Maisey Yates - The Highest Price to Pay

“Somehow I think as far as the method goes we might be more on the ‘less’ side than the ‘more’ side.”

“Certainly possible.” The deep, husky quality to his voice was shiver inducing. It made her stomach clench tight, made her entire body feel jittery, like she’d overindulged in espresso at one of the local cafés.

“Where are you from originally?” she asked, feeling stupid the minute the words left her mouth. Because it was his accent, and the strange curling sensation created in her stomach, that had prompted her to ask. And she really didn’t want him to know that.

Didn’t want him to think that anything about him interested her at all. Who knows what he might do with that bit of information.

“France, originally. My father is a very wealthy businessman, a native of France. But I spent a portion of my childhood in Malawi, with my mother.”

“Why wasn’t she in Paris?”

He shrugged. “My parents divorced. She wished to return to her homeland.” He said it with as little interest, as little emotion, as he said everything. She couldn’t help but wonder if it had really been so casual as he made it sound. To go from Paris to Malawi as a child couldn’t possibly be a nonevent; neither could being separated from his father.

Although, she knew as well as anyone that sometimes cutting ties with family wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

Still, it made her wonder about him. Made her feel a small sliver of sympathy for the boy he’d been. Why? He clearly didn’t feel anything for her, and she wasn’t asking for it.

They might have a tentative truce, but it was tenuous. She had his word, and his word alone that they would work on her business, rather than him simply wiping it out of existence by demanding money she didn’t have.

Not a comforting thought considering his reputation. And that meant her mind had to stay on matters of business, and not the exotic flavor of his accent. Not on the boy he’d been, but the man he’d become.

“So, being that you’re the mastermind,” she said, breaking the silence, hoping to do something about the odd, thick tension that had settled between them, to get rid of that strange, tight feeling in her chest, “what are your plans?”

“I was thinking a Times Square billboard and a cover for Look magazine.”

She coughed. “What?”

“I know the editor for the magazine. She said if I could get a look from you that would go well with a spring editorial that she would use it for an ad and the cover.”

“But that’s…that’s huge exposure.”

“ Oui. I told you I was good.”

“Very good.” She felt like she’d been hit in the head, dazed and a little bit woozy. “It doesn’t seem possible. She would do that, just because she knows you?”

“I had her look up your work online. She was impressed by you. It’s hardly charity.”

“But it’s…”

“I told you I could turn your five-year plan into a six-month plan,” he said, his tone laced with arrogance. “She might like to interview you, too. Do a designer profile.”

It was the kind of exposure she both dreamed of and dreaded. The kind that would give her the success she knew she was capable of. The kind that would give her a lot of exposure, both personal and private.

She’d already dealt with it on a small scale. It was easy to just put up the wall, smile and laugh, turn for the picture to expose the scar on her neck. Give the people what they wanted. She didn’t bother to hide the past, the marks it had left on her skin.

She also kept some of it to herself. She didn’t want to flaunt the worst of it. She gave just enough, just enough that no one pressed for more. Not that there was anything left to be said that could hurt her. She’d heard every insult, every cutting remark. Some of it from the mouth of her own mother. She’d survived. She hadn’t crumbled then, she wouldn’t crumble now.

She was going to grasp the opportunity with both hands. Make the most of her unasked for association with Blaise. If the man could get her a billboard ad, a cover and an interview, she might grow to resent him less.

“That would be great, more than that, it would be amazing.”

“I know you love publicity,” he said, one side of his mouth curved up.

“I like the sales that come with it,” she said, her voice flat.

Publicity, in a certain sense, she could take or leave.

“What would you pick for the shoot?”

Ella crossed the room, grateful for the distance between them. She didn’t know what it was about him that made her feel tight and jittery inside.

His looks, his reputation, it all combined to make him a pretty potent mix. One she was afraid she didn’t know how to handle. She worked with male models all the time, and their boyish quality didn’t bother her at all. Sure, sometimes when she measured their finely toned physiques she got a mild thrill, but she was a woman after all, and they were men.

But it was nothing like the intense jumble of feeling she got when she just looked at Blaise. One part attraction mingled with a lot of nerves and anger.

And he was no boyish model. He was a man, a man who, if the tabloids were to be believed, knew exactly how to handle a woman in the bedroom.

She felt her cheeks getting hot and she turned her face away from him, pretending to study some clothes on another rack. She bit her cheek again, harder this time. She had to focus, and not on how good Blaise’s physique looked in his suit.

She had noticed of course. Everyone had a thing that attracted their attention and hers happened to be a well dressed man. But he wasn’t her type; his suit was her type. That was the beginning and end of it.

She didn’t have the time or the inclination to encourage some weird attraction to the man who had just performed a hostile takeover of her life. She didn’t have the time or inclination to indulge in an attraction to anyone, but him most of all.

She could just imagine the look of abject horror on his face if she were to make a move on him. If he were to see the parts of her body that she kept carefully concealed. A man who dated a different, gorgeous woman every week wouldn’t want to handle any damaged merchandise.

And she was that and then some.

“Blue, I think,” she said, turning her focus back to the clothes. Back to her job. “This one.” She pulled out a short blue dress with long ruched sleeves. “With the right boots this will be stunning.”

She looked at him, waited for a flicker of…something. His expression remained neutral. “If you think it will work.”

“Don’t you want to weigh in?” she asked, both perturbed and relieved that he didn’t seem to have an opinion on the matter.

“Why?”

“Because. Aren’t we…isn’t that why you’re here?”

He came over to stand beside her, his eyes on the dress. When he reached out and took the thin fabric between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing it idly, it was like he was touching her hand again, running his finger over her scar. No one did that. Ever. Another reason she had no problem showing off the more superficial scars: it kept people from getting too close.

Not Blaise, apparently.

She touched the back of her hand, rubbed at it, trying to make the tingling sensation ease.

“I am not overly concerned with fashion. I leave these sorts of decisions to you.”

“I have decision-making power?”

He turned to face her, the impact of his golden eyes hitting her like a physical force. “If I sat down at one of these sewing machines you would get nothing. I leave you to your expertise, you leave me to mine.”

That was more than she’d expected from him. Far more. And yet, it didn’t exactly inspire warm fuzzy feelings. He was right. If she walked, he had nothing. Nothing but sewing machines he didn’t know how to use. An interesting realization. She’d underestimated her own power in the situation. And she would use it. She had to.

“So you’re not expecting to dress my models for me?” she asked, keeping her voice stilted, cool.

“I never said I was.”

“Your reputation goes before you,” she said archly. “I thought I was dealing with a pirate. Someone who makes his living by preying on the bounty of others.”

He chuckled, a rusty sound, as though he were unaccustomed to it. “All those stories you’ve read about me.”

“They aren’t true?” she asked, hoping, for some reason, that they might be lies. That he wasn’t the callous, unfeeling man the media made him out to be.

“Every last one of them is true,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers. “ All of them. My decisions are made for my own benefit. It is not charity that I allow you this measure of control, it is what’s best for the company, and what’s best for my wallet. That’s the beginning and end of it.”

It wasn’t spoken like a threat. His voice was smooth, even as ever. Controlled. He was simply stating what was. But just like that, the glimmer of hope was replaced with a heavy weight that settled in her stomach, made her feel slightly sick.

“Right, well, I guess I’ll take what I can.” She hated that he made her feel so nervous, so unsure. She usually did better than this. She was accustomed to taking command of whatever room she was in, accustomed to having the control over conversation and interaction.

She didn’t seem to have it in his presence. She couldn’t even control her body’s response to him. She wasn’t even sure what to call the response. He scared her, which made her angry. He was attractive and when he looked at her the appraisal of his compelling gaze made her stomach twist. It was confusing. A mass of jumbled feelings she just didn’t have time to sort through.

She breathed in deep, hoping to find the numbness that helped her get through life. That helped her get through uncomfortable moments. That helped her deal with people who wanted to hurt her.

She couldn’t find it, couldn’t shield herself from the things he was making her feel. He looked at her, looked at her as though he could see right through all the walls she’d spent the past eleven years building to partition herself off from the world. And she felt naked. Like he could see the worst of her scars, into her, past the damage on her skin.

“Do you have pictures of this dress?” he asked, pulling her out of her thoughts, his focus on the business at hand helping rebuild some of her crumbling defenses.

“I take pictures of every piece. I have them in my portfolio.”

“Excellent. Email it to me and I’ll send it to Karen at Look. ”

“Yeah, I’ll do that.”

He turned to go then. Without even saying goodbye. It was like his mere move to exit should be sufficient. Standing in her own studio, he managed to make her feel like she was the one who had been dismissed.

She gritted her teeth against rising annoyance. Annoyance and something else that made her feel hot all over, made her face prickle.

She opened her laptop again and got ready to send the email to Blaise, using the address he’d so helpfully provided on the loan paperwork, those documents that gave him so much power.

So much power over her. She hated that. Hated him a little bit, too. This was meant to be her success, not his. The evidence of how far she’d come. Of all that she was capable of.

She attached the picture and left the body of the email blank. She didn’t have anything to say to the man. She would work with him, do what she had to do to hold on to her business. And as soon as she could, she was paying him back and getting things back on track. Back on her terms.