The Mistress Deal

“So, Miss Courtney—yes or no?”

“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. “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.”

Although born in England, SANDRA FIELD has lived most of her life in Canada; she says the silence and emptiness of the north speak to her particularly. While she enjoys traveling, and passing on her sense of a new place, she often chooses to write about the city that is now her home. Sandra says, “I write out of my experience. I have learned that love with its joys and its pains is all-important. I hope this knowledge enriches my writing, and touches a chord in you, the reader.”

The Mistress Deal
Sandra Field

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

ON THE other side of that door was the enemy.

Lauren Courtney took a deep breath, smoothing the fabric of her skirt with her palm. The enemy. The man who had evidence—entirely fabricated evidence—of a fraud supposedly perpetrated by Lauren’s beloved stepfather. Wallace Harvarson a liar? A cheat? Lauren would as soon believe the sun rose in the west.

But Reece Callahan, owner of the huge telecommunications company whose headquarters were in this glittering building in Vancouver, apparently did believe the sun rose in the west. So it was up to Lauren to set him straight. To protect Wallace’s reputation now that her stepfather was dead and could no longer speak for himself. That she was gaining entrance to the Callahan stronghold under false pretenses was unfortunate, but necessary; she was under no illusions that a man as ruthless and successful as Reece Callahan would see her otherwise.

Lauren straightened her shoulders, catching a quick glimpse of her reflection in the tall plate-glass windows that overlooked English Bay from the seventh floor. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a cluster of curls that bared her nape; her suit, a designer label, was severely styled in charcoal-gray, the skirt slit at the back; her blouse was a froth of white ruffles. Italian leather pumps, silver jewelry and dramatic eyeshadow: she’d do. Under normal circumstances she wouldn’t be caught dead in charcoal-gray; primary colors were more her forte. But she’d decided back in New York that she needed to look both elegant and composed for this interview. That her heart was pumping rather too fast under her tailored lapel was her secret. A secret she intended to keep.

The receptionist opened the paneled oak door and said politely, “Mr. Callahan, Miss Lauren Courtney is here to see you.”

As Lauren stepped inside and the door closed behind her, Reece Callahan got to his feet and walked around his massive mahogany desk, his hand outstretched. “This is indeed a pleasure, Miss Courtney. At your gallery opening in Manhattan last year, when I purchased two of your sculptures, I unfortunately arrived too late to meet you.”

While his handclasp was strong, his smile was a mere movement of his lips; his eyes, ice-blue, didn’t melt even fractionally. His face was strongly hewn, with a hard jawline, a cleft chin and arrogant cheekbones that instantly Lauren itched to sculpt. His hair, thick with the suggestion of a curl kept firmly under control, was a darker brown than hers. The color of his desk, she thought, polished and sleek.

His body—well, she’d like to sculpt that, too, she realized, her mouth suddenly dry. Beneath his impeccably tailored business suit, she sensed a honed muscularity, a power all the more effective for being hidden.

A cold man. A hard man. Definitely not a man to respond to an appeal to sentiment. Yet sentiment, she thought in sudden despair, was the only weapon she had. He was also several inches taller than her five-foot-nine; she wasn’t used to looking so far up, to feeling small, and in consequence at a disadvantage. She didn’t like it. Not one bit. Steeling herself, knowing Reece Callahan was indeed the enemy, Lauren detached her fingers from his clasp and said coolly, “I hope you’re still enjoying the pieces you purchased?”

“They wear well. I’ve always liked works in bronze, and yours are particularly fine.”

Even though she’d fished for the compliment, it pleased her. “Thank you,” she said.

“I’m always glad when my investments do well. The prices you’re commanding are escalating very nicely.”

Her smile was wiped from her face. “Is that why you bought those bronzes? As an investment?”

“Why else?”

“Not because they spoke to your soul?”

His short laugh held nothing of amusement. “You’ve got the wrong man.”

He’d said a mouthful there. On the basis of the past couple of minutes, Reece Callahan didn’t have a soul. But wrong man or not, Lauren was stuck with him. Striving to regain her calm, she said politely, “May I sit down?”

“By all means. Can I get you a coffee?”

“No, thanks.” She sat down gracefully in a leather chair, crossing her knees in a swish of silk. “I’m afraid I’ve obtained this meeting under false pretenses, Mr. Callahan. This isn’t a social visit to discuss my work.”

“You surprise me—I’d been assuming you were here to solicit a commission. Hawking your wares, so to speak.”

Her lashes flickered. “I’ve never done that yet and see no reason why I should start with you.”

“How admirably high-minded of you.”

It wasn’t part of her strategy to lose her temper before she’d even broached the reason for her visit. Lauren said with a smile as detached as his, “You wouldn’t have invested in two of my pieces if you hadn’t thought me talented. And even in the worst of times, I’ve never allowed the whims of the rich to dictate my creativity.”

“Then why are you here, Miss Courtney? The rich may be whimsical, but they also have responsibilities. I, in other words, have a great deal to do today and I’d prefer you to come to the point.”

Because he was leaning against the side of his desk, she was forced to look up at him. Her mistake to have sat down, Lauren thought, and said evenly, “I’ve picked up a rumor—a very distasteful one. I’m trusting you’ll reassure me it’s nothing but a rumor. In which case I can be out of here in three seconds flat.”

She had his full attention; he rapped, “I have much more important things to do with my time than spread rumors. Gossip of any kind has never appealed to me.”

“I’ve heard you’re about to publish evidence of fraud on the part of Wallace Harvarson.”

He raised one brow. “Ah…now that’s no rumor.”

Her nails dug into her leather purse. “You cannot possibly have such evidence.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He was my stepfather, he would never have been dishonest—I adored him.”

“That says more about your lack of perception than about the morals of Wallace Harvarson…clearly you’re a better sculptor than a judge of character.”

“I knew him through and through!”

“You didn’t change your last name to his, though.”

“He was my mother’s second husband,” Lauren said tightly. “My own father died when I was three. Although she divorced Wallace when I was twelve, he and I stayed in touch over the years. As you no doubt know, he died fourteen months ago. Obviously he can’t defend himself against this ridiculous charge. So I’m here to do so in his place.”

“And what form does this defense take?”

She leaned forward, speaking with passionate intensity. “My own knowledge of the kind of man he was. Altogether I knew him for nineteen years, and I can tell you it’s impossible he would have lied and cheated and stolen money.”

“My dear Miss Courtney, that’s a very touching response. Although a few tears might improve it. Tears or no, such a reply is meaningless in a court of law. I plan to publish the legal evidence for Wallace Harvarson’s fraud next week, and in so doing clear the name of one of my companies. I will not tolerate being seen in the business world as less than honest. Which was your stepfather’s legacy to me.”

Appalled, she whispered, “Publish it? You can’t mean that!”

“I mean every word.” Reece Callahan drew back his sleeve, looking at his gold watch. “If that’s all you have to say, I think we can profitably terminate this interview.”

With swift grace, Lauren got to her feet. “If you publish such outright lies about my stepfather, I’ll sue you for defamation of character.”

“Please don’t—you’d be laughed out of court. Besides, do you have any idea what that would cost you?”

“Does everything come down to money with you?”

“In this case, yes—Wallace Harvarson milked my company of five hundred thousand dollars.”

“What’s the truth, Mr. Callahan? That you made a bad business decision that cost you half a million and now you’re looking for a scapegoat?”

“You go public with a statement like that and I’ll be the one suing you,” he said in a voice like steel. “My secretary will see you out.”

“I’m not leaving until you promise you won’t drag my stepfather’s name through the mud for your own ends!”

He straightened, taking a step toward her. “You really do have gall, Miss Courtney. I happen to know you bought your studio with your inheritance from your stepfather, and that you’re still the owner of a very nice little property on the coast of Maine that belonged to him.”

Her brain made a lightning-fast leap. “You’ve known all along that I’m Wallace’s stepdaughter?”

“I always research the artists I’m investing in—it makes good business sense.”

“So you’ve been leading me on ever since I got here—how despicable!”

“That label belongs to you rather than me. You’re the one who’s been living off the proceeds of fraud. I suppose it beats doing the starving-sculptor-in-a-garret routine. Even if your artistic integrity is a touch tarnished.”

White with rage, Lauren spat, “My integrity isn’t the issue here—what about yours? Smearing the reputation of a dead man in the full knowledge that I can’t possibly hire the kind of lawyers you can afford…doesn’t that give your conscience even the smallest twinge?”

His blue eyes were fastened on her face; he said in a peculiar voice, “You really do believe he’s innocent, don’t you?”

“Of course I do! Do you think I’d be wasting my time, let alone yours, if I thought for one moment Wallace could have done anything so underhanded?”

“Then I’m sorry. Because you’re in for a rude awakening. And now I really must ask you to leave—I have an appointment in ten minutes.”

Hating herself for doing so, knowing she had no other choice, Lauren swallowed her pride. “Is there nothing I can do to make you change your mind?”

“Not a thing.”

“There must be something…”

His eyes like gimlets, he said, “I’m surprised, with your reputation, that you haven’t offered the obvious.”

Lauren flushed. “My sexual reputation, you mean?”

“Precisely.”

Her fists were clenched at her sides so hard the knuckles were white. “So you researched that, too. And along with the rest of the world, you believed every word the gutter press printed about me. Fabrications my mentor Sandor fed his journalist friends. Yet you’re the one who says he doesn’t believe in gossip?”

“Your mentor’s highly respected.”

“Whereas I was a mere upstart with the kind of looks the press adores. Do you wonder why I’m begging you not to publish all these lies about Wallace? I know the power of the media to ruin reputations…know it and fear it and have suffered from it.”

“When I arrived at your gallery last year, you were leaving by another door. Arm in arm with two men, no less. I doubt that your lack of morals is just gossip invented by a vengeful ex-lover.”

Her shoulders sagged. “I didn’t come here to defend myself against promiscuity,” she said in a low voice. “Neither did I come to say I’d sleep with you if you promised not to publish.”

“So why didn’t you sue Sandor—your ex-lover, your ex-teacher, your mentor—if he was lying?”

“It was four years ago,” she blazed. “At that time I’d sold exactly two pieces in my whole life—I wasn’t into selling then, I knew I hadn’t reached the point where I wanted my stuff out there in the real world—as it happens, I do have artistic integrity, Mr. Callahan. Short of asking Wallace for money, I didn’t have one cent to rub against another. And lawyers come expensive. As you know.”

“Indeed.” Hands in his pockets, Reece looked her up and down with a deliberation that made her flinch inwardly; she felt as though his ice-cold eyes were stripping her naked. But Lauren had toughened in the years since Sandor had set out to drag her through the gutter personally and artistically; she raised her chin, breathing hard, and said not one word. He said noncommittally, “You’re not dressed cheaply.”

“There are some wonderful secondhand places in Greenwich Village. I know them all.”

“I see.” Casually Reece leaned back against the desk again. “Perhaps I should reconsider.”

In a flash of incredulous hope, she said eagerly, “You mean you believe me about Wallace?”

“That’s not what I mean at all. But there is something you could do for me. A way in which you could be useful to me.”

The light died from her face. “And in return, you wouldn’t publish anything about my stepfather?”

“That’s correct.”

She 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 statement that you’ll never discuss our supposed relationship with the press. Come to this office at three tomorrow afternoon. I’ll have the documents drawn up for us both to sign. You can arrive at my condo at ten tomorrow night—I’m out earlier in the evening.”

“Very well.” Lauren gave him a derisive smile. “I do hope all this acting won’t be too taxing for you.”

“If you’re asking for a demonstration, you’re out of luck. I don’t believe in wasted action.”

She clenched her fists. “Your secretary must know we’re not lovers—that we just met this morning.”

“My secretary is very well paid to keep her mouth shut.”

“Now why should I be surprised?” Lauren said cordially. “Goodbye, Mr. Callahan. I won’t say it’s been a pleasure.”

“Don’t push your luck—the document’s not signed yet.”

She said tartly, “If Wallace is looking down on me from heaven, I hope he appreciates what I’m doing for him.”

“People who cheat and lie don’t go to heaven.” Reece opened the door. “Goodbye.”

They were in full view of his secretary. “Then I guess you won’t go there, either,” Lauren said, reaching up and kissing him on both cheeks. “Goodbye, darling,” she added in a carrying voice. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Pivoting, she smiled at the secretary. “I’ll see myself out,” she said, and walked toward the elevator. The slit in her skirt, she knew, showed her legs rather admirably. To her great satisfaction she heard Reece Callahan’s door snap shut with more force than was required.

At least she’d achieved that much.

Had she ever in her life conceived such an overwhelming dislike for a man? Even Edward, her mother’s third husband, liked dogs and rhododendrons, and laughed loudly at his own jokes. Reece Callahan wouldn’t know how to laugh.

Cold. Hard. Manipulative.

She was going to read both documents very carefully before she signed anything.