The Mistress Deal

by Sandra Field

  A bloodstained sidewalk in Chicago… Reece said evenly, “I’ll offer the purchaser twice what he paid, and give you the house back.”

  “Money can’t fix everything, Reece.” Her voice broke. “Don’t you see? I loved Wallace. And now I’m left with nothing. With less than nothing, because what I thought I had was false.”

  The words, unplanned, came from deep within him. “Tell me what you loved about Wallace.”

  “He was kind, he was fun, he made me laugh. He used to sing old Broadway hits at the top of his lungs and teach me all the lyrics. He did crazy things, like going swimming in April and riding a bicycle in the snow…and he listened to me. Listened and was smart enough not to give advice.”

  Tears were trickling down her cheeks; she ignored them with total disdain. Knowing better than to touch her, Reece said, “And you think that his dishonest financial dealings have erased all that? People aren’t single-faceted, Lauren. Yes, he committed fraud—although like Robin Hood, he only took from the rich. And yes, he was a wonderful stepfather who spent a lot of time with you. One side of his personality doesn’t negate the other. You’re in danger of throwing out the baby with the bathwater.”

  She was frowning at him. “I am?”

  “Sounds to me as though he gave you much more than he took away from me. Because he gave you what money can’t buy. Love and security when you desperately needed both.”

  “You’re right,” she said slowly, “he did.”

  “He was an imperfect human being. Just like the rest of us.”

  Even more slowly, she said, “When I called you a destroyer, you looked—well, shattered would be one word. What were you thinking about, Reece?”

  His throat closed. He couldn’t tell her, he’d never talked to anyone about the nightmare scene that had greeted him when he’d come back from the bank machine. His mother, the day before her death eight years ago, had asked him to look after Clea. But Reece had failed and Clea had died.

  He came back to himself to realize that Lauren had stepped closer, her hand resting on his sleeve, her face gentled by compassion. “Please tell me.”

  “I can’t,” he said in a raw voice.

  “You can trust me.”

  Her eyes, turquoise as the sea that glimmered through the window, were full of pleading. He’d never trusted anyone but Clea with his emotions, he realized with a shock of surprise. And then she’d died and he’d closed down.

  Now Lauren was asking him to extend that same trust to her. “How can I trust you? We’ve known each other less than two weeks.”

  “We did go to bed together yesterday.”

  Feeling obscurely angry, he retorted, “It’s one thing to strip my body. Another to strip my soul.”

  “For me, the two go together.”

  “For you, maybe.”

  Compassion, he noticed, had been replaced with what could only be called distance. She said flatly, “Then we have nothing more to say to each other. When I’ve cashed that cheque, I’ll send you another for the full amount. And when I’ve sold the studio, I’ll do the same thing.”

  “If you put your studio on the market, I’ll buy it and deed it back to you.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Try me. Nor will I accept any money from this house.”

  “Reece, I’m trying my best to make amends.”

  “You don’t have to—don’t you get it?”

  “You just can’t accept money from a woman.”

  “And where will you work if you sell your studio? On the street? Show a little common sense, for God’s sake.”

  “I’ll rent a space. I’ll manage, I always have.”

  “And what if you’re pregnant?” Reece said nastily. “Have you thought of that?”

  She paled. “No…”

  “Are you on the Pill?”

  “Of course not. I told you I hadn’t slept with anyone since Sandor.” Distraught, she added, “It all happened so fast, I didn’t even think about protection.”

  “Nor did I. For which I take full responsibility. Don’t you see, Lauren, we’re tied together, we can’t just go our separate ways. I want to make love to you again, so that—”

  “No!”

  She’d taken a step backward into a pool of sunlight, her hand warding him off; predominant among the emotions churning in his chest was hurt. He said, “I know I—”

  “The bargain’s over, I’ll send you a cheque and you can give it to a home for stray cats for all I care.”

  She meant it, he thought sickly. She really didn’t want anything more to do with him. Feeling as though he’d been knifed in the ribs, determined not to show he was bleeding, he allowed anger to overwhelm the pain. He was damned if he was going to beg. He’d never had to before, and he wasn’t going to start now. Kiss her into submission? No, thanks. If she wasn’t willing, to hell with her. He said harshly, “I’ll call you in a month or so to find out if you’re pregnant. You’d better hope you’re not—I’d hate for you to have someone you despise as the father of your child.”

  The light was shining mercilessly on her face; beneath her anger, she looked strained and stubborn. She couldn’t wait to get him out of her life, he thought savagely. But what did he care? He’d never gone where he wasn’t wanted, and he wasn’t going to change that for a sculptor with enormous talent, tangled hair and a body that obsessed him. “Goodbye, Lauren,” he said with formal precision, and without waiting for her to reply, turned and left the house.

  This was going to be the shortest car rental in history, he thought, climbing in and driving away. But maybe he’d needed to see Lauren to realize there was nothing there for him. The only connection left between them was a cheque he neither needed nor wanted; and a possible pregnancy whose ramifications he couldn’t even begin to contemplate.

  Not much for the week they’d spent together.

  Painfully little.

  But why would he want more?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  LAUREN turned the music up another notch. The studio was crowded, the wine and beer were flowing, and everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time. Except for her.

  It was just under a week since Reece had visited her in the house she’d inherited from Wallace. The sale had gone through without a hitch, and yesterday she’d mailed a cheque for three hundred thousand dollars to Reece’s London headquarters. She’d sounded out a real estate agent about selling her studio, although something had stopped her from actually putting it on the market. The certainty that Reece would indeed buy it?

  The buzzer sounded again; a few moments later Sam walked in the door. He was carrying a bouquet of Calla lilies that he presented to her with a flourish, and a bottle of very good wine. Above the noise, she teased, “Maybe we should hide that in the cupboard, most of this crew have passed the stage where they’d appreciate it. Lovely flowers, thanks.”

  “They reminded me of miniature sculptures,” he said, and kissed her cheek. “Sorry I’m late, I got held up in a meeting. You’re looking altogether ravishing.”

  She was wearing a pencil-slim long skirt with a glittering gilt top that hugged her breasts; her hair was a mass of curls around her face. She was giving the party for two reasons: to celebrate the sale of a major work, and to cheer herself up. She felt far from ravishing; but no one need guess that. “Thank you,” she said. “Come along and I’ll introduce you to some of my friends.”

  “How about I dance with you first?” Sam said, dumping the lilies and the wine on the counter and steering her toward the expanse of hardwood floor under the high rafters of her studio. Edging his way through the crowd, he took her in his arms. “Nice to see you…is your stint as Reece’s hostess done with?”

  Lauren missed a step. “Yes.”

  Sam looked at her quizzically. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about?”

  “I am not.”

  “He dropped in on our meeting tonight—that’s why I was late. He looked like hell.”

&n
bsp; “You mean he’s in the city?” she squawked. “Did you tell him you were coming here?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good,” she said with heartfelt gratitude.

  “Lauren, Reece is a thoroughly decent guy—even if he does come across as a bit autocratic.”

  “A bit? He invented the word. Besides, he’s completely out of touch with his emotions.”

  It was Sam’s turn to miss a step. “If he is, there are good reasons.”

  “So tell me what they are.”

  “He’s the only one who can do that.”

  “I’ll be a cranky old woman of ninety-nine before it happens.”

  “Why don’t you just ask him?”

  “I have. No dice.”

  “Try again.”

  “As I told him I never want to see him again, that might be a little difficult.”

  “Two autocrats,” Sam said dryly.

  “I am not!”

  “Could have fooled me. By the way, a guy wearing a purple sarong is letting in more people—that okay with you?”

  “My parties always seem to get a bit out of hand…too many starving artists, I guess.”

  “Hey,” said Sam, “guess who’s just come in the door?”

  Alerted by something in his voice, Lauren jerked her head around. Across the width of the crowded, noisy studio, her eyes met Reece’s. Met and clashed, his a blaze of blue. His formal business suit was an interesting contrast to the sarong, she thought faintly, and tried without success to pull her gaze away.

  “He looks a touch out of sorts,” Sam said cheerfully. “Why don’t we go over and say hello?”

  Lauren clutched his sleeve. “No way!”

  “Lauren, you can have a scene with him in the middle of the dance floor, or you can have it over by the door. Your choice.”

  “I am not having a scene with Reece Callahan anywhere. Least of all at my party.”

  “Tell him that.”

  “Anyway, you don’t have to sound so delighted at the prospect of the two of us going at each other tooth and nail.”

  With sudden seriousness, Sam went on, “You and Reece are made for each other. Although by the looks of it, neither one of you wants to admit it.”

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Sam eased her past a couple so blatantly and blissfully entwined that Lauren averted her eyes, aware of a stab of pure envy. “You’re just the woman Reece needs,” Sam persisted. “And you’re not exactly indifferent to him.”

  “I’m not indifferent to tarantulas.”

  Sam laughed, shoving through the melee around the bar. “Nearly there. I noticed a gorgeous blonde over by the window, I’m going to check her out. But holler if you need me.”

  “Gee, thanks a lot,” Lauren said, and found herself planted in front of Reece. He looked no more pleased to see her than she him. Sam said with infuriating calmness, “Nice to see you, Reece. Women like it when you smile at them, ever notice that?”

  “Keep your advice to yourself and why didn’t you tell me you were coming here?” Reece said with dangerous softness.

  “You didn’t ask. See you, Lauren.”

  Determined to seize the initiative, Lauren said, “Reece, if you came here hoping for a major row or a cozy two-some, you’ve got the wrong night and the wrong woman.”

  “Why did Sam bring you over here?”

  “Oh, he thinks you and I are made for each other.”

  A muscle tightened in Reece’s jaw. “It’s time he took a vacation—his brain’s addled.”

  “So if you don’t think we’re made for each other, why are you here?”

  “Are you pregnant?”

  Her lashes flickered. “It’s too soon to tell and I don’t think you came here to ask that,” she retorted. Someone had turned her CD player to top volume; as the party eddied and swirled throughout the studio, she and Reece could have been isolated on a desert island for all the attention they were getting.

  Reece shoved his hands in his pockets and said in a raw voice, “I came because I want to make love to you again, Lauren. I’m sorry about the last time—I should never have gone near you at the yacht club knowing my colleagues were waiting in the other room, I must have been out of my mind. But when I saw you with that towel slipping from your breasts, I just plain lost it.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know if any of that makes sense to you, and I don’t really expect you to forgive me.”

  Her temper died. She knew in her bones Reece was being as honest as he knew how; and responded with a matching honesty. “Reece, for my own reasons, I don’t want to make love to you again. But thank you for apologizing, I needed that.”

  “Why don’t you want to?” he said hoarsely. “I swear it would be different this time.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, her gilt top shimmering in the dim light. She might as well tell him the whole truth; he’d probably guessed it anyway. “I hated sex with Sandor—he called me frigid, and he was right. So the other day in bed with you was simply a confirmation of everything he’d ever told me.” She bit her lip. “I couldn’t bear to make love with you again—don’t you see? I couldn’t bear to.”

  “My God,” Reece said softly. “So he did that to you, too?”

  “He didn’t do it—I was the one with the problem.”

  “He was totally wrong for you.”

  “It’s so ridiculous that he accused me of promiscuity,” she burst out. “Why would I go to bed with other men when everything I’d learned from him told me to steer clear of sex?”

  Very gently Reece rested his hands on her shoulders. She flinched from his touch, unable to help herself, and saw his face contract. “Listen to me,” he said forcefully. “Remember that kiss in Vancouver? Remember the night I carried you into my bedroom? I know you desired me that night, I saw it, I felt it. We can do that again, we can prove Sandor wrong. Provided you’ll trust me.”

  She shook her head, her eyes downcast. “I’m afraid to.”

  “I swear I’ll be as good to you as I know how. And if at anytime you want to stop, you have only to say so.”

  Ducking her head, she mumbled, “I’m crying again. I don’t know what it is about you, but I’m like a leaky watering can.” In sudden defiance she looked up, tears clinging to her lashes. “Anyway, why would you want to do that? Go to bed with a woman who doesn’t enjoy sex? Sounds like masochism to me.”

  “Because I’m ninety-nine percent sure you’ll enjoy it with me,” he said with a crooked smile that made one tear plop to her cheek. “And if that makes me sound conceited as hell, so be it.”

  “And what if I do like it?” she cried. “You kiss me goodbye and take off for Cairo on the first flight?”

  “Now that I’ve started delegating, I might just continue.”

  Panic closed her throat. “I don’t know which scares me more—that I’ll hate it or I’ll love it.”

  “You’ve got to trust me, Lauren—that’s partly what this is about. The other person you’ve got to trust is yourself.”

  The heat from his fingers seeped through the flimsy gilt fabric; the force of his personality beat against her defenses. “Trust goes both ways,” she said slowly. “How did your sister die, Reece?”

  Involuntarily his nails dug into her shoulders. Then, with a complete absence of emotion, he said, “I left her on the sidewalk in Chicago while I went to a bank machine. She was shot down and robbed. The last thing my mother asked me to do before she died was to look after Clea.”

  A series of nightmare images flickered through Lauren’s brain, vivid, terrible and ineradicable. Instinctively she put her arms around Reece’s waist and held him as tightly as she could. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  “It’s five years ago now.”

  “But you never talk about it.”

  “What’s the point?”

  She said intuitively, “Sam knows…doesn’t he?”

  “Sam was Clea’s boyfriend.
”

  So that was why Sam had come so quickly to Reece’s defense. “He never told me.”

  “I asked him not to.”

  Suddenly exhausted, letting her hands drop to her sides, she said helplessly, “No wonder you shut down your emotions.”

  He said flatly, “You see why I don’t tell people—look how it’s upset you.”

  “That’s no reason not to tell me,” she flashed.

  “It’s every reason, I would have thought.”

  She stated the obvious. “You loved her.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Lauren—drop it, will you?”

  His eyes were hooded; she knew she’d get nothing more from him about Clea. “So where do we go from here?” she asked with careful restraint.

  “Start hiding all the beer in the hopes everyone’ll go home,” he said promptly. “So we can go to bed with each other.”

  She gazed up at him. He’d loved Clea and Clea had died. More as a statement than a question, Lauren said, “But you don’t love me.”

  “I want to undo the harm I did at the yacht club—especially now I know the circumstances.”

  Her decision would change her whole life, Lauren was under no illusions about that. Change it for better or for worse. “I—I’ve got to pay some attention to this party,” she muttered. “Put some food out. Make the coffee.”

  “So what’s your answer?”

  He’d removed his hands from her shoulders, as though he scorned to use touch as a weapon to plead his cause. And he was giving her the chance—as Charlie had said—to rid herself of Sandor once and for all.

  But only a chance. Not a certainty.

  Under the cover of some astonishingly raucous rap music, Lauren mumbled, “Yes.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Yes—I will,” she yelled just as someone turned the music off.

  Her words rang under the rafters. Heads turned, a ripple of laughter ran through her guests, and the man in the purple sarong, whose name Lauren had never caught, waved a beer bottle over his head and yelled back, “I’ve been waiting all evening for you to say that, my darlin’.”