Her Deal with the Devil

Her eyes snapped open and her Zen evaporated just like that.

Patrick Fourde. Here. In the tiny backyard behind the Sea-born showroom. Seeing her in daggy pink yoga pants, purple crop top and hair snagged in the morning mail’s elastic band; not in the fabulous designer outfit she’d planned to wow him with tomorrow.

Freaking hell.

She could feel the blood rush to her face. A virtual red flag to her mortification. Considering their past, she’d be damned if she let him know how truly flustered she was.

The guy had made her last year of high school a living hell and she’d rather grind coal to diamonds with her teeth than work with him now. But she had no choice. She had to reaffirm her leadership of the company. Had to prove she could handle the job physically. Had to ensure she never came that close to losing it again.

She strolled towards him, stopping about a foot away. Close enough to see tiny flecks of cobalt in a sea of grey. His eyes reminded her of a mood stone: bright and electric when he was revved, cool and murky when he had his game face on. Like now.

Lucky for him she’d wised up since high school and could outplay him. Never again would the cocky rebel get the jump on her.

‘Was there a problem with our meeting time?’

He grinned—the same wicked quirk of his lips that had driven her batty during Year 12 Biology—and leaned against the doorjamb.

‘No problem. I happened to be in the area. Thought I’d drop by for old times’ sake.’

This wasn’t how she’d envisaged their first meeting after ten years. Not at all.

She didn’t like being on the back foot. Not around him. Not when she needed to convince him Fourde Fashion couldn’t live without Seaborns’ fabulous gems for the upcoming Mel-bourne Fashion Week.

‘Or maybe I couldn’t wait ’til tomorrow to see you?’

There it was: the legendary charm. What had it taken? All of five seconds for him to revert to type?

Pity her opinion of the silver-spooned, recalcitrant playboy hadn’t changed over the years.

Indulged. Spoiled. Never worked a day in his life. Everything she’d despised in the rich guys she’d grown up with at the private school she’d attended. The type of guys who thought they could snap their fingers and have a harem falling at their feet.

Not her. She’d save her seven veils for strangling him if he didn’t agree to her business proposition.

‘Still trying to get by on lame flirting?’

‘Still the uptight, stuck-up prude?’

Ouch. That hurt. Especially as she wasn’t the same per-son—not any more. Working her butt off to learn the family business, losing her mum and having a bruising brush with chronic fatigue syndrome had seen to that.

Besides, she’d never been stuck up or a prude. Uptight? Maybe. But he’d always brought out the worst in her. Riling her with his practised charm, swanning through high school with an entourage of popular kids, teasing her whenever he got a chance.

For some unfathomable reason he’d taken great delight in annoying the hell out of her during their study sessions, succeeding to the point where she’d been flustered and irritable.

The more she’d ignored him, or feigned indifference, the more he’d pushed, niggling until she snapped. Sadly, her cutting remarks would only spur him on, so she’d learned to curb her annoyance and focus on their assignments in the hope he’d get the message.

He hadn’t.

She’d become an expert in patience, honing a cool tolerance in an effort to fight back her way.

Until the day she’d had no comeback.

The day he’d kissed her.

‘Why are you really here, Patrick?’

‘Honestly?’

She rolled her eyes. Did he even know the meaning of the word, with his glib lines and smooth charisma?

‘I heard the rumours and wanted to see for myself.’

Uh-oh, this was worse than she’d thought.

She could handle him seeing her without make-up and in workout clothes. She couldn’t handle him knowing about Seaborns’ reputed financial woes. It would undermine everything and scuttle her entire plan before she’d had a chance to present it.

‘You of all people should know better than to listen to a bunch of rumours.’

She attempted to brush past him but he snagged her arm. The zap of something was beyond annoying.

Ten years and he still had that effect on her? Grow up.

‘The reports of my life in the media are highly exaggerated. How about you?’

She could try and outbluff him but, considering she had to meet him at his office tomorrow for the pitch of her life, it wouldn’t be the smartest move.

‘What have you heard?’

‘That Seaborns has been doing it tough.’

‘No tougher than most during an economic decline.’

A blatant lie. Not that she’d let him know. If her sister hadn’t married mining magnate Jax Maroney the jewellery business that had been in their family for generations would have gone under.

And it would have been entirely Sapphie’s fault. She’d been too busy playing superwoman, trying to juggle everything on her own, to let anyone close enough to help. Her stubborn independence had almost cost her the company and her health.

The bone-deep fatigue and aching muscles had scared her, but not as much as the thought that she’d almost failed in making good on her promise to her mum.

No way would she take the business so close to the edge again. She’d do whatever it took—including play nice with this guy.

‘Really? Because the grapevine was abuzz with news of Ruby shacking up with Maroney to save Seaborns.’

Bunch of old busybodies—socialites who had nothing better to do than spend their lives sipping lattes, having mani/ pedi combos at the latest exclusive day spa and maligning people.

She’d spent a lifetime cultivating friendships in the moneyed circles she’d grown up in, had made an effort out of respect for her mum with Seaborns’ bottom line firmly in sight. Rich folk liked to be pandered to, and with the ‘old school’ mentality at work they stuck to their own. Which equated to them spending a small fortune on Seaborns jewellery.

But it was at times like this, when gossip spread faster than news of a designer sale, that she hated their group mentality.

‘You heard wrong.’