One Autumn Proposal. Marie Ferrarella
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in management.”
A cold sweat broke out on his body. What change? No one had informed Luc.
The former biggest moneymaker in the perfume industry was one of the bank’s top clients and had been for ninety years. But two years ago the head of Ferriers had died and the business had slowly started losing revenue. A few months later, Luc’s own grandfather had passed away of a bad heart, making Luc the CEO of the bank.
Though the world didn’t know it yet, the quarterly gross sales reports indicated a declining percentage in Ferriers’s profits. Not totally alarming yet, but still, Luc was worried. Since his grandfather had been Maxim Ferrier’s banker, Luc had been the one to take over their various accounts in order to maximize the assets in an unstable economy. It was one of the reasons he’d gone to Nicosia in May and again in June.
But without the proper leadership he’d worried about the future of a company that had been part of the backbone of the French economy for close to a century. If it failed, the economic structure of Southern France would be jeopardized. Like many other businesses, Ferriers had stayed alive all these years. If it continued to go downhill, the bank would be affected.
“Two years ago, the world lost the greatest perfumer of our time, Maxim Ferrier, at sixty-eight years of age. Balmain, Dior, Givenchy, Caron, Guerlain, Chanel, Balenciaga, Estee Lauder, Rochas, Fragonard, Ricci, Lentheric—all the great major perfume houses considered him an icon the world will never see again.
“Since his death, the company has been run by the family and other staff who made up the board while he was alive. But today, they have finally appointed a new head.”
Luc ground his teeth. As he’d already found out, none of them had the Midas touch of the legendary perfumer himself. Who in heaven’s name would they have found and brought in to turn things around? Absolutely no one from any other perfume house in the world had Maxim Ferrier’s genius. Not in this generation. Probably not for another hundred years.
“Spill it!” Luc muttered furiously to the TV anchorman, who knew this broadcast was making the kind of news the media lived and died for and was milking it for all he was worth.
“Our station is the first to announce the name of Jasmine Martin, a total unknown, who has been put at the helm. She’s an unmarried twenty-six-year-old with no formal job experience and has brought no resume to the position of the multibillion-dollar corporation.”
“What?” In a state of shock, Luc shot to his feet.
“It’s an unprecedented move since only two men have ever held that coveted position in the Ferrier perfume empire...Maxim Ferrier, and before him, his uncle, Paul Ferrier, whose father had run a flower farm in the very beginning. Right now, we’re taking you live to the sacrosanct laboratory of the brilliant perfumer in Grasse. Our anchorman, Michel Didier, is standing by there, ready to interview her.”
While Luc walked over to the TV screen to get a closer look, the other anchorman introduced himself.
“Good evening from our network in Grasse. I’ve been invited inside the room where Maxim Ferrier himself developed his famous formula for Night Scent, a perfume that won every award and still tops perfume sales around the globe. This is a privilege for me and all our viewers. The whole world is waiting to meet you, Jasmine. May I call you that?”
“Of course.”
As the camera panned in on her, a cry of shock escaped Luc’s throat. No—it couldn’t be!
Hers was the beautiful face he’d seen at the dock on Yeronisos! He took a deep breath, trying to comprehend it. The woman who’d given Luc battle before he’d watched her charge up those steep steps, possibly to her death, was Jasmine Martin? The new CEO at Ferriers?
His dark head reared. He’d never thought to see her again. Yet there she was in the flesh, that fiery beauty he’d been fantasizing about every night.
How was it that she of all people on this planet had been made head of one of the most iconic companies in France? She was a daredevil who’d insinuated that Luc was on his way to middle age before she’d ignored him and gone straight up the cliff to jump off. He rubbed the back of his neck in consternation.
It defied logic that a woman so careless with her own life was now running a billion-dollar corporation. Luc was so incredulous over what had been announced, he couldn’t make sense of anything.
This evening she wore her hair caught back at the nape. Instead of wearing a T-shirt and bikini, she was dressed in a peach-colored suit that revealed her gorgeous figure.
Behind her were stacked rows of hundreds of bottles, reminding him of the wizard’s shop in the Harry Potter film he’d seen with two of his nephews. Those magic potions that still delighted moviegoers everywhere.
Yet the potions behind this woman had worked their own special magic in the cosmetic world, yielding billions of dollars in revenue.
“I have many questions to ask. But for all those watching our broadcast around the globe, this question is foremost in everyone’s mind. How did you of all people, of all women, get picked, and at such a young age?”
An impish smile broke out on her alluring face. Luc’s breath caught. The memory of their heated exchange had caused him one restless night after another since his return. Twenty-six meant she was older than he’d thought, but it still rankled that she’d dared to accuse him of trying to pick her up.
She folded her arms and lounged against the edge of the lab table.
“You’re going to get your scoop now, Michel,” she teased with that same audacious maturity, so at odds with her lack of judgment when it came to her safety. There was a twinkle in her dark blue eyes. The first time they’d met she’d been wearing sunglasses. Luc had to admit he’d never seen anyone so natural in front of the camera. “I’m Maxim Ferrier’s youngest grandchild.”
Grandchild?
The well-known anchorman was taken by total surprise and looked as blown away as Luc felt.
“Since I came along last of his twenty-one grandchildren, he nicknamed me Jasmine. That’s because Jasmine is the flower harvested last in October. He said it was his favorite flower because of its beguiling scent. Though my parents named me Blanchette after my mother, his name for me stuck.”
Michel shook his head. “Just keep talking. I won’t interrupt because I’m speechless and enchanted, and I know everyone else is too.”
Her gentle laugh reached down to burrow inside a disbelieving Luc, who couldn’t comprehend any of it. “I used to hang around my papa. I thought of him as this amazing sorcerer and pretended to be his apprentice. He never seemed to mind.”
“Obviously not,” the journalist interjected. “Tell the audience why you think he chose you to run the company.”
“He once told me I was the only one in the family who got the nose. Not his own children and not any of his grandchildren got it, he said. Just me. I thought he meant I had a Roman nose like a horse. I was so hurt I ran out of the lab crying. He had no idea how much I loved him, but I was horrified that he thought I was ugly.”
The anchorman laughed heartily, but Luc’s throat closed up with emotion. Children were so literal, as he’d learned from being around his own nieces and nephews.
“Then he came after me and explained what he meant. He said I was so smart, he thought I knew what a nose was. He said I had a beautiful nose like my grandma. But he was referring to the fact that after sixty years, another perfumer had been born in the family, someone like himself who could identify scents. That person was moi and he was overjoyed.”
Michel smiled. “No wonder he named you to succeed him.”
“I still can’t believe he did that and I am still trying to come to grips with it. No one could ever fill his shoes. I’m stunned to think he believed I could.”
“I’m