swinging the racket. “Are you trying to blackmail me, Doreen?” he asked very softly.
She smiled. “Of course not. I don’t know why you would say that.”
Garek didn’t smile back. Acquiring Lachland was key to his plan for expanding Wisnewski Industries. Unfortunately, Agramark Inc., a subsidiary of the Calvin G. Hibbert conglomerate, was also pursuing the small shipping company. The conglomerate had all the advantages: financial resources far beyond his own, connections to key players, high-powered lawyers to deal with the legalities. In spite of all this, Garek was determined to make the acquisition and was close to succeeding.
If Doreen didn’t sour the deal.
How the hell had she found out about his difficulty with the financing? He gave her a long, hard look. “I warn you, Doreen, don’t interfere with my business.”
“Business, business, business. That’s all you think about. It’s time you did something for your family. Is that so much to ask for? I don’t want much—all you need to do is sponsor a foundation for me.”
“Is that all?” he asked ironically.
“Actually, now that you mention it, no. I also want an assistant from Wisnewski Industries to handle all the details—I can’t because of my delicate health.”
Doreen was as healthy as a draft horse. She had a similar bone structure to his, with big hands and feet. When she was younger, she’d had a plump, curvaceous figure, appealing in an earthy sort of way. After she married Grant Tarrington, however, she’d lost every spare ounce of fat in an effort to look more “delicate.” Unfortunately, the weight loss only made her look harsh and angular.
“I also want you to stop sabotaging my efforts to be included in the Social Register,” she continued, warming to her subject. “Stop dating disreputable women and find a nice, respectable girl. Someone like Amber Bellair. I talked to her yesterday and we agreed…”
“You agreed what?” Garek asked very quietly.
“You needn’t sound so nasty. We just agreed that you seem…lonely.”
His grip tightened on the tennis racket as he thought of all the plans he’d made and the hours he’d put in to make the Lachland acquisition happen. Once he signed this deal, he could…well, not relax, exactly. But maybe the pressure would ease up some.
He didn’t want to risk losing this deal. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to let Doreen think she could get away with this kind of manipulation every time she wanted something.
“The only problem is that Ethel may not like me setting up a competing foundation,” Doreen said, drumming her manicured nails on the arm of her chair. “She can be a little spiteful. She might even block my Social Register nomination. Perhaps I should find something else to support. Something cultural. Like the ballet. Or art. Art would be very classy. We could open a gallery on Michigan Avenue. Or better yet, River North—”
“A gallery?”
“To exhibit the work of the artists we sponsor. Some up-and-coming young people recommended by the Institute. Not any of those trashy modern artists, but young men and women with real talent…”
She went on, but Garek was no longer listening. He was remembering the woman who’d returned the necklace—Eleanor Hernandez. What was it she’d said? I work at a gallery…specializing in contemporary art…feel free to stop by if you ever want to buy something with a little higher concept.
A greedy little witch—as greedy as Doreen—only with a pair of bright blue eyes and the sexiest mouth he’d ever seen….
“I don’t think I’m being unreasonable, Garek. You can afford it. It wouldn’t hurt you to show a little generosity, you know. I am your only sister—”
“Very well.”
Doreen gaped, her jaw sagging in a way that counteracted the most recent efforts of her plastic surgeon. “You’ll do it?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No. For once, you’re going to have to do what I want.”
Any of the businessmen who’d dealt with Garek Wisnewski would have been highly suspicious—if not downright skeptical—of his sudden acquiescence. But Doreen only smiled smugly, visions of how her name would look printed in the Social Register dancing in her head.
She didn’t even notice the way her brother adjusted his grip on the tennis racket and executed a neat and deadly backhand.
Chapter Three
“It’s your best work ever.”
Tom Scarlatti’s brown eyes lit up behind the thick, round lenses of his glasses. “You think so, Ellie? My roommate said it looked like a two-year-old painted it.”
Ellie studied the canvas propped against the gallery counter. Although he’d used her as a model, the final result bore no discernable resemblance to her. But the free-flowing curves and vivid colors created a sense of space and harmony that was arresting.
“Your roommate is an engineer,” she pointed out. “He knows nothing about art.”
“That’s true.” Tom’s narrow chest expanded a bit. “Actually, I do think Woman in Blue turned out well. I really hate to sell it.”
“If you want, I can put a Not for Sale sticker on it,” she offered. “Although I’m sure you could get an excellent price for it.”
Tom reached out and touched the edge of the canvas with the very tips of his fingers, gently, tenderly. But then his hand dropped limply to his side. “I’ve got to sell it,” he said with a sigh. “My landlord is threatening to evict me. He’s a very unpleasant man. He doesn’t understand about art at all—”
The bell jangled as someone entered Vogel’s. Tom stopped talking, looking toward the door. Ellie turned, a smile forming, only to freeze when she recognized the man walking toward her.
Garek Wisnewski.
What on earth was he doing here? It had been a week since the ugly scene in his office, and she’d done her best to put him out of her mind. But she couldn’t help thinking about him every once in a while—like when she’d gone to her cousin Vincente’s house last weekend and saw his daughter wearing the tiny tennis shoes she’d bought her for Christmas. Or when she’d seen the towering gray walls of Wisnewski Industries through the train window on her way to a job a few days ago. Or when she’d looked in the junk drawer this morning and seen the crumpled five-thousand-dollar check shoved in the back that she hadn’t quite been able to bring herself to cash, ruthless businesswoman or not.
Every time she thought of him, she remembered the ugly necklace and his rudeness when she’d returned it, and she grew angry all over again.
She clutched the gallery keys lying on the counter, wishing she’d locked the door. Had he come here to make another crude proposition?
“Excuse me,” she muttered to Tom, moving out from behind the counter.
Tom sidled toward the
