through his head of the morning he’d woken in Ellie’s apartment. He’d immediately been aware that something was wrong—the pillowcase under his cheek was cheap cotton instead of silk, cold air stung the parts of his skin not covered by a heavy, fluffy comforter, and there was a heady scent nearby—one that made his body harden instantly. He’d opened his eyes slowly.
He’d seen dark tousled curls; long, black lashes lying heavily on delicately flushed cheeks; and red, soft lips, slightly parted, inviting him to lean over and kiss her…
He’d closed his eyes again and waited until she got up and left the room. Only then had he risen and dressed. But instead of leaving immediately, he’d looked around her room, noticing the antique iron bed frame and old-fashioned quilt that contrasted oddly with the abstract paintings hanging on the wall. On the whitewashed dresser was a small oval frame with a picture of two people. The man, blond with blue eyes, had a cheerful smile. The woman had dark hair and eyes and her face was solemn, a few lines giving her a more careworn expression than the man. The two of them hadn’t been looking at each other, but there was an indefinable aura about them, something about the way the man’s hand held the woman’s arm so tenderly and the way the woman tilted her head toward the man, that had made Garek stare at the picture for a long, long time…
Garek set the annulment papers down on his desk. Closing the file, he picked up the phone and dialed.
Chapter Eleven
She wouldn’t talk to him.
Garek grew more and more annoyed as the day wore on and Ellie didn’t answer the phone or return his calls. He went to the gallery, but Tom, the timid artist, told him in a quaking voice that she wasn’t going to be in that day—or tomorrow, either. He went to her apartment, but either she wasn’t home, or she refused to answer the door.
By the next day, he was at the end of his patience. He called and left a message on her answering machine.
“If you want to keep your job at Vogel’s, you’d better present yourself at my office at 3:00 p.m. sharp this afternoon.”
She called several times after that, but Garek told Mrs. Grist not to put the calls through.
That afternoon, at precisely three o’clock, she stalked into his office, quivering with indignation.
“What are you up to now?” Stopping by the leather chair in front of his desk, Ellie glared at Garek. “Are you going to try to talk Mr. Vogel into firing me? He won’t listen to you. He’ll believe me—”
“I won’t be talking to Vogel anymore at all.” Garek stood up slowly. He looked more controlled than usual, his tie straight, his hair neatly combed, his jacket lying smoothly across his shoulders. His expression was harder and more remote than ever. “I just purchased the gallery from him.”
Ellie grew very still, staring into his eyes. Surrounded by short, black lashes, they were as gray as the sky outside, as cold as the water in Lake Michigan.
She swallowed, even that small movement difficult and painful. “I don’t believe you,” she whispered. “Mr. Vogel would have told me.”
But even as she spoke the words, Ellie knew they weren’t necessarily true. Al Vogel was growing increasingly frail and forgetful—and although she hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself, she’d known he would have to sell the gallery soon.
“Ask him.”
Ellie felt stunned. Garek might be lying—but she doubted it. What would be the point? The office had seemed warm when she first came in, but now she felt cold in spite of her thick, cableknit sweater. She pressed her forearm against her middle, against the queasiness in her stomach. The gallery—her gallery—purchased by Garek Wisnewski. She was at his mercy—as was everyone Vogel’s supported.
And didn’t he know it. He stood there behind his enormous desk, surrounded by his fancy furniture, like a king waiting to hear a penitent’s plea. He was waiting for her to apologize, she realized. Waiting for her to beg for mercy. Her nails dug into the thick yarn of her sweater. As if she would ever give him that satisfaction.
“So,” she said proudly, pressing her forearm more tightly against her roiling stomach. “Did you summon me here to fire me? Or to tell me you’re closing the gallery? Or just to gloat?”
“All very attractive options, but first I want to ask you about something else. I understand you donated