The Mistress Deal. Sandra Field

said in a level voice, “I won’t sleep with you, Mr. Callahan.”

      “I’m not asking you to, Miss Courtney.”

      “Soiled goods,” she said bitterly.

      “As you say.”

      Briefly she closed her eyes. “Then what do you want of me?”

      “You could be of use to me for the next week or so—after that I’m off to London and Cairo. But while I’m here, I have a number of engagements that mix business with pleasure, never my favorite way of operating but sometimes it’s unavoidable. I’d want you to pose as my companion. My lover, to put it bluntly. I can’t imagine you’d find that difficult.”

      Her response came from a deep place she couldn’t have named or ignored. “No! I’m a sculptor—not a call girl.”

      “Either you want to protect your stepfather, or you don’t. Which is it?”

      His voice was clipped, utterly emotionless. She flashed, “Why would you want to be seen with someone whose reputation’s not much better than a call girl’s?”

      “Because you interest me.”

      “Oh, that’s just lovely. As if I’m a stock market quote. Or a microchip.”

      “You’re a very talented woman. As well you know. You’re also articulate, well-dressed and pretty enough for my purposes. In other words, you’ll do. So which is it, Miss Courtney—yes or no?”

      Pretty enough, she thought in true fury. She wasn’t just pretty, she was beautiful: without a speck of vanity she knew this, for her mirror and the rest of the world had told her so often enough. But to Mr. Ice-Water-In-His-Veins Callahan she was merely pretty.

      Not that that was the real issue, Lauren realized hastily.

      She dragged her thoughts back to Wallace, his quicksilver smile and ready laughter, the way that his rare and always delightful visits had rescued her from an adolescence that had been rife with real unhappiness. Her mother had resented her burgeoning beauty, while her mother’s third husband had despised her budding talent; between them, they had made her teenage years a misery. She’d left home the week she’d graduated from high school; it had been Wallace who’d seen to it that she hadn’t starved in a garret during the years when she’d been studying at art school, sculpting all hours of the night, and gradually unearthing her own strengths.

      And weaknesses. Of which Sandor was the prime example.

      This was no time to think about Sandor. She said carefully, “Let me get this straight. For one week you want me to publicly pretend I’m your mistress.” She flicked her eyes up and down his expensive suit, letting them linger on his silk tie, which bore the crest of a very distinguished university. “While you may not be my idea of the ideal date, there must be lots of women who’d bypass your personality in favor of your money. Since I can’t believe you’re offering this out of the kindness of your heart, I wonder why you’ve chosen me to come to your rescue?”

      To her intense fury, he gave a bark of laughter. “Your tongue’s got a bite like sulfuric acid.”

      “All the more reason for you to avoid me.”

      “Oh, I think I can handle you.”

      Discovering a profound wish to knock him off balance, she said sweetly, “You’re forgetting something. You’re a big name, with your mergers and your innovations and your huge profits—don’t think I hadn’t done my research. As for me, I had a major show in London last year, and I have a growing reputation in the States. If you and I pose as lovers, the press will have a field day. There will be gossip, Mr. Callahan. Lots of lovely gossip.”

      “So your answer’s no.” He moved toward the door. “Don’t forget to buy Wednesday’s paper, will you? You’ll see a whole new side to your stepfather, and—trust me—it won’t be based on gossip.”

      She couldn’t bear that. She couldn’t. Her only alternative was to toe the line. Do as Reece Callahan had proposed. Because Lauren was under no illusions; even if she could afford to sue Reece, and even if by some remote chance she won, the damage would have been done. Wallace’s name would always be linked with dishonor. She said coldly, “I was merely pointing out the pitfalls of your course of action.”

      “How altruistic of you.”

      “If I do this, it would be an act. Only an act. In private I wouldn’t allow you to come within ten feet of me.”

      “You’re assuming I’d want to.”

      Her breath hissed between her teeth. “Tell me precisely what you’d require of me.”

      “You’d stay in my condo near Stanley Park. On Saturday you’d go with me to a cocktail party and dinner that I’m hosting. One of my CEOs is laboring under the delusion that his daughter would make me a fine wife. Your presence will disabuse him of that notion. Then on Sunday there’s a private dinner party at the home of a man I’m thinking of bringing on board. Unfortunately his wife is more interested in me than in her husband’s career. You’ll give her the message I’m not available. Two days later we’ll fly to my house in Whistler—I don’t often go there this time of year, I use it mainly for skiing in February. But I’ll be doing business with some Japanese software experts—and you’d host their wives. Then we go to a yacht club off the east coast of Vancouver Island, where I’m to meet an associate in the commodity market. After that, it’s back here and you can go your own way.” He paused. “Eight days, not counting tomorrow.”

      Lauren’s adventurous spirit, never much in abeyance, quickened. She’d heard of Whistler, the luxurious ski resort north of the city; and she’d never been to Vancouver Island, set like a green jewel in the waters of the Pacific Ocean. Keeping her face impassive, she said, “I get the message. Because you’re rich, a lot of women are after you.”

      He raised one brow. “You could call it an occupational hazard.”

      She almost smiled, feeling the first twinge of liking for him. Shoving it down, she said crisply, “If I choose to do this, I need to make something clear—I’m not after you, no matter how much money you have. In public, I’ll do my best to convince the world that you and I are madly in love. In private, I’ll require a room of my own and strict boundaries around my privacy.”

      “I assure you,” Reece said silkily, “that will be no problem.”

      He found her undesirable. A turnoff. That’s what he meant. Stifling a surge of rage as fierce as it was irrational, Lauren said, “I’d also require a signed statement from you that you would never, directly or indirectly, damage my stepfather’s name.”

      “Providing you keep to the terms of our agreement.”

      Her turquoise eyes flung themselves like waves of the sea against the hard planes of his face. “I would. I promise.”

      “So you’re saying you’ll do it?”

      She bit her lip. “We’d never bring it off—it’s so obvious we don’t like each other.”

      “You’re being too diplomatic. Mutual antipathy—wouldn’t that be a more accurate description?”

      “It would, yes,” she snapped. “Plus, to put it bluntly, you don’t look like you could act your way out of a paper bag.”

      “You let me worry about that,” he retorted. “Yes or no? Eight days of your time or your stepfather’s reputation—which is it to be?”

      “I’ll do it,” she said. “You’ve known all along that I would.”

      “So you’re astute as well as talented.”

      “You’re getting a bargain,” she mocked.

      “We’ll see,” he said dryly. “In addition to our basic agreement, I’ll require you to sign a