The Millionaire's Reward. Angie Ray

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ