by Avery Aster
Interrupting, Lex snapped, “What?” Stressed fingers pushed to her temples to retain the notion in her mind, framing her editorial-worthy face into a kissable portrait.
“This will be our first consumer brand. We are shifting the private label focus and moving into producing our own fashions.”
“Ohhh, God! You can’t be serious. How can you do this—to me?” Her perfect mouth rounded in shock and dismay as she muttered a few vulgarities.
“It’s business, nothing personale.” Maybe he could have something personal with her since they’d be ending their professional dealings. “Girasoli would view further distribution to Easton a conflict.”
“You—” Lex stopped as Clara entered with the salads.
“Sale fino?”
“No salt or seasonings, thank you.” Lex struggled to make eye contact with him.
“No, grazie,” he thanked Clara, while watching as Lex gripped her goblet, unsure if the water inside would end up on his face. He was ready, in case.
Her eyes followed Clara as she left the room then she turned her attention back to Massimo. “You’re planning to compete with me!” Lex fumed.
My my my. “Last year, your sales skyrocketed from ten million dollars to sixty million in twelve months. When you failed to make the payment, it broke the contract’s terms, and we figured we may as well step up and create our own line.”
“You are serious. Ohhh, Jesus.”
“I’m serious but not ruthless. I would not call it competition. We are expanding the category Easton occupies,” he coaxed, hoping he could offer her some peace.
“How so?”
“We are taking the shapewear and apparel and making it more obtainable. We will be selling the new collection to numerous retail channels in Europe, the Middle East, Asia, as well as in the United States.”
The sudden hurt in her eyes at his words troubled him. He knew this was not welcome news, but she would find another supplier and carry on. Entrepreneurs with her determination always did. He bit into a salted red beet and swallowed. The earthy taste soothed his sudden discomfort.
“But there’s a no-compete clause in the contract,” she cried out. Shaking her head, not accepting the truth, she continued, “It states you can’t supply to a competing brand in contemporary, premier designer, active apparel, shapewear, or women’s sportswear.” She rattled off the categories as if she memorized the document.
He was impressed, but wondered if she’d read the agreement’s fine print. “Girasoli is not delivering to a competing brand. We are equipping ourselves. And now, with Easton’s payment default, the exit clause is accelerated.”
“What? What are you talking about?” she asked. Her gem-hued eyes narrowed into slits. She became sexy when mad and was getting sexier by the second.
“The termination paragraph states failure to pay will result in our agreement ending, which expires tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” The flittering lashes shadowed her rosy cheeks and flew up with a dramatic allure, one he didn’t expect.
“We assumed you’re here, interrupting our holiday, due to the deadline.” Massimo gave her props for her timeliness.
She stared at him, her face blank as to the article he mentioned. “Wh-wha—” Lex stuttered.
“Our exclusive agreement ran for twenty-four months,” he warned. Massimo sipped his water, hating to see her strain. Poor bella.
Lex studied his lips as her eyes were in a daze, resting her view on his mouth.
Did she want him as he wanted her? Or maybe she would scream in frustration over her sharp tongue’s inability to construct a single sentence.
“Fuck this. I can’t believe you! Fuuuck,” Lex cursed, confirming there was no lustful daze, boiling rage which poured from her mouth in the form of increasing obscenities.
Bella, vulgarity does not suit you. Massimo thought back and revealed, “We didn’t know when you placed the order two years ago the textiles would become such a success. What you have done is commendable. Above all, especially considering how naïve you are to the business world.”
Redness spotted Lex’s neck as she huffed, “I’m not naïve. We have Brill, Inc., the number-one fashion PR firm in the biz, working with us.” She dropped her salad fork.
He hoped she wouldn’t pick up her steak knife. “Lex—”
She interrupted. “Every fashion magazine editor in New York, London and Paris wears Easton Essentials, and they love my designs.” Her eyes met his, curling her pink lips to a devil’s grimace. She made a point. Easton’s platform built on publicity, not advertising—every sale came from client satisfaction. An Oz designer behind the fashion curtain, there were no reality TV stars or celebrity personalities pushing her brand. Girasoli Garment Company’s research on Easton proved as much. He wished they would’ve given him Lex’s bio in addition to the brand’s financial profile. Massimo knew nothing about her.
He speculated she found a perverse pleasure in challenging him. He estimated she made her men lie on their backs while she rode them to ejaculation. He hoped in multiples. Massimo guessed she had a tight pussy, allowing her lovers to climax when she deemed fit and not a moment sooner.
“My press reviews will be outstanding, also. There is room enough for both Easton and Girasoli in this marketplace.”
“I’ll sue you if I have to.” She glared at him with burning eyes and threatened, “Let’s go to court. Girasoli doesn’t stand a chance.”
He about choked. Massimo heard the word “sue” and realized he sat with an American.
The United States of America, otherwise known as the sue-happy nation, a place where legal action became a celebrated sport. No wonder she didn’t agree to a workout with him. She’d rather litigate.
Easton may smear Girasoli in the press. Lex could destroy his current business-to-business supplier company and any hopes for starting his consumer brand.
The last time Massimo and the judge saw eye to eye was a decade before when his father had embezzled his savings and family inheritance. That was back when Massimo gave up his rights to become king. He’d much rather have the publicity focus on his lifestyle—creating fictitious rumors—versus his business affairs, which may run the truth for a change.
Easton would bring to the surface Tittoni’s legal skeletons he’d worked hard to bury.
“Mi scusi?” Massimo sighed. His feet itched as he struggled not to kick the table. Don’t do this, bella.
She leaned forward, issuing him a smile. A glossy, near-perfect white beam—one which broke only for her to utter something a Manhattanite would threaten. “You heard me!”
Divine Secrets of a Fashionista
Stay calm. Do not flip the table. Dropping his chin, he extended Lex his full attention. “For what? Not sending fabrics to a company which can no longer afford them?” This blonde girl became unbelievable. He’d be happy to give her the keys to his yacht. She can sail her sweet kiwi-smelling self back to Sicily alone, tonight.
“I don’t think you ever deposited Easton’s check or ran my credit card.”
Massimo tucked his hands into his pockets and corrected, “The certified letter included a returned check copy from our bank, as well as a credit slip for the authorization’s decline. You have no grounds to sue. None. Niente.”
“You’ve stolen my ideas and are now preventing me from doing business.”
Massimo defended, “My lawyers will tie you up in court. You will never get another fashion show off the ground, let alone an entire collection.” He did not care to play hardball, not with a woman. Preferring she’d back down, disappear, it would make life easier and benefit his company. He reached for the chilled Bellini pitcher from the ice bucket and held it up to Lex’s flute.
“Even a judge with a half-baked brain and one good eye can see I invented the way for those fabrics to be worn on the human form. Not you.”
“Bellini cocktail?” he persuaded, hoping some alcohol would make her more agreeable. She wouldn’t be succes
sful in a lawsuit against Girasoli. Easton didn’t have a legal leg to stand on. Lex violated the agreement first, making it null and void.
“No, thank you. I don’t want a Bellini cocktail. I want my fabrics.”
He poured himself a glass, trying to salvage the situation. “Invented by Giuseppe Cipriani in the thirties, the Bellini is a Prosecco and peach puree blend. Italy’s signature drink from Venice for all occasions, sì?” Have a drink, bella. You need one.
“Stop patronizing me. It won’t work. No, grazie. You can toast to your lawsuit, if you wish.”
“Sì.” He gulped the fruit nectar and set his glass aside to speak. “I suppose we could go to court.” Massimo would rather die than live through another legal scandal. Nevertheless, he’d play her game. “I am sure the judges in Milano or New York could put something on the books in, say, six months from now. When did you say your fashion show started again?”
“In eight days!” Vivid eyes wide, she slapped the table—twice. The rattling china and crystal clatter didn’t prevent her from arguing. “If you prevent me from having my seasonal launch, I’ll add another forty million in lost net sales and damages to the lawsuit. Don’t think I haven’t calculated the numbers. I’ve endured half a day stuck on two airplanes and a sardine tugboat to decide what I’d do if you didn’t give me my materials. I never in my darkest thoughts expected Girasoli, my supplier, whom I trusted, to topple me. Fashion Hell has been raised, Massimo—Hell!”
He swallowed hard against her threat and muttered, “Meaning?” Do not react, do not react, do not react.
“If Saks carries the line, we’ll clear over one hundred million in gross.”
All this money talk coming from an alluring blonde made him dizzy. He thought about buying Easton outright, shutting her up and taking her under his wing. He’d prefer to take her under his body.
Power. Authority. Strength.
She offered an unexpected flirtatious glance—one lacking any sincerity. Trying to turn her demise around, she promised, “Lawsuit off the table for a sec. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this work—whatever you want.”
“Such as?” He speculated if she’d sleep with him. Massimo wanted her. Sitting on his chair’s edge, he waited for her response, and the lingering expectation grew excruciating. What could she give him? Tell me, bella.
“I’ll pay fifteen percent more than the original sticker price.”
Having you in my arms may be worth more than fifteen percent, bella. “If Girasoli ceases plans and reverts to supplying Easton the fabrics, how will we be sure you will pay on time?”
“I’ll sign whatever guarantee you want me to.”
“Your signature graced the last contract and did not work for you.” He didn’t favor uncertainty, not in this economy.
“Please. I can’t go home without this shipment.” Her eyes filled with the realization he didn’t intend to give in. Maybe her legal bite was a bluff. “I’ll be forced to close my doors and lay off my employees.” Lex’s pleading made her proposal tempting, but he couldn’t.
“No. Taking another risk on Easton is bad business practice for Girasoli. This is nothing personal.” His company remained number one in Italy for textiles. At year’s end, it would be the top manufacturer in Europe, and the year following, the world. He could not do business with some ‘fly by the seat of your pants’ clothing company.
“You’ll never be able to get your label off the ground,” she snapped. “Not without knocking me off.” She raised her chin in confidence.
“Are your fashion wits telling you Girasoli is copying your designs?” Massimo had heard the term “know-it-all”, but he’d never met a “Lex”. In her stretchy slacks, she’d given new meaning to the term “sassy pants”.
“Damn straight!”
“Easton’s designs are, how do you say, frumpy.”
Her jaw dropped. “Frumpy?”
“We intend to sex them up a bit.”
As she leaned toward him, her eyes changed from a shade of green to almost all black. “My clothing isn’t frumpy. The Easton client is a real woman who wants to feel good in the clothes she wears. She isn’t interested in ‘sexing it up a bit’. My buyers are—” She cut herself short, too frustrated to continue, biting down hard on her lower lip in defiance.
Itchiness scratched his throat as he witnessed Lex struggle with her emotions. “I am sorry, Lex. I am. But this is business.” Massimo wondered how long she could keep up her ‘tough girl’ persona.
“Who’s designing the garments for you?”
“Jemma Fereti. You met her today at the pool.”
“There were three women at the pool. Forgive me, but I couldn’t tell them apart.” Raising her pointer finger midair, she asked, “The tallest one?”
“Sì, Jemma started with Girasoli after università. We grew up together.” He held his Bellini up to her all-knowing finger to toast the notion and then took another sip.
“Uh-huh. As expected, your designer is drop-dead gorgeous.” Her eyes rolled.
Clara came with the entrées: grouper, still on the bone. She squeezed lemon over the scales and returned to the kitchen.
Lex moved her fish around on the plate, looking as if she’d lost her appetite.
Massimo reached across the table to stroke her hand and console her.
She didn’t pull away or stab him with her fork as he expected, resembling the moment at the pool earlier when he’d held her hand and she looked deep into his eyes. He sensed Lex overcame great obstacles in her lifetime to have made Easton a success in the high-stakes fashion world.
“The textiles are vital to you?”
“My entire business relies on them.” She rested her body in the chair. She’d given up.
He stroked her fingers, admiring their softness, hoping she’d relax.
Her once-strong grip felt frail and cold against his. Lex’s mind must’ve been preoccupied with many thoughts. Massimo couldn’t imagine. It was a brave test to witness her digest defeat, one he hadn’t expected. It made him uncomfortable.
Lex’s body spoke to him as her face darkened and hope vanished. Tired, she couldn’t continue, turning her torso to the side as a signal she didn’t wish for him to witness her eyes fill with tears. She kept her hand with his.
At first, he’d reached for her to console, not intending to make her cry. “Lex—”
When she glanced at him again, she’d recovered. “My company is all I have.” She squeezed his hand tight.
“Lex, I didn’t know. I had no idea.” Acquainted with her emotions to a high degree, Massimo felt empathy for Lex. For many years, Girasoli existed as his nourishment, keeping his passions alive. However, he needed more for his business, for his life.
“But you have zero intent on giving me my shipment.” Close to hyperventilating, her shoulders shook as she gasped for air and mumbled, “Am I right?”
“Sì, I am afraid so. As stated earlier, this is business.” Bella, mi scusi.
Withdrawing her hand from his, she raised her right thumb to collect a fallen tear as she caught her breath. “Thank you for your time, Your Majesty.” Lex wrapped the pashmina tighter around her shoulders. “I’ll ring Goldbaum & Goldstein first thing in the morning.” She crossed her arms, likely not happy with having to go to a different manufacturer.
Massimo hadn’t heard about the Golds before. “Are they a new fabric supplier?” I haven’t met Signor Goldbaum or Signor Goldstein. Nice people to work with?”
“Very. Sarah Goldbaum and Hannah Goldstein have been friends with me since college.” Her eyes sparked a challenge he didn’t wish for. “At Columbia University, I majored in women’s studies and they graduated in international law. They were in my sorority.”
“International law?” His tonsils throbbed as if a frog had leapt down his throat. “Who are Sarah and Hannah?”
“My lawyers! G and G represent Manhattan’s finest. They never lose a case.”
“Aaugh!” Without intentio
n, he stood, enraged. It was impossible to sit after that response. Royal etiquette rule number one, titled Grace, which his mother, Elisabetta Giada, Princess of Oro, taught him as a boy. Always walk away from nastiness—never stick around or react. Massimo threw his damask napkin over his plate. He couldn’t manage her meltdown, remain professional and be dignified at the same time. One minute she’d flirt, next second she’d cry, and then she’d threaten. He realized he may not be any better. “If you will mi scusi, dinner is over. Buona notte.”
“Good night to you, too,” she echoed, dropping her head between her hands.
He marched away, unsure what else he could do for her. If he stayed, they’d rip one another to pieces. Her lawyers didn’t worry him. Girasoli contracted the best legal counsel money could buy. But would the courts see it his way or hers?
Lex sat at the table, stunned. What happened? It’d taken every bit of restraint she possessed not to reach over the table and strike the prince. She’d imagined doing it, though, several times. How could anyone with such a handsome face be so coldhearted? Such a dickhead. She couldn’t turn this situation around to save her life.
The prince didn’t intend to budge. She’d underestimated him, that was true, but she couldn’t go home empty-handed. She was convinced Birdie would down prescription painkillers with a liter of Tanqueray as if they were Good & Plentys. She’d be six feet under next to Eddie by Christmas.
A noise drew her attention.
She looked up to see a familiar face walk into the ballroom.
Roberto gave her a pitying look.
“Signorina Easton, shall I clear your plate?” he asked. “Clara mentioned you didn’t eat much. Dinner tasted unsatisfactory?”
“The food was fine,” she answered. The company is horrific.
He sighed and then asked, “May I help you with something?”
“No. Please give me a minute to collect myself.” She swallowed hard and could feel the tears she’d worked to hold back well up, streaming down her cheeks.
“Per favore, don’t cry.” He reached in his pocket, pulled out a thin silk handkerchief, and sat down next to her.