Millionaire's Woman

“It’s imperative that you be present. Donors like to see the people involved before they give money.”

“They can see your sister and you.”

His eyes narrowed. “I can also be a very bad enemy.”

She gaped at him. “Are you threatening me now?”

“I’m only trying to ensure the foundation is a success,” he said smoothly. “I’ve invested a lot of money in it.”

“Yeah, right. I suppose I have no choice, then.” She glared at him. “Tell me, do you always have to blackmail women into a date?”

“No,” he said grimly. “You’re the first.”

“You should never have made me go through with this,” Doreen Tarrington hissed at Garek as she smiled and nodded at a couple helping themselves to shrimp and prosciutto appetizers. “It’s going to be a disaster.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Garek drawled in a bored tone. His sister had been nagging at him ever since he’d ordered her to go ahead with the dinner party. She’d whined and complained and dragged her sizeten feet, but in the end, when faced with the prospect of paying the cost of her next facelift herself, she’d reluctantly agreed.

“I warn you, Garek,” Doreen said in threatening accents, “if that tawdry little girlfriend of yours or her car-toon-character friend embarrass me in front of my friends I will never speak to you again.”

Garek thought of several unkind responses, but managed to restrain himself. His object wasn’t to be at odds with his sister all evening. “I’m sure Ellie and Caspar will behave in a perfectly normal manner,” he responded, his gaze turning to the couple in question.

A slight frown creased his forehead. He hadn’t expected Ellie to bring Caspar along. Apparently, Stacy Hatfield had told Ellie to choose an artist for the guests to meet. That would have been fine—if Ellie had picked just about anyone other than Roberto’s friend.

Originally, when Garek’s only purpose was to punish his sister, he would have been delighted by Caspar’s presence. Now, he only wanted everything to go smoothly.

Looking at Caspar’s gangly form and Ellie’s overly bright smile and stiff back, he began to suspect that he’d made a few miscalculations…

Suddenly, Ellie turned her head and her gaze met his. Even across the crowded room, he could see the way her eyes flashed.

The dinner bell rang. She looked away and began to move with the other guests toward the dining room.

Garek followed, aware of a slight sense of trepidation.

Ellie didn’t want to be there. She didn’t want to be in this ugly, overly ornate house, with its fussy details and chairs and sofas that seemed to shout, “We are expensive pieces of furniture!” She did not want to talk and try to be polite to the snobbish Mrs. Tarrington whose nose quivered every time she came near and who seemed to regard her like an insect she’d found in her salad. And, most of all, she didn’t want to be sitting in this dining room, eating bouillabaisse, forced to look at Garek Wisnewski every time she raised her gaze from her soup.

She glared across the table at him, but he didn’t appear to notice, so deep in conversation was he with Amber Bellair, his blond ex-girlfriend. Amber’s “little black dress” made Ellie’s simple blue frock look like something from a thrift store—which, in fact, it was.

Garek, in his dark suit that fit snugly across his shoulders, made the perfect companion for the blonde—although the garish colors of the tie Ellie had given him for his birthday clashed horribly with Amber’s simple elegance. Why was he wearing it? To remind Ellie how naive and stupid she’d been when she’d given it to him?

She couldn’t imagine what he hoped to gain by this whole charade. She didn’t believe for a second his sorry excuse that he just wanted to be “friends.” More likely he wanted to continue with his plan to annoy his sister.

Well, she had no intention of cooperating. No matter how rude Mrs. Tarrington was.

Ellie looked a little anxiously at Caspar, who was sitting at the opposite end of the table. She’d originally intended to bring one of the gallery artists, but she’d felt obliged to warn them that the hostess did not care for contemporaryart, and in fact was openly hostile toward it. They’d all refused to attend—no big surprise there. Caspar, however, had begged to come, saying that it was his big chance to make contact with some people who might buy his work. She’d been so angry at Garek, she’d finally agreed, thinking that the whole evening would be a farce, anyway. She’d thought that Garek and Doreen would probably like the ex-convict’s vapid paintings.

But now Ellie regretted her temper. She hated to subject any artist—however questionable his talent—to Garek’s snobbish sister. Fortunately, Caspar seemed oblivious to Doreen’s gibes, and the other guests weren’t as bad as Ellie had expected. Most of them, in contrast to their hostess, were very friendly. In fact, many were genuinely interested in art, and one or two were even extraordinarily knowledgeable.

But then there were a few…

Brandon Carlyle, apompous, middle-aged lawyer, was presently telling everyone about his favorite restaurant.

“There’s a place at the foot of the Swiss Alps,” he droned at a peculiarly slow speed, “that I highly recommend. The food is all of the finest quality. They serve blue oxtail soup seasoned and cooked to perfection. I’ve had blue oxtail soup in New York and in Paris, but in my opinion, it’s not quite as good.”

“Oh, come on, Brandon.” Sam Kroner, a man in his middle thirties with blond hair and smiling blue eyes, leaned forward to address the other man. “The best food is always the food you catch yourself. When Bonnie and I were on vacation in Alaska, we caught a trout that was the best I’ve ever tasted. Isn’t that right, BonBon?”

Sam’s wife nodded. “The only bad part was cleaning it—”

“The best fish I ever had was in Hawaii,” Doreen interrupted, her loud voice carrying clearly to where Ellie sat halfway down the table. “It was absolutely delicious. Remember, Amber? You and Garek had dinner at that little place in Honolulu once, I believe.”