The Mistress Deal. Sandra Field
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?”