Buyer Beware

by Colleen Charles

  My cell jangles and lights up with a 323 area code, causing my heart to lurch to the side. This is it. I pick up the receiver with a sweaty hand. This is the call that will make or break me. God, I hope it’s laced with the words I’ve wanted to hear my entire life. The ones I’ve been dreaming of ever since I was ten and made an Oscar night gown out of my mom’s chintz curtains.

  “Hello,” I chirp, not recognizing my own nervous voice. I swear it’s climbed at least an octave. My moist palm can barely clutch the phone. “Thank you for calling Strict Nécessaire. This is Taryn, how may I help you?”

  “Hi Taryn, this is Megan Stillman. I’m with Ivory Clause Ready to Wear. I hope you’re having a great day. I just wanted to let you know that the contract has been approved. We are so excited to begin working with you. We’re sure your boutique is the perfect fit for us there in Vegas. The pictures you posted on Instagram…well, they’re just divine.”

  For a moment, I forget to breathe. This is the answer I’ve been hoping and praying for, and it feels almost too good to be true. My fingers trail down to my stomach and pinch just to be sure. Something wonderful is finally happening to me. And I so deserve it. I’ve had enough negative in my world to last for at least three lifetimes. Things are finally headed in the right direction without me needing to worry about my father raiding the strip with his pitchfork in hand.

  “Hello? Taryn?” Megan pauses, and I realize that with my mind galloping out of control, I haven’t answered. “Are you still there?”

  Flushing, I grip the phone harder. “Yes, I’m so sorry,” I say in a rush to correct my awkward impoliteness. “I’m very excited, too. This is a great opportunity for both Strict Nécessaire and Ivory Clause. And Las Vegas. Don’t worry. We won’t let you down. Your idea to keep your ready to wear line exclusive here is brilliant. And that you’ve selected my store, well, it’s–”

  “We’re sure you’ll do the best possible job in creating that special high-end experience that Ivory desires for her brand,” Megan says, sounding like she means it. In that moment, I realize that one of the best and most sought-after designers in the world believes in me and my store. And her belief is going to create a flood of wealthy women hungry to snatch up every design she sends here. “We’ll have our lawyer fax the paperwork over shortly, and from there it’s just a few signatures until we’re officially in business. Ivory herself couldn’t be more excited about this opportunity, and I think I can speak for all of us here when I say how pleased we are. Strict Nécessaire is a perfect fit for our brand, Taryn. Please thank Nixon Caldwell as well when next you see him since he was instrumental in the deal.”

  It’s hard not to break into a song and happy dance like one of those animated emojis, but I keep my cool. Victoria Beckham might have fallen through, but landing Ivory instead is a major coup. She designed the two most photographed gowns at last year’s Oscars red carpet.

  “My staff and I are very pleased about the news, too. Everything sounds amazing, thank you.” I barely temper my desire to gush. Poise is the order of the day. “And please, if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to call.”

  “Of course,” Megan says. “Same goes for you. Here at Ivory Clause, we pride ourselves on our transparent business relationships. I hope you always feel comfortable dealing with me and my associates. I’ll be your special point of contact, and you can contact me anytime of the day or night.”

  After a short goodbye, we hang up. The thrill sets in like a chill to my bones and I can’t stop myself from stepping into the stockroom. I leap, jump, and cheer as I cry tears of joy. A few fist pumps toward the sky, and I’m soaring. My heels clack on the marble floors and my face aches from my shit-eating grin. This is, without a doubt, the best moment of my life as a businesswoman.

  So far.

  This is just the beginning! Who knows what kind of clients I’ll land in the future! Ivory’s just the start. I could land Stella. Or even Versace.

  Holy. Shit.

  Ever since I first opened my luxury boutique – French for bare necessities – I’ve dreamed of a moment like this. I’ve been dogged – I’ve had to be in order to get where I am today. But so far, I’ve only worked with small couture brands. Previously, my biggest triumph was nabbing Paige, a tiny denim outfit out of Los Angeles. When I started selling Paige jeans in Strict Nécessaire, customers were pulling them off the shelves faster than I could keep them stocked. And then, by some miracle, Meghan Markle showed up to a press event in a pair of Paige jeans. It was right around the time news of her relationship with Prince Harry broke, and that blessed celebrity coupling was what had finally pulled me out of the two-dollar boxed wine and into prosecco.

  With Ivory Clause in Strict Nécessaire, I’m hoping I can finally make it to champagne. And not just the bar champagne I’m drinking now.

  Kristal.

  I almost can’t believe it. Even though I’m working my fingers to the bone, pulling all- nighters and eighty-hour work weeks whenever duty calls, the reality of this success doesn’t feel real. When I first moved to Las Vegas from a sleepy little town in South Dakota on a full-ride scholarship to UNLV, I was caught in the neon of the strip and the fast lifestyle like a deer in the headlights. As a poor college kid, I’d done what I had to do in order to survive – all the while spending every free moment planning my future in the fashion industry. And even during my low moments, I’m proud that I escaped my redneck existence.

  I’m the first person in my family to graduate from college, make it to twenty-five without getting pregnant, or even move away from Milton. When I was a grade school kid with pigtails, I dreamed of heading to New York with my tutu and ragged suitcase, to audition for Broadway or the Rockettes.

  And then UNLV had come calling with their neon siren’s song. Now, I’m glad that I stuck with Vegas. I like the high energy environment.

  It fits.

  And even though I like to think of myself as a pretty cosmopolitan woman now, deep down I still feel like a sunburned hick in torn overalls. My best friend, Bailey, says that someday I’ll get over it. But I’m not so sure. I feel like no matter how successful I am, I’m never going to feel like I quite belong in fashion. Almost like I’m wearing a mask or a persona like Reese Witherspoon in “Sweet Home Alabama.”

  Just as my heart rate slows to normal, the door chimes and I whirl around, still flushed and breathless.

  “Hello!” I sing out with more enthusiasm than necessary, ready to convert my adrenaline spike into a huge sale. “May I help you?”

  When I see the man darkening my doorway, my happiness pops like a champagne bubble. Oh, no. Why him? Why now?

  Dante Giovanetti stands there in his signature custom Armani, his thin lips pulling into a sarcastic sneer. My heart sinks, but I make sure to temper my own expression. The fact that he’s here in person instead of sending one of his goons speaks volumes. There’s no use getting into it with him when a customer could walk in at any moment and interrupt us. He’s got me backed into a corner, which is exactly the way he likes it.

  He’s not my favorite mistake.

  “Hello, Taryn,” he says in a mocking tone, staring at my glass. The liquid gold contents go flat underneath the heat of his censuring gaze, and one lonely bubble floats to the top. I stare at it. Because if I look at Dante, I’ll be tempted to throw the remaining contents in his smug face. “Celebrating something? I’m not sure why you’re in such a good mood – place looks pretty empty to me. Did all your customers just become members of the second wives club?”

  I force a tight smile as my nostrils flare involuntarily. Just the sight of Dante sets my blood boiling, but I’m determined not to let him spoil this happy occasion. I’m sure he just wants to intimidate me – and really, how bad can it be? After all, I’m no longer Dante’s employee. He doesn’t have any right to boss me around. I work for myself, and I’m under a generous lease with Nixon Caldwell at the Armónico.

  “We’re open for business as usual, but you’re right
. I am celebrating.” Damn, it feels good to let this man know how successful I am. “I’ve just landed a significant contract.” I gesture toward the small cabinet of drinks. To prove this douche doesn’t affect me, I make him an offer. If you can’t beat ‘em, get ‘em drunk. “Feel like sharing some champagne?”

  Dante’s grin grows a shade more unpleasant. “Ah yes. Ms. Clause has come calling, I hear. I meant to ask, are you celebrating anything that I don’t know about?”

  My heart sinks. How could he possibly know about my new contract when I’d just heard the news myself only moments ago? “What?”

  “You heard me, Taryn,” he says, his voice laced with menace. He strides a few steps closer to me, and I suppress a shiver. “And don’t treat me like a fool, either, you know very well I keep a very close eye on all my…friends.”

  I cock my head to the side, standing firm and not letting him see how he can get to me. “Friends? Is that what we are? Friends don’t have to spy on each other,” I add, putting my hands on my hips. “Spit it out. Why are you here?”

  Dante snickers and my pounding blood turns to ice in my veins. “I have my sources.” His presence could only be described as menacing. He takes up space and seems to drain all of the available air from any room he enters, leaving his targets gasping for breath. “Lots of little birds fly around this town, Taryn. Lots of songsters who like telling me everything I need to know.” He pauses and walks even closer, licking his lips. My stomach flips. The thought of that forked tongue anywhere near me makes me want to upchuck my champagne all over his Italian leather shoes. “The thing is, Taryn…you wouldn’t be here without me. And you know it.”

  I grit my teeth. “That may be mildly true, but I’m here now – and I did it all on my own.”

  Dante raises an eyebrow. “Really? You started this establishment with money you earned dancing inside my exclusive club. A club that boasts over one thousand auditions each and every year from dancers all over the world. Without me, you’d be slinging burgers at In-N-Out on Tropicana. Can I get fries with that?” He bursts out laughing, and I can see how much he loves being a bully.

  Thrives on it.

  “I wasn’t a stripper,” I say, drawing myself to my full height and holding my head high. Dante can take his lewd insinuations and shove them straight up his rigid ass. “I kept my clothes on. You’re forgetting that I sang, too. Remember, I’m an award-winning singer. And dancer. I’ve been dancing since I was old enough to walk.”

  Dante makes a sweeping motion with his hand. “Taryn, if you think the men were coming in to watch you sing, you’re not as sophisticated as you pretend to be.” His eyes float down my body, and it feels like spiders crawling over my skin.

  I open my mouth to object, but he’s pushed the button on one of my biggest limiting beliefs, and no words of self-defense will come out.

  He grins. “They were coming in droves to view your physical attributes. A man likes a full rack that isn’t made of silicone. And your tits. Well…they’re perfection. A successful businessman doesn’t like dealing with a whore. So, my entertainment director learned to just dress the whores up in La Perla. But the accouterments don’t change what’s underneath. Don’t kid yourself. Singer, dancer, stripper – all the same thing in my book. It’s adult entertainment, Vegas style. And you, my dear, went all in.”

  I stare at him, picturing my head exploding off my body. My mom taught me that a lady never loses her temper. My mom’s never met Dante Giovanetti.

  “I know you’re just trying to bait me,” I spit out, wishing I could actually spit in his smug face. I remember why I’ve always hated him – he’s a chauvinist pig who thinks that every woman is beneath him.

  Dante winks. Winks. The gesture sets lose a fire in me, and I can feel the angry heat coming off my body in waves. “I know. It’s such fun. I just can’t resist.” He glances around, licking his lips and nodding as I suppress another shiver, but this time, it’s half-disgust and half-rage. “Real nice place you’ve built here at Caldwell’s. Classy. High-end. Did you ever think about thanking an old friend for getting you to your present lucrative position?”

  I groan. He can’t be serious. I walk over to the counter and take a bottle of water from the complimentary display. He acts like he owns me and nothing pisses me off more. Men don’t own me. They never have and they never will.

  “Well?” Dante runs his tapered fingers all over a display of Temperley London silk dresses. Caressing them. Dammit, I want to put my foot on his sculpted ass and push until he hits the promenade outside the store in a perfect face plant. “After all, I helped you get on your feet. I took a chance on a little hayseed from Nebraska fresh off the farm, needing money for college. And this is how she repays me?”

  “I’m from South Dakota, and you forget that it was my hard-earned money,” I shoot back. “To do with as I please. I don’t work for you anymore, Dante. I work for me.”

  “Yeah, well, that may be, Taryn Mitchell.” He clearly disagrees. In fact, the man looks as if he wants to slap me inside my own establishment. I stare at the twitching fingers he’s fisted at his sides. “But the thing is…” He trails off and walks closer, sending a shiver of panic down my spine as his massive frame looms over me. He could kill me if he wanted to. I bristle in rigid defiance. “I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Oh, not much.” Dante looks at his manicured nails. “Just a twenty-percent assistance tax. That’s only fair, don’t you think?”

  My heart sinks, but at the same time, I want to stomp my foot and explode into a temper tantrum. He can’t get away with this. He can’t possibly resort to extortion, or else I’ll lose my store and everything in it. I operate at a much smaller margin than he’s proposed just to break even.

  “It’s not that much, Taryn,” Dante says as he raises an eyebrow. “So, does that sound amenable to you?” He grins and shakes his head, thinking he has me. Guess again, prick. “Besides, twenty percent is less than most of our other friends are required to pay. You should consider accepting before I make it thirty-five. Of course, you could always break your lease with Caldwell here at this shitbox and come on over to the Mona Lisa. Perhaps we could work something else out. Something that wouldn’t require your cold, hard cash.”

  His lascivious gaze sweeps my body, and I know what that something else is before he even goes further.

  “Get out,” I say, fisting my hands to keep from throwing a punch. That wouldn’t be ladylike, and I pride myself on my current sophisticated image that grew through considerable grace under fire. “Now.”

  I point to the door. By now, I seethe and tremble, and I can’t even hide it. I don’t care – I want to rip this man apart, limb from limb. Dante Giovanetti is the biggest bully in Las Vegas, and I’m sure as hell not going to let him push me around anymore.

  “Taryn.” Dante sighs. “Don’t do this. Don’t do something you’ll regret while you’re under the influence of champagne and…anger.”

  His faux-apologetic tone is what launches me into the stratosphere. Balling my hands into fists at my sides, I shake my head and glare. I can practically feel the steam rising out of my ears as I take a deep breath and prepare to give Dante the biggest middle finger I’ve ever thrown.

  “Kindly leave my store,” I hiss. “You don’t own me, Dante Giovanetti! And you’d better cut out the veiled threats. You don’t own me, or anyone else in this city. If you ever come back here again, I’ll call the cops on your ass. I’m sure they’d love to hear about your machinations.”

  This time, Dante’s laugh has a dangerous edge. “You think the authorities aren’t in my back pocket? You really are a redneck hick. I’ve been greasing them for so long they’ve turned into Crisco covered robots. And I’m at the controls.”

  I swallow and press my lips into a thin line. “Don’t mess with me,” I say in a low, equally dangerous voice. “I may look like your redneck target practice, but I’m a lot stronger than
you realize. I’ve grown. I’ve changed. Made myself into something new. Better. And you can’t take that away from me in spite of bringing ghosts from the past back to life.”

  Dante’s nasty grin fades for a second, and I sense anger, hot and true, steaming from his pores. For a moment, we stand there, glaring at each other. Then Dante shakes his head and laughs as he turns on his heel to leave.

  “You’re making a big mistake,” he threatens. “I’d highly recommend you reconsider and give me a call at my office. We’ll talk. Do lunch.”

  The door chimes as the bastard leaves, and I brace myself against the counter and slump down.

  So much for that Kristal. Now, I’ll be lucky if I can afford beer.

  Chapter Two

  Taryn

  After Satan leaves, limping out on his cloven hoof, I shake with an anger so deep it feels like every cell in my body throbs under its power. I can barely see straight. Just when I finally thought I’d launch my career into orbit – just when I manage to pick up the most prominent brand since my store’s grand opening, Dante shows up like a clump of hair swirling the drain.

  My mind races with wild thoughts, all of them self-destructive and yet somehow appealing. I want to chase after the man, to leap on his back and choke him until his greasy head cracks against the Vegas strip. I want to curl up in a ball behind the counter of Strict Nécessaire, drink all of my complimentary champagne, and cry until my throat is hoarse.

  But I won’t do any of those things.

  Because I’m too numb to move.

  When the door chimes and swings open again, I can barely muster the strength to turn around.

  “What?” I say in a voice just above a tortured whisper, closing my eyes and sighing. “Dante, if it’s you…just get out before I call the cops.”