Sandra Field - The Mistress Deal

“In a little village in Austria—way off the beaten track.”

“Would you mind if I made a copy of it? I’d destroy the copy once it was finished.” Very gently she put the carving back in its niche.

“I’ll be out every day,” Reece said. “You can do what you like.”

She glanced up. The shutters were back, she thought in true dismay; his face had closed against her. Her question came from nowhere, the words out before she could stop them. “Did your mother love you, Reece?”

He said with deadly quietness, “You have no right to ask that question and I have no intention of answering it.”

“I guess I—”

“Your room’s at the end of the hall. Do you want anything to eat or drink before you go to bed?”

“I’m not a child to be sent to bed because she’s misbehaved!”

“No. You’re an intrusive and insensitive young woman.”

“If you have problems with my question, then say so. But don’t blame me for asking it.”

“We have a business arrangement—nothing more. Kindly remember that, will you?”

Lauren said evenly, “Years ago, I allowed Sandor to cower me into submission over and over again…and I almost lost myself in the process. I vowed I’d never let that happen again. So don’t try, Reece—it won’t wash.”

“We’re fighting cat-and-dog again. And that’s not in the agreement, isn’t that what you said?”

He was right; she had. “There’s something about you,” she said tightly. “You’re like a chunk of ironwood. Or a length of steel.”

“Just don’t think you can shape me to your ends.”

“Do you despise all women? Or is it just me?”

“You never let up, do you?” he said unpleasantly.

She paled, suddenly remembering the statue in his bedroom. “Oh. You prefer men.”

“I do not prefer men! It’s very simple, Lauren. I’ve got no use for all the posturing and stupidities that masquerade in our society as romance.”

“That carving of the Madonna and child—it’s not about romance. It’s about love.”

“Love—what do you know about love? Do you have a husband? Do you have a child?”

She winced, her face suddenly pinched and pale. “You know I don’t,” she said in a stony voice. “I loved Sandor. But he didn’t want marriage or children. Or me. The real me.”

“You sure know when to pull out all the stops,” Reece said nastily. “You can make tea or coffee in your room. I eat breakfast at six-thirty and I’m gone by seven. I’ll be back tomorrow evening at six, cocktails at seven, dinner afterward. Wear something dressy. Did you buy yourself some clothes?”

“Of course not,” she said shortly.

“You’ve got to look the part, Lauren! As well as act it.”

She took refuge in a matching anger. “I have my own money, and if I need clothes I’ll buy them myself.”

“Do you have to argue about everything?” he snarled.

“With you, yes.”

“I should have asked for character references before I signed that goddamned agreement.”

“Adversity might teach you a thing or two,” she retorted. “I’m going to bed. Good night.”

“Be ready by quarter to seven tomorrow evening.”

“Yes, Reece, I’ll be ready.” And wearing the most outrageous outfit I own, she thought vengefully. She turned away, marching toward the door at the end of the hall, and heard him say behind her, “I’ll bring your case down. And your tools—if you trust me to, that is.”

So much for the grand exit, Lauren thought with a quiver of inner laughter; she’d forgotten about her suitcase. “That far I trust you,” she said.

Her bedroom was painted terra-cotta, the bedspread and drapes in shades of teal blue, the whole effect confident yet full of welcome. Two exquisite Chinese scrolls hung on either side of the marble fireplace, while the shelves held an enviable collection of Ming pottery. Aware through every nerve of Reece’s footsteps as he entered her room, she turned to face him. He said evenly, “That door leads to the bathroom, and the balcony’s over there. I’ll see you tomorrow evening around six or six-thirty.”

He didn’t want to see her in the morning, that was obvious. She leaned over to switch on a lamp, her hair swinging softly around her face. “Enjoy your day,” she said with the merest breath of sarcasm.

For a full five seconds Reece stared at her in silence. She raised her chin, refusing to look away, wishing with all her heart that he’d put a shirt on. Then he said crisply, “Good night, Lauren,” and closed the door with a decisive snap.

Lauren sank down on the wide bed, knowing she’d give almost anything to be back in the unpretentious guest bedroom in Charlie’s apartment. Anything but Wallace’s reputation, she thought unhappily.

Eight days wasn’t long. She could manage. Even if Reece Callahan repulsed and attracted her in equal measure.

It would be a great deal safer if she were indifferent to him.

Lauren woke early the next morning. The sun was streaming through the French doors that led onto the balcony and she knew exactly what she was going to do all day. But she’d need a key to Reece’s condo.

Quickly she dressed in her leggings and sweater. In her bare feet, her hair loose around her face, she hurried down the hall, not even glancing at the statue of the Madonna: she’d have lots of time for that. In the spacious living room, she called, “Reece? Are you up?”

“In the kitchen.”

He didn’t sound exactly welcoming. Pasting a smile on her face, she walked into an ultramodern kitchen equipped with what seemed like acres of stainless steel. Reece was, thank goodness, wearing a shirt. He was munching on a piece of toast, gazing at the papers strewn over one of the counters. She said, “You start early.”

“So, apparently, do you. What do you want?”

“A key—I need to go out this morning.”

“The doorman has an extra, I’ve told him to give it to you.” He shifted one of the papers, making a note with the pen in his free hand.

“That toast smells good,” she said provocatively. “I think I’ll have some.”

“Can’t you wait until I’ve gone?”

“Are you always cranky in the morning?”

“Not with people I like.”

“Try harder,” Lauren said, glaring at him as she headed for the coffee machine.

His voice like a whiplash, he said, “Sandor’s beginning to have all my sympathy.”

The mug she was filling almost slipped from her grasp; scalding liquid splashed the back of her hand. With a gasp of pain, she banged the mug down on the counter and ran for the sink, where she turned on the cold tap and thrust her hand under it. Then Reece was at her side. “Here,” he ordered, “let me see.”

“It’s nothing!”

He took her by the wrist, putting the plug in the sink with his free hand. “You haven’t broken the skin—you’re better off immersing it in cold water.”

The cold water did relieve the pain. Biting her lip, Lauren said, “There’s a moral here—I shouldn’t start fights before I’ve had my caffeine fix.”

“You’re still in love with Sandor.”

Her wrist jerked in his hold like a trapped bird. “It was over years ago, Reece.”

“Which isn’t an answer—as you well know.”

“You’re not getting any other.”

He moved closer to her, his eyes roaming her face. “No makeup,” he said. “The real Lauren Courtney.”

“You’re unshaven,” she responded in a flash, “but do you ever show the real Reece Callahan?”

With sudden deep bitterness he said, “Is there a real Reece Callahan?”

Shocked, she whispered, “If you have to ask the question, then of course there is.”

“Oh, sure,” he said, moving away from her and drying his hands. “Let’s scrap this conversation. Did you say you wanted some toast?”