Her Deal with the Devil. Nicola Marsh
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shown up at Seaborns yesterday, seemingly hell-bent on rattling her?
If his wicked smile and smouldering eyes hadn’t undermined her, his ability to hone in on how much she’d changed would have.
How had he done that?
The guy she’d known had never pushed for answers, had never bothered to be insightful or concerned. He’d teased and annoyed and badgered his way through their year as lab partners in Biology, never probing beneath the surface.
She’d pretended to tolerate him back then, when in fact—she could finally admit it—she’d looked forward to their prac sessions with a perverse sense of excitement. Biology had been the relief of her senior year. Through the heavy slog of Maths and Economics and Politics—subjects recommended by her mum and careers adviser, she’d craved the tantalising fun she’d have with Patrick.
It had been a game with him back then. A challenge for him to rile her into responding. She hadn’t given him the satisfaction most of the time, choosing to ignore him as a way of dealing with his constant outrageous annoyances. But she’d seen his respect on the odd occasion she’d snapped back, and for some bizarre reason she’d valued it.
He’d made her rigid life bearable. Not that she’d ever let him know. The more he teased and taunted the harder she’d pushed him away.
Until graduation night. The night she’d let down her guard and he’d swooped, making a mockery of her stance to ignore him.
She’d never had a boyfriend in high school, had never been kissed before that night. And the fact Patrick had been her first had really peed her off at the time.
She’d blamed him. He’d taken advantage of the situation. He’d seen her at her worst and had kissed her as part of his usual taunts. He’d probably laughed at her afterwards.
But none of that had been true. In reality he’d been gallant in bringing her home after her date ended up drunk. And his kiss had been one of comfort, not cruelty.
It wasn’t his fault she’d gone a little nuts.
That was why she’d ignored his overtures to meet after that night. Pure mortification. And a small part of her knew she would have hated having him belittle something as special as that spectacular first kiss.
He would have too, to lighten the mood between them—would probably have been as embarrassed as her and covered it by taunting her.
Thankfully he’d given up after a week, headed to Paris, and she’d forgotten about it.
Until now.
Beyond annoying.
She glanced at the alarm clock next to the bed and winced. Less than an hour until her pitch.
Yesterday had been an aberration. The feeling that she’d connected with him on some deeper level that went way beyond their banter in high school hadn’t happened. It had been a figment of her imagination—the same imagination that insisted she go out and find the hottest guy in Melbourne to have some fun with.
That was what their tenuous bond had been about: her need for some male company and his inherent ability to flirt with anything that moved.
Harsh? Yeah. But it was the only way she’d cope with the riot of uncertainty making her doubt her choice of outfit, accessories, and the wisdom of meeting up with him—albeit for work.
‘This is business.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘I can do this.’
Karma’s affirmation consisted of a gill twitch as he ducked behind his treasure chest.
At least she looked the part. Knee-length, A-line sleeveless dress with a fitted bodice and cinched waist in the deepest mulberry, towering stilettos in black patent, and an exquisite amethyst pendant on a simple white gold necklace with matching earrings.
Throw in the dramatic make-up, designed to accentuate her eyes and lips, a hairspray-reinforced slicked-back coif that could withstand the stiffest breeze, and she was ready to face him.
This was how she’d envisaged their first meeting after a decade: with her power-dressed, strutting into his office, demonstrating her control and confidence and savoir-faire.
Considering he’d seen her in her oldest yoga pants and a crop top yesterday she’d kinda lost her advantage.
Then she remembered the look in his eyes when he’d first seen her, as if he’d wanted to gobble her up and come back for main and dessert…Maybe she still held the upper hand after all.
Not that she’d stoop so low as to use her sexuality to seal a business deal, but knowing the great and powerful Patrick found her attractive made her walk that little bit taller.
‘Wish me luck,’ she said, snatching up her bag and smoothing her hair one last time.
Karma gave a lazy swish of his tail. No problem. When she stalked into Patrick’s office shortly armed with a presentation to wow him, she’d have all the good karma she needed.
She’d make this Fashion Week deal happen.
Let him try to stop her.
‘The pieces are good. Really good.’
The fact that Sapphire sat close to Patrick on his office sofa, her stockinged leg within tantalising touching distance, was not so good.
How was a guy supposed to concentrate?
The moment Sapphire had strolled into his office, looking as if she’d stepped off the pages of a fashion mag, he’d been befuddled.
There was nothing revealing in her outfit but the cut of the fabric and the way she wore it made him think of the screen sirens of old. Beautiful, curvaceous women who were proud of their bodies and weren’t afraid to flaunt them in understated elegance.
And stockings…He loved them—the sheerer the better. None of those thick opaques for him. The way they added a sheen to Sapphire’s legs, highlighting their shape…and the possibility that she might be wearing suspenders to hold them up…
Another thing he’d discovered since she’d arrived: hard-ons were distracting and guaranteed to scuttle a business meeting.
His plans to take the Melbourne fashion scene by storm would be derailed before he’d begun if he started thinking with the wrong head.
‘These pieces are some of Ruby’s best work, but she’s willing to design whatever you want—depending on the concept you come up with.’
Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm and he wondered if they darkened when she was aroused.
Hell. Still thinking with the wrong head.
‘The show’s next month. Sure you can deliver?’
He hated how abrupt he sounded, but he needed to refocus and stifle the urge to readjust his pants.
‘Definitely. We’ll work nights, do whatever it takes.’
‘You want to be on the runway alongside Fourde that badly?’
A flicker of fear shimmered in her defiant gaze before she blinked, leaving 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