Her Deal with the Devil

by Nicola Marsh

  ‘You don’t want me to come,’ she said.

  The eerie monotone was as scary as her expressionless pallor. But he saw the shattered pain in her eyes, mirroring his.

  ‘It’s not that—’

  ‘Then what is it?’ Her metamorphosis from cool to furious happened in an instant. ‘This thing between us moved beyond a fling ages ago, so for you to stand there and pretend what happened between us was just a convenient side benefit while we worked together—’ She shook her head, her hair tangling like spun gold around her face. ‘I’m such a moron.’

  ‘Listen to me—’

  ‘No!’

  She lowered her voice when several people glanced their way. ‘I’ll drop by your office later to tie up loose ends but I don’t want to hear another word about you and me. Got it?’

  Damn it, he’d made a frigging mess of this. He needed to give her some snippet of truth because he couldn’t leave her hurting—not like this.

  ‘You’re wrong. You mean everything to me—’

  She bolted, her red-soled stilettos clacking against the floorboards, echoing the furious beating of his heart.

  He could have sworn it pounded out a repetitive rhythm: idiot…schmuck…jerk…

  Sapphie’s first instinct to flee might have been a foolish one business-wise as she brushed off countless congratulations, but she had to get out of here. Had to find somewhere she could breathe without feeling as if she’d faint.

  He didn’t want her.

  Tears burned the backs of her eyes as she exited the Mel-bourne Exhibition Centre, slipped off her heels, and joined the crowds strolling along the Yarra River’s Southbank.

  Anonymity was good. No one would give her a second glance on a busy Saturday night, when black-clad women dangling shoes off their fingertips wasn’t all that unusual. Though they might stare if she bawled, so she swallowed her tears and walked. And walked.

  Past the Crown Towers and casino, past the upscale South-bank restaurants, past the Langham Hotel. She practically ran past that landmark, her throat clogged with grief. For she was grieving. Grieving over the loss of Patrick, the guy she’d trusted enough to love, the guy who’d flung the lot back in her face.

  Okay, she hadn’t exactly told him she loved him but didn’t the guy have half a brain? He knew how much Seaborns meant to her. She’d told him she’d almost ended up a basket case because of it. So the fact she’d wanted to follow him to Paris should have clued him in to how she felt.

  Idiot. Him. Not her.

  Actually, her too. For thinking for one second a guy like Patrick could change.

  Just because he’d become a whiz-bang businessman didn’t mean all those internet reports were behind him. For all she knew he’d schmoozed her as part of his business plan, adding her to the long list of women he’d bedded.

  Harsh? Maybe. But it was a pretty good explanation for the way he’d thrown her away now their business association had come to an end.

  However, as she reached St Kilda Road and turned left, crossing the bridge and ending up outside Flinders Street Station, she managed to calm down enough to view this rationally.

  Patrick had never made any promises. In fact he’d gone out of his way to explain the short-term nature of their assignation. She’d known it, had acknowledged it, yet had gone ahead and fallen in love regardless.

  Her bad, not his.

  He’d done nothing wrong. They’d worked incredible magic together professionally and managed to combust a little personally.

  She felt whole again, physically capable of taking on anything, and she had him to thank. Rather than berate him she should be thanking him.

  All very logical, but it did nothing for the ache in her heart. Acknowledging the truth and accepting it were miles apart.

  As she waited in a taxi rank, watching partygoers bustling around Federation Square opposite, she knew what she had to do.

  Head home, meditate, get a little space and perspective, then drop by his office as planned and show Patrick Fourde how accomplished she was at moving on.

  Easy.

  If she could just get past the fact that after tonight she probably wouldn’t see him again.

  Patrick paced his office, blind to the lights of Melbourne spread out like diamonds on a cape many storeys below.

  He should be on top of the world right now. Out with the team, celebrating their success. Solidifying his plans to expand. Maybe even rehearsing the spiel he’d need to give his folks to avoid them having coronaries.

  Yet all he could think about was Sapphire.

  The devastation in her eyes when he’d told her not to follow him to Paris. The pain twisting the lips he craved. Her disbelieving pallor.

  They’d moved past a fling after that Langham weekend, yet he’d relegated what they’d shared to just that by dismissing her offer.

  He knew how much it must have cost her to tell him, knew how much she prized Seaborns. For her to contemplate coming to Paris with him…

  He cursed out loud.

  It looked as if her feelings mirrored his.

  Which meant…

  He slammed a fist against the sideboard, watching Serge’s globe and the stupid pins he’d stabbed into various countries jump.

  How far he’d come from those days when he’d travelled the world schmoozing and partying, playing up to the reputation he’d deliberately courted after his first failure.

  The opinion of so many had burned in his gut, never doused no matter how much alcohol he poured down his throat, never easing no matter how many beds he lay in.

  But judging from the reception his indie collection had received at Melbourne Fashion Week it was time to have another go at entering a market he knew he had a lot to offer to.

  Interestingly, his folks had ignored the e-mail he’d sent them with links to press accolades for the indie collection.

  Not that they could ignore it for too much longer, considering he had their meeting all planned out. Present the latest sales figures and projections, introduce his plans for a breakaway company, thank them and hand in his resignation.

  It wouldn’t be easy—far from it. Fourde Fashion was one of the oldest establishments in Europe. For the youngest son to go head to head with his parents…yeah, it would be tough. He could handle it—had handled being a focus of the media for years.

  This time, though, he intended on being front and centre in the media for all the right reasons.

  ‘Security let me up.’

  Patrick turned, unprepared for the slash of sadness to his gut, which intensified as he caught sight of Sapphire striding across his office, head held high.

  She’d changed into a pale blue leisure suit and let her hair down, managing to look coolly elegant and comfortable at the same time. Soft and approachable, at odds with the mutinous twist to her lips.

  He’d expected her to be tentative and shaken when she showed up—not defiant with a battle gleam in her eyes.

  ‘Let’s get to work,’ she said, flopping into the chair opposite his desk and flicking on her iPad. ‘I assume I’ll be liaising with Serge from now on?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, sitting opposite her, his hands curling into fists at the thought of Sapphire liaising with anyone but him. ‘He’s in charge in the interim.’

  ‘Interim?’ She typed, pretending his answer didn’t mean anything, but he saw her shoulders tense.

  ‘’Til we figure out who’s heading up the Melbourne branch permanently.’

  It wasn’t going to be him, once he’d vocalised his plans to his folks.

  ‘That’s it? You breeze in for a month, hit a major home run, and leave?’ She continued typing, not looking up. ‘Seems like a funny way to run a business. Especially when Fourde is trying to get a foothold in the Aussie market.’

  ‘I know what I’m doing,’ he said, wishing he could tell her all of it.

  But he couldn’t afford a leak. Not with so much at stake. This time he would do it right.

  ‘Do you?
’ She finally glanced up, fixing him with a piercing glare that eviscerated. ‘Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you haven’t changed a bit. Still flitting from one thing to another, searching for the next shiniest toy to play with, unable to settle.’

  She’d nailed his past persona to a tee. Past. And the fact she thought him so shallow irked.

  ‘There’s a lot you don’t know.’

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  She carefully placed her iPad on the desk and leaned forward, tapping the bulging manila folder containing their brainstorming. ‘We did good with this. Real good. We’re in every major fashion magazine around the world this week, not to mention the online forums and websites.’

  She leaned back, folded her arms, so sure appealing to his business side would get him to change his mind.

  ‘This could be the start of something great, so why are you running away?’

  ‘You’re not just talking about work here,’ he said, knowing they needed to have this conversation but not prepared for it.

  What could he say? That he had to launch his own company in Paris as vindication for the failures of the past? That he wanted his folks to sit up and finally take notice of him for once? That everything he’d done the past few years, working his butt off for Fourde, had been leading towards this moment?

  He couldn’t give it up—even for the only woman who had ever made him feel.

  ‘You’ve made yourself perfectly clear but I don’t get it.’

  She spoke so softly he had to strain to hear the rest.

  ‘We’ve connected on an emotional level and you have no intention of seeing it through.’ She tapped her chest. ‘I’m the one willing to travel to Paris to be with you, to see if there’s any chance at a future, but you’re not interested. And I guess my ego is demanding to know why not.’

  He shook his head, frustrated with the situation, frustrated with her. If they’d connected, how come she thought so little of him?

  The thought of them together in Paris appealed on so many levels. Except the one that mattered most—the one that said he couldn’t afford to lose sight of the end goal, not now.

  ‘Not everything’s about you,’ he said, hating the flash of pain in her bold gaze but needing to establish emotional distance before he caved. ‘I’m heading back to Paris for business and you need to accept it.’

  ‘We don’t stay in touch? We pretend like we never hap-pened?’

  Her quiet stoicism slugged him hard. Classy to the end, she wouldn’t rant or swear or blame. It would have been better if she had. He could have coped with histrionics. This quiet acceptance, as if she’d expected him to let her down all along, sucked big-time.

  ‘I can’t give you any promises. I have important stuff to do in Paris and that’s my priority for now.’

  ‘Stuff?’ She made it sound as if he’d be dancing the can-can rather than launching a new business.

  In that moment, despite his obsession with secrecy until his company went live, he knew he’d have to tell her to get her to back off. To understand. He wasn’t toying with her. He just didn’t want to make any promises he couldn’t keep.

  He’d been working too long and too hard to sacrifice his dream now.

  ‘I’m launching my own fashion house.’

  Her eyes widened in surprise and she stared at him as if he’d announced he’d be constructing the next Louvre by hand.

  ‘It’s confidential for now. You can probably appreciate the delicacy with being Fourde’s rival.’

  ‘Of course.’ She nodded. ‘Congratulations.’

  Her voice sounded strangled and she couldn’t meet his eye.

  Great. He’d finally told her the truth and this was the reaction he got? Then again, he’d vetoed any possibility of a future between them so what did he expect? For her to throw a party?

  ‘Well, then, I guess you go do your stuff and I’ll do mine.’

  She stood so quickly his head snapped back.

  ‘Hand over to Serge tonight and I’ll meet with him tomorrow.’

  ‘But I thought—’

  ‘What?’

  She whirled on him with so much fury he wouldn’t have been surprised if the air between them had crackled.

  ‘You thought I’d sit here meek and mild tonight, being the good little business associate?’

  She towered over him, hands on hips, brows drawn, eyes narrowed, magnificent.

  ‘Newsflash. I’ve finally got your message loud and clear.’

  For the second time that evening he found himself yelling, ‘Wait…’ to her retreating back as she ran from his office.

  He swore, long and hard, a string of French and English curses that did little to ease the frustration pounding through his body.

  Of course Serge chose that moment to saunter into his office, an aged double malt Scotch in one hand, ice bucket in the other.

  ‘Looks like you could use one of these,’ he said, laying both on the sideboard. ‘Was that Sapphire I saw heading towards the elevators?’

  ‘Shut the hell up,’ Patrick said, stalking across the office to grab one of the glasses Serge had filled in record time.

  ‘Hmm…I’m guessing you won’t be liking this so much, then.’ Serge grappled in his pocket for a moment, before pulling out a pin and sticking it in Melbourne on the globe. ‘Look at this this way—she’s another flag in your world domination.’

  Patrick had never been a violent man, despite being pushed to the limits by his dad on numerous occasions, but at that moment, with Serge’s smug grin taunting, he’d never felt like hitting anyone more.

  ‘Leave. Now.’

  Serge held up his hands. ‘Thought you needed to lighten up. It’s harmless fun—’

  ‘Get out.’

  Serge reached for the Scotch, took one look at his face and thought better of it, backing away instead.

  ‘We can go over the latest orders in the morning.’

  Patrick grunted in response, willing the fury making his hand shake to subside.

  He wasn’t angry with Serge so much as the situation. He hated feeling helpless, and watching Sapphire walk out had rendered him more powerless than he’d ever been.

  He needed time and space to calm down. The bottle of Scotch wouldn’t go astray either.

  ‘Take it easy, mon ami,’ Serge said, backing through the door with a final concerned frown.

  Alone. Finally.

  He downed the Scotch in three gulps and had poured another when the door flung open again.

  ‘Dammit—’

  ‘What did he mean, “she’s another flag”’

  Sapphire’s voice was quiet, deadly, at odds with the shattered agony in her eyes.

  The alcohol burned in his empty gut. His sudden nausea was more to do with explaining to Sapphire what that stupid globe meant than drinking on an empty stomach.

  She jabbed a finger at him. ‘I came back because I didn’t want us to end like we did first time around, with me not saying what I should’ve.’

  She toyed with the string on her hoodie and he hated that he was the cause of her stricken pallor.

  ‘Back then I acted like an immature child. I should’ve taken your call and thanked you for seeing me home on graduation night, should’ve told you I appreciated you caring enough to bother after the way I treated you during our final year.’ She shook her head. ‘So that’s why I’m here. I’d like to think I’m more mature these days and I should’ve congratulated you properly before. Shouldn’t have let my feelings cloud your success. For that’s what you’ll be with your own company. I have no doubt.’

  She shrugged. ‘But after what I overheard maybe I should’ve left well enough alone, like in high school.’

  He didn’t speak and she hovered in the doorway, vulnerable in a way he’d never imagined.

  ‘Tell me what Serge meant.’

  He glanced at the inanimate object encapsulating the stupidity of his past and wondered why he’d kept it. He didn’t need a reminder
of how far he’d come. He stared at the reality in the mirror every morning while shaving. He wasn’t the same person he’d once been. He’d become so much more through hard work and dedication.

  ‘I’m not leaving ‘til you tell me,’ she said, her voice quivering. Something inside him broke.

  In a pique of rage he swept the globe off the sideboard, sending it spinning onto the floor, surrounded by countless pins dotting the carpet.

  She gaped, but didn’t move, and he clenched and unclenched his fists several times before being able to speak.

  ‘Sometimes any form of attention is better than none.’ He kicked the globe. ‘Serge and I were young. He came up with the stupid idea to…uh…catalogue our conquests according to location.’

  Her sharp intake of breath killed him, but not half as much as the devastation crumpling her mouth.

  ‘I never did, but Serge hung onto this, and after a while I used it as something to spur me on—a reminder of a past I didn’t want to go back to. I channelled my energies into my work, hoping to gain recognition that way.’

  ‘Did it work?’

  ‘Still trying.’

  As the words popped out he wondered if he’d ever feel truly vindicated. He’d taken Fashion Week by storm. Had provided a good launch-pad for his contemporary fashion house. Had garnered attention from around the world.

  So why the emptiness deep down, in a place he’d expected to be filled once he’d done what he’d set out to do?

  ‘You keep trying.’ The shimmer of tears hit him hard. ‘In the meantime, why don’t you admit all I ever meant to you was another flag on your globe.’

  He crossed the room in four strides and reached for her. ‘You know that’s bull. What we shared was really special.’

  She shrugged out of his grasp. ‘Yeah, so special you won’t give us a chance.’

  He wanted to explain but couldn’t find the words. No other woman made him feel as perplexed, as out of his depth, as Sapphire Seaborn.

  Confusion churned his gut as he struggled to articulate, and his true feelings hit at the same moment as she ran.

  This time for good.

  CHAPTER TEN

  SAPPHIE DIDN’T WANT to meet with Serge. She didn’t want to set foot in the Fourde Fashion offices ever again. But her wishes didn’t come into this.