The Millionaire's Reward. Angie Ray
a teenager, she’d changed. She’d grown about ten inches into a tall, lanky brunette with a pale complexion and hostile brown eyes. Only rarely did he catch a glimpse of the curious, affectionate child she’d been.
“I’m afraid those terrible friends of hers are having a bad influence on her,” Doreen continued. “One girl’s father is a truck driver! If only I could send her to a decent school, instead of that horrible one she’s attending now.”
“You can afford it.” Garek walked over to the tree, looking at the jumble of gifts Karen had left behind. “If you want to.”
Doreen almost dropped the necklace. She snapped the box closed and glared at him. “You don’t know what it’s like to have your beloved husband die and be reduced to living in poverty—”
“Come off it, Doreen.” Garek nudged the tennis racket with his toe, then bent down and picked it up. He took a practice swing. Lightweight, perfectly balanced, the racket sliced through the air. “Grant divorced you long before he died. And he paid through the nose to get rid of you. If he’d been smart, he would’ve made you sign a prenuptial agreement.”
“I would never sign something like that—I would be grossly insulted if he’d even asked. Besides, I deserved every penny I got in the settlement. It wasn’t my fault he fell for that little slut. I should have gotten more. But I never get my fair share. Just look at Wisnewski Industries. It’s not right that Father left the company to you and…and for heaven’s sake, must you swing that racket? Those ornaments are all Lennox crystal and they cost a fortune. If you break one, I’m going to be very upset—”
“The company was bankrupt.”
His comment successfully diverted her from the safety of her ornaments. “A temporary setback, nothing more. The company is making millions now.”
“Of which you, as a major stockholder, receive a very large portion. I know, since I sign the checks.”
She sniffed. “I can barely maintain my position with those paltry dividends. I’ll never get my name into the Social Register at this rate.”
“What the hell is the Social Register?”
“It’s a book listing the names of an elite group of people. The right kind of people. Like the Palermos. Ones that have a certain background—”
Garek couldn’t believe his ears. “Our grandparents were peasant Polish immigrants. Is that the kind of background you’re talking about?”
Doreen’s nostrils quivered. “Ancestry is only one of the considerations. There are other ways to qualify—like founding a charity for some worthy cause. Ethel started a foundation for the symphony.”
“You hate the symphony.”
Doreen gripped the arms of her chair. “Just because you have no appreciation for music, don’t assume no one else does—”
“Okay, okay.” He shrugged. “If you want to give money to the symphony, fine. Just don’t ask me to make a donation.”
A flush mottled her cheeks. “I shouldn’t have to ask you. It’s the least you could do. That disgusting picture of you and that…that dancer person has undoubtedly hurt my standing with the Social Register committee—”
“I said no, Doreen.”
“Very well.” Lines radiated from her pinched lips. “I’m not going to argue with you. If you won’t help me set up a foundation, I’ll just stick to my regular activities with the Women’s League. Did I tell you Nina Lachland is on a fund-raising committee with me? She tells me a lot about her husband’s business. She told me Wisnewski Industries is trying to buy out the Lachland Company, which was news to me.”
He kept his stance relaxed, but inwardly he tensed. “So?”
“So, did you know there’s another company interested in buying Lachland? Her husband doesn’t like this Ogremark very much—”
“Agramark.”
“Ogremark, Agramark, whatever. But he might change his mind if he found out that you’re having trouble finding financing for the purchase.”
Garek stopped 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