AN HEIRESS FOR HIS EMPIRE by Lucy Monroe
Ruthless Russians mini-series
Harlequin Presents #3274
October 2014 (09-16-14)
The story: Innocent debutante Madison Archer has hit the headlines for a scandal not of her making. Now, marriage to the unscrupulous Viktor Beck is the only way to save what’s left of her reputation!
The contract: Maddie has always featured in Viktor’s plans to take over her father’s company and expand his empire. The intense attraction between them only sweetens the deal he’s offered....
The secret: Though love doesn’t beat in Viktor’s heart, he’ll show Maddie just how hot their chemistry can be. But even this corporate shark is in for a shock—his wild socialite is still a virgin!
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Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
MADISON ARCHER SET her morning coffee down, hot liquid spilling over the rim, as she read her Google alerts with growing horror.
Madcap Madison Looking for New Master?
Archer Heiress into Heavy Kink
San Francisco Bad Boy Dumps Very Bad Girl
The articles made lurid claims about a lifestyle and relationship between Maddie and Perry Timwater. A completely nonexistent relationship.
The fact that Perry was the source caused the coffee to sour in Maddie’s stomach.
His supposed exposé of their fictitious relationship claimed she was a submissive with a serious pain fetish and need for multiple partners. She gritted her teeth on the urge to swear as she read it was her inability to remain faithful that forced Perry to end things between them.
Maddie wouldn’t mind ending Perry right that minute. Betrayal choked her.
How could he have done this?
He was her friend.
They’d met their freshman year at university. He’d made her laugh when she’d thought nothing could. Not after her epic fail trying to get Viktor Beck’s attention. She’d started university with a broken heart and Perry had helped her paste over the cracks with friendship.
She’d helped him pass his accountancy courses. He’d played platonic escort for her and she’d provided him entrée to Jeremy Archer’s world—an echelon above his own.
But never, not once, had their friendship ever taken a turn toward something heavier.
Pounding sounded on her front door. “Maddie! It’s me, don’t freak.” Then barely a second later, the double snick of locks sliding back was followed by the door swinging wide.
Holding a bag from their favorite bakery aloft, her black bob swirling around her pixie face, Romi Grayson kicked the door shut behind her. “I come bearing the panacea for all ills.”
“I’m not sure even chocolate and flaky pastry can make this situation better.” Maddie slumped against the back of her chair.
Eyes the same vibrant blue as Maddie’s glittered with anger. “So, Perry’s lost his mind, right?”
“You saw the articles?”
“Only after reporters woke me from a dead sleep demanding my opinion of my best friend’s darker sexual proclivities.” Romi’s mouth twisted wryly. “Proclivities I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t have even if you weren’t still a virgin.”
“You’ve got that right. I’ve never been able to trust one man enough to have sex, much less multiple partners.”
As ridiculous as that might seem at twenty-four, it wasn’t going to change anytime soon, either.
“If you ask me, it’s got less to do with trust and more to do with the fact you imprinted on Viktor Beck like a baby bird when you were a teenager and you’ve never gotten over him.”
“Romi!” Maddie was in no mood to hash out her unrequited feelings for her father’s dark-haired, dark-eyed, to-die-for-bodied golden boy.
“I’m just saying…”
“Nothing you haven’t said before.” Maddie’s stomach grew queasier by the second.
Along with the rest of the world, Vik would see the articles, but she couldn’t afford to think about that right now, or she really was going to lose it. “Father is going to kill me.”
This new scandal was bound to crack even the San Francisco tycoon’s icy demeanor. And not in the way Maddie had always craved.
He’d sent her away to boarding school months after her mother’s death and Maddie had courted media attention in the hopes of gaining his. It had worked for her mother, Helene Archer, née Madison, the original Madcap Madison, but Maddie had come to realize the strategy had backfired pretty spectacularly for her.
In the nine years since Helene’s death, Jeremy had developed a habit of thinking the worst of his daughter. When he wasn’t ignoring her existence all together.
“If he doesn’t die of a stress-related heart attack first.” Romi put a chocolate-filled croissant in front of Maddie.
“Don’t say that.”
The other woman grimaced. “Sorry. Stuff just comes out. You know what I’m like. Your dad is wound pretty tight, though.”
Maddie couldn’t argue that.
“I think this time, Perry’s diarrhea of the mouth has me beat anyway.” Romi chewed her pastry militantly. “What was he thinking?”
Morose, Maddie stared at her friend. “That he wanted the money the tabloid paid him for the story?”
She’d had no idea that turning down his latest request for a loan would result in her utter humiliation. How could she? Friends didn’t do that to each other.
“Jerk.”
Maddie usually played peacemaker between her two closest friends, but she wasn’t about to stand up for Perry this time. “What am I going to do?”
“You could threaten to sue and demand a retraction.”
“Based on my word against his?”
Romi made a sound very close to a growl. “You two have never even kissed with tongue.”
“But we have kissed, for the cameras.” Perry had always made a joke of it.
He had been Maddie’s go-to escort for years and more than one article speculating on their relationship had been run, often quoting anonymous sources and always accompanied by the joke kissing pictures.
“Do you think he’s done this before?”
“Sold confidential details of your supposed relationship?” Romi asked.
“Yes.”
“You know what I think.”
Maddie sighed. “That he’s a leech.”
“Always has been.”
“He was a good friend.” Maddie couldn’t make herself claim he still was.
Romi just gave Maddie a disbelieving look, no words necessary.
Ignoring it, Maddie said, “I probably can’t prove we never had a relationship, but I can sue them for libel in the details.”
“His word against yours.”
“But he’s lying.”
“This is something new for the tabloids?”
Feeling hopeless, Maddie pushed her croissant away.
“You could always sic your dad’s dogs on Perry. That media fixer of his could be cast in Shark Week on the Discovery Channel.”
“I should.” Even supposing her dad cared enough to assign his media fixer’s precious time to helping Maddie.
Romi’s expression turned knowing. “But you won’t. Perry was your friend.”
Maddie opened her mouth, but Romi put her hand up, forestalling words. “Don’t you dare say he still is.”
“No.” Maddie swallowed back emotion. “No, it’s pretty clear he’s not my friend and maybe he never was.”
“Oh, sweetie.” Romi came around the table to hug her.
Maddie fought down stress-induced nausea. “I thought he was real.”
“Instead, he turned out to be just another one of the plastic people.” Romi’s tone reflected her own experience with that. “All looks and no substance.”
Maddie choked out a morbid laugh. “Yeah.”
A bugler’s reverie sounded from her smartphone.
With a snicker, Romi moved back to her seat. “Daddy’s PA?”
“I thought it was appropriate.” Maddie clicked into her text messages, unsurprised to see that there were dozens.
While she checked her phone periodically throughout the day, Maddie only had sound alerts set for certain people: Romi, Perry—who was going off the list today—Maddie’s father, his personal assistant. Viktor Beck.
Not that her father’s business heir apparent contacted Maddie these days. But still, if he did…she’d get an audible alert.
Ignoring the numerous messages from friends, acquaintances and the media jackals, Maddie clicked into the one from her father’s PA.
Mtg w Mr. Archer @ 10:45—confrm 2.
Mr. Archer. Not Mr. A, even though the PA had used text speak for the rest of the message. Not your father. That might have been too personal.
“He wants to meet this morning.” Maddie bit her lip, considering what she’d have to change to make that happen.
Romi nodded. “Are you going to go?”
Maddie considered putting off her morning plans for the meeting with her father.
“No.” It wasn’t as if her showing up when he called was going to make Jeremy any less angry.
She shot a quick text back to the PA offering to come anytime after noon-thirty.
Fifteen minutes later, Romi was gone after a final pep talk when the strains of Michael Bublé’s “Call Me Irresponsible” sounded from Maddie’s smartphone.
Her father was calling her. Personally. Not texting.
Any other time, she would be thrilled. But right now? The crooner’s smooth voice was as ominous as the sepulcher tones of a Halloween horror flick’s soundtrack.
Maddie put the phone to her ear. “Hello, Father.”
“Ten-forty-five, Madison. You will not be late.”
“You know I have a standing morning appointment.” Not that he knew what it was.
Maddie had tried to tell him once, but Jeremy had mocked the very idea of his flighty daughter doing anything worthwhile. Worse, he’d made it clear how useless he thought it was to spend time volunteering at an underfunded public school predominantly populated by the children of poverty-level families.
Since then, Maddie had kept her two lives completely separate. Maddie Grace, nondescript twentysomething who loved children and volunteered a good chunk of her time, had nothing in common—not even hair and eye color—with Madison Archer, notorious socialite and heiress.
“Cancel.” No give. No explanation. Just demand.
Typical.
“It’s important.”
“No. It is not.” His tone was so cold it sent shivers along her extremities.
“It is to me.” She wished she could be as unaffected by his displeasure as he was by hers. “Please.”
“Ten-forty-five, Madison.” Then he hung up.
She knew because the call dropped.
*****
Wearing the armor of her socialite Madison Archer persona, Maddie got off the elevator at the twenty-ninth floor of her father’s building in San Francisco’s financial district.
None of the nerves wreaking havoc with her insides showed on her smooth face.
Makeup applied to highlight, not compete with, the blue of her eyes and gentle bow of her lips, she’d styled her chin-length red hair in perfectly placed curls around her oval face so like her mother’s. No highlights had ever been necessary for the natural copper tones.
Her three-quarter-length-sleeved Valentino black-and-white suit wasn’t this year’s collection, but it was one of her favorites and fit the image she intended to convey. The wide black banded hem of the straight skirt brushed a proper two inches above her knees and the Jackie-O-style jacket with a statement bow was a galaxy away from slutty.
She’d opted for classic closed-toe black Jimmy Choo pumps that added a mere two inches to her five-foot-six-inch height. Maddie carried a simple leather Chanel bag, her accessories limited to her mother’s favorite Cartier watch and diamond stud earrings.
Maddie didn’t look anything like the woman described by Perry in his “breakup interview” with the press.
She walked into Conference Room Two without knocking, stopping for a strategic pause in the doorway to allow the other occupants a moment to look their fill.
She wasn’t going to scurry in like a mouse trying to avoid the cat’s attention.
The brief moment had the added benefit of allowing her to take her own lay of the land.
Seven people sat around the eight-person conference table. As to be expected, her father occupied one end. Maddie was equal parts relieved and worried to see his media fixer at the other end, but not happy at all to see the man seated to the right of her father.
Romi was right that Maddie had had a crush on the gorgeous Viktor Beck since he started working for Jeremy Archer ten years ago. The unrequited feelings had evolved from schoolgirl infatuation to something more, something that made it impossible for other men to measure up.
That first year, Maddie had still had her mother and Helene would tease Maddie for her blushes in the tycoon-in-the-making’s presence.
Maddie had learned to control her blushes, but not the feelings the handsome third-generation Russian engendered in her.
Having him here to witness her humiliation tightened the knot of tension inside her until she wasn’t sure it would ever come undone.
Less understandable, but not nearly as upsetting, was the presence of two of her father’s other high-level managers in the remaining chairs on that side of the table. Her father’s PA sat to his left, with an empty chair beside her.
The final man at the table had a powerful presence and a familiar face, but in her current state of highly guarded stress, Maddie couldn’t place him.
Everyone had a stack of papers in front of them. It took only the briefest glance to see what they were: printed-out copies of the news stories Maddie had seen earlier on her smartphone. Underneath them was an individual copy for each person in the room of the actual tabloid the original story had run in.
Vik’s pile was different. It had what looked like a contract on top. Looking around the table, Maddie realized everyone else had a copy of that as well, but on the bottom of their pile—the stapled corner was the only thing visible in the other piles.
She looked at her father and gave him the sardonic expression she’d been using for years to mask her vulnerability. “I don’t suppose it occurred to you to discuss this with me privately before bringing in a think tank.”
“Sit down, Madison.” He didn’t even bother to respond to her comment.
Which should neither surprise, nor hurt. So why did it do both?
She waited a count of three before obeying his brusque order, deliberately ignoring the stack of papers in front of her. “I assume we’ve already drafted a letter demanding a retraction?”
When her father didn’t answer, she stared pointedly at his media fixer.
“Is it likely your ex-lover will recant his commentary?” the fixer asked in a flat tone.
“First, he was never my lover. Second, he doesn’t have to recant his lies for us to sue the tabloid for libel.” Though her chances of winning the suit weren’t high without Perry’s honesty.
“I am not in the habit of wasting time or resources on a hopeless endeavor,” her father said.
“The story is out there and that can’t be changed,” she agreed. “But that doesn’t mean we leave Perry’s lies unchallenged.”
Her father’s eyes were chips of blue ice. “If you wish to challenge your ex-lover’s lies, you may do so, but that is not my concern.”
“You don’t believe the stories?” she asked with a pained incredulity she couldn’t quite hide.
“What I believe is not the issue at hand.”
“It is for me.” There were only two people in that room whose opinion Maddie cared about.
Her father’s and Viktor Beck’s, no matter how much she might wish that wasn’t the case.
Her gaze shifted to Vik, but nothing from the stern set of his square jaw to the obscure depths of his espresso-brown eyes revealed his thoughts.
There had been a time when he might have tried to encourage her with a half smile or even a wink, but those days were gone. There’d been no softening in his demeanor toward her since her first trip home after going away to university.
And while that might be her own fault, she didn’t have to like it.
Her father cleared his throat. “Those tawdry stories may have precipitated this meeting, but they are not the reason for it.”
Maddie’s attention snapped back to her only remaining family. “What do you mean?”
“The issue we are here to address is your unacceptable notoriety, Madison. I will not sit by while you attempt to rival other heiresses for worldwide infamy.”
“I don’t.” Even when Maddie had tried to court her father’s attention by gaining that of the media, she hadn’t gone that far.
Okay, so she and Romi were known for their participation in political rallies of the liberal variety, which included a well-publicized sit-in protesting cuts in local school funding. That Maddie had gone further, bungee jumping from the Golden Gate Bridge with five others and unfurling a giant banner that read Go Green or Go Home, was beside the point.
There were videos online of her bungee jumping in less politically motivated and slightly more risky circumstances. The snowboarding had been a total failure, but she’d always loved downhill skiing and learning to jump had been fantastic. Of course, only her tumbles made it into the media.
But she hadn’t done a thing to get herself in the papers in over six months. Not since hitting the headlines with a nighttime adventure in skydiving that had resulted in her hospitalization with a hairline fracture to her pelvis.
Her father had not only ignored her exploit, but he’d also ignored Maddie’s injury. And not only had he refused to take her phone calls from the hospital, but he'd also made it clear, through his PA, that Maddie was not welcome at the family mansion for her recovery.
She’d been forced to hire a nurse to help during the weeks of her limited mobility. Romi had offered to stay with her, but Maddie refused to take advantage.
“Am I to understand you didn’t read Madison in on the contents of this contract?” Vik asked, unexpected disapproval edging his deep tone. “Do you actually expect her to agree?”
“She’ll agree.” Her father gave her a stern glare. “Or I will cut her out of my life completely.”
The words were painful enough to hear, but the absolute conviction in her father’s voice stabbed straight through Maddie’s carefully cultivated facade to the genuine and all-too-vulnerable emotions underneath.
“Over this?” she demanded, waving her hand toward the printed articles. “It’s not true!”
“You will not continue to drag my name and that of my company through the mud, Madison.”
“I don’t do that.” While she’d managed a certain level of media notoriety, it had never before been because of anything even remotely like the lies Perry had spewed to the tabloids.
Her father began reading the headlines out loud and weak tears burned the back of her eyes. Maddie refused to give in to them, wishing she could be as genuinely emotionless as the steel-gray-haired man flaying her with other people’s words.
“I told you, he lied.”
“Why would he?” the media fixer asked, sounding interested in an almost clinical way.
“For money. For revenge.” Because she’d turned him down one too many times and compounded that by refusing his latest request for a loan. “I don’t know, but he lied.”
How many times did she have to say it?
“It is time for definitive measures to be taken,” Jeremy said, as if she hadn’t spoken.
“On that at least, we can agree, beginning with the demand for a retraction. I can do my own interview.” Even though she hated that kind of direct contact with the media.
She considered offering the ultimate sacrifice of integrating her Maddie Grace life with that of socialite Madison Archer in order to combat the negative image that clearly concerned her father.
Jeremy dismissed her offer with a slicing gesture. “I believe I’ve made it clear that the current scandal is not my primary concern.”
“What is your concern?” she asked, confused.
“The capricious lifestyle that has resulted in your unacceptable and notorious reputation.”
“You want me to come work for AIH?” she asked with zero enthusiasm and even less belief.
The last time the issue of Archer International Holdings had come up, her father had made it clear he no longer harbored dreams of her one day taking over.
His harsh bark of laughter was all the answer she needed. “Absolutely not.”
“You want me to get a job somewhere else?” She could do that.
She preferred using her education as a volunteer teacher’s aide, but if it would help her relationship with her father, she would get a paying job—which hopefully wouldn’t conflict with her volunteering schedule.
More derisive laughter fell from her father’s lips. “Do you really think any reputable charity or business would hire you right now?”
Heat climbed up her neck, ending in a very rare blush. She’d become adept at hiding her emotions, even suppressing her blushes of embarrassment a long time ago.
But suddenly, she realized that if it did become known that Madison Archer was Maddie Grace, the school might be forced to disallow Maddie’s volunteering. All because a man she’d thought was a friend had turned out to be a lying, manipulative, opportunistic user.
“He wants you to get married,” Vik informed her, no indication in his tone or demeanor that he was joking.
Her father did not jump in with a denial, either.
For the first time, she looked around the room to see how the other occupants were reacting. Her father’s media fixer and PA were both busy on their tablets, ignoring the conversation now, or giving a pretty good pretense of doing so.
One of his managers was looking at her with the type of speculation that left Madison feeling dirty, but the fact he had the articles about her spread out in front of him could have something to do with that, too.
The other manager was reading through the paperwork and the man who Maddie did not know was looking at her father, his expression assessing.
Vik’s expression was enigmatic as always.
She met her father’s gaze again, finding nothing there but implacable resolve. “You want me to get married.”
“Yes.”
“Who?” she asked, unhappily certain she already had an inkling.
“One of these four men.” Her father indicated Vik, the two other managers and the man she did not know. “You know Viktor, of course, and I am sure you remember Steven Whitley.” Jeremy nodded toward a manager she was fairly certain had been divorced once already and was nearly twice her age.
Maddie found herself acknowledging both men with a tip of her own head in some bizarre ritual of polite behavior. Or maybe it was just the situation that was so bizarre.
He indicated the manager whose look had given her the willies. “Brian Jones.”
His expression was benign now, almost pitying.
“I thought you were engaged,” she said, her voice almost as tight as her throat. But that couldn’t be helped.
Hadn’t Maddie met his fiancée at the last Christmas party?
“Are you?” her father asked, annoyance clear in his tone. “Miss Priest?”
His PA looked up from her tablet with a frown. “Yes, sir?”
“Jones is engaged.”
“Is he?” Miss Priest didn’t sound concerned. “He is not married.”
“But I will be.” Brian stood. “I don’t believe I’ll be needed for the rest of this meeting, if you’ll excuse me, sir?”
“Did you read the contract?” her father demanded.
“I did.”
“And you are still leaving?”
“Yes, sir.”
A measure of respect shone in her father’s eyes even as he frowned. “Then go.” He nodded toward the stranger on the other side of Maddie as if the introductions had not been interrupted by the defection of one of his candidates. “Maxwell Black, CEO of BIT.”
Maxwell smiled at her, magnetism that might actually rival Vik’s exuding from him. “Hello, Madison. It’s good to see you again.”
He wasn’t overtly sexual, but there was a vibe to him that made Maddie wrap her arms protectively around herself. This man carried power around him the same way Vik did, but with a predatory edge she hadn’t experienced from her father’s heir apparent.
Then, she’d never been his business rival.
“I don’t believe we’ve met?” She forced her arms to fall to her sides.
“I saw you at the Red Ball last February.”
She remembered going to the charity event that raised money for research into heart disease, but she didn’t remember seeing him.
“I would have remembered.”
“I’m glad to hear you say so.” His teeth flashed in a blinding white smile. “But I meant what I said. I saw you there. We were not introduced.”
“Oh.”
Her father cleared his throat in that disapproving way he had, but if he expected Maddie to say it was a pleasure to meet the man—under these circumstances—he didn’t know her very well.
But then that had been her problem most of her life, hadn’t it?
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Showing posts with label Contemporary Category Romance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Contemporary Category Romance. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
AN HEIRESS FOR HIS EMPIRE by Lucy Monroe
Labels:
An Heiress for his Empire,
Contemporary Category Romance,
Corporate shark Hero,
Debutante,
Harlequin Presents,
Lucy Monroe,
Ruthless Russians Series,
Socialite Heroine,
Virgin Heroine
Monday, April 1, 2013
PROJECT: RUNAWAY HEIRESS by Heidi Betts
PROJECT: RUNAWAY HEIRESS by Heidi Betts
Undercover Fashionista
When her designs keep showing up on a rival’s runway, heiress and fashion designer Lily Zaccaro vows to catch the thief. She comes up with the perfect plan—run off to L.A. and go undercover as personal assistant to the other label’s CEO, Nigel Statham, aka the sexiest Brit alive.
As long work days turn into sizzling nights, Lily struggles to stay focused on her secret mission. She desperately hopes that Nigel is innocent because their relationship is anything but! In the face of so much deception, pretty soon their newfound love is hanging on by a thread…
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~Excerpt~
Impossible. This was impossible.
Lily Zaccaro maximized her browser window, leaning in even more closely to study the photo on her laptop screen. With angry taps at the keyboard, she minimized that window and opened another.
Dammit.
Screen after screen, window after window, her blood pressure continued to climb.
More angry keystrokes set the printer kicking out each and every picture. Or as she was starting to think of them: The Evidence.
Pulling the full-color photos from the paper tray, she carried them to one of the long, wide, currently empty cutting tables and laid them out side by side, row by row.
Inside her chest, her heart was pounding as though she'd just run a seven-minute mile. Right there, before her very eyes, was proof that someone was stealing her designs.
How had this happened?
She tapped her foot in agitation, twisted the oversize dinner ring on her right middle finger, even rubbed her eyes and blinked before studying the pictures again.
The fabric choices were different, of course, as were some of the lines and cuts, making them just distinctive enough not to be carbon copies. But there was no mistaking her original sketches in the competing designs.
To reassure herself she wasn't imagining things or going completely crazy, Lily moved to one of the hip-high file cabinet drawers where she kept all of her records and design sketches. Old, new, implemented and scratched. Riffling through them, she found the portfolio she was looking for, dragged it out and carried it back to the table.
One after another, she drew out the sketches she'd been working on last spring. The very ones they'd been prepared to work with, manufacture and put out for the following fall's line.
After a short game of mix-and-match, she had each sketch placed beside its counterpart from her rival. The similarities made her ill, almost literally sick to her stomach.
She leaned against the edge of the table while the images swam in front of her eyes, sending a dizzying array of colors and charcoal lines into the mix of emotions that were already leaving her light-headed and nauseated.
How could this happen? she wondered again. How could this possibly have happened?
Wracking her brain, she tried to think of who else might have seen her sketches while she was working. How many people had been in and out of this studio? There couldn't have been that many.
Zoe and Juliet, of course, but she trusted them with her life. She and her sisters shared this work space. The three of them rented the entire New York apartment building, using one of the lofts as a shared living space and the other as a work space for their company, Zaccaro Fashions.
Although there were times when they got on each other's nerves or their work schedules overlapped, their partnership was actually working out surprisingly well. And Lily showed her sisters all of her design ideas, sometimes even soliciting their opinions, the same as they shared their thoughts and sketches with her.
But neither of them—not even slightly flighty party girl, Zoe—would ever steal or sell her designs or betray her in any way. Of that, she was absolutely, one hundred percent certain.
So who else could it have been? They occasionally had others over to the studio, but not very often. Most times when they had business to conduct, they did it at Zaccaro Fashions, their official, public location in Manhattan's Fashion District, where they had more sewing machines set up, with employees to produce items on a larger, faster scale; offices for each of the sisters; and a small boutique set up out front. Something they hoped to expand upon very soon.
Of course, that particular dream would be nearly impossible to realize if their creations continued to get stolen and put on the market before they could release them.
She collected all of the papers from the cutting table, being sure to keep each of the printed pictures with its corresponding sketch. Then she began to pace, worrying a thumbnail between her teeth and wearing out the soles of her one-of-a-kind Zoe-designed pumps while she wondered what to do next.
What could she do?
If she had any idea who was responsible for this, then she might know what to do. Bludgeoning them with a sharp object or having them drawn and quartered in the middle of Times Square sounded infinitely satisfying. But even going to the police would work for her, as long as the theft and replication of her clothes stopped, and the culprit was punished or fired or chased out of town by a mob of angry fashion designers wielding very sharp scissors.
Without a clue of who was behind this, though, she didn't even know where to begin. Wasn't sure she had any options at all.
Her sisters might have some suggestions, but she so didn't want to involve them in this.
She'd been the one to go to design school, then ask their parents for a loan to start her own business.
Because—even though they were quite wealthy and had offered to simply give her the money, since she was already in line for a substantial inheritance—she'd wanted to do this herself, to build something rather than having it handed to her.
She'd been the one to come to New York and struggle to make a name for herself, Zoe and Juliet following along later. Zoe had been interested in the New York party scene more than anything else, and Juliet had quit her job as a moderately successful, fledgling real-estate agent back in Connecticut to join Lily's company.
Without a doubt, they had both added exponentially to Zaccaro Fashions. Lily's clothing designs were fabulous, of course, but Zoe's shoes and Juliet's handbags and accessories were what truly made the Zaccaro label a well-rounded and successful collection.
Accessories like that tended to be where the most money was made, too. Women loved to find not only a new outfit, but all the bells and whistles to go with it. The fact that they could walk into Zaccaro Fashions and walk back out with everything necessary to dress themselves up from head to toe in a single shopping bag was what had customers coming back time and time again. And recommending the store to their friends. Thank God.
But it wasn't her sisters' designs being ripped off, her sisters' stakes in the business being threatened, and she didn't want them to worry—about her or the security of their own futures.
No, she needed to handle this on her own. At least until she had a better idea of what was going on.
Returning to the laptop, she hopped up on the nearest stool and straightened her skirt, tucking her feet beneath her on one of the lower rungs. Her fingers hesitated over the keys, then she just started tapping, not sure she was doing the right thing, but deciding to follow her gut.
Two minutes later, she had the phone number of a corporate-investigation firm uptown, and five minutes after that, she had an appointment for the following week with their top investigator. She wasn't certain yet exactly what she would ask him to do, but once he heard her dilemma, maybe he would have some ideas.
Then she continued searching online, deciding to dig up everything she could on her newest, scheming rival, Ash-down Abbey.
The London-based clothing company had been founded more than a hundred years ago by Arthur Statham. Their fashions ranged from sportswear to business attire and had been featured in any number of magazines, from Seventeen to Vogue. They owned fifty stores worldwide, earning over ten million dollars in revenue annually.
So why in heaven's name would they need to steal ideas from her?
Zaccaro Fashions was still in its infancy, earning barely enough to cover the overhead, make monthly payments to Lily's parents toward the loan and allow Juliet, Zoe and herself to continue living comfortably in the loft and working in the adjoining studio. Ashdown Abbey might as well have been the Hope Diamond sitting beside a chunk of cubic zirconium in comparison.
The hijacked fashions in question had originated from Ashdown Abbey's Los Angeles branch, so she dug a little deeper into that particular division. According to the company's website, it was run by Nigel Statham, CEO and direct descendant of Arthur Statham himself.
But the Los Angeles offices had only been open for a year and a half and were apparently working somewhat independently of the rest of the British company, putting out a couple of exclusive lines and holding their own runway shows geared more toward an American—and specifically Hollywood—customer base.
Which meant it wasn't all of Ashdown Abbey out to ruin Lily's life, just the Los Angeles faction.
Lily narrowed her eyes, leaning closer to the laptop screen and focusing on a photo of Nigel Statham. Public Enemy Number One.
He was a good-looking man, she'd give him that much. Grudgingly. Short, light brown hair with a bit of curl at the ends. High cheekbones and a strong jaw. Lips that were full, but not too full. And eyes that looked to be a deep shade of green, though that was difficult to tell from a picture on the internet.
She wanted to despise him on sight, but in one photo, he was smiling. A sexy, charming smile that went all the way to his eyes and threatened to turn her knees to jelly.
Of course, she was sitting and she was made of sterner stuff than that, so that wasn't going to happen. But at first glance, she certainly wouldn't have pegged him as a thief.
She continued to scroll through pictures and articles and company information, but much of it was for the U.K. division and the other European stores. The Los Angeles branch still seemed to be finding its footing and working to establish itself as a British clothing company on American soil.
Deciding there wasn't much more she could do until she met with the investigator except seethe in silence, Lily began to close up shop. She checked her watch. She was supposed to meet her sisters for dinner in twenty minutes, anyway.
But as she was shutting down browser windows, something caught her eye. A page filled with "job opportunities at Ashdown Abbey—U.S.A." She'd been perusing the list just to get a better idea of how the company operated.
Now, though, she expanded the window, clicked on the link for "more information" and hit Print.
It was crazy, what she was suddenly thinking. Worse yet that she was contemplating actually going through with it.
Her sisters would try to talk her out of it for sure, if she even mentioned the possibility. The investigator would undoubtedly warn her against it, then likely try to convince her to let him handle it at—what?—one hundred…two hundred and fifty.. five hundred dollars an hour.
It would be so much easier for her to slip in and poke around herself. She knew the design world inside and out, so she would certainly fit in. And if she made herself sound smart and qualified enough, surely she would be a shoo-in.
A tiny shiver of anxiety rolled down her spine. Okay, so it was dangerous. A lot could go wrong, and she probably stood to get herself into a heap of trouble if anyone—or the wrong someone, at any rate—found out.
But it was too good an opportunity to pass up. Almost as though she was meant to go through with this, fate bending its bony finger to point the way. Otherwise, what were the chances this particular position would open up just when she most needed the inside scoop on Ashdown Abbey?
No, she had to do this. She had to find out what was going on, how it had happened and get it to stop. And going to work for Ashdown Abbey seemed like a good way to do exactly that.
Not just good—perfect.
Because Nigel Statham needed a personal assistant, and she was just the right woman for the job.
Nigel Statham muttered an unflattering curse, slapping the company's quarterly financial report down on top of his father's latest missive. The one that made him feel like a child in short trousers being scolded for some minor transgression or another.
Handwritten on personal stationery and posted all the way from England—because that's how his parents had always done it, and email was too commonplace for their refined breeding—the letter outlined the U.S. division's disappointing returns and Nigel's failure to make it yet another jewel in the Ashdown Abbey crown since he'd been appointed CEO eighteen months ago.
Disappointment clung to the words as though his father was standing in the room, delivering them face-to-face: hands behind his back, bushy white brows drawn down in a frown of displeasure. Just like when he'd been a boy.
His parents had always expected perfection—an aim he had fallen short of time and time again. But he hardly thought a year and a half was long enough to ascertain the success or failure of a new branch of the business in an entirely new country when it had taken nearly a century for Ashdown Abbey to reach its current level of success in the U.K. alone.
He thought perhaps his father's expectations for this new venture had been set a bit too high. But try telling the senior Statham that.
With a sigh, Nigel leaned back and wondered how long he could put off responding to the letter before his father sent a second. Or worse yet, decided to fly all the way to Los Angeles to check in on his son in person.
Another day, certainly. Especially since he was currently dreading the job of training a brand-new personal assistant.
He'd been through three so far. Three attractive but very young ladies who had been competent enough but hardly dedicated.
The problem with hiring personal assistants in the heart of Los Angeles, he decided, was that they tended to be either aspiring actresses who grew bored easily or quit as soon as they landed a part in a hand-lotion commercial; or they were aspiring fashion designers who grew bored when they didn't make it to the top with their own line in under six months.
And each time one of them moved on, he had to start all over training a new girl. It was enough to make him consider hiring an assistant to be on hand to train his next assistant.
Human resources had hired the latest in his stead, then sent him a memo with her name and a bit of background information, both personal and professional. It probably wasn't even worth remembering the woman's name, but then he'd never been that kind of boss.
Before he had the chance to review her resume once more, there was a tap on his office door. Less than half a second later, it swung open and his new assistant—he deduced she was his new assistant, at any rate—strode across the carpeted floor.
She was prettier than her photo depicted. Her hair teetered somewhere between light brown and dark blond, pulled back in a loose but smoothly twisted bun at the back of her head. Her face was lightly made up, the lines classic and delicate, almost Romanesque.
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Undercover Fashionista
When her designs keep showing up on a rival’s runway, heiress and fashion designer Lily Zaccaro vows to catch the thief. She comes up with the perfect plan—run off to L.A. and go undercover as personal assistant to the other label’s CEO, Nigel Statham, aka the sexiest Brit alive.
As long work days turn into sizzling nights, Lily struggles to stay focused on her secret mission. She desperately hopes that Nigel is innocent because their relationship is anything but! In the face of so much deception, pretty soon their newfound love is hanging on by a thread…
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~Excerpt~
Impossible. This was impossible.
Lily Zaccaro maximized her browser window, leaning in even more closely to study the photo on her laptop screen. With angry taps at the keyboard, she minimized that window and opened another.
Dammit.
Screen after screen, window after window, her blood pressure continued to climb.
More angry keystrokes set the printer kicking out each and every picture. Or as she was starting to think of them: The Evidence.
Pulling the full-color photos from the paper tray, she carried them to one of the long, wide, currently empty cutting tables and laid them out side by side, row by row.
Inside her chest, her heart was pounding as though she'd just run a seven-minute mile. Right there, before her very eyes, was proof that someone was stealing her designs.
How had this happened?
She tapped her foot in agitation, twisted the oversize dinner ring on her right middle finger, even rubbed her eyes and blinked before studying the pictures again.
The fabric choices were different, of course, as were some of the lines and cuts, making them just distinctive enough not to be carbon copies. But there was no mistaking her original sketches in the competing designs.
To reassure herself she wasn't imagining things or going completely crazy, Lily moved to one of the hip-high file cabinet drawers where she kept all of her records and design sketches. Old, new, implemented and scratched. Riffling through them, she found the portfolio she was looking for, dragged it out and carried it back to the table.
One after another, she drew out the sketches she'd been working on last spring. The very ones they'd been prepared to work with, manufacture and put out for the following fall's line.
After a short game of mix-and-match, she had each sketch placed beside its counterpart from her rival. The similarities made her ill, almost literally sick to her stomach.
She leaned against the edge of the table while the images swam in front of her eyes, sending a dizzying array of colors and charcoal lines into the mix of emotions that were already leaving her light-headed and nauseated.
How could this happen? she wondered again. How could this possibly have happened?
Wracking her brain, she tried to think of who else might have seen her sketches while she was working. How many people had been in and out of this studio? There couldn't have been that many.
Zoe and Juliet, of course, but she trusted them with her life. She and her sisters shared this work space. The three of them rented the entire New York apartment building, using one of the lofts as a shared living space and the other as a work space for their company, Zaccaro Fashions.
Although there were times when they got on each other's nerves or their work schedules overlapped, their partnership was actually working out surprisingly well. And Lily showed her sisters all of her design ideas, sometimes even soliciting their opinions, the same as they shared their thoughts and sketches with her.
But neither of them—not even slightly flighty party girl, Zoe—would ever steal or sell her designs or betray her in any way. Of that, she was absolutely, one hundred percent certain.
So who else could it have been? They occasionally had others over to the studio, but not very often. Most times when they had business to conduct, they did it at Zaccaro Fashions, their official, public location in Manhattan's Fashion District, where they had more sewing machines set up, with employees to produce items on a larger, faster scale; offices for each of the sisters; and a small boutique set up out front. Something they hoped to expand upon very soon.
Of course, that particular dream would be nearly impossible to realize if their creations continued to get stolen and put on the market before they could release them.
She collected all of the papers from the cutting table, being sure to keep each of the printed pictures with its corresponding sketch. Then she began to pace, worrying a thumbnail between her teeth and wearing out the soles of her one-of-a-kind Zoe-designed pumps while she wondered what to do next.
What could she do?
If she had any idea who was responsible for this, then she might know what to do. Bludgeoning them with a sharp object or having them drawn and quartered in the middle of Times Square sounded infinitely satisfying. But even going to the police would work for her, as long as the theft and replication of her clothes stopped, and the culprit was punished or fired or chased out of town by a mob of angry fashion designers wielding very sharp scissors.
Without a clue of who was behind this, though, she didn't even know where to begin. Wasn't sure she had any options at all.
Her sisters might have some suggestions, but she so didn't want to involve them in this.
She'd been the one to go to design school, then ask their parents for a loan to start her own business.
Because—even though they were quite wealthy and had offered to simply give her the money, since she was already in line for a substantial inheritance—she'd wanted to do this herself, to build something rather than having it handed to her.
She'd been the one to come to New York and struggle to make a name for herself, Zoe and Juliet following along later. Zoe had been interested in the New York party scene more than anything else, and Juliet had quit her job as a moderately successful, fledgling real-estate agent back in Connecticut to join Lily's company.
Without a doubt, they had both added exponentially to Zaccaro Fashions. Lily's clothing designs were fabulous, of course, but Zoe's shoes and Juliet's handbags and accessories were what truly made the Zaccaro label a well-rounded and successful collection.
Accessories like that tended to be where the most money was made, too. Women loved to find not only a new outfit, but all the bells and whistles to go with it. The fact that they could walk into Zaccaro Fashions and walk back out with everything necessary to dress themselves up from head to toe in a single shopping bag was what had customers coming back time and time again. And recommending the store to their friends. Thank God.
But it wasn't her sisters' designs being ripped off, her sisters' stakes in the business being threatened, and she didn't want them to worry—about her or the security of their own futures.
No, she needed to handle this on her own. At least until she had a better idea of what was going on.
Returning to the laptop, she hopped up on the nearest stool and straightened her skirt, tucking her feet beneath her on one of the lower rungs. Her fingers hesitated over the keys, then she just started tapping, not sure she was doing the right thing, but deciding to follow her gut.
Two minutes later, she had the phone number of a corporate-investigation firm uptown, and five minutes after that, she had an appointment for the following week with their top investigator. She wasn't certain yet exactly what she would ask him to do, but once he heard her dilemma, maybe he would have some ideas.
Then she continued searching online, deciding to dig up everything she could on her newest, scheming rival, Ash-down Abbey.
The London-based clothing company had been founded more than a hundred years ago by Arthur Statham. Their fashions ranged from sportswear to business attire and had been featured in any number of magazines, from Seventeen to Vogue. They owned fifty stores worldwide, earning over ten million dollars in revenue annually.
So why in heaven's name would they need to steal ideas from her?
Zaccaro Fashions was still in its infancy, earning barely enough to cover the overhead, make monthly payments to Lily's parents toward the loan and allow Juliet, Zoe and herself to continue living comfortably in the loft and working in the adjoining studio. Ashdown Abbey might as well have been the Hope Diamond sitting beside a chunk of cubic zirconium in comparison.
The hijacked fashions in question had originated from Ashdown Abbey's Los Angeles branch, so she dug a little deeper into that particular division. According to the company's website, it was run by Nigel Statham, CEO and direct descendant of Arthur Statham himself.
But the Los Angeles offices had only been open for a year and a half and were apparently working somewhat independently of the rest of the British company, putting out a couple of exclusive lines and holding their own runway shows geared more toward an American—and specifically Hollywood—customer base.
Which meant it wasn't all of Ashdown Abbey out to ruin Lily's life, just the Los Angeles faction.
Lily narrowed her eyes, leaning closer to the laptop screen and focusing on a photo of Nigel Statham. Public Enemy Number One.
He was a good-looking man, she'd give him that much. Grudgingly. Short, light brown hair with a bit of curl at the ends. High cheekbones and a strong jaw. Lips that were full, but not too full. And eyes that looked to be a deep shade of green, though that was difficult to tell from a picture on the internet.
She wanted to despise him on sight, but in one photo, he was smiling. A sexy, charming smile that went all the way to his eyes and threatened to turn her knees to jelly.
Of course, she was sitting and she was made of sterner stuff than that, so that wasn't going to happen. But at first glance, she certainly wouldn't have pegged him as a thief.
She continued to scroll through pictures and articles and company information, but much of it was for the U.K. division and the other European stores. The Los Angeles branch still seemed to be finding its footing and working to establish itself as a British clothing company on American soil.
Deciding there wasn't much more she could do until she met with the investigator except seethe in silence, Lily began to close up shop. She checked her watch. She was supposed to meet her sisters for dinner in twenty minutes, anyway.
But as she was shutting down browser windows, something caught her eye. A page filled with "job opportunities at Ashdown Abbey—U.S.A." She'd been perusing the list just to get a better idea of how the company operated.
Now, though, she expanded the window, clicked on the link for "more information" and hit Print.
It was crazy, what she was suddenly thinking. Worse yet that she was contemplating actually going through with it.
Her sisters would try to talk her out of it for sure, if she even mentioned the possibility. The investigator would undoubtedly warn her against it, then likely try to convince her to let him handle it at—what?—one hundred…two hundred and fifty.. five hundred dollars an hour.
It would be so much easier for her to slip in and poke around herself. She knew the design world inside and out, so she would certainly fit in. And if she made herself sound smart and qualified enough, surely she would be a shoo-in.
A tiny shiver of anxiety rolled down her spine. Okay, so it was dangerous. A lot could go wrong, and she probably stood to get herself into a heap of trouble if anyone—or the wrong someone, at any rate—found out.
But it was too good an opportunity to pass up. Almost as though she was meant to go through with this, fate bending its bony finger to point the way. Otherwise, what were the chances this particular position would open up just when she most needed the inside scoop on Ashdown Abbey?
No, she had to do this. She had to find out what was going on, how it had happened and get it to stop. And going to work for Ashdown Abbey seemed like a good way to do exactly that.
Not just good—perfect.
Because Nigel Statham needed a personal assistant, and she was just the right woman for the job.
Nigel Statham muttered an unflattering curse, slapping the company's quarterly financial report down on top of his father's latest missive. The one that made him feel like a child in short trousers being scolded for some minor transgression or another.
Handwritten on personal stationery and posted all the way from England—because that's how his parents had always done it, and email was too commonplace for their refined breeding—the letter outlined the U.S. division's disappointing returns and Nigel's failure to make it yet another jewel in the Ashdown Abbey crown since he'd been appointed CEO eighteen months ago.
Disappointment clung to the words as though his father was standing in the room, delivering them face-to-face: hands behind his back, bushy white brows drawn down in a frown of displeasure. Just like when he'd been a boy.
His parents had always expected perfection—an aim he had fallen short of time and time again. But he hardly thought a year and a half was long enough to ascertain the success or failure of a new branch of the business in an entirely new country when it had taken nearly a century for Ashdown Abbey to reach its current level of success in the U.K. alone.
He thought perhaps his father's expectations for this new venture had been set a bit too high. But try telling the senior Statham that.
With a sigh, Nigel leaned back and wondered how long he could put off responding to the letter before his father sent a second. Or worse yet, decided to fly all the way to Los Angeles to check in on his son in person.
Another day, certainly. Especially since he was currently dreading the job of training a brand-new personal assistant.
He'd been through three so far. Three attractive but very young ladies who had been competent enough but hardly dedicated.
The problem with hiring personal assistants in the heart of Los Angeles, he decided, was that they tended to be either aspiring actresses who grew bored easily or quit as soon as they landed a part in a hand-lotion commercial; or they were aspiring fashion designers who grew bored when they didn't make it to the top with their own line in under six months.
And each time one of them moved on, he had to start all over training a new girl. It was enough to make him consider hiring an assistant to be on hand to train his next assistant.
Human resources had hired the latest in his stead, then sent him a memo with her name and a bit of background information, both personal and professional. It probably wasn't even worth remembering the woman's name, but then he'd never been that kind of boss.
Before he had the chance to review her resume once more, there was a tap on his office door. Less than half a second later, it swung open and his new assistant—he deduced she was his new assistant, at any rate—strode across the carpeted floor.
She was prettier than her photo depicted. Her hair teetered somewhere between light brown and dark blond, pulled back in a loose but smoothly twisted bun at the back of her head. Her face was lightly made up, the lines classic and delicate, almost Romanesque.
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