The Mistress Deal

“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. “Just 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 for 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.”

Automatically she took the papers he was holding out and shoved them in her purse. “I’ll be there.”

He stepped back, holding her gaze with his own. “One more thing. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

As her jaw dropped, he opened the door. “See you tonight, darling,” he added, giving her a smile of such breathtaking intimacy that her heart lurched in her breast. Speechless, she dragged her eyes away and walked past the secretary like a woman in a dream. The elevator was waiting for her. As the doors slid open, she heard the soft closing of Reece’s door behind her.

You’re pretty enough.

You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

Which was the truth and which was an act? And if she couldn’t tell the difference, what had she let herself in for?

The cab swung into the grounds of Reece’s condo at fifteen minutes to ten that evening. Lauren, though she had difficulty admitting this to herself, hadn’t wanted to be late. In consequence she’d allowed extra time for traffic. Too much time, she realized, paying the taxi driver, and taking her big suitcase from him. She noticed that the grounds had been designed with a Japanese theme, a harmony of rock, fern and shrub overlaid by the gentle ripple of water. An island of peace, Lauren thought, and wished she felt more peaceful.

She felt anything but peaceful.

If she arrived early, would Reece think she was too eager for his company? She could simply stand here for the next ten minutes and admire the garden.

To heck with that. No games, no pretense. She headed for the lobby, where the uniformed desk attendant recognized her name immediately, and called the elevator for her. “Mr. Callahan is expecting you, madam,” he said with a pleasant smile. “The top floor.”

She gave him an equally pleasant smile back, wondering why she should feel like a high-class call girl when she was anything but. The elevator smoothly deposited her outside double doors with exquisite wrought-iron handles; Reece’s unit was the only one on this floor. Her feet sinking in the thick carpeting, Lauren pushed the bell. Let the adventure begin, she thought, and fixed her smile on her face.

CHAPTER THREE

REECE swung the door open. For the space of five full seconds Lauren stared at him, all her rehearsed greetings fleeing her mind. He was naked to the waist and barefoot, his hair wet and tousled. Detail after detail emblazoned itself on her brain: the pelt of dark hair on his deep chest; his taut, corded belly; the elegant flow of muscle and bone from throat to shoulder. He said flatly, “You’re early.”

“I allowed too much time for the traffic.”

“You’d better come in—I just got out of the shower.”

His jeans were low-slung, his jaw shadowed with a day’s beard. He looked like a human being, Lauren thought, her mouth dry. He also looked extraordinarily and dangerously sexy. “Here,” he said, “let me take your suitcase.”

She surrendered it without a murmur, staring at the ripple of muscles above his navel as if she’d never seen a half-naked man before. As Reece turned his back to her, putting the case down, the long curve of his spine made her feel weak at the knees. Only because she was an artist, she thought frantically. Nothing to do with being a woman in the presence of an overpowering masculinity. Yet why hadn’t she realized in his office how beautifully he moved, with an utterly male economy and grace?

He said, “I might as well show you your room right away. What’s in the other bag?”

In her left hand Lauren was clutching a worn leather briefcase. “My tools…I never travel without them.”

“Here, give them to me.”

“I’ll carry them.” She managed a faint smile. “I’ve had some of them for years.”

“You don’t trust me, do you?” he rasped. “Not even with something as simple as a bag of tools.”

“Reece,” she said vigorously, “the agreement is to act like lovers in public. Not to fight cat-and-dog in private.”

He looked her up and down, from her ankle-height leather boots and dark brown tights to her matching ribbed turtleneck and faux fur jacket with its leopard pattern of big black spots. “You’re obviously the cat. So does that make me the dog?”

“You’re no poodle.”

“A basset hound?”

She chuckled, entering into the spirit of the game. “You have very nice ears and your legs are too long. Definitely not a basset.”

“Do you realize we’re actually agreeing about something?”

“And I’m scarcely in the door,” she said demurely, wondering with part of her brain how she could have said that about his ears.

“Let me take your coat.”

As she put down her tools and slid her jacket from her shoulders, her breasts lifting under her sweater, he said, “I wondered if you’d back out at the last minute.”

The smile faded from her face. “So that you could blacken Wallace’s name from one end of the country to the other? I don’t think so. Which room is mine?”

“At the end of the hall.”

For the first time, Lauren took stock of her surroundings. Her initial impression was of space; and of some wonderful oak and leather furniture by a modern Finnish designer whom she’d met once at a showing in Manhattan. Then her gaze took in the collection of art that filled the space with color, movement and excitement. She said dazedly, “That’s a Kandinsky. A Picasso. A Chagall. And surely that collage is James Ardmore. Reece, it’s a wonderful piece, I know he’s not very popular, but I’m convinced he’s the real thing. And look, a Pirot, don’t you love the way his sculptures catch the light no matter where you stand?”

Her face lit with enthusiasm, she walked over to the gleaming copper coils, caressing them gently with her fingertips. When she looked up, Reece was watching her, his expression inscrutable. She said eagerly, “It begs to be touched, don’t you think? I adore his stuff.”

“I have another of his works. In my bedroom.”

She didn’t even stop to think. “Can I see it?”

Reece led the way down a wide hallway, where more paintings danced in front of her dazzled gaze. His bedroom windows overlooked the spangled avenues in Stanley Park; but Lauren had eyes only for the bronze sculpture of a man that stood on a pedestal by the balcony doors. She let her hands rest on the man’s bare shoulders, her eyes half shut as she traced the taut tendons. “It’s as though Pirot creates something that’s already there,” she whispered, “just waiting for him.”

Reece said harshly, “Is that how you make love?”

Her head jerked ’round. Jamming her hands in her pockets, she said, “What do you mean?”

“Sensual. Rapt. Absorbed.”

She’d hated being anywhere near Sandor’s bed by the end of the relationship. Not that Reece needed to know that. “How I do or do not make love is none of your concern.”

“So what are you doing in my bedroom?”

The bedside lamp cast planes of light and shadow across Reece’s bare chest; Lauren was suddenly aware that she was completely alone with him only feet from the wide bed in which he slept. “You think it was a come-on, me asking to see the sculpture?” she cried. “Do you have to cheapen everything?”

As if the words were wrenched from him, he said, “I bought the condo new just ten months ago. You’re the only woman to have ever been in this room.”

She knew instantly that he was telling the truth; although she couldn’t have said where that knowledge came from. Frightened out of all proportion, she took two steps backward. “It doesn’t matter if you’ve had fifty women in your bedroom,” she said in a thin voice. “I haven’t slept with anyone since Sandor and I’m certainly not going to start with you.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I don’t care if you do or not!”

“But that was four years ago and—”

“Three years and ten months,” she interrupted furiously, “and what business is it of yours anyway?”

“None. I’ll show you to your room.”

If eyes were the windows of the soul, Lauren thought fancifully, then Reece had just closed the shutters. But did he have a soul? He certainly had emotions. She’d learned that much in the last few minutes.

She trailed after him, noticing another Picasso sketch on his bedroom wall, as well as a delightful Degas impression of a dancer. Reece was striding down the hallway as though pursued by a hungry polar bear. About to hurry after him, Lauren suddenly came to a halt. In a lit alcove in the wall stood a small Madonna and child, carved in wood so old its patina was almost black. The figures were simply, rather crudely carved; yet such a radiant tenderness flowed from one to the other that Lauren felt emotion clog her throat.

She wasn’t even aware of Reece walking back to where she was standing. He said roughly, “What’s the matter?”

“It’s so beautiful,” she whispered, her eyes filled with wonderment.

“Unknown artist, late fourteenth century. You can pick it up, if you want to.”

“But—”

“Lauren, pick it up.”

With a kind of reverence she lifted the statue, her hands curling around it with the same tenderness that infused the figures. “Look how her shoulder curves into her arm and then into the child’s body,” she said. “Whoever carved it must have loved his child…don’t you think?” She lifted her face to Reece, a face open and unguarded, totally without guile.

Briefly he rested his hand on her cheek. He said thickly, “You could have been the model. For the mother.”

“That’s a lovely thing to say…”

The warmth from his touch coursed through her veins; he was standing very close to her. And this was the man she’d thought bore no resemblance to a human being? A man who had no soul? “Wherever did you find it?” she asked, wanting to prolong a moment that felt both fragile and of enormous significance.

“In a little village in Austria—way off the beaten track.”

“Would you mind if I made a copy of it? I’d destroy the copy once it was finished.” Very gently she put the carving back in its niche.

“I’ll be out every day,” Reece said. “You can do what you like.”

She glanced up. The shutters were back, she thought in true dismay; his face had closed against her. Her question came from nowhere, the words out before she could stop them. “Did your mother love you, Reece?”

He said with deadly quietness, “You have no right to ask that question and I have no intention of answering it.”

“I guess I—”

“Your room’s at the end of the hall. Do you want anything to eat or drink before you go to bed?”

“I’m not a child to be sent to bed because she’s misbehaved!”

“No. You’re an intrusive and insensitive young woman.”

“If you have problems with my question, then say so. But don’t blame me for asking it.”

“We have a business arrangement—nothing more. Kindly remember that, will you?”

Lauren said evenly, “Years ago, I allowed Sandor to cower me into submission over and over again…and I almost lost myself in the process. I vowed I’d never let that happen again. So don’t try, Reece—it won’t wash.”

“We’re fighting cat-and-dog again. And that’s not in the agreement, isn’t that what you said?”

He was right; she had. “There’s something about you,” she said tightly. “You’re like a chunk of ironwood. Or a length of steel.”

“Just don’t think you can shape me to your ends.”

“Do you despise all women? Or is it just me?”

“You never let up, do you?” he said unpleasantly.

She paled, suddenly remembering the statue in his bedroom. “Oh. You prefer men.”

“I do not prefer men! It’s very simple, Lauren. I’ve got no use for all the posturing and stupidities that masquerade in our society as romance.”

“That carving of the Madonna and child—it’s not about romance. It’s about love.”

“Love—what do you know about love? Do you have a husband? Do you have a child?”

She winced, her face suddenly pinched and pale. “You know I don’t,” she said in a stony voice. “I loved Sandor. But he didn’t want marriage or children. Or me. The real me.”

“You sure know when to pull out all the stops,” Reece said nastily. “You can make tea or coffee in your room. I eat breakfast at six-thirty and I’m gone by seven. I’ll be back tomorrow evening at six, cocktails at seven, dinner afterward. Wear something dressy. Did you buy yourself some clothes?”

“Of course not,” she said shortly.

“You’ve got to look the part, Lauren! As well as act it.”

She took refuge in a matching anger. “I have my own money, and if I need clothes I’ll buy them myself.”