Читать книгу The Millionaire's Reward - Angie Ray - Страница 10

“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.

“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 a reasonable one. The road was treacherous, covered with ice and full of potholes, and the pounding sleet made the visibility poor. But in spite of the conditions, Ellie didn’t quite believe him.

At the restaurant, they were quickly seated at a table with white linen tablecloths, china and crystal.

“Have you been here before?” he asked.

“No. Look, what’s this all about?”

He picked up the wine list, his eyebrows rising. “Are you always so impatient?”

“Only when someone is being extremely evasive.”

His eyes gleamed again in that odd manner. For a moment, she thought he was going to put her off once more, but then he said bluntly, “I’m starting an art foundation and I’m looking for artists to sponsor and a gallery to exhibit their work. I think Vogel’s might be perfect.”

Ellie leaned back against the cushioned seat and stared at him. Her heart started to pound. A foundation—it could make a world of difference to the gallery. She could hire art photographers, place ads in expensive magazines, attract the notice of critics and collectors who could transform an unknown artist like Tom into an overnight sensation. She could replace the lighting, fix the elevator and install a sculpture garden on the roof the way she’d dreamed….

The waiter came to the table. While he explained the prix fixe menu for the day, Ellie tried to rein in her excitement. There were a thousand galleries in Chicago, and after speaking with them, what were the chances Wisnewski would choose Vogel’s? Not very high. She needed to convince him that Vogel’s would be the best choice for his foundation to sponsor.

After the waiter left, she leaned forward again. “Vogel’s would be ideal,” she said earnestly. “Our goal is to encourage a climate of excitement, inquiry and dialogue for progressive art. We look for unconventional pieces that are conceptual and theoretically based. You won’t see similar works at other galleries. Everything we handle is unique. The artists are all extraordinarily creative and innovative. Tom Scarlatti, for example, the man at the showroom when you came in earlier. He painted the canvas you bought. I’m sorry I didn’t introduce you. He’s a little shy. But I can arrange for you to meet him another time—”

The sommelier approached the table. Ellie tried to contain her impatience while he discussed with Garek the appropriate vintage to complement their meal. Finally the wine had been decided, the bottle brought and the ritual of pouring and tasting finished, and she was able to continue. “With the right kind of support, I believe Tom could become an important new force in the art world—”

“You appear to think very highly of this Tom Scarlatti,” Garek interrupted.

“Yes, I do.” She picked up her wineglass. “He’s brilliant, a genius in his own way—”

“Is he your boyfriend?”

The wine halfway to her mouth, Ellie paused. She stared at the man sitting across from her.

Cool gray eyes stared back.

“No,” she said slowly. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. Surely you must have a man in your life?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no, I don’t.” She set the wine down and gave him a direct look. “I’m not interested in having a relationship right now.”

The corners of his mouth twitched at her thinly veiled rebuff. “You want to concentrate on your career? I’m surprised.”

“Why?”

“Because most women, no matter how much they deny it, are still more interested in finding husbands than in building their careers.”

She didn’t like his cynical tone or the implied criticism of women. “Really? I’ve experienced exactly the opposite. Most of the men I meet are desperate to get married. Especially the older ones—the ones your age.”

He straightened a little. “I’m twenty-nine,” he said curtly.

“Oh?” Lowering her eyes to conceal her smile, she picked up the wine again and sipped it.

There was a small silence as she drank. “Only a year or two older than you, surely,” he said.

She set down her glass abruptly.

The waiter returned and placed a dish on the table. “Baby leeks cooked in their own juices,” he announced.

“Just what we needed,” Garek said blandly.

Ellie couldn’t help laughing. “I’m twenty-four,” she admitted. Then, vexed with herself for revealing even this small piece of personal information, she returned to business. “About the gallery—”

He shook his head. “You don’t need to tell me any more about it. I’ve already made up my mind. And I’ve decided on Vogel’s.”

For a second, she thought she must have misheard him. But at the same time, she knew she hadn’t. Joy burst inside her. Vogel’s was saved! She wanted to dance on the table, sing at the top of her lungs, reach across the table and kiss Garek Wisnewski right on the mouth….

Almost as if he could read her mind, his gaze dropped to her lips.

Her mental celebrations came to a screeching halt. He’d looked at her mouth that way in his office. Right before he told her to contact him if she wanted to “offer” him something.

She leaned back in her seat, her smile fading.

What was going on here? This was Garek Wisnewski, the obnoxious jerk who’d knocked her over in the street and grossly insulted her when she came to his office. Garek Wisnewski, the arrogant, money-grubbing businessman who did nothing without calculating the profit. What was the catch?

Judging from the way he was looking at her mouth, she suspected she knew exactly what the catch was.

The waiter returned with more food. Ellie waited until he left before she asked quietly, “And what do you want in return?”

Garek took a bite of the Iowa lamb loin and chewed for what seemed like an awfully long time. “That’s an odd question,” he finally said. “Why does anyone start an art foundation?”

“Because they love art.”

“And you don’t think I do?” He offered her some of the braised legumes, but she shook her head. “I told you not to judge me too quickly,” he said.

He was being evasive. Why? “Why my gallery? You don’t even like me.”

His eyebrows rose. “What gave you that idea?”

“You weren’t exactly polite when I returned the necklace.”

“I apologize for that. Women who seek me out tend to have an ulterior motive.”

“They want to get their picture in the paper?” Ellie guessed.

“They want to get married.”

Ellie choked on her goat cheese and bleeding-heart radishes. The poor man obviously suffered from a serious medical condition—paranoia conceititus. “I have no desire to marry you, I promise.”

He smiled, but with a slight cynical lift to his lip. “That’s why I chose your gallery—you’re honest enough to admit that it’s the money you care about.”

She opened her mouth, then paused. She doubted she could make him change his mind about her—and if she tried, he’d probably accuse her of trying to make him fall in love with her or something else equally ridiculous. “What exactly will this foundation do?” she asked instead.

“The usual. Exhibits—shows, I believe you call them?—featuring the gallery artists. I’ll send an assistant to the gallery tomorrow. She’ll report to you, and you can tell her whatever needs to be done. I also want you to work with her to arrange a special pre-opening event, a silent auction, to be held at my sister’s home. I would expect you to choose the art, naturally.”