him wondering if he’d imagined it.
‘Yeah, I want Seaborns to be featured with your designs. I’m a savvy businesswoman and, as you know from the suitors bashing down your door, any jeweller in this city would give their last diamond tennis bracelet to accessorise your clothes.’
He admired her honesty. But she was right. He’d had back-to-back meetings all day in which he’d been systematically wooed and impressed by the calibre of jewellers in Melbourne.
The city might not have the same joie-de-vivre as Paris but it had certainly come a long way since he’d lived here.
The fashion scene thrived, with worldwide designers setting up shop, which was the only reason his folks had deemed it prudent to launch a branch of Fourde Fashion here.
With Jerome, his older brother, heading Milan, and his younger sister Phoebe heading New York, he’d been the only one left to thrust into a makeshift CEO position.
Not that he was complaining. He’d been desperate to prove he could do this. The disaster of his first campaign had seen to that.
He knew they thought he was only a figurehead, a puppet whose strings they could yank at will. They’d even installed Serge, the manager of Fourde’s flagship store near the Champs-Élysées, alongside him.
Apparently Serge ‘had the expertise’ and was ‘worth his weight in gold’ despite the fact he and Serge, his best mate, had cut a path through Paris, Monte Carlo, Nice, Barcelona and most of the other cities in Europe together, living the high life, partying their way through each country.
He’d done it in an attempt to shrug off the taint of his first showing, wanting to be known for something other than his notorious failure.
It had worked too. His socialising antics had been diligently reported and the press had soon forgotten the savaging he’d received at their hands following a mistake that had cost Fourde Fashion megabucks.
He’d eventually returned to the company in different roles, learning what he could without being given any real responsibility.
It had suited him. Given him time to re-evaluate personally what had gone wrong. But no matter how many times he tried to analyse it, no matter how many angles he considered, it all came back to one thing: he’d tried to take an established brand and create something new that wouldn’t fit.
His parents had given him free rein for his first showing, wanting to see what he came up with, and he’d been determined to show them what he could do.
Correction: he’d wanted to wow them. He hadn’t had their attention in years—they’d moved to France for their precious business when he was still a teenager, had barely acknowledged their late-life ‘mistake’ for years before that—and he’d wanted to make a major impression.
He’d done that all right. For all the wrong reasons.
He’d swapped the Forde designs for ones he’d planned as part of a small group of designers. A catastrophic move that had cost the company a small fortune and pretty much sealed his career where his parents were concerned.
He’d been a fool to think Fourde Fashion was ready for cutting edge contemporary, and the fact his folks had distanced themselves from him—‘to protect the company,’ apparently—still burned after all this time.
It shouldn’t have come as any great surprise. They’d been emotionally distant for as long as he could remember. Not from any deliberate cruelty but for the simple fact that their business came first. Always.
Birthdays and Christmases were spent having snatched lunches and the obligatory presents before they headed back to the office. Phoebe and Jerome were used to fending for themselves and his parents had expected him to do the same despite their fourteen-year age-gap.
He’d been the baby they’d never expected to have in their mid-forties. He got it. He’d grown used to their absence early on.
But when he’d finally joined the fold and wanted them to sit up and take notice of his talents, of him, it had been a flop.
Their continued lack of appreciation of his efforts, their distrust of his talents, all stemmed from his first failure, and despite how hard he’d worked since they couldn’t forget it.
Well, the success of Melbourne Fashion Week would make them forget.
He’d make sure of it.
‘What can you offer me that the other jewellers can’t?’
Her eyes widened imperceptibly before her gaze dipped momentarily to his lips, and for one crazy, irrational second he wished she’d make an offer that had nothing to do with business.
‘One hundred percent commitment.’ She tilted her chin up and eyeballed him. ‘I’m willing to do whatever it takes to have our designs accessorising yours.’
‘Anything?’
Until now he’d been the epitome of a corporate businessman, with his mind on the job. But with a hard-on that wouldn’t quit, her body enticingly close, and her tempting cinnamon-peach fragrance wrapping him in an erotic fog, he couldn’t help but flirt.
Besides, that was what she thought he was—an idle playboy who’d never worked for anything in his life. He’d gladly disillusion her. Later.
Now, he wanted to play a little.
‘Within reason.’ A tiny frown slashed her brows and she held up hand between them.
Yeah, like that would stop him.
‘Hmm…’ He drummed his fingers against his thigh, pretending to ponder. ‘I could get you to privately model a few designs.’
Her frown deepened and her lips thinned.
‘Or you could help me with the lingerie line.’
She didn’t speak, but the daggers she shot him with her narrow-eyed glare spoke volumes.
‘Or we could get together in my penthouse suite and do some serious—’
‘Stop toying with me.’ She jabbed at his chest. ‘You want the best? Seaborns is it and you know it.’
She snatched her hand away when he glanced at it, still lingering on his chest.
‘Quit stalling. Do we have a deal or not?’
With her eyes flashing indigo fire, her chest heaving from deep breaths and her designer-shoe-clad foot tapping impatiently an inch from his, she was utterly magnificent.
Once again she brought to mind starlets of old: glamorous, powerful women who knew what they wanted and weren’t afraid to go after it.
That was when it hit him.
The idea that had been playing around the edges of his mind, taunting him to grab it and run with it.
‘You’re a frigging genius!’ He grabbed her arms so suddenly she was startled, and his maniacal laughter sounded crazy even to his ears.
‘You’re out of your mind.’ She brushed him off with a slick move that suggested martial arts training. ‘Just tell me already.’
He leapt from the sofa and started pacing, riotous ideas peppering his imagination. He needed to sit, jot them down, make some sense of the brainstorm happening in his head.
This was what had happened in Paris, when he’d nailed the spring showing.
He’d done it. His ideas. His campaign. Not that upstart smarmy Jacques with his stupid berets and fast talking.
This creative freefall had also occurred for his first showing too—the one that must not be named, as he’d labelled it in his head following the shemozzle.
The spring collection might have gone some way to restoring his confidence, but it was this show that would prove beyond a doubt that he had