The Millionaire's Reward. Angie Ray

paused and she bit her lip. She knew he was manipulating her—but her curiosity was too great to resist. “Let me get my hat and coat and lock up,” she muttered.

      He didn’t have the limousine tonight. Instead, he had a big black Mercedes with soft leather interior. She paid little attention to the luxury, however.

      “What about the gallery?” she asked again when they were driving down the street. “Do you want to buy another painting?”

      “Not exactly.” He turned a corner, avoiding a snowdrift that had spilled out into the street. “Do you own the gallery?”

      “No, Mr. Vogel does.”

      “Ah, then perhaps I should be talking to him.”

      “Not really. He hasn’t been active in managing the gallery since his wife died. He’s elderly, and his health is frail, so he lets me run the gallery for him. He trusts me completely.”

      “Does he? Then obviously I needn’t have any qualms.”

      The dry note in his voice made her bristle, but before she could respond he spoke again. “I’m sorry, but I need to concentrate on my driving. I’ll explain everything over dinner.”

      The request was a reasonable one. The road was treacherous, covered with ice and full of potholes, and the pounding sleet made the visibility poor. But in spite of the conditions, Ellie didn’t quite believe him.

      At the restaurant, they were quickly seated at a table with white linen tablecloths, china and crystal.

      “Have you been here before?” he asked.

      “No. Look, what’s this all about?”

      He picked up the wine list, his eyebrows rising. “Are you always so impatient?”

      “Only when someone is being extremely evasive.”

      His eyes gleamed again in that odd manner. For a moment, she thought he was going to put her off once more, but then he said bluntly, “I’m starting an art foundation and I’m looking for artists to sponsor and a gallery to exhibit their work. I think Vogel’s might be perfect.”

      Ellie leaned back against the cushioned seat and stared at him. Her heart started to pound. A foundation—it could make a world of difference to the gallery. She could hire art photographers, place ads in expensive magazines, attract the notice of critics and collectors who could transform an unknown artist like Tom into an overnight sensation. She could replace the lighting, fix the elevator and install a sculpture garden on the roof the way she’d dreamed….

      The waiter came to the table. While he explained the prix fixe menu for the day, Ellie tried to rein in her excitement. There were a thousand galleries in Chicago, and after speaking with them, what were the chances Wisnewski would choose Vogel’s? Not very high. She needed to convince him that Vogel’s would be the best choice for his foundation to sponsor.

      After the waiter left, she leaned forward again. “Vogel’s would be ideal,” she said earnestly. “Our goal is to encourage a climate of excitement, inquiry and dialogue for progressive art. We look for unconventional pieces that are conceptual and theoretically based. You won’t see similar works at other galleries. Everything we handle is unique. The artists are all extraordinarily creative and innovative. Tom Scarlatti, for example, the man at the showroom when you came in earlier. He painted the canvas you bought. I’m sorry I didn’t introduce you. He’s a little shy. But I can arrange for you to meet him another time—”

      The sommelier approached the table. Ellie tried to contain her impatience while he discussed with Garek the appropriate vintage to complement their meal. Finally the wine had been decided, the bottle brought and the ritual of pouring and tasting finished, and she was able to continue. “With the right kind of support, I believe Tom could become an important new force in the art world—”

      “You appear to think very highly of this Tom Scarlatti,” Garek interrupted.

      “Yes, I do.” She picked up her wineglass. “He’s brilliant, a genius in his own way—”

      “Is he your boyfriend?”

      The wine halfway to her mouth, Ellie paused. She stared at the man sitting across from her.

      Cool gray eyes stared back.

      “No,” she said slowly. “Why do you ask?”

      “Just curious. Surely you must have a man in your life?”

      “Not that it’s any of your business, but no, I don’t.” She set the wine down and gave him a direct look. “I’m not interested in having a relationship right now.”

      The corners of his mouth twitched at her thinly veiled rebuff. “You want to concentrate on your career? I’m surprised.”

      “Why?”

      “Because most women, no matter how much they deny it, are still more interested in finding husbands than in building their careers.”

      She didn’t like his cynical tone or the implied criticism of women. “Really? I’ve experienced exactly the opposite. Most of the men I meet are desperate to get married. Especially the older ones—the ones your age.”

      He straightened a little. “I’m twenty-nine,” he said curtly.

      “Oh?” Lowering her eyes to conceal her smile, she picked up the wine again and sipped it.

      There was a small silence as she drank. “Only a year or two older than you, surely,” he said.

      She set down her glass abruptly.

      The waiter returned and placed a dish on the table. “Baby leeks cooked in their own juices,” he announced.

      “Just what we needed,” Garek said blandly.

      Ellie couldn’t help laughing. “I’m twenty-four,” she admitted. Then, vexed with herself for revealing even this small piece of personal information, she returned to business. “About the gallery—”

      He shook his head. “You don’t need to tell me any more about it. I’ve already made up my mind. And I’ve decided on Vogel’s.”

      For a second, she thought she must have misheard him. But at the same time, she knew she hadn’t. Joy burst inside her. Vogel’s was saved! She wanted to dance on the table, sing at the top of her lungs, reach across the table and kiss Garek Wisnewski right on the mouth….

      Almost as if he could read her mind, his gaze dropped to her lips.

      Her mental celebrations came to a screeching halt. He’d looked at her mouth that way in his office. Right before he told her to contact him if she wanted to “offer” him something.

      She leaned back in her seat, her smile fading.

      What was going on here? This was Garek Wisnewski, the obnoxious jerk who’d knocked her over in the street and grossly insulted her when she came to his office. Garek Wisnewski, the arrogant, money-grubbing businessman who did nothing without calculating the profit. What was the catch?

      Judging from the way he was looking at her mouth, she suspected she knew exactly what the catch was.

      The waiter returned with more food. Ellie waited until he left before she asked quietly, “And what do you want in return?”

      Garek took a bite of the Iowa lamb loin and chewed for what seemed like an awfully long time. “That’s an odd question,” he finally said. “Why does anyone start an art foundation?”

      “Because they love art.”

      “And you don’t think I do?” He offered her some of the braised legumes, but she shook her head. “I told you not to judge me too quickly,” he said.

      He was being evasive. Why? “Why my gallery? You don’t even like me.”

      His eyebrows rose. “What gave