“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
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
