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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 what it took to make it in the fashion world.
With Sapphire Seaborn along for the ride every step of the way.
He stopped in front of her, itching to get started. ‘You know we’d be working on this project twenty-four-seven, right?’
‘Of course,’ she said, and the vein in her temple pulsed.
It had been her ‘give’ when she’d been younger—a tell-tale sign that she was rattled—and he didn’t know whether to be flattered or annoyed that spending time with him disconcerted her.
‘And that doesn’t bother you?’
She stood, cool and confident and lithe. ‘This is business. Why should it?’
That vein beat to a rap rhythm. Yeah, she was rattled. Big time.
‘Okay, then, let’s do it.’
‘Fantastic. You won’t regret this.’ Her lush mouth eased into a wide grin. ‘We’re going to be great together.’
‘Absolutely.’
And he kissed her to prove it.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_0293e6b8-4585-5f6c-876c-b1af074ec528)
SAPPHIE’S FIRST INSTINCT was to knee Patrick in the groin. But he’d probably enjoy the contact too much.
She settled for placing both palms on his chest and shoving—hard.
‘Can’t blame a guy for wanting to celebrate the most significant moment of his career.’
The fact he was still using that boyish grin to try and disarm her a decade later made her want to knee him again.
As for the flutter low in her belly? It was a reminder that she hadn’t eaten lunch and nothing to do with the insistent tug of attraction between them.
An attraction torched to life by his kiss.
Why did the most annoying guy on the planet also have to be the best kisser?
It didn’t make any sense. She’d barely given him a second thought all these years—discounting the first few months after he’d left—yet all it took was one smooch—okay, one pretty scorching smooch—to resurrect how amazing he’d made her feel with his first kiss.
She could kill him.
Willing her pulse to stop pounding, she glared at him through narrowed eyes. ‘You do that once more and I’ll take Seaborns jewellery and walk.’
He merely raised an eyebrow, not in the least intimidated by her bluff. ‘You need me as much as I need you, sweetheart.’ She gaped at his insolence and he laughed. ‘Come on, you know better than to con a con. I’m blunt. I say it as it is. You and me?’ He waved a hand between them. ‘We’re going to take Fashion Week by storm, so don’t let your predictable outrage over a little spur-of-the-moment celebratory kiss get in the way of a beautiful friendship.’
Predictable outrage? She shook her head, unsure whether to applaud his honesty or reconsider that knee to the balls.
She had to regain control of this situation—fast—and the way to do that was to focus on business.
Not the naughty twinkle in his grey eyes.
Not the smug smirk quirking his lips.
Not the way he continued to stare at her mouth as if he was primed for a repeat performance.
‘What’s with the “most significant moment of your career” big talk?’
For the first time since she’d entered his ultra-modern office he appeared a tad uncertain, tugging at the cuffs of his shirt.
‘I’ve been looking for an angle for Fashion Week—something to play to the company’s strengths.’
‘And?’
His gaze raked over her but there was nothing overtly sexual about it. Maybe she’d imagined his hungry stare a moment ago. In fact he seemed to be sizing up her outfit and accessories in a purely professional manner.
‘When you first walked in here you made a statement.’ He tilted his head to one side, evaluating. ‘Class. Elegance. Timeless. Made me think of screen legends in the past.’
A compliment from a guy who threw them out there like confetti. Who would have thought it?
‘Should I be flattered or concerned you just called me old?’
The corners of his mouth quirked. ‘You don’t need to fish for compliments. You’re stunning and you know it.’
Actually, she didn’t. The designer clothes, the jewellery, the make-up and hair were all part of her duties as spokesperson for Seaborns. Take away the fancy outer dressing and she was Sapphire Seaborn—the responsible one, the devoted one, the sensible one. She didn’t do outrageous things. She dated suitable men and socialised with a suitable crowd.
Spending more than five minutes in the company of Patrick Fourde was decidedly unsuitable. Or, more to the point, it elicited decidedly unsuitable thoughts.
He’d always had that effect on her. Been able to confuse and bamboozle and intrigue her with the barest hint of that lazy half-smile he had down pat.
She might have been immune in the past, but having him in her face again—bolder, brazen, still bamboozling—unnerved her far more now than he ever had.
‘Get to the point.’
He stalked around his desk and fired up his laptop, swivelling the screen to face her.
‘Bear with me a sec.’
His fingers flew over the keyboard and, increasingly curious, she propped herself on the edge of his desk.
The tip of his tongue protruded slightly as he concentrated on typing and her chest tightened in remembrance.
He’d used to do the same thing when they studied together. She’d known when he’d stopped goofing off—which had been rarely, admittedly—and started taking their studying seriously by that tell, and it was as endearing now as back then.
At the time, she’d done her best to give him the impression she couldn’t stand the sight of him. Had berated him constantly about slacking off and sketching instead of studying. Her chastisement had only served to stir him up further and he’d deliberately make fun of her work or call time out for a coffee.
Interesting how his doodling had probably been a prelude to his career in fashion, an outlet for his creativity. And to see him now, CEO of a branch of a world-renowned fashion house, made her feel ashamed she’d given him such a hard time.
Then again, considering the amount of time he’d spent poking fun at her study timetables and subject spreadsheets, her guilt quickly faded.
Whatever he was doing now, it had captured his attention and given her an opportunity to study him. In his flawlessly fitted charcoal suit and open-necked black shirt, perched behind a glass-topped desk large enough to fit an entire classroom, with the skyline of Melbourne surrounding him with three hundred and sixty degrees of floor to ceiling windows fifty storeys high, he looked like the consummate businessman.
A guy on top of the world, in total control and loving it. Who would have guessed the laid-back charmer had ambition?
He’d never shared any of his plans with her—had never showed any interest in business beyond teasing her about taking such a manic interest in Seaborns.
She’d been surprised when he’d absconded to Paris—had assumed it had been to live the high life on his family money.
After that first kiss she’d reluctantly kept an eye on him, had followed him on the internet for six months, surprised by mentions of him doing an internship at Fourde Fashion headquarters.
Pity those internet hits had also shown her the type of life she envied: parties and nightclub openings and theatre galas. The type of life she’d secretly craved but had been too focused on work, on proving herself, on seeking approval, to do anything about.
How different would her life have been if she’d let go just a little? Had hung out with Patrick for fun, not study? Responded to his teasing with smiles, not frowns? Allowed herself to indulge in a few wild teenage stunts without thought for the consequences?
Maybe she wouldn’t have ended up stressed, repressed and almost losing the company.
‘Here. Take a look.’ He pointed at the screen, filled with images of stunning screen sirens.
Grace Kelly. Eva Marie Saint. Ingrid Bergman. Audrey Hepburn. Marilyn.
She knew them all, had shared her mum’s love of old films, but had no clue why he was showing her these pictures.
He must have read the unasked question in her eyes for he grabbed a pen and notepad and started scribbling.
‘Tell me the first words that pop into your head when you look at those women.’
