Her Enemy With Benefits. Nicola Marsh
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lips in disapproval and his chest tightened inexplicably. ‘You haven’t changed a bit.’
‘You have.’ On impulse he touched the back of her hand and she eased it away, grabbing a teaspoon to scoop milk froth off the top of her cappuccino.
‘Ten years is a long time—what did you expect? To find me dissecting frogs and acing element quizzes?’
He couldn’t figure why she vacillated all over the place but there was something wrong here, some part of the bigger picture he wasn’t seeing, and if he were relying on her to help push Fourde Fashion into the stratosphere he needed to know what he was dealing with.
It was good business sense. It was an excuse for his concern and he was sticking to it.
‘Did you stop to consider my kiss may have ruined you for other men?’
Her eyes widened in shock at his deliberately outrageous taunt a second before she picked up several sugar sachets and flung them. He caught the lot in one hand.
He’d wanted a reaction and he’d got it. It was a start.
‘Newsflash: that kiss meant nothing. You caught me at a bad time and it ended up being two hormonal teens making out in a moment of madness.’ She crossed her arms and glared, outraged and defiant. ‘And I think it’s poor form, you bringing it up a decade later when we’re potentially on the verge of working together.’
‘Another thing that’s changed. You used to be brutally honest. Saying that kiss meant nothing?’ He tsk-tsked. ‘Never thought I’d see the day when you told a fib.’
He baited her again, wondering how far she’d go before he got a glimpse at the truth. He moved the sugar out of her reach just in case.
‘I’m not playing this game with you.’ She slammed her palms on the table and leaned forward, blue eyes flashing fire. ‘No reminiscing or teasing. No pretending to be buddies. And definitely no talk of kissing.’
She waved a hand between them.
‘You and me? Potential work colleagues. Our aim? To make our businesses a lot of money. So quit pretending to be my best buddy, because I don’t need a friend—I need a guarantee.’
Ouch. This brutal honesty he remembered.
‘Of what?’
‘That you’ll give me a fair hearing tomorrow and you’ll judge my presentation on merit and not on our past rel—friendship.’
‘You can say it, you know.’ He cupped his hands around his mouth to amplify his exaggerated whisper. ‘Rel-a-tion-ship.’
When she swore, he almost fist-pumped the air. This was more like it. Sapphire riled and feisty. He could handle her this way, firing quips and barbs to get a rise. The withdrawn, almost melancholic woman she’d been a few minutes ago confused the hell out of him.
‘This is important to me,’ she said, her tone low and ominous. ‘You may have it easy, being given a subsidiary of your folks’ company to play with while you’re in Melbourne for however long you care to stick around. Me? Seaborns is everything, and I’ll do whatever it takes, including aligning our jewellery with your fashion, to ensure my company is never threatened again.’
Not much made Patrick quick to anger—bar anyone casting aspersions on how hard he worked.
He’d had a gutful of people doubting him. Doubting his capabilities, doubting his creativity, doubting his business brain.
It was why he’d leapt at the chance to head up this new branch. It was why his main goal was to show the world what he was made of. He intended to prove all the doubters wrong—including his parents.
Patrick Fourde had left the mistakes of his past behind and he had what it took to be a success beyond the family name and all it stood for.
‘Are you done?’
Something in his tone must have alerted her to his inner frustration, for she slumped back into her chair and held up her hands in surrender.
‘Sorry.’
‘No, you’re not. You believe all that crap.’
Just as his folks believed Jacques had single-handedly come up with the concept for the spring collection that had set the couture gowns sales in Paris soaring.
It had been the first time in ten years they’d given him another chance to work on a primary showing, collaborating on the spring collection alongside Jacques. Maybe they expected him to be eternally grateful, maybe they expected him to stuff up again, but never had they considered for one second he’d been the creative genius behind it.
He’d waited for their acknowledgment that he’d made amends for his monumental stuff-up when he’d first started with the company, waited for an encouraging word.
All he’d got was begrudging thanks for being part of a successful team.
Pride had kept him from confessing his true role and he’d realised something. Until he proved he’d put the past behind him on his own no one would believe him.
Least of all himself.
And it was at that moment he’d made his decision.
Making a success of the Australian branch of Fourde Fashion wasn’t debatable. It was imperative.
He needed to do this.
For him.
He’d accept nothing less than being the highest-grossing branch in the company—and that included topping their long-established French connection. Closely followed by putting his secret plan into action.
And he was looking at the one woman who could help make that happen.
‘You think I’m some lazy, indulged, rich playboy who gets by on his charm and little else.’
She couldn’t look him in the eye—vindication that he was spot-on in her assessment of him.
‘You never did give me any credit.’
Her mouth opened and closed, as if she’d wanted to respond and thought better of it. But her eyes didn’t lie, and their shameful regret made him want to thump something at the injustice of being judged so harshly.
‘Irrelevant, because my work will speak for itself.’
He expected to see scepticism.
He saw admiration and it went some way to soothing his inner wildness.
‘Okay, then, I guess we both have something to prove.’ She nodded, tapped her bottom lip, pondered. ‘From here on in a clean slate.’
‘No preconceptions?’
‘None whatsoever.’
For the first time since he’d sought her out today a coy smile curved her mouth, making him wish she’d do it more often.
‘Though you do rely heavily on charm.’
‘Pity it never worked on you,’ he muttered under his breath, surprised by her sharp intake of breath, as if she’d heard him.
She downed the rest of her cappuccino in record time and scooped the pistachio macaron into her palm. ‘Gotta dash. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.’ She cocked her finger and thumb at him. ‘Prepare to be wowed.’
As he watched her stroll away, the Lycra clinging to lean legs and shapely butt, he wondered what she’d think if she knew she’d already achieved her first goal.
‘YOU’D THINK AFTER three months at a freaking health spa I’d be more relaxed than this.’
Sapphie glared at Karma, the goldfish