Millionaire's Women Part 41

"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 cus.h.i.+oned 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 winegla.s.s. "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 relations.h.i.+p 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 twentynine," 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 gla.s.s 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 my gallery? You don't even like me." 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 conceit.i.tus. "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 a.s.sistant 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 preopening event, a silent auction, to be held at my sister's home. I would expect you to choose the art, naturally."

Ellie took a sip of the heady wine, considering which of the artists she should feature. Tom, without a doubt, and Bertrice. And maybe Carlo Bustamente- "I would expect you to attend the silent auction, of course," Garek continued. "And I'll need to take you to the symphony this Sat.u.r.day-"

"The symphony!" She set down her wine. "I understand the silent auction. But why the symphony?"

"I'm going to have to introduce you to art collectors. There will be quite a few at the concert."

"Why can't you bring them to the gallery?"

"I run a business. I don't have time to run a shuttle service."

What he said made sense-almost. She suspected the whole art foundation was a ploy of some kind. To get her to go to bed with him? That seemed pretty farfetched. He was rich-and not completely unattractive. Surely he could find some woman to overlook his warped personality without going to so much trouble. More likely he needed a tax writeoff. Or maybe he was a frustrated artist and needed a place to exhibit his paint-by-number masterpieces...

Her hand jerked as a terrifying thought occurred to her, causing her almost to knock over her wine.

"That portrait I saw in your office..." She tried to sound casual, although everything inside her was recoiling with horror. "The one of Lilly Lade-did you paint that?"

He looked startled. "GoodG.o.d, no. Why do you ask?"

"No reason," she lied, leaning back to allow the waiter to take her plate. She rested against the cus.h.i.+oned chair, her terror receding-although not completely. She knew Martina would tell her to plaster the gallery walls with hundreds of portraits of Lilly Lade if that's what it took to get him to agree to use Vogel's for his foundation, but Ellie couldn't do it. She couldn't allow someone like Garek Wisnewski to distort the gallery into something unrecognizable.

"If I agreed to this," she told him, "I would have a few conditions."

"What conditions?"

"First, I must have complete control over the direction and focus of Vogel's. I have the final say in all decisions. Nothing is exhibited unless I agree."

"That's fine. I don't want to change anything about the gallery. It's perfect the way it is."

She searched his expression but couldn't detect any sarcasm in either his voice or face. "Second, this is business, nothing else."

"Naturally. What else would it be?"

She frowned, but all she said was, "You accept the conditions, then?"

"That's all? You don't want me to get your name in the Social Register?"

She stared at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"Never mind. Yes, I accept your conditions."

"Then I accept your offer," she said solemnly.

"Thank you."

She couldn't help smiling at his slightly ironic tone. He smiled back, and she felt the same pleasant jolt she'd felt the first time she'd met him.

She squashed the feeling immediately. This was Garek Wisnewski, she reminded herself. Sure, he could be charming when he wanted, but that didn't change the fact that he personified arrogance and conceit. And in spite of his agreement to her conditions, she didn't really trust him. She couldn't shake the sense that he had some hidden agenda, some secret purpose that he wasn't telling her. He was up to something.

But what?

Chapter Four.

Garek detested the symphony. When he felt compelled to attend for one reason or another, he usually escorted Doreen or Amber, but they enjoyed it as little as he did. Amber pretended to like the music but always seemed more interested in looking around the theater from their balcony seats to see who was there than in anything happening onstage. Doreen, whom he suspected of being tone deaf, usually fell asleep about halfway through, her head lolling in time to the flutes. During the intermission, neither Doreen nor Amber ever mentioned the concert. Instead, they estimated the cost of Buffy Vanderhorn's designer gown and speculated as to whether Tritia Mitch.e.l.l's jewelry was real or fake.

Therefore, it was something of a shock to discover that Eleanor not only listened to the music-she listened with intense concentration.

He stared at her, frowning slightly. Seated next to him in the darkened theater, she seemed very small, the top of her head barely reaching his chin. She appeared as fragile and breakable as the strings of the violins being played onstage-and yet, her back was as straight as the conductor's baton.

The evening wasn't turning out the way he'd expected. When he'd picked her up earlier, he'd been stunned by her appearance. From the top of her carefully arranged curls, to the beaded silver sheath that hugged her curves, she looked utterly gorgeous.

He'd told her so, but to his annoyance, his voice was husky, like a teenager's on his first date.

"Thank you," she'd responded coolly. Distantly. Regally. Regally.

She'd kept up her air of nonchalance until they were actually in their seats and the music started. Then her indifference disappeared.

The light from the stage illuminating her expression, he watched as her eyes glistened with each blare of the French horns and her lips trembled with each screech of the violins. The notes and chords, meaningless to him, obviously enthralled her in some way that he couldn't begin to fathom.

By the time the curtain went down for intermission, her face was glowing-until she caught him looking at her. Then her expression cooled again. "I've always liked that particular conductor," she said as he escorted her out to the lobby. "He can elicit music from an orchestra like no one else."