He cut her off. “It’s you, or I cancel the order.”
Her hackles lifted all along her shoulders as she straightened them. One of Ryan’s blond eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. Simone drew in a breath, battened down her redheaded temper, and said, “Of course, sir.”
“Bill me whatever,” he said carelessly as he reached into his breast pocket and withdrew the Bluetooth earpiece.
“I will bill you what is customary and appropriate for rush alterations,” she said, drawing her not-inconsiderable dignity around her.
That wry smile lifted one corner of his mouth again. “Then I’ll just have to tip you something outrageous and inappropriate,” he said, low and smooth.
She shook her head, but he was already moving, the earpiece firmly embedded in his ear, his phone at his hand as he scrolled through texts and emails. Jade emerged from the dressing room in heels, a pair of skinny jeans, and a loose sweater over a tank top. A six-thousand dollar handbag dangled from the crook of her elbow. She ran a dismissive eye over Simone, then looped her arm through Ryan’s.
After the door closed behind them, the entire room seemed to settle its ruffled feathers. Simone collected the outfit from the Silver Room, where it was draped neatly over the back of the chaise. If nothing else, Jade took care of the things that belonged to her. At the counter, Lorrie began to sort through the tangled mass of lingerie left in Jade’s wake, hanging bras on silk hangers, sorting the panties by size and style before folding them neatly. “Did you recognize her?” she asked.
“She walked for Dolce and Gabbana and Calvin Klein at Fashion Week. Did you recognize him?”
“Oh yes,” Lorrie said. “From the New York Times style section, Page Six of the Post, a few celebrity blogs. He’s a high-up at MacCarren.”
Simone thanked her lucky stars that she kept her temper under control. MacCarren was one of the oldest, most respected names in financial services, an exclusive, tightly held wealth management firm. While her family’s powerful corporation, Demarchelier House, had loyal clients, that connection was no guarantee of success. She had ten months in business, a reputation for her impetuous temper, and she’d worked what connections she could already. A man like Ryan Hamilton had connections to people who could not only afford her designs, but also valued the quality and the craftsmanship. He dated the kind of women who worshipped fashion, and better yet, endlessly crowed over their finds on social media. He would bring the right women to her showroom, clients who could make or break her season. Therefore, despite his heated looks and his charisma, nothing would come of the connection. She would make the necessary alterations. He would send someone to pick them up. She wouldn’t see him again until Jade or another woman like her decided it was time for something new.
Twisting her hair into a coil, she tucked it over one shoulder, collected the items to be altered, then went to claim a station in the workroom. She ripped the seams of the robe, detached the lace, pinned everything to Jade’s measurements, then took her needle and thread to a stool by the floor to ceiling windows to make the alterations. The summer sunlight was a hot, physical touch on her nape and shoulder, and not even the pleasure she took in her work could stave off the combination of regret and desire simmering low in her belly.
Chapter Two
Ryan Hamilton looked around the conference table populated by men and women in suits, badges pinned to their lapels or belts. Laptops were open and connected to the secure Wi-Fi network. Legal pads sat next to the laptops, and people made notes as the meeting progressed. At the front of the room a man stood in front of a projection screen, giving a presentation about high value targets.
It looked like a typical business meeting. It could be happening at any one of thousands of companies or multinational corporations around the five boroughs. It could even be happening at MacCarren, the firm Ryan had called home since he graduated from the Wharton School of Business a decade earlier. Not even the late hour, after eight in the evening, disqualified this meeting from the realm of normal.