The Millionaire's Reward. Angie Ray

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      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.

      “I’m just looking.” He turned his gaze to a flat glass case filled with dirt and trash. “So this is ‘high-concept’ art. Very impressive.”

      She bristled at his sardonic tone. Few of the general public recognized or appreciated the skill and creativity that went into contemporary art. A lot of people snickered or looked scornful when they first came in. Usually, though, after she explained a little about the piece and the artist’s concept, most viewed the work with more respect.

      She didn’t bother to explain anything to Garek Wisnewski, however. Why waste her time? He’d obviously come to mock her. Didn’t he have better things to do?

      Apparently not. He moved on and she followed closely behind, glaring at his big hands clasped behind his broad back—he was so bulky, she didn’t trust him not to knock something over. Although he did walk gracefully, she admitted grudgingly to herself, his shoes making almost no sound on the polished wooden floor.

      He gazed at an antique water pump resting on a square glass case filled with lightbulbs. Another light-bulb sprouted from the spigot. His eyebrows rose halfway to his dark combed-back hair.

      His expression infuriated her. “It’s time for me to close.” She struggled to keep her tone polite. “Perhaps you could come back some other day.”

      “I’ll only be a few more minutes,” he told her, then proceeded to stroll around the gallery as if he had all the time in the world. He eyed the various pieces, his mouth curling in the same sardonic smile she’d noticed in his office. He even laughed at Bertrice’s recycled-trash sculpture of a giant cockroach, although he tried to cover the sound by coughing.

      He stopped in front of the counter, looking at the painting Tom had just left.

      “I’ll take this one.”

      She blinked, wondering if she’d misunderstood. “You want to buy Woman in Blue?”

      “Yes.” He arched an eyebrow at her. “Is there a problem?”

      “No, no. I’m just surprised.” Stunned might be a more accurate description. “Why do you want to buy it?”

      “Do you question all your customers on why they’re purchasing an item?”

      “Not usually. But most of my customers like contemporary art.”

      “You think I don’t? You shouldn’t be so quick to judge me.” He pulled his wallet from inside his coat pocket and produced a platinum credit card. “Can you have the painting delivered to my office?”

      She didn’t take the card. “Woman in Blue won’t fit with the decor of your office. Are you sure you wouldn’t like something else—something that would suit your personality better?” Her gaze rested a moment on the giant cockroach.

      His gaze followed hers, and his eyes gleamed, whether with laughter or anger, she couldn’t tell. Anger, she hoped. But he didn’t withdraw the credit card. “I prefer this one.”

      She didn’t believe he’d come here just to buy a painting, but even if he had, she wished he would have chosen something else. She didn’t want him to have Woman in Blue. He would never appreciate it, she was sure. She opened her mouth to refuse to sell the painting to him, then paused.

      Hadn’t she just recently vowed to think like a businesswoman? To sell to anyone who came through the door? Could she in good conscience refuse the sale when the gallery—and Tom—needed it so much?

      The answer was unpalatable but obvious.

      With the very tips of her fingers, she took the credit card and rang up the sale. “Thank you, Mr. Wisnewski,” she forced herself to say. “It will be delivered first thing tomorrow.”

      “Excellent.” He glanced at his watch, then at her.

      “Ms. Hernandez, I need to discuss something with you, but I know you’re anxious to close. Will you have dinner with me so we can talk?”

      She stiffened. So he had come here to proposition her again! “No.”

      “It’s important,” he said, not even blinking at her refusal. “It concerns the gallery.”

      “What about the gallery?” she asked.

      “Come to dinner with me, and I’ll tell you.”

      “Why can’t you tell me here?”

      “I never discuss business on an empty stomach.”

      His smile made her even more suspicious. It was the kind of smile that made a woman want to smile back, that made her want to do whatever its owner asked—and oh, didn’t he know it!

      “If you’re not interested,” he said when she didn’t respond, “I can always find another gallery.” He took a step toward the door.

      “Wait!”

      He paused and she bit her lip. She knew he was manipulating her—but her curiosity was too great to resist. “Let me get my hat and coat and lock up,” she muttered.

      He didn’t have the limousine tonight. Instead, he had a big black Mercedes with soft leather interior. She paid little attention to the luxury, however.

      “What about the gallery?” she asked again when they were driving down the street. “Do you want to buy another painting?”

      “Not exactly.” He turned a corner, avoiding a snowdrift that had spilled out into the street. “Do you own the gallery?”

      “No, Mr. Vogel does.”

      “Ah, then perhaps I should be talking to him.”

      “Not really. He hasn’t been active in managing the gallery since his wife died. He’s elderly, and his health is frail, so he lets me run the gallery for him. He trusts me completely.”

      “Does he? Then obviously I needn’t have any qualms.”

      The dry note in his voice made her bristle, but before she could respond he spoke again. “I’m sorry, but I need to concentrate on my driving. I’ll explain everything over dinner.”

      The request was СКАЧАТЬ