Five weeks away from Milano. Time to chill, to relax. Hightail it to the Caribbean, where he could lie on the beach, chug the booze and check out the babes. And think.
Think about his future.
Think about leaving Milano.
Weigh the risks of going out on his own.
The old man had built a multipronged business with its fingers in various consumer pies. Milano made everything from tech to textiles. Devon was R & D, Research & Development. He came up with the ideas, put together whatever new product he thought would reel in more coin for the very full Milano coffers.
Gage was marketing. He could sell anything. Water to a drowning man. Silicone to a centerfold. Reality to the paranoid.
He knew people. What made them tick, what turned them on.
A trait that served him well, in business and in pleasure.
A trait that told him that getting away from this dinnertime trap was going to be one helluva feat.
“Off the books except in an emergency,” Marcus said around his mouthful of oyster stuffing. “This is an emergency.”
“An emergency is pictures of Devon doing a donkey being displayed on the cover of People magazine. An emergency is the accounting department being caught using our computer system to embezzle from a foreign government or your last wife showing up pregnant, claiming the baby is yours. Whatever new product you want to peddle isn’t a marketing emergency.”
“I say it is.”
Gage ground his teeth. Before he could snap, his brother caught his eye.
“Look, it’s an easy deal,” Devon said quietly, forking up a slice of turkey and swirling it through his buttery puddle of potatoes. “We’re launching that lingerie line. The merchandise is ready. We just need a platform. Marketing came up with a great idea.”
“Then why do you need me?”
“You know Rudolph department stores?”
“Dirty old man with the Midas touch and a handful of elite stores in California and New York?”
“That’s the one. His spring fashion launch is an exclusive deal guaranteed to put any line he includes on the map. He’s never missed. Whether it’s because he has a keen eye or because the fashion industry is a bunch of lemmings, waiting for him to call the next trend, I don’t know. But if we get that lingerie contract, Milano is gold in the fashion field.”
Gage shook his head. He was a marketing consultant. He specialized in consumer branding, digital management and online strategic development. Nothing in that description said anything about talking to eccentric billionaires about women’s underwear.
“Seriously, it’s not going to take up more than a few days of your time. Rudolph is announcing his choices next weekend, and the contract will be signed and delivered before Christmas. You go in, make the deal and leave.” Before Gage could point out that anyone could go in and pitch this, Devon dropped his voice even lower and added, “You can even add the time you lose on this to the New Year. You’ll still get your five weeks off.”
“This isn’t about the time off.” Even though that was a part of it. “It’s about respecting our agreement.”
“Look, I’ve had to set aside my projects to take on this new online store the old man wants to launch. It’s not going to kill you to hit the beach a few days—or even a week—later than you’d planned.”
So that was it. Lifting his pilsner glass, Gage gave his brother a dark look. Someday, one of them was going to be at the helm of Milano. The question was, which one? Marcus had made it clear that to run the company, his sons had to do three things: Be absolutely loyal. Prove they were more worthy than the other. And not piss him off.
Gage and Devon had realized a few years back that it was going to take building their own business success separate from Milano to prove their worth. The trick, of course, was doing that while not jeopardizing rules one and three. And more important, doing it faster and better than the other brother.
Or in Devon’s case, while sabotaging the other brother’s chances of doing it first.
“You’re playing dirty,” Gage said decidedly.
“I’m playing to win.”
“What’re you two muttering about down there?”
“We’re talking about our tradition of breaking the wishbone,” Gage shot back, not taking his eyes off Devon. “I’m thinking we should sweeten the pot. In addition to the 10K for the winner, I think the loser can take on this new project of yours.”
Devon’s grin slipped. He couldn’t talk his way around a wishbone bet. There were no cards to slip out of his cuffs. It was a straight-on deal with lady luck. And of the two of them, Gage always had better luck with the ladies.
“Fine. You win, I take the deal. But if I win, I get to pick your costume for the Christmas party this deal requires you to attend.”
Gage grimaced.
A Christmas costume party? What the hell kind of joke was this?
Appetite gone, he shoved his plate away.
Yeah. He hated the holidays.
HAILEY NORTH LOVED the holidays.
All the glitter and fun. Smiling faces glowing with joy, the secrets and excitement. And the gifts. Gifts and surprises always rocked. Especially hard-earned ones, presented at a fancy dress-up ball. Or, in this case, a ballroom packed with the rich and influential of the Northern California fashion scene all dressed up like holiday cartoons.
She should be ecstatic. Over-the-moon excited.
Tonight she’d finally be sure that her lingerie company wouldn’t be joining Father Time in waving goodbye at the end of the year.
Instead, she was afraid the past couple of months of financial worries and stress over keeping her company had sent her over the edge into Crazyville.
Here she was surrounded by male models and wealthy designers, many of the most gorgeous specimens of the opposite sex to be found in the Bay Area. And it was the six-and-a-half feet of green fur, snowshoes and a bowling-pin shaped body across the room that was making her hot.
Hailey squinted just to be sure.
Nope. There was absolutely nothing enticing about the costumed guy at the bar. But sex appeal radiated off him like a tractor beam, pulling her in. Turning her on.
Green fur, for crying out loud.
Wow. Month after month of no sex really did a number on a healthy woman’s libido.
Or maybe it was a year dedicated to the objective of making romance sexy. Of studying romantic fantasies, and finding ways to tastefully re-create them in lingerie form and show women that as long as they felt sexy, they were sexy.
Or, possibly, it might have something to do with the glass of champagne she’d knocked back for a little social courage when she’d walked into a ballroom filled with high-powered movers and shakers, most of whom had more money in their wallets than she had in her bank account. And all of them here to impress Rudy Rudolph, a department-store tycoon with a wicked sense of fun and prized openings in his new spring fashion lineup.
She glanced at her empty champagne flute, then at the bar. She should trade this in for something nonalcoholic. Something that didn’t make her go tingly over green, grouchy holiday figures.
Then the Grinch pushed back his fur to check the time. When the hairs on his fingers caught