.”

  Her breath hissed between her teeth. “Tell me precisely what you’d require of me.”

  “You’d stay in my condo near Stanley Park. On Saturday you’d go with me to a cocktail party and dinner that I’m hosting. One of my CEOs is laboring under the delusion that his daughter would make me a fine wife. Your presence will disabuse him of that notion. Then on Sunday there’s a private dinner party at the home of a man I’m thinking of bringing on board. Unfortunately his wife is more interested in me than in her husband’s career. You’ll give her the message I’m not available. Two days later we’ll fly to my house in Whistler—I don’t often go there this time of year, I use it mainly for skiing in February. But I’ll be doing business with some Japanese software experts—and you’d host their wives. Then we go to a yacht club off the east coast of Vancouver Island, where I’m to meet an associate in the commodity market. After that, it’s back here and you can go your own way.” He paused. “Eight days, not counting tomorrow.”

  Lauren’s adventurous spirit, never much in abeyance, quickened. She’d heard of Whistler, the luxurious ski resort north of the city; and she’d never been to Vancouver Island, set like a green jewel in the waters of the Pacific Ocean. Keeping her face impassive, she said, “I get the message. Because you’re rich, a lot of women are after you.”

  He raised one brow. “You could call it an occupational hazard.”

  She almost smiled, feeling the first twinge of liking for him. Shoving it down, she said crisply, “If I choose to do this, I need to make something clear—I’m not after you, no matter how much money you have. In public, I’ll do my best to convince the world that you and I are madly in love. In private, I’ll require a room of my own and strict boundaries around my privacy.”

  “I assure you,” Reece said silkily, “that will be no problem.”

  He found her undesirable. A turnoff. That’s what he meant. Stifling a surge of rage as fierce as it was irrational, Lauren said, “I’d also require a signed statement from you that you would never, directly or indirectly, damage my stepfather’s name.”

  “Providing you keep to the terms of our agreement.”

  Her turquoise eyes flung themselves like waves of the sea against the hard planes of his face. “I would. I promise.”

  “So you’re saying you’ll do it?”

  She bit her lip. “We’d never bring it off—it’s so obvious we don’t like each other.”

  “You’re being too diplomatic. Mutual antipathy—wouldn’t that be a more accurate description?”

  “It would, yes,” she snapped. “Plus, to put it bluntly, you don’t look like you could act your way out of a paper bag.”

  “You let me worry about that,” he retorted. “Yes or no? Eight days of your time or your stepfather’s reputation—which is it to be?”

  “I’ll do it,” she said. “You’ve known all along that I would.”

  “So you’re astute as well as talented.”

  “You’re getting a bargain,” she mocked.

  “We’ll see,” he said dryly. “In addition to our basic agreement, I’ll require you to sign a statement that you’ll never discuss our supposed relationship with the press. Come to this office at three tomorrow afternoon. I’ll have the documents drawn up for us both to sign. You can arrive at my condo at ten tomorrow night—I’m out earlier in the evening.”

  “Very well.” Lauren gave him a derisive smile. “I do hope all this acting won’t be too taxing for you.”

  “If you’re asking for a demonstration, you’re out of luck. I don’t believe in wasted action.”

  She clenched her fists. “Your secretary must know we’re not lovers—that we just met this morning.”

  “My secretary is very well paid to keep her mouth shut.”

  “Now why should I be surprised?” Lauren said cordially. “Goodbye, Mr. Callahan. I won’t say it’s been a pleasure.”

  “Don’t push your luck—the document’s not signed yet.”

  She said tartly, “If Wallace is looking down on me from heaven, I hope he appreciates what I’m doing for him.”

  “People who cheat and lie don’t go to heaven.” Reece opened the door. “Goodbye.”

  They were in full view of his secretary. “Then I guess you won’t go there, either,” Lauren said, reaching up and kissing him on both cheeks. “Goodbye, darling,” she added in a carrying voice. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Pivoting, she smiled at the secretary. “I’ll see myself out,” she said, and walked toward the elevator. The slit in her skirt, she knew, showed her legs rather admirably. To her great satisfaction she heard Reece Callahan’s door snap shut with more force than was required.

  At least she’d achieved that much.

  Had she ever in her life conceived such an overwhelming dislike for a man? Even Edward, her mother’s third husband, liked dogs and rhododendrons, and laughed loudly at his own jokes. Reece Callahan wouldn’t know how to laugh.

  Cold. Hard. Manipulative.

  She was going to read both documents very carefully before she signed anything.

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHARLOTTE BOND, better known as Charlie, said incredulously, “You agreed to do what?”

  “You heard,” Lauren said. “I agreed to act as Reece Callahan’s mistress, in public only, for the space of one week. Well, eight days. That’s all. It’s no big deal.”

  “Lauren, I dated Reece. Twice. He plays major league. And he’s got a hole where his heart’s supposed to be.”

  “So why did you date him twice?”

  A rueful grin lit up Charlie’s piquant face. “I couldn’t believe that a guy with those rugged, damn-your-eyes kind of good looks could really be as cold as the proverbial glacier.”

  “You saw him as a challenge.”

  “I guess so.” Charlie gave a snort of self-derision. “What a joke. Although we did have a few things in common.”

  Charlie was a top-notch tax consultant, whose logical brain was the antithesis of Lauren’s: they had a friendship of opposites that had survived Charlie’s move from New York to Canada’s west coast last summer. “Don’t you see?” Lauren said equably. “It’s because he’s such a cold fish that I feel quite safe taking this on. No risk Reece Callahan’s going to lose his head over me. We’ll act as lovers in public, go our separate ways in private, and Wallace’s good name will be safe. Simple.”

  Charlie grimaced. “Trouble is, I feel responsible. If I hadn’t brought up Wallace’s name quite innocently to Reece, in connection with that software company Wallace was involved with, Reece wouldn’t have mentioned I should keep my ear to the ground for some very interesting revelations about Wallace. None of which were to Wallace’s credit. As soon as he said that, all my alarm bells went off and that’s when I phoned you.”

  “You and I were due for a visit anyway,” Lauren said comfortingly. “And I’m so glad I’ve finally made it to the west coast. Oh, Charlie, it’s wonderful to have a bit of money to spend! To be able to get on a plane and fly here and not have to worry about the cost. For so many years I’ve been rock-bottom broke, having to count every cent I spent.”

  But Charlie was still frowning. “J
ust so long as you don’t get hurt.”

  “By Reece Callahan?” Lauren made a very rude noise. “Not a chance. Did I tell you he bought those two bronze pieces as an investment? They’re two of my best works, and yet they’re owned by a man who doesn’t give a damn about what they say—his only concern is that they increase in value. And you’re worried I might fall for him? Huh. Pigs might fly.”

  Charlie sighed. “It’s an awful waste. He’s got a great body.”

  “To sculpt, yes. To go to bed with? No, ma’am. Anyway, I’m off sex, have been for years.”

  Charlie took a big gulp of her Chardonnay, her face still troubled. “You’re absolutely certain of Wallace’s innocence?”

  “Of course I am!”

  “You did tell me once that your inheritance from him was less than you’d expected.”

  “That’s true enough. And his mother’s jewels that he’d promised me, they never did turn up. But, Charlie, everyone can have setbacks on the financial markets, you know that from your own work. It doesn’t mean the person’s committed fraud.”

  “He never confided in you?”

  Lauren’s brow crinkled in thought. “We didn’t talk about stuff like that. Serious stuff.” Her voice wobbled. “He was such fun, always laughing or singing pop songs at the top of his lungs—I miss him so much.”

  “Mmm…” Charlie ran her fingers through her tousled blond curls. “Just make sure you look after yourself as far as Reece is concerned. And read all the fine print on these documents you’re going to sign.”

  “I will.” Lauren grinned at her friend.

  “Let’s go out for supper, I don’t feel like cooking. There’s a divine Czech restaurant just down the road.”

  “And neither of us will mention Reece Callahan’s name again. Okay?”

  “Okay,” said Charlie. Nor did they.

  Promptly at three o’clock the next afternoon, Lauren presented herself to Reece’s secretary. The October day had turned unexpectedly warm; her dress was a chic linen sheath in deep blue with long sleeves. Gold hoops that Wallace had given her for her eighteenth birthday swung at her lobes, and she’d pulled her hair back with a gold clip. Her makeup was dramatic, that and her dress making her eyes look almost indigo.

  The secretary said pleasantly, “Mr. Callahan shouldn’t be too long, Miss Courtney—but he is running a little behind schedule.”

  So she was to be kept waiting like a common supplicant? Like a patient at the dentist’s? Which was just how she felt: all her nerves on edge, dread like a lump in the pit of her stomach. Lauren said, “Oh, I’m sure he doesn’t mean to keep me waiting, Miss Riley. I’ll go straight in.”

  “I don’t think—”

  But Lauren was already opening Reece’s door. He was seated in front of his computer screen and looked up in annoyance. She said with warm intimacy, “Hello, darling—I knew you wouldn’t want me to sit outside…how are you?” Then, as she closed the door, she gave him a wicked grin, her voice going back to normal. “I should tell you that at the age of thirteen I planned to become the second Sarah Bernhardt. I could get to enjoy this.”

  He said curtly, “The first thing you’d better learn is never to interrupt me when I’m working.”

  “But, dearest,” she cooed, batting her artfully mascaraed lashes, “I’m your heart’s delight.”

  For a split second Lauren thought she caught a flash of emotion deep in Reece’s eyes. But then it was gone. If indeed it had existed. He said sharply, “I mean it, Lauren.”

  “What a dull life you must lead.”

  He surged to his feet. He’d discarded his jacket and tie; his shirt, open at the throat, revealed a tangle of dark hair. “Let’s get something straight,” he said with dangerous softness. “I’m the one with the evidence about Wallace. So I get to call the shots.”

  Her chin lifted mutinously. “I don’t like being told what to do.”

  “Then you’d better learn fast.”

  “I think you’re forgetting something, Reece—this is a reciprocal deal. You’ve got something I want and I’ve got something you want. So both of us get to call the shots.”

  “There can’t be two bosses—that’s a basic corporate rule.”

  “We’re not talking corporations, we’re talking love at first sight. Passion, adoration and lust.” She gave him a complacent smile. “The rules are different.”

  “Certainly that’s your area of expertise.”

  She flushed. “Let’s get something else straight. Right now. You can quit throwing my reputation in my face.”

  “What’s that cliché? If the shoe fits…”

  So angry she forgot all caution, Lauren blazed, “If you think for one minute that I’m going to let you walk all over me for eight consecutive days, you’d better think again. Because I’m not. No chance.”

  “You look rather more than pretty when you’re angry,” he remarked. “How do you look when you’re making love?”

  “You’ll never find out!”

  “According to the media, you wouldn’t know how. To make love, I mean. You use a guy, milk him dry, then go on to the next one. Which can hardly be dignified by the word love.” He closed the distance between them, taking her by the shoulders with cruel strength, his eyes boring into hers. “What I don’t understand is how you can create works of art that breathe truth and morality from such a shoddy little soul. Or why, when you’re so extraordinarily talented, you play cheap sexual games to further your career.”

  She flinched; in attacking her work, he was stabbing her where she was most vulnerable. She said fiercely, “I came here to sign a couple of documents, not to have my character torn to shreds by a man who wouldn’t recognize an emotion if it hit him in the face. Especially if that emotion was called love.”

  As suddenly as he had seized her, Reece let her go. “You don’t have an answer for me, do you?”

  “My character and my sculptures are entirely congruent.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.”

  She said with sudden insight, “You know what your problem is? You’re not used to people contradicting you. Especially a woman. I bet you’re surrounded day and night by yes, sir, no, sir, whatever you say, sir. Very bad for you.”

  “Whereas you’re surrounded by men who fall all over you, agreeing with every word you say just so long as they end up in your bed.”

  Anger flicked along her nerves. She said amicably, “Reece, I’ll spell it out for you again. Please don’t spend the whole week harping on my love affairs—I have a low tolerance for boredom.”

  “Is that a challenge, Miss Courtney?”

  “It’s a statement of fact.”

  “Frankly, I don’t care if you’re bored out of your skull the entire eight days. Just as long as you do what I say.” Reece pulled open a drawer and extracted two sheets of typescript. “Read this. There are two copies, one for each of us. I’ll get my secretary to witness our signatures.”

  The document, in carefully worded legalese, said that Lauren Courtney would present herself in the public realm as Reece Callahan’s lover for a period of eight days, and would preserve total confidentiality about the contents of this agreement in perpetuity. In return, Reece Callahan contracted never to publish anything of any nature about Wallace Harvarson, stepfather of the aforesaid Lauren Courtney.

  The language, while cumbersome, was clear. Lauren said steadily, “I’m ready to sign if you are.”

  Reece folded the papers to hide the text and pressed a buzzer on his desk. A few moments later the secretary walked in. “I’d like you to witness our signatures, Shirley, please,” Reece said. “Lauren?”

  Once she signed, she was committed. For a few seconds that felt like hours, Lauren stared at him blankly. Was she mad promising to live for over a week with a man who was the antithesis of everything she believed in? What did she really know about him? Maybe the moment she walked in the door of his condo, he’d fall on her. And what recourse would she have? If she didn’t stay fo
r the full eight days, he’d publish a bunch of scurrilous lies about Wallace. Charlie had tried to warn her that Reece would be a formidable foe. But had Lauren listened? Oh, no.

  “Lauren?” Reece said more sharply. “You have to sign in both places.”

  Yes, sir, she thought crazily, picked up his platinum pen and signed each copy. Then she watched as Reece added a totally illegible scrawl, and the secretary her ultraneat script. The secretary then left the room, never once having looked Lauren in the eye.

  It was done. She was committed.

  Reece said irritably, “This is a business deal that will terminate a week from tomorrow. Stop looking at me as though you’ve just married me for life.”

  She blurted, “Have you ever been married?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Yes or no will do.”

  “No.”

  “Neither have I… Sandor had a soul above such petty, bourgeois standards.”

  “Lauren,” Reece said coldly, “signing those forms wasn’t a license for true confessions.”

  “Wasn’t a license for you to behave like a human being, you mean?”

  “We’re not in public. We don’t have to act.”

  “If I stuck a pin in you, would you bleed?” she demanded in true exasperation. “Or would ice water drip on the carpet?”

  “It irks the hell out of you that I’m not bowled over by you, doesn’t it?”

  Truth. That’s what she sought in her work, and that’s how she endeavored to live her life. Lauren said concisely, “You insist on seeing me as something I’m not, and you’ve built such a barrier between yourself and the real world that you treat everything and everyone in terms of either monetary value or functionality. That’s what irks the hell out of me.”

  His mouth hardened. He said brusquely, “Here’s my card with my condo address and phone number. I’ve opened a couple of accounts for you downtown in case you need clothes—the details are on this piece of paper. And this is your copy of our agreement. Ten o’clock tonight, Lauren. Please don’t be late.”