Betrayed - By Ellie Jones Page 0,5
he supposed, but it would be a hard to remain impartial. The girl he’d known had been beautiful. She might make a fascinating digression, which might allow time for his people to do an investigation, but she might also make him take the wrong decision.
Damn Papá! Had it been done Rafael’s way, he’d have simply bought the company through an agent. No contact, no mess. He’d have made sure of the stuff first, of course, but no mess.
Rafael picked up the coffee then studied the photograph again. Could he really keep his distance?
A gull soared close to the window, shrieking. He watched it wheel away. She was out there even now, going about her daily tasks, not even aware of the danger she posed.
He exhaled noisily from the recess of his chest.
This time around things would be different. He’d been young, the feelings, overpowering. He was older, wiser. He would have to be on guard though. She could be a threat to brokering the best deal.
Dammit; were these thoughts crazy or what? Wasn’t he infamous for his cut and thrust? He wished to hell he knew how to handle her though. He still recalled the contour of her body, even her exciting woman smell. No one else was like her. The shape of her face; her unbelievable breasts; the way she moved; everything about her had excited him.
Rafael watched as the gull swept around again before veering away and finally disappearing.
He hated to admit, but like a siren of old, she still awakened those feelings in him
***
Katrina said, “It’s because I’ve been steam-rolled, that’s why.”
She glanced up. Francine looked dismal, which made her feel worse. Fran said, “I don’t see why you can’t wriggle out of it. This is the perfect excuse. Tell him you’ve run into a problem.”
“I wouldn’t be doing it if I didn’t have to.” Kat kicked the car door angrily. The damn thing refused to start; now she’d be late. She’d have to phone for a taxi, but she’d still be late. Why today of all days? She stuck her head under the car hood again. “I’m cheesed off.”
She’d already taken a pay cut to help dad out, and her beautiful, fast convertible had gone because she could no longer afford the payments. This piece of crap was sending her crazy. She’d wiped things that looked as if they needed wiping, sprayed with anti-damp, she’d even talked nicely, but nothing helped. Kicking hadn’t made her feel better; just scuffed her shoes.
Fran was fourteen years older than Kat, an elegant international model. Three years ago, Fran had marched away from the catwalk and started her agency.
Katrina straightened. Rain relentlessly dripped from leaves, ran down the hood, dripped on her neck, tapped on the metal roof of the car. She was thoroughly wet, thoroughly miserable.
“What time is this meeting of yours supposed to start?” Francine tried her best to keep the rain off them with the umbrella but with little success. Fran lived in the grand house next to Kat. The house had a secluded, leafy drive, with pillars at the entrance. She had steadfastly remained single despite several offers, and confided to Kat that she liked a regular change of partner, liked sex and wasn't frugal with it.
Kat said, “Three o’ clock.”
“This afternoon? I thought it was in ten minutes, the way you’re panicking.”
“I need to prepare. I have to be in the right frame. I’ve a dozen things to organize, and that includes me.”
“All right, all right, I get the picture.”
Katrina took a deep breath. “Dad has found a company interested in buying Finery & Frocks. That’s what the meeting is about.”
“Selling?” Francine looked stunned. “I didn’t realise he was selling. What’s happened?”
“The usual thing, money trouble.”
“I didn’t realise, baby. No wonder you’ve been depressed, but how has this happened?”
“You tell me…. Cash flow, stuff stuck on the shelves, material to buy, you know how it is.”
“Not really, but go on.”
“The trouble is, people interested in buying, say that to push ahead with the deal, the designer, me, stays put for at least two years. They want it written into the contract.”
“I’m not surprised. I’d want the same. I’ve seen those outfits of yours floating around the clubs. They’re chic. To be honest, Kat, I’m surprised you haven’t shoved them on the big catwalks.”
“Who do you think we are, Versace? We’re a frock factory, think back-street shops not catwalks.”
“Hey baby! Don’t belittle yourself. I love your outfits to death. They’re special. I thought they’d have made