The Millionaire's Reward

“You appear to think very highly of this Tom Scarlatti,” Garek interrupted.

“Yes, I do.” She picked up her wineglass. “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 relationship 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 twenty-nine,” 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 glass 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 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 conceititus. “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 assistant 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 pre-opening event, a silent auction, to be held at my sister’s home. I would expect you to choose the art, naturally.”