Spanish. You know what Latin types are like with women. They think women are second class citizens.”
“God, you’re cynical.”
“Word has it he’s a firebrand. They call him El Fuego in the newspapers.”
“I wouldn’t take too much notice of that. You know what newspapers are like.”
“Whatever, Dad says it’s up to me to clinch it.”
***
Kat’s suit was delicately pinstriped, the jacket smart without being revealing, the pencil skirt not too short. She felt good but nervous.
She checked in her mirror to make sure she was intact. Her makeup looked okay, her hair, reasonable. She sucked in a long draught of air. First impressions were everything. She had to get this right. The careless elegance about Kat, wasn’t natural, it was a thing she affected; an act that had been hard to master but which had become very necessary in her business armoury. ‘Breathe deeply,’ she told herself, ‘Remain calm; he’s only a man. Men can be manipulated. Forget his reputation.’
A secretary showed her into the suite. The production director sat behind a desk, head down, scribbling notes, and the secretary directed Katrina to the chair in front of the desk then left.
She almost pulled out the chair to sit down then stopped herself at the last moment, mustn’t sit without being asked, put him at a disadvantage; make him feel apologetic about ignoring her. He remained head down. Kat flicked her gaze over him with dispassionate regard. He finally finished writing and pushed back his leather seat, raised his head and met her gaze….
“Señorita Bligh I believe?” He rose and held out his hand.
Katrina’s mouth opened involuntarily as she allowed her fingers to touch his. This was surely some bizarre hoax. He’d filled out, taller than she remembered; still absurdly attractive; angular cheekbones, penetrating eyes, strong eyebrows, mouth with a startling provocative twist. He’d always been indecently sexy and he was no different now. It fooled opponents into thinking he was a push over; they were wrong.
“Or should I say, Kat?” he said smoothly. “They warned me you’d become exquisite. They didn’t say how much.” He indicated for her to take a seat, and sat himself.
His voice had matured. In her nervous state, it affected her more than it should. She might display savoir-faire to the world but she was still insecure, still an incurable romantic. She watched as his mouth flickered with amusement. She said stupidly, “I didn’t realise you’d be here.”
“My Papá owns Las Modas Ibéricas.”
“You never said.”
His eyes abruptly narrowed. “And would it have made a difference, if I had.”
She didn’t want to rake up old times, too many memories; too many heartaches. She cleared her throat. “So how has the big world been treating you?”
“Probably better than I deserve. And you?”
“Not as good as it could, but okay I suppose. Most of us want more than we get. That’s life. ”
“Married, I presume?”
Kat walked on eggshells. She shook her head, quick uncomfortable movements. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her. She said uneasily, “Maybe we should get down to business.”
“Maybe we should.” He leaned back with hands clasped behind his head. “I understand Finery & Frocks has a secret weapon.”
“I never listen to rumours.”
“The outfits that drew our attention to you were avant-garde. They were unconventional.”
She shrugged.
“As you’d probably expect, we’ve studied your lines. We picked them at random from different outlets to be sure it was representative. They’re well made, well designed, and have a certain commercial appeal. But I would hardly call them unorthodox. Frankly, I’m puzzled why the original outfits were so different, and why I can’t see them in the stores. What is going on?”
“Most stuff we churn out is what I call bread-and-butter lines. The design is in-house though, not fashion-house copies; you’ll not find them elsewhere.”
“And you’re the designer?”
She nodded. “It’s just they can be produced more cheaply.”
“More cheaply?” He shook his head. “More cheaply than whom? Cheaper than Givenchy, cheaper than Balenciaga. What do you mean by more cheaply?”
“They can be produced more cheaply than Italian Concept.”
“Italian Concept? I’ve not heard the name.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Perhaps you’d like to expand.”
“It’s our top of the range line, probably the outfits you originally saw. Dad isn’t into it. He says it’s uninhibited, and doesn’t want to go down that route.”
“Italian Concept… Catchy name. Tell me more.”
She took a deep breath. “Principally, they’re limited editions; we sell through a specialist outlet in Wilmslow.”
“Wilmslow?”
“It’s on the outskirts of Manchester.”
“So this is the secret weapon?”
“I didn’t call it that.”
“I shall