Passion. Lynne Graham
requisite number of zeros. She hesitated again, struggling with her conscience. She was about to give him the check back, when the phone rang.
Garek Wisnewski pressed a button and his assistant’s voice came over the line.
“There’s a delivery here from marketing,” she said.
“Send it in.” His gaze flickered toward Ellie.
Clearly, she was dismissed. His rudeness made her spine stiffen—and subverted her conscience. “Thanks for the check,” she said airily. Stuffing the slip of paper in her purse, she headed for the door.
It opened before she reached it, and a skinny young man—a boy, really—entered, carrying a large, flat, cloth-covered rectangle. Setting it on a cherrywood table, he mumbled, “Mr. Johnson told me to bring this straight up,” then bolted from the room, slamming the door behind him.
Ellie blinked at the boy’s behavior. But probably all of Garek Wisnewski’s employees were terrified of him, she decided, moving toward the door again.
A flutter caught her eye as the cloth slipped from the rectangle. She stopped, her eyes widening at the revealed portrait.
Or rather, at the revealing portrait.
Lilly Lade, in full-breasted, bare-buttocked, dimplethighed glory, rose from a large white clamshell, her red hair contrasting vividly with the bright blue ocean behind her. Two leering “wind gods” hovered at one side, their expressions as crude as the artist’s brushwork.
“Was there something else?”
Ellie jumped at the sound of his harsh voice. “No, not at all.” But she couldn’t resist adding, “I was just thinking this is exactly the kind of painting I would expect you to have.” She smiled sweetly.
His stony gaze dropped to her mouth, then lifted. “You object to nude portraits?”
“No, I object to bad art.”
“Ah. An expert.”
The sarcasm in his voice annoyed her almost as much as his rude stare. “I work in a gallery.”
“The poster store at the mall?”
“Vogel’s in Pilsen,” she snapped. “Specializing in contemporary art. Feel free to stop by if you ever want to buy something with a little higher concept.” Turning on her heel, she grabbed the doorknob and twisted it.
A large hand reached over her shoulder and rested against the door, preventing it from opening. Scowling, she glared over her shoulder. A broad expanse of male chest met her gaze. Quickly she looked up—a long way up. He was bigger than she remembered. How had he managed to cross the room so quickly and silently?
He loomed over her, staring down at her with narrowed eyes. “I’ve already paid—I’m not paying any more. Anything else you want to offer me will have to be for free.”
Outrage stiffened her spine. “There’s nothing I want to offer you,” she said, yanking at the doorknob. It didn’t budge. “Will you please take your hand off the door?”
His gaze wandered over her, lingering on her mouth. “If you change your mind, contact me—but first use that money to buy some clothes that have a little ‘higher concept.”’
He released the door, and she yanked it open, angry enough to spit paint, and stormed out.
When she arrived home at her apartment, she went inside and slammed the door.
Martina came out of the bedroom, dressed in velvet pants and a red sweater, her head tilted as she put a dangling earring in her ear.
“You’re back!” she said. “I was beginning to worry. How’d it go?”
“Fine.” Ellie thrust her coat and boots into the closet, then stalked into the kitchen. “Although I’m thinking of writing a letter to the Chicago Trumpeter.”
Martina, following her into the kitchen, blinked. “You are?”
“Yes, to tell them they made a mistake about Garek Wisnewski.” Ellie took the five-thousand-dollar check from her purse, shoved it in the junk drawer and slammed it shut. “They should have named him Chicago’s Most Obnoxious Bachelor.”
It might have been Christmas Eve with most of the country in festive spirits, but Garek wasn’t sharing their happy mood. As far as he was concerned, the day was the culmination of a perfectly rotten month.
The painting of Lilly Lade—Ted Johnson in marketing’s infantile idea of a joke—had been annoying. The Hernandez woman witnessing the delivery, on top of taking him for five thousand dollars, had been galling. But neither of those compared with the torture that he now endured—Christmas Eve with his sister, Doreen.
“I went to a gala at the country club,” she commented as a maid poured wine in Garek’s glass. “All the right people were there. The Mitchells, the Branwells. Even the Palermos. Their nephew Anthony asked Karen to dance.”
“Anthony Palermo is a total geek,” Karen said, the first words she’d spoken during the meal. “He has hands like wet gym socks and breath like week-old dog food.”
“Karen!” her mother exclaimed. “You mustn’t talk about Anthony like that. The Palermos are one of the most wealthy and distinguished families in Chicago. You should remember that.”
Karen lapsed back into a sullen silence that lasted until the unappetizing meal was finished and Doreen led the way to the living room, where a mountain of presents was piled under a twenty-foot gold-and-silver tree. Karen fell to her knees and started ripping open packages Garek retrieved a slim, flat case from under the tree and handed it to his sister.
Doreen seated herself in a red-brocaded wing chair and unwrapped the gift with admirable restraint, unsealing each taped seam carefully, without any visible excitement. But when she saw the contents of the jeweler’s case, a spark lit up her usually cold gray eyes. “Ahh,” she said.
On the other side of the room, the sound of ripping paper stopped. Karen came and peeked over her mother’s shoulder.
“Good Lord!” she exclaimed, staring at the emerald-and-ruby necklace. “You must have spent a fortune, Uncle Garek!”
Doreen’s mouth pursed. “Karen, don’t be crass.”
Her shoulders hunching, the girl returned to the tree. She opened another present—a notebook computer from Garek. Her face completely expressionless, she set it aside.
Doreen, whose gaze had followed her daughter, barked, “Karen…what do you say to your uncle?”
“Thank you, Uncle Garek.” Karen’s monotone had as much enthusiasm as a zombie’s. Surrounded by the presents she’d opened—piles of clothes, tennis gear, skis, jewelry, purses, shoes—she looked under the now-empty tree. “Is that all?” she whined.
Doreen glared at her daughter. “Karen, I don’t like your tone. Or the expression on your face. If you can’t look and sound more pleasant, then go to your room.”
“Fine.” Tucking the computer under her arm, Karen headed for the door.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with that girl,” Doreen said in a loud voice before her daughter had even left the room. “I’ve told her over and over again that she must be polite to you. Although I can’t blame her for being disappointed. Whatever possessed you to buy a computer?”
Frowning, Garek watched his niece leave the room. “At Thanksgiving I heard her say she wanted one.”
“I wish you would have spoken to me first. We already have a computer. Girls her age prefer feminine things—like jewelry.”
Garek thought of the conversation he’d overheard on his last visit. Karen had been talking on the phone, telling some unseen person that she desperately wanted a new computer. “I think you underestimate Karen.”
Doreen