“So, Miss Courtney—yes or no?”

“Let me get this straight. For one week you want me to publicly pretend I’m your mistress.” She flicked her eyes up and down his expensive suit, letting them linger on his silk tie. “While you may not be my idea of the ideal date, there must be lots of women who’d bypass your personality in favor of your money. Since I can’t believe you’re offering this out of the kindness of your heart, I wonder why you’ve chosen me to come to your rescue?”

To her intense fury, he gave a bark of laughter. “Your tongue’s got a bite like sulfuric acid.”

“All the more reason for you to avoid me.”

“Oh, I think I can handle you.”

Although born in England, SANDRA FIELD has lived most of her life in Canada; she says the silence and emptiness of the north speak to her particularly. While she enjoys traveling, and passing on her sense of a new place, she often chooses to write about the city that is now her home. Sandra says, “I write out of my experience. I have learned that love with its joys and its pains is all-important. I hope this knowledge enriches my writing, and touches a chord in you, the reader.”

The Mistress Deal
Sandra Field

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

ON THE other side of that door was the enemy.

Lauren Courtney took a deep breath, smoothing the fabric of her skirt with her palm. The enemy. The man who had evidence—entirely fabricated evidence—of a fraud supposedly perpetrated by Lauren’s beloved stepfather. Wallace Harvarson a liar? A cheat? Lauren would as soon believe the sun rose in the west.

But Reece Callahan, owner of the huge telecommunications company whose headquarters were in this glittering building in Vancouver, apparently did believe the sun rose in the west. So it was up to Lauren to set him straight. To protect Wallace’s reputation now that her stepfather was dead and could no longer speak for himself. That she was gaining entrance to the Callahan stronghold under false pretenses was unfortunate, but necessary; she was under no illusions that a man as ruthless and successful as Reece Callahan would see her otherwise.

Lauren straightened her shoulders, catching a quick glimpse of her reflection in the tall plate-glass windows that overlooked English Bay from the seventh floor. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a cluster of curls that bared her nape; her suit, a designer label, was severely styled in charcoal-gray, the skirt slit at the back; her blouse was a froth of white ruffles. Italian leather pumps, silver jewelry and dramatic eyeshadow: she’d do. Under normal circumstances she wouldn’t be caught dead in charcoal-gray; primary colors were more her forte. But she’d decided back in New York that she needed to look both elegant and composed for this interview. That her heart was pumping rather too fast under her tailored lapel was her secret. A secret she intended to keep.

The receptionist opened the paneled oak door and said politely, “Mr. Callahan, Miss Lauren Courtney is here to see you.”

As Lauren stepped inside and the door closed behind her, Reece Callahan got to his feet and walked around his massive mahogany desk, his hand outstretched. “This is indeed a pleasure, Miss Courtney. At your gallery opening in Manhattan last year, when I purchased two of your sculptures, I unfortunately arrived too late to meet you.”

While his handclasp was strong, his smile was a mere movement of his lips; his eyes, ice-blue, didn’t melt even fractionally. His face was strongly hewn, with a hard jawline, a cleft chin and arrogant cheekbones that instantly Lauren itched to sculpt. His hair, thick with the suggestion of a curl kept firmly under control, was a darker brown than hers. The color of his desk, she thought, polished and sleek.

His body—well, she’d like to sculpt that, too, she realized, her mouth suddenly dry. Beneath his impeccably tailored business suit, she sensed a honed muscularity, a power all the more effective for being hidden.

A cold man. A hard man. Definitely not a man to respond to an appeal to sentiment. Yet sentiment, she thought in sudden despair, was the only weapon she had. He was also several inches taller than her five-foot-nine; she wasn’t used to looking so far up, to feeling small, and in consequence at a disadvantage. She didn’t like it. Not one bit. Steeling herself, knowing Reece Callahan was indeed the enemy, Lauren detached her fingers from his clasp and said coolly, “I hope you’re still enjoying the pieces you purchased?”

“They wear well. I’ve always liked works in bronze, and yours are particularly fine.”

Even though she’d fished for the compliment, it pleased her. “Thank you,” she said.

“I’m always glad when my investments do well. The prices you’re commanding are escalating very nicely.”

Her smile was wiped from her face. “Is that why you bought those bronzes? As an investment?”

“Why else?”

“Not because they spoke to your soul?”

His short laugh held nothing of amusement. “You’ve got the wrong man.”

He’d said a mouthful there. On the basis of the past couple of minutes, Reece Callahan didn’t have a soul. But wrong man or not, Lauren was stuck with him. Striving to regain her calm, she said politely, “May I sit down?”

“By all means. Can I get you a coffee?”

“No, thanks.” She sat down gracefully in a leather chair, crossing her knees in a swish of silk. “I’m afraid I’ve obtained this meeting under false pretenses, Mr. Callahan. This isn’t a social visit to discuss my work.”

“You surprise me—I’d been assuming you were here to solicit a commission. Hawking your wares, so to speak.”

Her lashes flickered. “I’ve never done that yet and see no reason why I should start with you.”

“How admirably high-minded of you.”

It wasn’t part of her strategy to lose her temper before she’d even broached the reason for her visit. Lauren said with a smile as detached as his, “You wouldn’t have invested in two of my pieces if you hadn’t thought me talented. And even in the worst of times, I’ve never allowed the whims of the rich to dictate my creativity.”

“Then why are you here, Miss Courtney? The rich may be whimsical, but they also have responsibilities. I, in other words, have a great deal to do today and I’d prefer you to come to the point.”

Because he was leaning against the side of his desk, she was forced to look up at him. Her mistake to have sat down, Lauren thought, and said evenly, “I’ve picked up a rumor—a very distasteful one. I’m trusting you’ll reassure me it’s nothing but a rumor. In which case I can be out of here in three seconds flat.”

She had his full attention; he rapped, “I have much more important things to do with my time than spread rumors. Gossip of any kind has never appealed to me.”

“I’ve heard you’re about to publish evidence of fraud on the part of Wallace Harvarson.”

He raised one brow. “Ah…now that’s no rumor.”

Her nails dug into her leather purse. “You cannot possibly have such evidence.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He was my stepfather, he would never have been dishonest—I adored him.”

“That says more about your lack of perception than about the morals of Wallace Harvarson…clearly you’re a better sculptor than a judge of character.”

“I knew him through and through!”

“You didn’t change your last name to his, though.”

“He was my mother’s second husband,” Lauren said tightly. “My own father died when I was three. Although she divorced Wallace when I was twelve, he and I stayed in touch over the years. As you no doubt know, he died fourteen months ago. Obviously he can’t defend himself against this ridiculous charge. So I’m here to do so in his place.”

“And what form does this defense take?”

She leaned forward, speaking with passionate intensity. “My own knowledge of the kind of man he was. Altogether I knew him for nineteen years, and I can tell you it’s impossible he would have lied and cheated and stolen money.”

“My dear Miss Courtney, that’s a very touching response. Although a few tears might improve it. Tears or no, such a reply is meaningless in a court of law. I plan to publish the legal evidence for Wallace Harvarson’s fraud next week, and in so doing clear the name of one of my companies. I will not tolerate being seen in the business world as less than honest. Which was your stepfather’s legacy to me.”

Appalled, she whispered, “Publish it? You can’t mean that!”

“I mean every word.” Reece Callahan drew back his sleeve, looking at his gold watch. “If that’s all you have to say, I think we can profitably terminate this interview.”

With swift grace, Lauren got to her feet. “If you publish such outright lies about my stepfather, I’ll sue you for defamation of character.”

“Please don’t—you’d be laughed out of court. Besides, do you have any idea what that would cost you?”

“Does everything come down to money with you?”

“In this case, yes—Wallace Harvarson milked my company of five hundred thousand dollars.”

“What’s the truth, Mr. Callahan? That you made a bad business decision that cost you half a million and now you’re looking for a scapegoat?”

“You go public with a statement like that and I’ll be the one suing you,” he said in a voice like steel. “My secretary will see you out.”

“I’m not leaving until you promise you won’t drag my stepfather’s name through the mud for your own ends!”

He straightened, taking a step toward her. “You really do have gall, Miss Courtney. I happen to know you bought your studio with your inheritance from your stepfather, and that you’re still the owner of a very nice little property on the coast of Maine that belonged to him.”

Her brain made a lightning-fast leap. “You’ve known all along that I’m Wallace’s stepdaughter?”

“I always research the artists I’m investing in—it makes good business sense.”

“So you’ve been leading me on ever since I got here—how despicable!”

“That label belongs to you rather than me. You’re the one who’s been living off the proceeds of fraud. I suppose it beats doing the starving-sculptor-in-a-garret routine. Even if your artistic integrity is a touch tarnished.”

White with rage, Lauren spat, “My integrity isn’t the issue here—what about yours? Smearing the reputation of a dead man in the full knowledge that I can’t possibly hire the kind of lawyers you can afford…doesn’t that give your conscience even the smallest twinge?”

His blue eyes were fastened on her face; he said in a peculiar voice, “You really do believe he’s innocent, don’t you?”

“Of course I do! Do you think I’d be wasting my time, let alone yours, if I thought for one moment Wallace could have done anything so underhanded?”

“Then I’m sorry. Because you’re in for a rude awakening. And now I really must ask you to leave—I have an appointment in ten minutes.”

Hating herself for doing so, knowing she had no other choice, Lauren swallowed her pride. “Is there nothing I can do to make you change your mind?”

“Not a thing.”

“There must be something…”

His eyes like gimlets, he said, “I’m surprised, with your reputation, that you haven’t offered the obvious.”

Lauren flushed. “My sexual reputation, you mean?”

“Precisely.”

Her fists were clenched at her sides so hard the knuckles were white. “So you researched that, too. And along with the rest of the world, you believed every word the gutter press printed about me. Fabrications my mentor Sandor fed his journalist friends. Yet you’re the one who says he doesn’t believe in gossip?”

“Your mentor’s highly respected.”

“Whereas I was a mere upstart with the kind of looks the press adores. Do you wonder why I’m begging you not to publish all these lies about Wallace? I know the power of the media to ruin reputations…know it and fear it and have suffered from it.”

“When I arrived at your gallery last year, you were leaving by another door. Arm in arm with two men, no less. I doubt that your lack of morals is just gossip invented by a vengeful ex-lover.”

Her shoulders sagged. “I didn’t come here to defend myself against promiscuity,” she said in a low voice. “Neither did I come to say I’d sleep with you if you promised not to publish.”

“So why didn’t you sue Sandor—your ex-lover, your ex-teacher, your mentor—if he was lying?”

“It was four years ago,” she blazed. “At that time I’d sold exactly two pieces in my whole life—I wasn’t into selling then, I knew I hadn’t reached the point where I wanted my stuff out there in the real world—as it happens, I do have artistic integrity, Mr. Callahan. Short of asking Wallace for money, I didn’t have one cent to rub against another. And lawyers come expensive. As you know.”

“Indeed.” Hands in his pockets, Reece looked her up and down with a deliberation that made her flinch inwardly; she felt as though his ice-cold eyes were stripping her naked. But Lauren had toughened in the years since Sandor had set out to drag her through the gutter personally and artistically; she raised her chin, breathing hard, and said not one word. He said noncommittally, “You’re not dressed cheaply.”

“There are some wonderful secondhand places in Greenwich Village. I know them all.”

“I see.” Casually Reece leaned back against the desk again. “Perhaps I should reconsider.”

In a flash of incredulous hope, she said eagerly, “You mean you believe me about Wallace?”

“That’s not what I mean at all. But there is something you could do for me. A way in which you could be useful to me.”

The light died from her face. “And in return, you wouldn’t publish anything about my stepfather?”

“That’s correct.”

She said in a level voice, “I won’t sleep with you, Mr. Callahan.”

“I’m not asking you to, Miss Courtney.”

“Soiled goods,” she said bitterly.

“As you say.”

Briefly she closed her eyes. “Then what do you want of me?”

“You could be of use to me for the next week or so—after that I’m off to London and Cairo. But while I’m here, I have a number of engagements that mix business with pleasure, never my favorite way of operating but sometimes it’s unavoidable. I’d want you to pose as my companion. My lover, to put it bluntly. I can’t imagine you’d find that difficult.”

Her response came from a deep place she couldn’t have named or ignored. “No! I’m a sculptor—not a call girl.”

“Either you want to protect your stepfather, or you don’t. Which is it?”

His voice was clipped, utterly emotionless. She flashed, “Why would you want to be seen with someone whose reputation’s not much better than a call girl’s?”

“Because you interest me.”

“Oh, that’s just lovely. As if I’m a stock market quote. Or a microchip.”

“You’re a very talented woman. As well you know. You’re also articulate, well-dressed and pretty enough for my purposes. In other words, you’ll do. So which is it, Miss Courtney—yes or no?”

Pretty enough, she thought in true fury. She wasn’t just pretty, she was beautiful: without a speck of vanity she knew this, for her mirror and the rest of the world had told her so often enough. But to Mr. Ice-Water-In-His-Veins Callahan she was merely pretty.

Not that that was the real issue, Lauren realized hastily.

She dragged her thoughts back to Wallace, his quicksilver smile and ready laughter, the way that his rare and always delightful visits had rescued her from an adolescence that had been rife with real unhappiness. Her mother had resented her burgeoning beauty, while her mother’s third husband had despised her budding talent; between them, they had made her teenage years a misery. She’d left home the week she’d graduated from high school; it had been Wallace who’d seen to it that she hadn’t starved in a garret during the years when she’d been studying at art school, sculpting all hours of the night, and gradually unearthing her own strengths.

And weaknesses. Of which Sandor was the prime example.

This was no time to think about Sandor. She said carefully, “Let me get this straight. For one week you want me to publicly pretend I’m your mistress.” She flicked her eyes up and down his expensive suit, letting them linger on his silk tie, which bore the crest of a very distinguished university. “While you may not be my idea of the ideal date, there must be lots of women who’d bypass your personality in favor of your money. Since I can’t believe you’re offering this out of the kindness of your heart, I wonder why you’ve chosen me to come to your rescue?”

To her intense fury, he gave a bark of laughter. “Your tongue’s got a bite like sulfuric acid.”

“All the more reason for you to avoid me.”

“Oh, I think I can handle you.”

Discovering a profound wish to knock him off balance, she said sweetly, “You’re forgetting something. You’re a big name, with your mergers and your innovations and your huge profits—don’t think I hadn’t done my research. As for me, I had a major show in London last year, and I have a growing reputation in the States. If you and I pose as lovers, the press will have a field day. There will be gossip, Mr. Callahan. Lots of lovely gossip.”

“So your answer’s no.” He moved toward the door. “Don’t forget to buy Wednesday’s paper, will you? You’ll see a whole new side to your stepfather, and—trust me—it won’t be based on gossip.”

She couldn’t bear that. She couldn’t. Her only alternative was to toe the line. Do as Reece Callahan had proposed. Because Lauren was under no illusions; even if she could afford to sue Reece, and even if by some remote chance she won, the damage would have been done. Wallace’s name would always be linked with dishonor. She said coldly, “I was merely pointing out the pitfalls of your course of action.”

“How altruistic of you.”

“If I do this, it would be an act. Only an act. In private I wouldn’t allow you to come within ten feet of me.”

“You’re assuming I’d want to.”

Her breath hissed between her teeth. “Tell me precisely what you’d require of me.”

“You’d stay in my condo near Stanley Park. On Saturday you’d go with me to a cocktail party and dinner that I’m hosting. One of my CEOs is laboring under the delusion that his daughter would make me a fine wife. Your presence will disabuse him of that notion. Then on Sunday there’s a private dinner party at the home of a man I’m thinking of bringing on board. Unfortunately his wife is more interested in me than in her husband’s career. You’ll give her the message I’m not available. Two days later we’ll fly to my house in Whistler—I don’t often go there this time of year, I use it mainly for skiing in February. But I’ll be doing business with some Japanese software experts—and you’d host their wives. Then we go to a yacht club off the east coast of Vancouver Island, where I’m to meet an associate in the commodity market. After that, it’s back here and you can go your own way.” He paused. “Eight days, not counting tomorrow.”

Lauren’s adventurous spirit, never much in abeyance, quickened. She’d heard of Whistler, the luxurious ski resort north of the city; and she’d never been to Vancouver Island, set like a green jewel in the waters of the Pacific Ocean. Keeping her face impassive, she said, “I get the message. Because you’re rich, a lot of women are after you.”

He raised one brow. “You could call it an occupational hazard.”

She almost smiled, feeling the first twinge of liking for him. Shoving it down, she said crisply, “If I choose to do this, I need to make something clear—I’m not after you, no matter how much money you have. In public, I’ll do my best to convince the world that you and I are madly in love. In private, I’ll require a room of my own and strict boundaries around my privacy.”

“I assure you,” Reece said silkily, “that will be no problem.”

He found her undesirable. A turnoff. That’s what he meant. Stifling a surge of rage as fierce as it was irrational, Lauren said, “I’d also require a signed statement from you that you would never, directly or indirectly, damage my stepfather’s name.”

“Providing you keep to the terms of our agreement.”

Her turquoise eyes flung themselves like waves of the sea against the hard planes of his face. “I would. I promise.”

“So you’re saying you’ll do it?”

She bit her lip. “We’d never bring it off—it’s so obvious we don’t like each other.”

“You’re being too diplomatic. Mutual antipathy—wouldn’t that be a more accurate description?”

“It would, yes,” she snapped. “Plus, to put it bluntly, you don’t look like you could act your way out of a paper bag.”

“You let me worry about that,” he retorted. “Yes or no? Eight days of your time or your stepfather’s reputation—which is it to be?”

“I’ll do it,” she said. “You’ve known all along that I would.”

“So you’re astute as well as talented.”

“You’re getting a bargain,” she mocked.

“We’ll see,” he said dryly. “In addition to our basic agreement, I’ll require you to sign a statement that you’ll never discuss our supposed relationship with the press. Come to this office at three tomorrow afternoon. I’ll have the documents drawn up for us both to sign. You can arrive at my condo at ten tomorrow night—I’m out earlier in the evening.”

“Very well.” Lauren gave him a derisive smile. “I do hope all this acting won’t be too taxing for you.”

“If you’re asking for a demonstration, you’re out of luck. I don’t believe in wasted action.”

She clenched her fists. “Your secretary must know we’re not lovers—that we just met this morning.”

“My secretary is very well paid to keep her mouth shut.”

“Now why should I be surprised?” Lauren said cordially. “Goodbye, Mr. Callahan. I won’t say it’s been a pleasure.”

“Don’t push your luck—the document’s not signed yet.”

She said tartly, “If Wallace is looking down on me from heaven, I hope he appreciates what I’m doing for him.”

“People who cheat and lie don’t go to heaven.” Reece opened the door. “Goodbye.”

They were in full view of his secretary. “Then I guess you won’t go there, either,” Lauren said, reaching up and kissing him on both cheeks. “Goodbye, darling,” she added in a carrying voice. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Pivoting, she smiled at the secretary. “I’ll see myself out,” she said, and walked toward the elevator. The slit in her skirt, she knew, showed her legs rather admirably. To her great satisfaction she heard Reece Callahan’s door snap shut with more force than was required.

At least she’d achieved that much.

Had she ever in her life conceived such an overwhelming dislike for a man? Even Edward, her mother’s third husband, liked dogs and rhododendrons, and laughed loudly at his own jokes. Reece Callahan wouldn’t know how to laugh.

Cold. Hard. Manipulative.

She was going to read both documents very carefully before she signed anything.

CHAPTER TWO

CHARLOTTE BOND, better known as Charlie, said incredulously, “You agreed to do what?”

“You heard,” Lauren said. “I agreed to act as Reece Callahan’s mistress, in public only, for the space of one week. Well, eight days. That’s all. It’s no big deal.”

“Lauren, I dated Reece. Twice. He plays major league. And he’s got a hole where his heart’s supposed to be.”

“So why did you date him twice?”

A rueful grin lit up Charlie’s piquant face. “I couldn’t believe that a guy with those rugged, damn-your-eyes kind of good looks could really be as cold as the proverbial glacier.”

“You saw him as a challenge.”

“I guess so.” Charlie gave a snort of self-derision. “What a joke. Although we did have a few things in common.”

Charlie was a top-notch tax consultant, whose logical brain was the antithesis of Lauren’s: they had a friendship of opposites that had survived Charlie’s move from New York to Canada’s west coast last summer. “Don’t you see?” Lauren said equably. “It’s because he’s such a cold fish that I feel quite safe taking this on. No risk Reece Callahan’s going to lose his head over me. We’ll act as lovers in public, go our separate ways in private, and Wallace’s good name will be safe. Simple.”

Charlie grimaced. “Trouble is, I feel responsible. If I hadn’t brought up Wallace’s name quite innocently to Reece, in connection with that software company Wallace was involved with, Reece wouldn’t have mentioned I should keep my ear to the ground for some very interesting revelations about Wallace. None of which were to Wallace’s credit. As soon as he said that, all my alarm bells went off and that’s when I phoned you.”

“You and I were due for a visit anyway,” Lauren said comfortingly. “And I’m so glad I’ve finally made it to the west coast. Oh, Charlie, it’s wonderful to have a bit of money to spend! To be able to get on a plane and fly here and not have to worry about the cost. For so many years I’ve been rock-bottom broke, having to count every cent I spent.”

But Charlie was still frowning. “Just so long as you don’t get hurt.”

“By Reece Callahan?” Lauren made a very rude noise. “Not a chance. Did I tell you he bought those two bronze pieces as an investment? They’re two of my best works, and yet they’re owned by a man who doesn’t give a damn about what they say—his only concern is that they increase in value. And you’re worried I might fall for him? Huh. Pigs might fly.”

Charlie sighed. “It’s an awful waste. He’s got a great body.”

“To sculpt, yes. To go to bed with? No, ma’am. Anyway, I’m off sex, have been for years.”

Charlie took a big gulp of her Chardonnay, her face still troubled. “You’re absolutely certain of Wallace’s innocence?”

“Of course I am!”

“You did tell me once that your inheritance from him was less than you’d expected.”

“That’s true enough. And his mother’s jewels that he’d promised me, they never did turn up. But, Charlie, everyone can have setbacks on the financial markets, you know that from your own work. It doesn’t mean the person’s committed fraud.”

“He never confided in you?”

Lauren’s brow crinkled in thought. “We didn’t talk about stuff like that. Serious stuff.” Her voice wobbled. “He was such fun, always laughing or singing pop songs at the top of his lungs—I miss him so much.”

“Mmm…” Charlie ran her fingers through her tousled blond curls. “Just make sure you look after yourself as far as Reece is concerned. And read all the fine print on these documents you’re going to sign.”

“I will.” Lauren grinned at her friend.

“Let’s go out for supper, I don’t feel like cooking. There’s a divine Czech restaurant just down the road.”

“And neither of us will mention Reece Callahan’s name again. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Charlie. Nor did they.

Promptly at three o’clock the next afternoon, Lauren presented herself to Reece’s secretary. The October day had turned unexpectedly warm; her dress was a chic linen sheath in deep blue with long sleeves. Gold hoops that Wallace had given her for her eighteenth birthday swung at her lobes, and she’d pulled her hair back with a gold clip. Her makeup was dramatic, that and her dress making her eyes look almost indigo.

The secretary said pleasantly, “Mr. Callahan shouldn’t be too long, Miss Courtney—but he is running a little behind schedule.”

So she was to be kept waiting like a common supplicant? Like a patient at the dentist’s? Which was just how she felt: all her nerves on edge, dread like a lump in the pit of her stomach. Lauren said, “Oh, I’m sure he doesn’t mean to keep me waiting, Miss Riley. I’ll go straight in.”

“I don’t think—”

But Lauren was already opening Reece’s door. He was seated in front of his computer screen and looked up in annoyance. She said with warm intimacy, “Hello, darling—I knew you wouldn’t want me to sit outside…how are you?” Then, as she closed the door, she gave him a wicked grin, her voice going back to normal. “I should tell you that at the age of thirteen I planned to become the second Sarah Bernhardt. I could get to enjoy this.”

He said curtly, “The first thing you’d better learn is never to interrupt me when I’m working.”

“But, dearest,” she cooed, batting her artfully mascaraed lashes, “I’m your heart’s delight.”

For a split second Lauren thought she caught a flash of emotion deep in Reece’s eyes. But then it was gone. If indeed it had existed. He said sharply, “I mean it, Lauren.”

“What a dull life you must lead.”

He surged to his feet. He’d discarded his jacket and tie; his shirt, open at the throat, revealed a tangle of dark hair. “Let’s get something straight,” he said with dangerous softness. “I’m the one with the evidence about Wallace. So I get to call the shots.”

Her chin lifted mutinously. “I don’t like being told what to do.”

“Then you’d better learn fast.”

“I think you’re forgetting something, Reece—this is a reciprocal deal. You’ve got something I want and I’ve got something you want. So both of us get to call the shots.”

“There can’t be two bosses—that’s a basic corporate rule.”

“We’re not talking corporations, we’re talking love at first sight. Passion, adoration and lust.” She gave him a complacent smile. “The rules are different.”

“Certainly that’s your area of expertise.”

She flushed. “Let’s get something else straight. Right now. You can quit throwing my reputation in my face.”

“What’s that cliché? If the shoe fits…”

So angry she forgot all caution, Lauren blazed, “If you think for one minute that I’m going to let you walk all over me for eight consecutive days, you’d better think again. Because I’m not. No chance.”

“You look rather more than pretty when you’re angry,” he remarked. “How do you look when you’re making love?”

“You’ll never find out!”

“According to the media, you wouldn’t know how. To make love, I mean. You use a guy, milk him dry, then go on to the next one. Which can hardly be dignified by the word love.” He closed the distance between them, taking her by the shoulders with cruel strength, his eyes boring into hers. “What I don’t understand is how you can create works of art that breathe truth and morality from such a shoddy little soul. Or why, when you’re so extraordinarily talented, you play cheap sexual games to further your career.”

She flinched; in attacking her work, he was stabbing her where she was most vulnerable. She said fiercely, “I came here to sign a couple of documents, not to have my character torn to shreds by a man who wouldn’t recognize an emotion if it hit him in the face. Especially if that emotion was called love.”

As suddenly as he had seized her, Reece let her go. “You don’t have an answer for me, do you?”

“My character and my sculptures are entirely congruent.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

She said with sudden insight, “You know what your problem is? You’re not used to people contradicting you. Especially a woman. I bet you’re surrounded day and night by yes, sir, no, sir, whatever you say, sir. Very bad for you.”

“Whereas you’re surrounded by men who fall all over you, agreeing with every word you say just so long as they end up in your bed.”

Anger flicked along her nerves. She said amicably, “Reece, I’ll spell it out for you again. Please don’t spend the whole week harping on my love affairs—I have a low tolerance for boredom.”

“Is that a challenge, Miss Courtney?”

“It’s a statement of fact.”

“Frankly, I don’t care if you’re bored out of your skull the entire eight days. Just as long as you do what I say.” Reece pulled open a drawer and extracted two sheets of typescript. “Read this. There are two copies, one for each of us. I’ll get my secretary to witness our signatures.”

The document, in carefully worded legalese, said that Lauren Courtney would present herself in the public realm as Reece Callahan’s lover for a period of eight days, and would preserve total confidentiality about the contents of this agreement in perpetuity. In return, Reece Callahan contracted never to publish anything of any nature about Wallace Harvarson, stepfather of the aforesaid Lauren Courtney.

The language, while cumbersome, was clear. Lauren said steadily, “I’m ready to sign if you are.”

Reece folded the papers to hide the text and pressed a buzzer on his desk. A few moments later the secretary walked in. “I’d like you to witness our signatures, Shirley, please,” Reece said. “Lauren?”

Once she signed, she was committed. For a few seconds that felt like hours, Lauren stared at him blankly. Was she mad promising to live for over a week with a man who was the antithesis of everything she believed in? What did she really know about him? Maybe the moment she walked in the door of his condo, he’d fall on her. And what recourse would she have? If she didn’t stay for the full eight days, he’d publish a bunch of scurrilous lies about Wallace. Charlie had tried to warn her that Reece would be a formidable foe. But had Lauren listened? Oh, no.

“Lauren?” Reece said more sharply. “You have to sign in both places.”

Yes, sir, she thought crazily, picked up his platinum pen and signed each copy. Then she watched as Reece added a totally illegible scrawl, and the secretary her ultraneat script. The secretary then left the room, never once having looked Lauren in the eye.

It was done. She was committed.

Reece said irritably, “This is a business deal that will terminate a week from tomorrow. Stop looking at me as though you’ve just married me for life.”

She blurted, “Have you ever been married?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Yes or no will do.”

“No.”

“Neither have I… Sandor had a soul above such petty, bourgeois standards.”

“Lauren,” Reece said coldly, “signing those forms wasn’t a license for true confessions.”

“Wasn’t a license for you to behave like a human being, you mean?”

“We’re not in public. We don’t have to act.”

“If I stuck a pin in you, would you bleed?” she demanded in true exasperation. “Or would ice water drip on the carpet?”

“It irks the hell out of you that I’m not bowled over by you, doesn’t it?”

Truth. That’s what she sought in her work, and that’s how she endeavored to live her life. Lauren said concisely, “You insist on seeing me as something I’m not, and you’ve built such a barrier between yourself and the real world that you treat everything and everyone in terms of either monetary value or functionality. That’s what irks the hell out of me.”

His mouth hardened. He said brusquely, “Here’s my card with my condo address and phone number. I’ve opened a couple of accounts for you downtown in case you need clothes—the details are on this piece of paper. And this is your copy of our agreement. Ten o’clock tonight, Lauren. Please don’t be late.”

Automatically she took the papers he was holding out and shoved them in her purse. “I’ll be there.”

He stepped back, holding her gaze with his own. “One more thing. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

As her jaw dropped, he opened the door. “See you tonight, darling,” he added, giving her a smile of such breathtaking intimacy that her heart lurched in her breast. Speechless, she dragged her eyes away and walked past the secretary like a woman in a dream. The elevator was waiting for her. As the doors slid open, she heard the soft closing of Reece’s door behind her.

You’re pretty enough.

You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

Which was the truth and which was an act? And if she couldn’t tell the difference, what had she let herself in for?

The cab swung into the grounds of Reece’s condo at fifteen minutes to ten that evening. Lauren, though she had difficulty admitting this to herself, hadn’t wanted to be late. In consequence she’d allowed extra time for traffic. Too much time, she realized, paying the taxi driver, and taking her big suitcase from him. She noticed that the grounds had been designed with a Japanese theme, a harmony of rock, fern and shrub overlaid by the gentle ripple of water. An island of peace, Lauren thought, and wished she felt more peaceful.

She felt anything but peaceful.

If she arrived early, would Reece think she was too eager for his company? She could simply stand here for the next ten minutes and admire the garden.

To heck with that. No games, no pretense. She headed for the lobby, where the uniformed desk attendant recognized her name immediately, and called the elevator for her. “Mr. Callahan is expecting you, madam,” he said with a pleasant smile. “The top floor.”

She gave him an equally pleasant smile back, wondering why she should feel like a high-class call girl when she was anything but. The elevator smoothly deposited her outside double doors with exquisite wrought-iron handles; Reece’s unit was the only one on this floor. Her feet sinking in the thick carpeting, Lauren pushed the bell. Let the adventure begin, she thought, and fixed her smile on her face.

CHAPTER THREE

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.

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