The Highest Price to Pay. Maisey YatesЧитать онлайн книгу.
for a future for her clothing line, and that meant she needed to keep working with him, no matter how much it made her want to scream.
“Yes,” she said. “I do. It’s a small boutique, but it’s in a prime location.”
“And yet you have very little profit.”
“I have almost no profit,” she said dryly. “It’s an expensive business. And now that the boutique has gotten busier, I’ve had to get employees.”
No matter how successful she got in the industry, it required more of her. More time, more money, more manpower, and with every increase in income, there was an increase in cost. It made it nearly impossible for her to get ahead, and certainly impossible to make the kind of jump in status that Blaise seemed to want her to make.
“I like what I’ve seen here. I’d like to invest more.” He named a sum that made her feel slightly ill.
He said it so casually, as though it meant nothing. Although, to a man with a billion dollars, or whatever it was he had these days, it likely was nothing. To a woman who ate instant noodle soup for dinner most nights, it definitely wasn’t nothing.
She dealt in large amounts of money, but almost the moment they hit her bank account they were gone again, going to the next big thing. And this was more money than she’d ever thought to see in a lifetime.
“That’s…a lot of money,” she said.
“Yes, it is. But I don’t believe in going halfway. I want this to be a success, and that means putting in the necessary investment to ensure that it is.”
It was a slippery slope. It wasn’t a loan: it was an investment, but this put her over her head in debt as far as she was concerned. It gave him more power. It pushed her out further.
But what choice was there? If she didn’t take it she would keep on with her tortoise pace and Blaise would grow impatient. And that would be the end of everything.
None of this had mattered three days ago when Blaise Chevalier was just a name in the tabloids. But now he was the driving force behind the Ella Stanton label. Ironic that he even owned her name. It felt like he owned her. Allowing him to invest that much money would only tighten the chains that she felt closing around her wrists.
But it was all she could do, accept the fact the she was indebted to him until she could buy her freedom. At least at some point she would have the hope of paying him back, of buying him out. If she didn’t go along with him she wouldn’t have anything.
The bottom line, the amount earned, had never mattered as much to her as the level of success. She’d happily keep eating instant soup for the next ten years if it meant making herself a success at what she loved. But that wasn’t an option anymore, and what had only ever been a concern for her out of practicality had now become the primary focus.
“Then we both want the same thing,” she said, even though it was a lie. He wanted money, and while she did want to make money, it was about more than that to her. It was about being something, accomplishing her goals. Becoming more than anyone around her had ever believed she would be.
A slow smile spread over his face and her heart thundered in response. She didn’t know why. Except that when he smiled, it didn’t look like an expression of happiness. It was more like watching a predator, satisfied in the knowledge that he was closing in on his prey.
She had a feeling that, in this scenario, she was very much the gazelle to his panther. She also knew that he was more than comfortable going in for the kill. A little blood on his hands wouldn’t cause him to lose a moment of sleep. He was a man who accomplished his goals no matter who got in his way. Not a comforting thought.
“More or less,” he said, slowly, his accent pronounced as he drew out the syllables, his voice enticing, despite the underlying danger. He didn’t need to pounce on his prey, he could talk his prey into coming to him, and that made him even more deadly.
“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