The Millionaire's Reward

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.