Passion. Lynne Graham

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СКАЧАТЬ “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 СКАЧАТЬ