Free Impossible by Danielle Steel

Sasha's age. As far as he was concerned, he'd have been doing her a favor to sleep with her. She looked like a sad, lonely woman to him. But apparently not as lonely as he thought. And not desperate for a sale.
    “There's no need to come and see it,” he said coldly. “I've decided not to buy the painting after all. In fact, I have some serious concerns that it might be a fake.” As he said it, he got out of the car, and came around to open her door politely. She was already standing on the sidewalk, looking at him with fury, as he reached her side of the car.
    “Thank you for a lovely dinner,” she said coolly. “I had no idea, from your reputation, that you purchase women, and at such high prices. I would think that a man with your charm and intelligence would be able to get them for free. Thank you for a delightful evening.” And before he could say another word, she walked to the bronze door, let herself in with the code, and disappeared. Seconds later, she heard him race away. She was shaking with outrage as she let herself into her house. The bastard had tried to buy her along with the painting, and thought she was so hungry for the sale that she would sleep with him. It was beyond insulting. No one would ever have dared treat her that way when Arthur was alive. She was still shaking when she called Xavier and told him the story moments later. He positively crowed with glee when she told him what she had said to him at the end.
    “You're fantastic, Mother. You're lucky he didn't run you down with the Ferrari when he left.”
    “I'm sure he would have liked to. What a total rotter he is,” she said, and he laughed again.
    “Yeah, I'd say. But you should be flattered. I hear he goes out with girls younger than Tatianna. He spends a lot of time at Annabel's over here.”
    “I'm not surprised.” It was a private nightclub in London, frequented by all the most elegant people, as well as a lot of old men and much younger women. She and Arthur had been there many times. They were members of the club, as well as Harry's Bar, both of which were owned by the same man. “How do men get away with behaving that way?”
    “Some women love it. Most gallery owners would probably have slept with him to sell the painting.”
    “Yes, and when they did, the next day the painting would come back anyway.” Her father had warned her about men like that when she came into the business. Gonzague de St. Mallory was anything but unique, and certainly ill mannered, as far as Sasha was concerned.
    She was still fuming about it when she lay in bed that night. And the next morning she told her gallery manager that they would not be selling the painting to the count.
    “Oh? I thought you were having dinner with him last night,” Bernard commented.
    “I did. The count behaved very badly, and is lucky he didn't get slapped. Apparently, he was expecting to buy my services along with the painting. He thought I should stay with him in St. Moritz, and cancel my holiday with the children.”
    “And you didn't accept?” Bernard pretended to be shocked. “What bad salesmanship on your part, Sasha. My God, think of it, a million dollars. Have you no sense of responsibility to your father's business?” He loved to tease her. After fifteen years at the gallery, they were friends.
    “Oh shut up, Bernard,” she said with a half smile, marched into her office, and went back to work. As far as Sasha was concerned, it was the most insulting offer she'd ever had. And the following week she told her manager about it in New York, who was genuinely shocked.
    “Americans don't behave that way,” Karen said, staunchly defending her fellow countrymen.
    “Some of them probably behave worse. I'm beginning to think it's about men, not nationalities, although admittedly the French might be a little bolder about things like that. But I'm sure it happens here as well. Hasn't anyone ever implied that you should sleep with them in order to sell a