Maisey Yates - The Highest Price to Pay

“I’m willing to work with you in whatever way I can to ensure our success.”

A wry smile curved his wicked mouth. He wasn’t fooled by her display of calm, and that made her angry. That he could see through her. That he was amused by her.

Ella extended her hand and he grasped it. Lightning shot through her, unexpected, instant, as if she’d touched a naked wire. It mingled with the anger, the adrenaline that was already pounding through her, and made her feel shaky, as if her knees might give out at any moment.

She looked up and met his eyes, and saw heat. Attraction. He looked down at where their hands were joined, his large and dark, hers small and pale. And marred. He ran his thumb over one of the scars that blazed a jagged path over the back of her hand.

The heat fled, leaving in its place an icy shiver that made her feel cold inside. She pulled her hand from his grasp.

His gaze lingered on her. “It will be a pleasure doing business with you.”

MAISEY YATESwas an avid Mills & Boon ®Modern ™Romance reader before she began to write them. She still can’t quite believe she’s lucky enough to get to create her very own sexy alpha heroes and feisty heroines. Seeing her name on one of those lovely covers is a dream come true.

Maisey lives with her handsome, wonderful, diaper-changing husband and three small children across the street from her extremely supportive parents and the home she grew up in, in the wilds of Southern Oregon, USA. She enjoys the contrast of living in a place where you might wake up to find a bear on your back porch and then heading into the home office to write stories that take place in exotic urban locales.

The

Highest Price

to Pay

Maisey Yates

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Jenny, my editor.

Your confidence in me is always inspiring.

You’ve pushed me to become a better writer,

and you can’t know how much that means to me.

And for my husband, Haven.

There’s a little bit of you in all my heroes.

“THIS is it?” The man, tall dark and handsome as sin, who had just walked into Ella’s small boutique gave his surroundings a dismissive glance.

She forced a smile. “Yes. All of the clothing here in the boutique is a part of the Ella Stanton line, and at the moment everything is quite scaled back as we’re working on a…” budget. “Local level.”

The fashion industry wasn’t a cheap one to operate in, and Ella was most definitely still working her way up. But she was able to have her line produced, and sell it in her own boutique, and that certainly wasn’t a small feat.

“I was merely curious,” he said, taking a step toward her, “about my most recently acquired assets.”

Ella blinked. “And by that you mean?”

“The Ella Stanton label, and the boutique, such as it is.” His voice was smooth, husky as though he were issuing some kind of practiced pickup line, even though what he was really saying was far too ridiculous to be true. And yet, there was something else there, a hardness that lingered just beneath that suave accent. It was a hardness, an authority, that made all of the words that were swirling in her head get caught in her throat.

He took a step toward her and recognition punched her in the stomach with brutal force. Blaise Chevalier. Rogue investor, ruthless corporate raider and tabloid superstar. He was famous in Paris or, rather, infamous. Wealthier than Midas, beyond handsome with his deep mocha skin, and striking toffee-colored eyes, perfect bone structure, good enough to be a model, except he didn’t possess the androgynous quality many male models did. No, Blaise was utterly masculine, tall and broad shouldered with a physique that was meant to be wrapped in an expensive, custom-made suit.

She should have recognized him immediately. Her only excuse was that mere photographs simply didn’t do him justice. Three dimensional, in the flesh, he was something entirely different than he was in the paper. None of the carefree, playboy demeanor was present now. Just a dark intensity that made her insides tremble, a sensual energy that no photograph would ever be able to capture.

He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a thin stack of folded papers. It wasn’t cheap, bright white printer paper like she used in her office. This was cream colored, thick and textured. Official looking. A tremor skated down her spine and she shook it off, straightening her shoulders and holding out her hand.

He gave her the documents and stood there looking at her, his expression impossible to read. Ella looked down at the papers in her hand, skimming them frantically. Her stomach sank to her toes and the words blurred slightly.

“Would you mind translating? I’m not fluent in legalese,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t sound as echoey and distant to him as it did to her.

“Bottom line? I am now the lien holder on your business loan. A sizable amount.”

She felt her face get hot, the way it always did when she thought of the screaming amount of debt she’d gotten in to get her business off of the ground.

“I’m aware of that. How did this…happen?” If it had been anyone else, she simply wouldn’t have believed them. But she knew this man, even if it was only by reputation. And it wasn’t a good thing that he was here with bank documents that possessed both the name of her business and the stark truth of just how little actually belonged to her.

“The bank that originally held your loan has been bought out by a larger financial institution. They auctioned off most of the small business loans, including yours. I bought your loan in a bundle with several others that are of much greater interest to me.”

“So you own my business…and I’m uninteresting?” Ella pushed her blond hair off her face and sat down in one of the chairs reserved for her boutique customers.

“That’s the summation.”

It didn’t get worse. It couldn’t. And at that moment she just wanted to fall to her knees and scream at the sky. Because hadn’t she been through enough? How much was she expected to overcome in her lifetime?

Blaise Chevalier had a reputation as a man who was self-indulgent, reckless and ruthless enough to betray his own brother in the coldest way imaginable. He crushed companies, large or small, if they passed into his sphere of power and he deemed them to be unprofitable.

And he was now the owner of her boutique, her workshop, her apartment…everything down to her sewing machines. Everything in her life that meant anything.

“And what’s your conclusion?” she asked, standing again. She wasn’t going to crumble. Not now. Not when the stakes were so high. Her career, her line, it was her life. It was everything she’d worked so hard to achieve, a dream she wasn’t about to let go of now, not while she still had some hope.

“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?