The Mistress Deal. Sandra Field
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that cliché? If the shoe fits…”
So angry she forgot all caution, Lauren blazed, “If you think for one minute that I’m going to let you walk all over me for eight consecutive days, you’d better think again. Because I’m not. No chance.”
“You look rather more than pretty when you’re angry,” he remarked. “How do you look when you’re making love?”
“You’ll never find out!”
“According to the media, you wouldn’t know how. To make love, I mean. You use a guy, milk him dry, then go on to the next one. Which can hardly be dignified by the word love.” He closed the distance between them, taking her by the shoulders with cruel strength, his eyes boring into hers. “What I don’t understand is how you can create works of art that breathe truth and morality from such a shoddy little soul. Or why, when you’re so extraordinarily talented, you play cheap sexual games to further your career.”
She flinched; in attacking her work, he was stabbing her where she was most vulnerable. She said fiercely, “I came here to sign a couple of documents, not to have my character torn to shreds by a man who wouldn’t recognize an emotion if it hit him in the face. Especially if that emotion was called love.”
As suddenly as he had seized her, Reece let her go. “You don’t have an answer for me, do you?”
“My character and my sculptures are entirely congruent.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
She said with sudden insight, “You know what your problem is? You’re not used to people contradicting you. Especially a woman. I bet you’re surrounded day and night by yes, sir, no, sir, whatever you say, sir. Very bad for you.”
“Whereas you’re surrounded by men who fall all over you, agreeing with every word you say just so long as they end up in your bed.”
Anger flicked along her nerves. She said amicably, “Reece, I’ll spell it out for you again. Please don’t spend the whole week harping on my love affairs—I have a low tolerance for boredom.”
“Is that a challenge, Miss Courtney?”
“It’s a statement of fact.”
“Frankly, I don’t care if you’re bored out of your skull the entire eight days. Just as long as you do what I say.” Reece pulled open a drawer and extracted two sheets of typescript. “Read this. There are two copies, one for each of us. I’ll get my secretary to witness our signatures.”
The document, in carefully worded legalese, said that Lauren Courtney would present herself in the public realm as Reece Callahan’s lover for a period of eight days, and would preserve total confidentiality about the contents of this agreement in perpetuity. In return, Reece Callahan contracted never to publish anything of any nature about Wallace Harvarson, stepfather of the aforesaid Lauren Courtney.
The language, while cumbersome, was clear. Lauren said steadily, “I’m ready to sign if you are.”
Reece folded the papers to hide the text and pressed a buzzer on his desk. A few moments later the secretary walked in. “I’d like you to witness our signatures, Shirley, please,” Reece said. “Lauren?”
Once she signed, she was committed. For a few seconds that felt like hours, Lauren stared at him blankly. Was she mad promising to live for over a week with a man who was the antithesis of everything she believed in? What did she really know about him? Maybe the moment she walked in the door of his condo, he’d fall on her. And what recourse would she have? If she didn’t stay for the full eight days, he’d publish a bunch of scurrilous lies about Wallace. Charlie had tried to warn her that Reece would be a formidable foe. But had Lauren listened? Oh, no.
“Lauren?” Reece said more sharply. “You have to sign in both places.”
Yes, sir, she thought crazily, picked up his platinum pen and signed each copy. Then she watched as Reece added a totally illegible scrawl, and the secretary her ultraneat script. The secretary then left the room, never once having looked Lauren in the eye.
It was done. She was committed.
Reece said irritably, “This is a business deal that will terminate a week from tomorrow. Stop looking at me as though you’ve just married me for life.”
She blurted, “Have you ever been married?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Yes or no will do.”
“No.”
“Neither have I… Sandor had a soul above such petty, bourgeois standards.”
“Lauren,” Reece said coldly, “signing those forms wasn’t a license for true confessions.”
“Wasn’t a license for you to behave like a human being, you mean?”
“We’re not in public. We don’t have to act.”
“If I stuck a pin in you, would you bleed?” she demanded in true exasperation. “Or would ice water drip on the carpet?”
“It irks the hell out of you that I’m not bowled over by you, doesn’t it?”
Truth. That’s what she sought in her work, and that’s how she endeavored to live her life. Lauren said concisely, “You insist on seeing me as something I’m not, and you’ve built such a barrier between yourself and the real world that you treat everything and everyone in terms of either monetary value or functionality. That’s what irks the hell out of me.”
His mouth hardened. He said brusquely, “Here’s my card with my condo address and phone number. I’ve opened a couple of accounts for you downtown in case you need clothes—the details are on this piece of paper. And this is your copy of our agreement. Ten o’clock tonight, Lauren. Please don’t be late.”
Automatically she took the papers he was holding out and shoved them in her purse. “I’ll be there.”
He stepped back, holding her gaze with his own. “One more thing. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
As her jaw dropped, he opened the door. “See you tonight, darling,” he added, giving her a smile of such breathtaking intimacy that her heart lurched in her breast. Speechless, she dragged her eyes away and walked past the secretary like a woman in a dream. The elevator was waiting for her. As the doors slid open, she heard the soft closing of Reece’s door behind her.
You’re pretty enough.
You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
Which was the truth and which was an act? And if she couldn’t tell the difference, what had she let herself in for?
The cab swung into the grounds of Reece’s condo at fifteen minutes to ten that evening. Lauren, though she had difficulty admitting this to herself, hadn’t wanted to be late. In consequence she’d allowed extra time for traffic. Too much time, she realized, paying the taxi driver, and taking her big suitcase from him. She noticed that the grounds had been designed with a Japanese theme, a harmony of rock, fern and shrub overlaid by the gentle ripple of water. An island of peace, Lauren thought, and wished she felt more peaceful.
She felt anything but peaceful.
If she arrived early, would Reece think she was too eager for his company? She could simply stand here for the next ten minutes and admire the garden.
To heck with that. No games, no pretense. She headed for the lobby, where the uniformed desk attendant recognized her name immediately, and called the elevator for her. “Mr. Callahan is expecting you, madam,” he said with a pleasant smile. “The top floor.”
She gave him an equally pleasant smile back, wondering why she should feel like a high-class call girl when she was anything but. The elevator smoothly deposited her outside double doors with exquisite wrought-iron handles; Reece’s