Millionaire's Woman

Ellie remembered her suspicion when Garek had proposed investing in the gallery. Why hadn’t he admitted it was for his sister?

She remembered something he’d said. You shouldn’t be so quick to judge me.

Ellie picked up a fresh piece of wood. “That was very…kind of him,” she said slowly.

Garek was hard at work late Friday afternoon when the phone rang. Impatiently, he glanced up, his eyes burning from reading the small, tight print of a contract. He had a stack of documents he needed to go through and sign in order to finalize the terms for financing the prospective buyout of Lachland, and he wanted to finish today.

“Yes?” he said curtly into the phone.

“Mrs. Tarrington’s here to see you,” his assistant told him.

Ah, Doreen. He looked down at the contract he’d just signed. The deal with Lachland hadn’t closed yet, but the financing was in place. Doreen didn’t know it yet, but her ace had been trumped.

Garek smiled. “Send her in, Mrs. Grist.”

Doreen came in, wearing a black designer dress with a black-and-white scarf pinned at her shoulder that had the unfortunate effect of making her look sallower than usual. She carried a flat, rectangular box in her blackgloved hands.

“Happy birthday, Garek,” she said, kissing the air by his cheek, then settling herself into the leather chair opposite him.

He sat back down and opened the box. “A tie,” he said. Mustard yellow, emblazoned with a coat of arms, it was uglier than the muddy green one embroidered with a well-known designer’s initials that she’d given him last year. It was even uglier than the putrid maroon-and-gold one she’d given him the year before that, the one she’d accidentally left the half-price sticker on.

“I traced our family tree back to Polish royalty,” Doreen said. “This is our ancestral crest.”

Garek almost laughed. The Wisnewskis were descended from pure peasant stock and Doreen knew it. But he allowed no trace of his thoughts to appear in his expression. “Thank you, Doreen. How was your cruise?”

She coughed a little and her normal foghorn voice weakened. “The cruise was horrible. We sailed through a hurricane and I was sick the whole time. Karen was heartless—she reminds me of you. She had no sympathy for my illness. She lounged around the pool the whole time, flirting with the crewmen. I complained to the captain about allowing employees to fraternize with the guests…but never mind about that.” Her gaze sharpened on him. “I spoke to Ethel this morning. She said she saw you at the symphony with some woman. And at the art exhibit. And at the Cape Cod Room.”

“Ethel ought to be a reporter for the Chicago Trumpeter.” Garek half rose from his chair. “If that’s all, Doreen—”

“No, that’s not all, Garek Wisnewski! Who is this woman?”

Garek reseated himself, biting back a smile. “Her name is Eleanor Hernandez.”

“Hernandez—that sounds Mexican.”

“So it does.”

Silence fell in the office.

Garek leaned back, waiting for the explosion. Doreen had complained frequently about the influx of Mexican immigrants, ignoring him when he pointed out their own grandparents’ parallel circumstances.

Finally, Doreen broke the silence. “I’m glad to see you’re keeping up your end of our bargain.”

He frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“Our bargain,” she repeated. “To start dating a nice girl. Ethel told me she is a perfectly charming young woman.”

Garek made no response. At that particular moment, he was incapable of one.

“Ethel also said that she received an invitation to the silent auction for the art foundation. She told me—confidentially, of course—that her friend on the Social Register committee is very impressed by the foundation. He made a note when Ethel mentioned it to him. It’s possible I’ll be listed in the summer edition. Ethel said it’s going to press in a few weeks—”

“Doreen,” Garek cut her off. “I have to get back to work.” Ignoring her indignant sniffs, he escorted her out of his office, then returned to his desk and sat down, frowning. His plan to teach Doreen a lesson had gone crazily awry. But then, a lot of things hadn’t gone the way he’d expected in the last few weeks. Ever since he’d met Eleanor Hernandez.

His gaze drifted to the canvas hanging on the wall opposite his desk.

Woman in Blue.

He’d intended to give the painting to Ted Johnson—payback for the Lilly Lade painting—but instead, on some incomprehensible impulse, he’d ordered it hung on his office wall.