The Mistress Deal. Sandra FieldЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.
CHAPTER FOUR
“LAUREN, what in hell are you doing?”
The chisel slipped, gouging into the wood. With an exclamation of chagrin, Lauren whirled around. “Don’t ever creep up on me again when I’m working, Reece—look what you made me do! And what are you doing home anyway? You said six o’clock this evening.”
Reece hauled his tie from around his throat. “It’s six thirty-five and we’re supposed to leave in twenty minutes.”
Lauren’s jaw dropped. “It can’t be. I stopped for lunch no time ago.”
“Six thirty-six,” he said, ostentatiously looking at his gold watch.
“Oh, no,” she wailed, “I promised I’d be ready.”
“You did.”
“Reece, I’m sorry. You’d better get out of here so I can change. I swear I won’t be more than ten minutes late.”
“What did you do to your finger?”
She glanced down at two Band-Aids adorning her index finger. “I cut it. No big deal.”
“You’re a mess,” he said.
She looked down at herself, laughter flickering across her features. She was wearing her oldest leggings and a T-shirt embellished with several holes from her welding torch; her hair was pulled back into an untidy bundle on her neck. “You mean you won’t take me to the cocktail party like this? Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“I’m starting to wonder,” Reece said with a note in his voice that brought her head up fast.
The words came from nowhere. “Don’t you go seeing me as a challenge, either,” she said.
“I’m beginning to think Wallace Harvarson has a lot more to answer for than a mere five hundred thousand dollars,” he said tightly. “Go get ready, Lauren. Pin your hair up. Pile on the red nail polish. But for Pete’s sake, hurry.”
She started to laugh. “It’ll take more than a few pins to make me presentable,” she said, and stood up, moving away from the table and stretching her muscles with unselfconscious grace.
The answering laughter vanished from Reece’s face. He said sharply, “You did that today?” She nodded, watching him walk closer to the rough carving she’d been working on for the last few hours. He said, as though the words were being dragged from him, “I can see where you’re headed—and already it’s a thing of beauty.”
“I thought I could just make a copy,” Lauren said ruefully, pulling the ribbon from her hair and shaking it in a cloud around her head. “But it got away from me.”
The lines of the emerging sculpture of a mother and child were utterly modernistic, yet imbued with an ancient and ageless tenderness. Reece said in a hard voice, “I’m going to have a shower. I’ll wait for you in the living room. I’m the host of this shindig this evening and I want to arrive on time.”
“Yes, sir,” she retorted, and watched him march across the dark-stained floors and out of the door. She put her chisel down on the table. Had she ever met a man who was such a mass of contradictions? He’d seen instantly what she was striving to create from the block of wood; and run from it as though all the demons in hell were after him.
But she mustn’t see him as a challenge.
The challenge, she thought wryly, looking down at herself, was to transform herself from a frump to a fashion model in less than twenty minutes. Move it, Lauren. You’ve got all week to figure out Reece Callahan.
It might take a lifetime. A thought she hastily subdued.
Seven o’clock. Lauren was late. Scowling, Reece switched to the news channel, and not for the first time wondered what in God’s name had possessed him to suggest that Lauren Courtney pose as his lover. As a result, Wallace Harvarson was getting off scot-free and he, Reece, was saddled with an argumentative and thoroughly irritating woman who didn’t count punctuality among her talents. Because she had talents. That bloody statue had got him by the throat the minute he’d seen it; which she, of course, had noticed right away.
The new federal budget was due to be tabled; he tried to pay attention. Then, behind him, overriding the news-caster’s voice, he heard Lauren