The Mistress Deal. Sandra Field
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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?”
“Yes, please.” Only wanting to lighten the atmosphere, she added, “This is a very intimidating kitchen—I’m what you might call an erratic cook.”
He didn’t smile. “Pull up a stool and I’ll bring you a coffee. Cream and sugar?”
“No cream. Three spoonfuls of sugar.”
“To sweeten you?”
“To kickstart the day. Creativity is enhanced by glucose—at least, that’s my theory.”
He gave his papers a disparaging glance. “With the negotiations I’ve got the next few days, maybe I should try it.”
“Honey’s better than sugar, and maple syrup’s best of all.”
“So you’re a connoisseur of the creative process. You should write a book,” he said dryly, putting her coffee in front of her.
“No time… Do you know what, Reece? We’ve just had a real conversation. Our first.”
“Don’t push your luck,” he rasped, “and don’t see me as a challenge.”
She flushed. “A useless venture?”
“Right on.”
She said deliberately, “I don’t believe you bought every one of the paintings and sculptures in this condo strictly as an investment.”
“You can’t take a hint, can you?” Reece said unpleasantly, taking the bread out of the toaster.
“The Madonna and child? An investment? You bought that statue because in some way it spoke to your heart.”
His back was turned to her; briefly, his body shuddered as though she’d physically struck him. Then he pivoted, closing the distance between them in two quick strides. Towering over her, he dug his fingers into her shoulders. “Stay out of my private life, Lauren. I mean that!”
His eyes were blazing with emotion, a deep, vibrant blue; his face was so close to hers that she could see a small white scar on one eyelid. She’d hit home; she knew it. And found herself longing to take his face between her palms and comfort him.
He’d make burnt toast out of her if she tried. Swallowing hard, Lauren said with total truth, “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
He said harshly, “I’m going to be late for work. If your hand needs attention, the first-aid kit’s in my bathroom cabinet. I’ll see you this evening.” Gathering all his papers in a bundle, he left the kitchen.
Thoughtfully Lauren started to eat her toast. The ice in his eyes had melted with a vengeance. And he’d bought the Madonna and child for intensely personal reasons that she was quite sure he had no intention of divulging.
One thing she knew. She wasn’t going to be bored during the next few days.
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