Читать книгу The Mistress Deal - Sandra Field - Страница 8

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.”

“Do you have to argue about everything?” he snarled.

“With you, yes.”

“I should have asked for character references before I signed that goddamned agreement.”

“Adversity might teach you a thing or two,” she retorted. “I’m going to bed. Good night.”

“Be ready by quarter to seven tomorrow evening.”

“Yes, Reece, I’ll be ready.” And wearing the most outrageous outfit I own, she thought vengefully. She turned away, marching toward the door at the end of the hall, and heard him say behind her, “I’ll bring your case down. And your tools—if you trust me to, that is.”

So much for the grand exit, Lauren thought with a quiver of inner laughter; she’d forgotten about her suitcase. “That far I trust you,” she said.

Her bedroom was painted terra-cotta, the bedspread and drapes in shades of teal blue, the whole effect confident yet full of welcome. Two exquisite Chinese scrolls hung on either side of the marble fireplace, while the shelves held an enviable collection of Ming pottery. Aware through every nerve of Reece’s footsteps as he entered her room, she turned to face him. He said evenly, “That door leads to the bathroom, and the balcony’s over there. I’ll see you tomorrow evening around six or six-thirty.”

He didn’t want to see her in the morning, that was obvious. She leaned over to switch on a lamp, her hair swinging softly around her face. “Enjoy your day,” she said with the merest breath of sarcasm.

For a full five seconds Reece stared at her in silence. She raised her chin, refusing to look away, wishing with all her heart that he’d put a shirt on. Then he said crisply, “Good night, Lauren,” and closed the door with a decisive snap.

Lauren sank down on the wide bed, knowing she’d give almost anything to be back in the unpretentious guest bedroom in Charlie’s apartment. Anything but Wallace’s reputation, she thought unhappily.

Eight days wasn’t long. She could manage. Even if Reece Callahan repulsed and attracted her in equal measure.

It would be a great deal safer if she were indifferent to him.

Lauren woke early the next morning. The sun was streaming through the French doors that led onto the balcony and she knew exactly what she was going to do all day. But she’d need a key to Reece’s condo.

Quickly she dressed in her leggings and sweater. In her bare feet, her hair loose around her face, she hurried down the hall, not even glancing at the statue of the Madonna: she’d have lots of time for that. In the spacious living room, she called, “Reece? Are you up?”

“In the kitchen.”

He didn’t sound exactly welcoming. Pasting a smile on her face, she walked into an ultramodern kitchen equipped with what seemed like acres of stainless steel. Reece was, thank goodness, wearing a shirt. He was munching on a piece of toast, gazing at the papers strewn over one of the counters. She said, “You start early.”

“So, apparently, do you. What do you want?”

“A key—I need to go out this morning.”

“The doorman has an extra, I’ve told him to give it to you.” He shifted one of the papers, making a note with the pen in his free hand.

“That toast smells good,” she said provocatively. “I think I’ll have some.”

“Can’t you wait until I’ve gone?”

“Are you always cranky in the morning?”

“Not with people I like.”

“Try harder,” Lauren said, glaring at him as she headed for the coffee machine.

His voice like a whiplash, he said, “Sandor’s beginning to have all my sympathy.”

The mug she was filling almost slipped from her grasp; scalding liquid splashed the back of her hand. With a gasp of pain, she banged the mug down on the counter and ran for the sink, where she turned on the cold tap and thrust her hand under it. Then Reece was at her side. “Here,” he ordered, “let me see.”

“It’s nothing!”

He took her by the wrist, putting the plug in the sink with his free hand. “You haven’t broken the skin—you’re better off immersing it in cold water.”

The cold water did relieve the pain. Biting her lip, Lauren said, “There’s a moral here—I shouldn’t start fights before I’ve had my caffeine fix.”

“You’re still in love with Sandor.”

Her wrist jerked in his hold like a trapped bird. “It was over years ago, Reece.”

“Which isn’t an answer—as you well know.”

“You’re not getting any other.”

He moved closer to her, his eyes roaming her face. “No makeup,” he said. “The real Lauren Courtney.”

“You’re unshaven,” she responded in a flash, “but do you ever show the real Reece Callahan?”

With sudden deep bitterness he said, “Is there a real Reece Callahan?”

Shocked, she whispered, “If you have to ask the question, then of course there is.”

“Oh, sure,” he said, moving away from her and drying his hands. “Let’s scrap this conversation. Did you say you wanted some toast?”

“Yes, please.” Only wanting to lighten the atmosphere, she added, “This is a very intimidating kitchen—I’m what you might call an erratic cook.”

He didn’t smile. “Pull up a stool and I’ll bring you a coffee. Cream and sugar?”

“No cream. Three spoonfuls of sugar.”

“To sweeten you?”

“To kickstart the day. Creativity is enhanced by glucose—at least, that’s my theory.”

He gave his papers a disparaging glance. “With the negotiations I’ve got the next few days, maybe I should try it.”

“Honey’s better than sugar, and maple syrup’s best of all.”

“So you’re a connoisseur of the creative process. You should write a book,” he said dryly, putting her coffee in front of her.

“No time… Do you know what, Reece? We’ve just had a real conversation. Our first.”

“Don’t push your luck,” he rasped, “and don’t see me as a challenge.”

She flushed. “A useless venture?”

“Right on.”

She said deliberately, “I don’t believe you bought every one of the paintings and sculptures in this condo strictly as an investment.”

“You can’t take a hint, can you?” Reece said unpleasantly, taking the bread out of the toaster.

“The Madonna and child? An investment? You bought that statue because in some way it spoke to your heart.”

His back was turned to her; briefly, his body shuddered as though she’d physically struck him. Then he pivoted, closing the distance between them in two quick strides. Towering over her, he dug his fingers into her shoulders. “Stay out of my private life, Lauren. I mean that!”

His eyes were blazing with emotion, a deep, vibrant blue; his face was so close to hers that she could see a small white scar on one eyelid. She’d hit home; she knew it. And found herself longing to take his face between her palms and comfort him.

He’d make burnt toast out of her if she tried. Swallowing hard, Lauren said with total truth, “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He said harshly, “I’m going to be late for work. If your hand needs attention, the first-aid kit’s in my bathroom cabinet. I’ll see you this evening.” Gathering all his papers in a bundle, he left the kitchen.

Thoughtfully Lauren started to eat her toast. The ice in his eyes had melted with a vengeance. And he’d bought the Madonna and child for intensely personal reasons that she was quite sure he had no intention of divulging.

One thing she knew. She wasn’t going to be bored during the next few days.