“I’m in the business of making money, Ms. Stanton. And your boutique and clothing line are not making enough to cover the expense of running them and earn you a decent living.”
“They will. I need a couple of years. By then, with some extra advertising I’ll have built a larger client base and I can start doing the bigger runway shows, getting broader exposure.”
He raised one dark brow. “And then?”
“And then…” She took a deep breath. She knew this. She had everything planned down to what color her dress would be at Fashion Week. “Then Paris Fashion Week, New York, Milan. More boutiques picking up my collection. I hope to have a retail line. I have it all in a portfolio if you’d like to see it. It’s my five-year plan.”
He had the gall to look bored, disinterested. “I don’t have five years to wait for a venture to pay out. And as a result you don’t have five years, either.”
A hot shot of anger infused her with much-needed adrenaline. “What do you want me to do, march up and down the boulevard with a sandwich board strapped to my chest to drum up enough business to satisfy you? These things take time. Fashion is a very competitive industry.”
“I was thinking something a bit more high-end, something with more…class.” The slight curl of his lips suggested he didn’t think she possessed any class at all.
She scrunched her curls, curls she knew were a little bit disheveled. That was the idea. She didn’t do anything by accident, not even things that looked accidental. Everything, down to her spiky heeled, open-toed boots, was about her image and her business. Was about cultivating interest in her brand.
“Well, you weren’t talking class, you were talking urgency.”
“I thought you might be after a slightly more upscale clientele as opposed to tourists and backpackers,” he said, his rich, slightly accented voice sending a shiver through her. Stupid. She talked to a lot of French men who were looking for clothing for their wives or girl-friends…or themselves, she should be used to the smooth charm of the accent by now.
For some reason it sounded different coming from him, a harder edge to complement the rounded vowels. His English was tinged with French, but also with another flavor she couldn’t place, something that made his speech all the more exotic and fascinating.
It didn’t change the fact that he had walked into her boutique like he owned the place and then proceeded to tell her that, in effect, he did.
“What’s the point of advertising at all if you’re just going to demand that I pay you back with money I haven’t got?” she asked.
“I didn’t say I was going to do that. I said that I expect you to start turning major profits in much less than five years’ time.”
“Have a magic wand in that briefcase?” She knew how to handle people like him, people who exercised control over others. Never show fear. Never show weakness. A hard-learned lesson, one she carried with her, always.
“I don’t need magic,” he said, his full lips curving slightly.
No, she imagined he didn’t. He wasn’t only famous for being the bad boy of the business world, he was famous for making millions just a few years after leaving his father’s investing firm and stepping out on his own.
More than once, when she was struggling to make a loan payment, she’d seen an article about him in the business section of the paper and wondered how in the world he’d done it. Gone off on his own like that and made an almost instant success out of himself.
“Fairy dust?” she asked, crossing her arms beneath her breasts.
“Only the weak need luck and magic,” he said. “Success comes to those who act, to those who make things happen.”
Things like shutting down businesses and wrecking what Style magazine had called the wedding of the century. No secret that Blaise Chevalier made things happen, things that served him well. And that he did it with absolutely no conscience.
“And what exactly do you want to make happen with my company?” she asked, feeling her stomach tighten.
She was at a loss. She was going to lose control of her business, at best. At worst she would lose it entirely and if that happened, what was left?
No workshop. No boutiques. No industry parties. None of the friends she’d made thanks to the meager status that she’d achieved. It was like standing on the edge of an endless chasm staring down into nothing. The void was so dark, so empty. She’d crawled her way out of there once, and she couldn’t go back. She wouldn’t sink back down into oblivion, into nothing. She wouldn’t let them be right about her.
“I’ll admit, the fashion industry is of very little interest to me. But when I purchased the loan bundle from your financial institution, yours came wrapped up with what I actually wanted. A little research has shown me that it is time for me to pay more attention to the fashion industry, perhaps. It’s much more lucrative than I had thought.”
“If you play your cards right, yes, there’s a lot of money to be made,” she said. Although, massive amounts of money had never been what it was about for her. It was the success.
“Yes, if you play your cards right. But you’re not exactly a master of the game. I, however, am.” He moved closer to her, ran his hand along the carved wooden back of the chair she’d been sitting in earlier. She took a step back, strangely aware of the movements of his fingers over the intricate carving, almost like he was touching her, not the chair. Her heart pounded a little bit faster.
“I’m hardly a novice. I went to school for business and design. I have a business plan and a couple of investors.”
“Low-level investors that lack the proper connections or sufficient funding. You need more than that.”
“What do I need?”
“Publicity and cash and your five-year plan becomes a six-month plan.”
“That’s not even…”
“It is, Ella. I can have you at Paris Fashion Week next year, and in that time frame your work will have graced magazine covers, billboards. Selling your own work in your own boutique is one thing, but having worldwide distribution and recognition is another. I can give you that.”
She could feel the reins slipping out of her fingers, feel herself losing control. She gritted her teeth. “In return for what? My eternal soul?”
A short chuckle escaped his lips. “While it has been reported that I may be missing my own soul, I have no interest in yours. This is about money.”
It was about more than that for her. Money was money. She could make money doing a lot of different things. But this, this was about being something. Being someone. She didn’t want to have this man, anyone, so involved in her business, so involved in her achievements.
She didn’t want it, but she wasn’t stupid.
The amount of money she owed, money that was now owed to him, was staggering. More than she could hope to pay back with the way things stood. She was in debt to him up to her Petrova diamond earrings and if she ever hoped to get out of that debt, her business had to succeed. More than succeed, it had to reach the kinds of heights that, at the moment, were firmly in the realm of fantasy.
“You think you can just dictate to me?”
“I know I can. As the lien holder I have to be satisfied that you’re doing everything in your power to ensure the success of your business. I’m not overly convinced at the moment,” he said, his eyes sweeping the small boutique in a dismissive manner.
As if it were nothing. As if she were nothing. Her stomach burned with emotion, anger,