The Millionaire's Reward. Angie RayЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Chapter Two

      Getting in to see Garek Wisnewski was like trying to get in to see the pope.

      Ellie had been worried that the office building might be closed on Christmas Eve, but it wasn’t. Employees filled the marble foyer—at least the part Ellie could see from the security desk near the entrance while the guard inspected her ID. He looked at her license closely, as though he suspected it might be a forgery, before demanding to know her business. She told him, then waited, shivering every time someone opened the door and let a blast of cold air in, while the guard made a telephone call, casting suspicious glances at her the whole time.

      As ten minutes stretched into twenty, Ellie began to be annoyed. She’d come straight here from cleaning the second house on her schedule and she felt grimy and sweaty. She needed to go home and wash and change for the party. She wanted to be at her uncle’s, not standing in this cold foyer waiting on Garek Wisnewski. She wished she hadn’t let Martina talk her into trying to contact him directly.

      “Don’t you see, Ellie?” Martina had said. “This is your chance. Return the necklace and ask him if he needs any art for his office. Maybe he’ll buy something. And if you’re lucky, maybe he’ll ask you out on a date.”

      Ellie rolled her eyes. “I doubt he would appreciate anything at Vogel’s. And if he asked me for a date—which he wouldn’t!—there’s no way I would agree to go anywhere with him. I told you how rude he was. Besides, what kind of man gets featured on the cover of tabloids with his ‘exotic dancer’ girlfriend?”

      “Maybe that’s why he was rude—because he was embarrassed about the picture.”

      Ellie glanced at the scowling face on the magazine cover—and at the redhead wearing a big smile and not much else. The caption identified her as Miss Lilly Lade and stated her occupation.

      Embarrassed? Ellie didn’t think so. There’d been too much hard self-assurance in his bearing. Even if he had been, that still didn’t excuse his rudeness. Nor his execrable taste in women—and jewelry. Now the necklace made perfect sense.

      But in the end, she hadn’t been able to outargue Martina or her own conscience, which told her that if she really wanted to help everyone who relied on the gallery, she would swallow her pride and go see Garek Wisnewski.

      It was the logical thing to do. No matter how rude he’d been, he’d be grateful when she returned his tacky necklace.

      After looking up Wisnewski Industries in the phone book and discovering its ritzy address on the Loop, she took the train from her last job into town. When she first saw the skyscraper, it reminded her of a fortress—all gray stone with narrow, impenetrable windows.

      The overzealous security guard reinforced the impression.

      He finally hung up the phone and turned to her, a clipboard in his hand, his eyes still suspicious. “Fill in your name and address, and I’ll give you a pass to go up. Leave your coat and things here.”

      Did he think she had a weapon hidden in a pocket? Ellie shed her wet coat and took the clipboard, filling in the gallery’s address rather than her own. She clipped the plastic pass to the strap of her purse.

      Upstairs, she had to run another gauntlet—of navy-suited, gimlet-eyed assistants. At the final desk sat a woman with shiny silver-gray hair cut like a helmet and piercing blue eyes who gazed disapprovingly at Ellie’s jeans and yellow sweater. She made a brief phone call, then escorted Ellie into the inner office.

      Wood paneling, plush carpet and heavy furniture met Ellie’s gaze. Trite, but obviously expensive oil landscapes hung on the walls. Directly ahead, seated behind a carved mahogany desk in a thronelike chair, was Mr. Eligible Bachelor himself.

      Dressed in a gray pinstripe suit, white shirt and black tie, he looked as conservative as his office, although not quite as elegant. His tie skewed slightly to one side as if he’d tugged at it, and his jacket looked a little tight across the shoulders. His clothes didn’t really suit his blunt features and muscular build.

      “So you tracked me down,” he said.

      Ellie stared into eyes as cold as the storm outside. “I beg your pardon?”

      The cynical lines around his eyes and mouth deepened. “Do you think you’re the first woman to engineer a meeting and come chasing after me?”

      She stiffened. He thought she’d bumped into him on purpose in order to meet “Chicago’s Most Eligible Bachelor?” Was that why he’d so abruptly abandoned her on the sidewalk yesterday?

      What an ego!

      Trying to control her temper, she walked forward and held out the jewelry case. “I came to return this.”

      He took the case and flipped up the lid. He stared at the necklace a moment, his expression inscrutable, then closed the box. Leaning back in his chair, he looked at her.

      She expected him to thank her, express his gratitude, perhaps even apologize for his rudeness. But he did none of these things.

      “I suppose you expect a reward,” he said.

      In that instant, Ellie realized she would prefer to scrub Mrs. Petrie’s toilets every day for the rest of her life rather than sell anything from the gallery to this man. He sat there, making no effort to stand or invite her to sit, offering her money instead of thanks, his every action, his every word an insult. She knew this kind of man—one who cared nothing about people or their feelings, one who cared only about money and what it could buy. He would never spend his cold hard cash on something as frivolous as art. Contemporary art especially would be incomprehensible to him.

      Ellie clenched her fists. Her first impulse was to refuse with icy politeness, then turn and walk out. But just yesterday she’d promised herself she would think like a businessman. Businessmen weren’t polite—as Garek Wisnewski had just so unpleasantly demonstrated—and they weren’t squeamish about money.

      “Yes, I do expect a reward,” she said with all the poise she could muster. She met his gaze directly, calmly, not blinking even when his eyebrows rose.

      The corner of his mouth curled upward. “At least you’re honest about it.” He pulled a checkbook from his coat pocket. “How much?”

      “Five thousand.” She named the first figure that came into her head.

      He stared at her for a long, silent moment.

      Putting up her chin, she waited.

      She didn’t have to wait very long. With a shrug, he picked up a pen, wrote a check and held it out to her.

      Taken off guard, she stared at the slip of paper. She might not have inherited the Hernandez haggle gene, but she’d thought he would know how to negotiate. What kind of businessman handed over five