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What had he done?
Stupid question.
He’d married the wrong woman.
HEARING JACK’S explanation, and listening to his side of the telephone conversation with Cleveland, it took Kristy about thirty seconds to put the pieces together. The whole thing was a fraud. Jack hadn’t been falling in love with her this weekend. He’d been making a preemptive strike against her.
Her feelings of hurt, confusion and embarrassment were quickly replaced by anger. What kind of a cold, calculating snake did it take to fake a romance, marry a woman and then make love to her, not once, not twice, but three times?
Jack snapped his phone shut, and they stared at each other in silence for a long second.
“We’ll get a divorce,” he pronounced.
“You bet your life we’ll get a divorce.” She yanked the belt tight on the robe. “Although keeping your hands to yourself last night and leaving open the option for an annulment would have been a nice touch.”
“I couldn’t take that chance.”
Her bark of laughter came out a little high-pitched. “Of course you couldn’t take that chance, what with me being a sleazy gold digger and all. Any reasonable man would have had sex with me so I couldn’t get an annulment.”
“Kristy—”
“Don’t you dare try to defend yourself.”
“It’s happened before.”
She looked him up and down. “What? You’ve married other women who were engaged to your grandfather?”
“No! I mean he—”
“I don’t want to hear about it.”
“He’s married bimbos—”
“Stop.”
“—before!” Jack shouted over her protest.
A bimbo? That’s what he thought of her?
She coughed out a harsh laugh. It was either that or cry.
“Well, in that case, Jack. You came up with a great plan. I mean, if you take away morals and ethics and, well, every scrap of reasonable humanity. It was a great plan.”
“I thought you were—”
“A bimbo. Uh-huh. You’ve made that clear. So, is my meeting in L.A. still on or what?”
“This afternoon.”
“Good.” She stomped back to her own room, intending to call an airline and book a commercial flight. If she never saw Jack Osland again, it would be far too soon.
“You take the jet.” His voice was directly behind her.
“Get out of my bedroom.”
“You take the jet,” he repeated. “Simon is ready. I’ll make other arrangements.”
“Don’t do me any favors.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
“Under the circumstances, there is no least you can do.”
“It’s the only way for you to get there on time.”
She sucked in a breath between her clenched teeth. He was probably right, and maybe she was a fool to strive for any scrap of dignity at this point anyway. The man had kissed every inch of her body last night. And she’d told him she loved him.
A sharp pain pierced her chest.
She truly thought she had.
“Fine,” she bit out. “I’ll take the damn jet. But only as long as you’re not on it.” Then she turned away from him to jerk open a dresser drawer and plucked out the skirt and sweater she’d arrived in.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Jack” she said. “No. Actually. Go ahead and take it the wrong way if you like. But I never want to see you again.”
“Understandable,” he muttered.
She twisted around to look at him. “Gee, thanks.”
“I had my reasons,” he said.
“It was a great plan,” she mocked. “You must be really disappointed that it failed.”
ONE LOOK at the expressions on the Sierra Sanchez buying team told Kristy she was going to fail.
Her sketches littered the top of the polished mahogany boardroom table, with swatches and samples draped on racks around them.
“The lines are technically strong,” said one of the men. She thought his name was Bernard.
“The fabric works, but it’ll be a challenge for the skirt to stand out in a crowd.” Irene Compton was the lead buyer for the chain.
“Overall,” said the one named James, sifting through her sketches like greeting cards. “The collection is … competent.”
Kristy felt herself shrinking in the luxurious armchair. Competent. Thousands and thousands of budding designers were competent. She didn’t have a hope unless she was outstanding.
“Hmm,” Irene nodded. “Maybe we could think about testing it in Value-Shoppe?” She named a European discount chain.
Value-Shoppe? Kristy had to bite down on her tongue to keep from protesting out loud.
The room went silent, while each of the team members contemplated the drawings. Bright yellow sunshine streamed through the window. Car horns honked a dozen stories below, and a mist of clouds gathered in the distance over the bay. The world outside was still spinning, even while her dreams were being dashed.
“Well, I think she shows promise,” said Cleveland.
Six jaws snapped shut, and everyone’s attention flew to the older man sitting at the head of the table.
Seconds of silence ticked by before Cleveland spoke again. “I was thinking about the Breakout Designer category at the Matte Fashion Event.”
Adrenaline hit Kristy’s system in a rush at the mere mention of the prestigious London fashion show. A designer couldn’t even enter the Breakout Designer Contest without a powerhouse retailer behind her. Even in her wildest dreams …
“Perhaps if we mix and match some of the ideas,” Irene offered slowly, glancing at a patterned skirt and a white lace blouse.
Cleveland nodded his approval. “Now you’re getting creative.”
Kristy didn’t want Cleveland’s charity. But the Breakout Designer category? She swallowed her common sense, and let the conversation carry on around her.
Bernard jumped in. “This neckline is unique. And we can certainly scallop the hem and slim down the line.”
“We’d need at least a half-dozen new or revamped pieces for the contest,” James warned.
Cleveland brought the flat of his palms down on the tabletop. “That’s fine. Since we’re all on board, you can talk through the details later.” His attention turned to Kristy. “Right now, Kristy is joining me for a drink.”
She glanced at the buying team, bracing herself for narrow-eyed glares and sidelong expressions of condemnation. They might all think the way Jack did—that Kristy was Cleveland’s floozy. Why else would he overrule their judgment on her behalf?
But, to her surprise, everyone was smiling.
Irene rose from her chair and offered her hand. “We’re looking forward to working with you, Kristy.”
The other team members nodded and murmured agreement.
Kristy stood up to shake hands with Irene. “Uh. Thank you.”
Cleveland opened the boardroom door. “This way, young lady.”
She nodded her thanks to the rest of the team, then preceded Cleveland into the wide, bright, plant-adorned hallway.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said as they made their way to the bank of elevators.
“Do what?”
She motioned behind them, torn between being polite and shutting the heck up. “Back there. Give me special—”
“You think I pulled rank because I like you?”
“Well …”
He pressed the elevator button with a wrinkled finger. “Kristy, I’ve made a whole lot of money in my life by seeing things that other people miss. You have something. It’s raw, but I think it’s there.
“I’ll work with you,” he continued. “And I’ll buy your collection when and if it’s good enough. But that back there wasn’t altruism and it wasn’t nepotism.”
A flutter of excitement rolled through Kristy’s stomach. Cleveland actually thought her fashions had a chance?
“It’s going to take a lot of work and dedication.”
She eagerly nodded. She’d work as hard as it took for a chance to fly to London and compete in the Breakout Designer Contest.
“Are you prepared for that?”
“Of course.”
“We have until December thirtieth.”
Kristy quickly did the math in her head. That was less than three days per outfit. Impossible. But she’d have to do it anyway. “Right.”
“Your staff is available over the holidays?” he asked.
Kristy hesitated. Not because her staff might not be available, but because she didn’t actually have any staff.
“Kristy?”
The elevator pinged, and the doors slid open.
She took a step forward. “Don’t worry. I’ll manage.”
“Kristy.”
She didn’t look up at him. “Yes?”
“How many people work for you?”
She swallowed as the doors glided shut.
Cleveland waited.
“Just me,” she finally squeaked.
There was a long silence as the car glided downward and floor numbers flashed red.
“You’ve got guts,” said Cleveland. “I’ll give you that. But if this is going to work, you must be completely honest with me.”
“Sorry.”
“How big is your workshop?”
“It takes up most of my loft.”
He raised a gray, bushy eyebrow. “Don’t be evasive.”
“It’s six hundred square feet.”
