Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | Holiday by Design

Holiday by Design
Patricia Kay


Joanna Spinelli was determined to make her design dreams finally happen. Getting a show at Marcus Barlow’s art gallery was key. Sure, the straight-laced businessman might be just a little too sedate for her taste. But just one look and she could feel herself melt like chocolate…She was like a fresh breeze to his all work, no play life. And though Marcus appreciated her carefree lifestyle, he knew Joanna would have to change to fit into his world.Yet by asking her to become someone she was not, would Marcus lose the things he cherished in her the most?Or would he finally learn to loosen his tie – and open his heart?







Turning thirty? Time for artist Joanna Spinelli to put her life plan into action! Will true love be on her to-do list? USA TODAY bestselling author Patricia Kay opens a new chapter of The Hunt for Cinderella!

Joanna Spinelli was determined to make her design dreams finally happen. Getting a show at Marcus Barlow’s art gallery was key. Sure, the straitlaced businessman might be just a little too sedate for her taste. But just one look and she could feel herself melt like chocolate….

She was like a fresh breeze to his all-work, no-play life. And though Marcus appreciated her carefree lifestyle, he knew Joanna would have to change to fit into his world. Yet by asking her to become someone she was not, would Marcus lose the things he cherished in her the most? Or would he finally learn to loosen his tie—and open his heart?




Marcus was nervous.


He didn’t like that feeling.

What was it about Joanna that so strongly affected him?

Just looking at her—the way her hair had gotten blown by the wind and was even messier than usual, the way her dark eyes met his for one naked moment before moving on, and the way it seemed to take an effort for her to smile as naturally as she had Friday night before he’d kissed her—all reminded him more forcefully than words or any lectures he might have given himself that he might already have crossed into territory he’d never been in before.

That maybe it was too late to go back.

The Hunt for Cinderella: Seeking Prince Charming


Dear Reader,

Writing a new book is always an adventure. So is life. Both are like going on a long road trip; you never really know what’s coming. You might plan your route, what you’ll see and do, but invariably something happens to thwart your plans, and you have to adapt and change accordingly.

This first book of the third Hunt for Cinderella series was planned more than three years ago, with the expectation that it would be published in late 2011. But in July 2010, just after I’d first begun writing it, my husband was diagnosed with a terminal illness, and everything else I was doing had to be put aside so that I could spend all my time with him.

My husband passed away in January of 2012 and it took almost a year for me to feel as if I could write again. I’m so glad that Holiday by Design and the two books that will follow in the series are finally going to be in readers’ hands. It was fun for me to write about Joanna and Marcus and to revisit characters from the previous Hunt for Cinderella books. I hope you enjoy the story and would love to hear from you. You can find me at www.patriciakay.com (http://www.patriciakay.com).

With warmest wishes to all,

Patricia Kay


Holiday by Design

Patricia Kay






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Formerly writing as Trisha Alexander, PATRICIA KAY is a USA TODAY bestselling author of more than forty-eight novels of contemporary romance and women’s fiction. She lives in Houston, Texas. To learn more about her, visit her website at www.patriciakay.com.


This book is dedicated to my first writing teacher,

the wonderful Bunny Paine-Clemes,

who’s always known how to inspire

and draw the best from her students,

and to my longtime “PAL ” from West Houston

RWA, Pat O’Dea Rosen, who has become a

dear friend, an always-helpful critique partner

and a second Mama to my cats.


Contents

Chapter One (#u3f9bd224-7f74-561f-a244-8495654bb833)

Chapter Two (#u184ef7f9-f0db-54ec-b86d-a5d5421d4823)

Chapter Three (#uc31137b3-57f2-50a0-a999-704a12eb89d5)

Chapter Four (#u01d166db-d0a9-5d15-9f09-17802d77b66c)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One

“Happy birthday, dear Joanna...happy birthday to youuu.”

As the Spinelli family raised their glasses in a birthday toast, Joanna smiled at the gathered clan and hoped it didn’t show that her heart wasn’t in it.

Thirty years old.

Today she was thirty years old, and on this milestone birthday, instead of being well on her way to a successful career in fashion design, married to the man of her dreams and—at the very least—pregnant with her first child, she was still struggling for recognition in her chosen field, still employed as a part-time assistant to her former lover—who had dumped her less than two weeks ago!—and she was so far from being pregnant with any child she might as well forget about ever becoming a mom.

My life needs a major overhaul. Oh, who am I kidding? My life needs a miracle.

And tonight, adding insult to insult, she didn’t even have a date. But her state of woe wasn’t her family’s fault, was it? So she had been doing her best to look cheerful and happy to be here with them tonight. And heaven knew, they’d tried to make her feel good. Her mom had knitted Joanna a gorgeous, dark red, oversize cashmere shawl—perfect for chilly Seattle fall weather—and her dad, always generous toward his one and only daughter, had given her a hundred-dollar gift card, while her four brothers had pitched in to buy her an iPad, which was incredibly sweet of them.

In fact, she still couldn’t believe they’d done it. She could hardly wait to buy some design software she’d been eyeing. Now she’d be able to work no matter where she was without having to lug her heavier laptop.

And then there was Granny Carmela, her dad’s mom, who had tucked a check for five hundred dollars into her card. Bless Granny, Joanna thought as she gave her eighty-six-year-old grandmother an extra hug. Such a loving, generous gift. If only five hundred dollars would solve Joanna’s financial problems...but that was another story, one Joanna didn’t want to even think about today. She subscribed to Scarlett O’Hara’s philosophy that anything bad could be thought about tomorrow.

Her family was a good bunch, for all that she complained about her dad’s controlling ways and her mom’s seeming subservience and the way her brothers sometimes acted like neanderthals. But what were families for, if not to bear the brunt of complaints? Who better to blame when your life went offtrack?

“Who wants a slice of cake?” her mother asked with an eager smile.

“Make mine a wedge,” said Tony, Joanna’s oldest brother.

“Tony,” his wife, Sharon, warned, looking meaningfully at his waistline.

“I know, I know.” He grinned. “German chocolate’s my favorite, Share.”

“Everything’s your favorite,” she grumbled.

“I’ll be good tomorrow. I promise.”

They all laughed. Tony’s promises concerning food were rarely serious. Or adhered to.

After cake and their favorite MORA ice cream had been consumed, Joanna figured she’d stayed the obligatory amount of time and could now leave without hurting her mother’s feelings.

“Oh, honey, I thought you were going to spend the night,” her mother protested, dark eyes filled with disappointment.

Joanna’s parents lived in the same small house in Georgetown that they’d lived in since the day they bought it. Located south of Seattle, their area was the oldest residential neighborhood in the city and had been a great place to grow up in. “Can’t, Mom. I need to get an early start tomorrow.”

“But, honey...tomorrow’s Thursday. You’re off on Thursdays.”

Joanna had an arrangement with her former lover/boss. She only worked four days a week. She would have preferred having her three days off in a row, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and her job not only paid well but gave her full benefits. “Yes, but...”

“Ann Marie, give the girl a break,” Joanna’s father said.

“But, Tony, she is off, and I thought we could—”

“I meant I have to work on my collection,” Joanna said, interrupting her mother. She desperately needed to have at least twelve designs ready to show, and possibly more—if she could find a place to show them, of course—and right now she only had nine completed and had only just begun to work on the tenth. Of course, if she didn’t manage to raise more money—that five-hundred-dollar birthday gift would barely pay a third of what she already owed on her Visa card—she was gonna be dead in the water.

Pushing her dismal thoughts out of her mind, Joanna managed to keep a smile on her face as she said her goodbyes and gathered up her gifts. The drive to her small apartment in Tremont, a convenient area she loved for its eclectic atmosphere, only took about twenty minutes.

Still, it was midnight before she fell into bed—actually, her sofa—and when the alarm went off at six, she groaned, sorely tempted to shut it off and go back to sleep for another hour or two. Tabitha, her ten-year-old gray cat, obviously felt the same way, for she burrowed under Joanna’s abandoned pillow and shut her eyes again.

Still half-asleep, Joanna stumbled her way into her minuscule kitchenette and turned on the coffeemaker. After filling Tabitha’s food bowl and putting out fresh water for her, Joanna headed for the shower. An hour later, dressed in jeans and a warm sweater—as usual, mid-September in the Pacific Northwest was a true harbinger of winter—thick socks and her favorite clogs, she headed to her converted living room and her worktable where she had a gorgeous piece of sea-green velvet.

Joanna sipped at her coffee and smiled. Despite the early rising time, it was great to have a whole day to work on her designs. So what if she was thirty years old and hadn’t yet met her goals? Thirty wasn’t the end of the world. Depending on how you thought of it, thirty was actually a beginning. So what if she was going to run out of money soon? She’d manage. She always did. And she’d never had to ask her parents for money, although Lord knows, she’d thought about it. But they didn’t have a lot, and they were getting older. Each time she’d been tempted to approach them, she’d stopped herself. They’d done enough for her in helping her pay her college and art school costs.

Soon she was so engrossed in the creation of her new design, the hours flew by. It was only when her stomach rumbled in hunger that she finally stopped working. Glancing at the clock, she was shocked to realize it was almost three. Her fridge yielded tuna salad that still smelled okay, so she fixed a sandwich and cut up an apple to go with it, then headed back to the dress form, where the velvet wasn’t draping quite the way she’d hoped.

Maybe the velvet had been a mistake. For this collection, she’d chosen to work with lighter, more forgiving fabrics—chiffons, silks, laces and the like. But the velvet had virtually cried out to be made into a one-shoulder, floor-length evening dress. The moment she’d seen it, she’d pictured it worn by Prince William’s beautiful wife. In fact, Joanna had a large photo of the duchess tacked onto her enormous bulletin board—a constant reminder of the effect she hoped to achieve and the kind of woman she hoped to attract as a client.

She was halfway through her late lunch when her cell rang. The ring tone announced the call was from Georgie Prince, her BFF.

“Hey, girl,” Georgie said.

“Hey.” Knowing a call from Georgie always stretched to at least half an hour, Joanna sank onto a kitchen chair and put her feet up on its neighbor.

“What’re you up to today?” Georgie asked.

“Working on that new design.”

“The one you emailed me?”

“Yep.”

“Oh, Joanna, it’s gorgeous. You know, I wish you’d make that dress for me. It’d be perfect for the holidays. Zach and I have several parties, and I’d love to have that dress for at least one of them.”

Joanna sat up. “Really? You’re serious?”

“Never more. I absolutely love it.”

“I’d love to make it for you. How soon would you need it?”

“Middle of November. Is that doable?”

“I’ll make it doable.”

“So, how’d the party go last night?”

Joanna sighed. “It was nice.”

“You don’t sound sure.”

“No, it really was. The boys gave me an iPad. And my mom knitted me the most beautiful cashmere shawl.” Joanna’s mother had recently bought out her longtime employer, and now was the proud owner of a small yarn shop.

“Red?”

Joanna laughed. “Yes, red.”

“Your mother never stops trying, does she?”

Georgie was referring to the fact that Joanna preferred to wear black. Even today her jeans were black, as was her sweater.

“She keeps thinking she’ll change me,” Joanna said.

“Just like my mom,” Georgie said.

Joanna refrained from saying what she was thinking, that Georgie had changed, that Cornelia Fairchild Hunt, Georgie’s mother, had been right all along, whereas she, Joanna, was never going to be other than who she was, no matter who might prefer her to be different.

“So, are you feeling any better about the big three-oh now?” Georgie asked.

“Yeah, I’ve decided I’m fine with being thirty.” Yet even as she said it, Joanna knew her earlier pep talk to herself had begun to wear off. “I just wish I had more to look forward to,” she added in a burst of honesty. This was not something she would have admitted to anyone other than Georgie.

“Oh, stop that. You have your whole life to look forward to.”

“Said by a woman who’s already got a fantastic career, not to mention a real, live Prince Charming.” Joanna hated the tinge of envy in her voice, because she was genuinely happy for her best friend. Zach Prince was perfect for Georgie, and Joanna had loved him the moment she’d met him.

“You’re going to have a fabulous career, and it’ll be much more exciting than mine,” Georgie said. “And as far as that perfect guy goes, it’s going to happen for you, too, and probably when you least expect it. I know I certainly didn’t expect it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure you’re right. Don’t pay any attention to me. I guess I’m just tired right now. And discouraged.”

“Did you go to Pacific Savings like I suggested?” Georgie asked.

“I went yesterday on my lunch hour. And I chalked up my fifteenth ‘no’ in as many days.”

Georgie fell silent for a moment. Then she said, “Maybe I could get Harry to call Pacific Savings.”

“No! Don’t you dare ask him to call them.” Joanna might be temporarily discouraged, but she had pride. Harry Hunt, the billionaire Seattle legend who had recently married Georgie’s mother, didn’t even know her. Well, he might know who she was, and that she was Georgie’s friend, but otherwise, she was a stranger to him. If Joanna wouldn’t even ask her own father for help, she certainly wasn’t going to go begging to Harry Hunt!

“Harry wouldn’t mind,” Georgie said.

“Maybe not. But I mind.”

“You’re so stubborn. Everyone needs a little help sometimes.”

“Spoken by the woman who would have strangled anyone who tried to help her in the past.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Georgie said, “What will you do?”

Joanna grimaced. “I really don’t have a choice.”

“You’ll keep working for Chick?”

“I don’t want to, but I also don’t want to try to find another job, either. I mean, how many part-time jobs can there be that pay as well as mine?”

“I don’t want you to keep working for Chick, either,” Georgie said fiercely. “He’s a total jerk.”

“I realize that now. I seem to attract that kind of person. In lovers and in bosses.” Joanna was grateful Georgie was a good enough friend she never rubbed Joanna’s nose in the fact that she’d warned her against getting involved with both Chick and Ivan Klemenko—a designer she’d done some work for who’d stolen her ideas and passed them off as his own—from day one. And Joanna, as usual, had willfully gone her own way...and paid the price. She sighed heavily. What was done was done. And nothing was going to change the past now. “Look, that’s enough about me. Let’s talk about you for a change.”

For the next ten minutes, Georgie filled Joanna in on the doings in the Prince household. Finally, when Joanna was about to say she’d better get back to work, Georgie said, “I have something else to tell you. But you have to promise you won’t laugh.”

“Laugh? Why would I laugh? What have you done now?”

“Well, after all the years I’ve said I didn’t want children...” Georgie’s voice trailed off.

It took a few seconds for the import of Georgie’s statement to sink in. Then Joanna squealed. “Georgie! Are you pregnant? I don’t believe it!”

Georgie laughed, the sound filled with joy. “I know. I don’t believe it, either.”

“Oh, Georgie, that’s wonderful.” Joanna told herself she was not jealous. She did not begrudge this to her friend. “How...how far along are you?” Georgie and Zach had been married in April.

“A little over three months. I went to the doctor yesterday.”

“Wow.”

“Yes. Wow.”

“You’re happy, aren’t you?”

“Oh, Joanna, I’m so happy I can’t believe it. We haven’t told anyone yet except my mom, not even the children.” Zach had three children from his previous marriage. The youngest, Emma, was just four. The oldest, Katie, was eleven. Remembering how unhappy Katie had been at first, before Georgie had won her over, Joanna said, “What do you think Katie will say?”

“I don’t know. I’m a little worried, to tell you the truth.”

“I’ll bet she’ll be fine. Most girls love having a little sister.”

“Except she already has a little sister.”

“I know, but think about yourself. You have three younger sisters, and you once told me you were thrilled about every one of them.”

They talked another ten minutes about the baby, which was due the middle of March, and about how the velvet gown could work even around a baby bump, then began to say their goodbyes. Before hanging up, Georgie said, “Hang in there, Jo.”

Joanna made a face. “I will. Actually, on Monday, I plan to visit Up and Coming, that gallery I told you about. Who knows? They might agree to let me show my collection there, and then maybe one of the banks will change its mind and lend me the money I need.” She made a face. “Yeah, and I’ll probably win the lottery, too.”

“See? I knew you’d come up with another idea,” Georgie said, completely ignoring Joanna’s attempt at dark humor. “And if the gallery and loan don’t work out for you, Zach and I will be happy to finance the rest of the collection.”

“I know. You’ve already told me that. But I can’t let you do that, Georgie. What if...” But Joanna couldn’t give voice to her greatest fear, not even to Georgie.

“Do not say it, Joanna! You will not fail. Your collection will be a huge hit. Huge. Listen, I know fashion. So do my sisters. And we all love your clothes.”

With that ringing endorsement still reverberating in her ears, Joanna said goodbye. But the moment the connection was broken, her spirits flagged again. Yes, Georgie and her sisters did love her clothes, but they were prejudiced.

So even if the owner of Up and Coming said yes to her on Monday, and even if one of the banks did change its mind and lend her the money to finish the collection, she could still fail.

As soon as the thought formed, she got mad at herself. What was wrong with her? Why was she even entertaining such a negative idea? She was not and never had been a negative person. She was a chance taker. She believed in herself and in her talent.

Georgie was right. She would succeed!

No matter what it took.

* * *

“Will you be home for dinner tonight, Marcus?”

Marcus Osborne Barlow III shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Mother. Walker and I have a dinner meeting scheduled.” Walker Creighton was the family’s longtime lawyer and also sat on the board of Barlow International. When his mother didn’t answer, Marcus looked up from the Seattle Times. Her grayish-blue eyes—whose color he’d inherited—seemed stricken. “What’s wrong?”

She looked down at her half-eaten English muffin. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry.”

It was never nothing with his mother. Ever since his father’s unexpected death of a heart attack fifteen years earlier just before Marcus’s twenty-first birthday in his third year of college, Laurette Bertrand Barlow had been incapable of handling much more than what to have for dinner. And sometimes she seemed incapable of doing even that. She hadn’t always been this way. When his father was alive, she’d been a different woman. Or had she? Maybe, like most young people, he’d simply been too wrapped up in his own life to notice.

Marcus finished the last of his coffee and put the paper down. He’d learned that coaxing his mother didn’t work, so he simply sat there quietly. After long seconds, she finally met his gaze. “It’s Vanessa.”

“What about her?” he said more sharply than he’d intended.

“She talked back to me last night. I will not be talked to that way, Marcus.”

Vanessa was Marcus’s twenty-year-old sister. Only five when their father died, she idolized Marcus. And he adored her, even as he sometimes despaired of making her into the kind of young lady who would do the Barlow family and company proud. The kind of young lady a man so seldom found nowadays.

“What did she say to you?” he asked.

His mother flushed. “She told me I was stupid.”

“Stupid!” Marcus was appalled. Sometimes he understood why Vanessa was impatient with their mother. After all, Laurette was often difficult to deal with. But showing disrespect, no matter the provocation, would not be tolerated. Especially since Creighton had been urging Marcus to assume more international business travel. How could he take charge abroad when his mother and sister still expected him to mediate their disagreements?

Suppressing a sigh, he said, “I’ll speak to her.” He put down his paper, rose and headed for the stairs.

Five minutes later, he knocked on Vanessa’s bedroom door. In the mood he was in, he almost went in without waiting for an answer, but if he was to lead by example, good manners dictated he wait.

“Is that you, Mother?” was followed by the door opening. Vanessa, blond hair still tousled from sleep, stood there in a very short blue bathrobe and bare feet. Her eyes, dark blue like their father’s had been, lost their defiant glare when she realized it was her brother at the door and not her mother.

“I thought you’d already gone to the office,” she said, smiling.

“I have a meeting in Kirkland today.” Wasn’t she cold?

“Oh.”

“Don’t you have a class this morning?” Vanessa was taking a couple of design classes at the Art Institute of Seattle.

“It was canceled. The instructor’s wife went into labor yesterday, so I thought I’d check out that new exhibit at the Frye.” She tightened the skimpy robe around her. For the first time, she seemed to sense his mood. “Is something wrong, Marcus?”

“Mother says last night you called her stupid.”

Vanessa shook her head. “That’s not quite true.”

“Not quite true? How can something be not quite true?”

“I didn’t call her stupid. I said what she’d said was stupid. That’s not the same thing.”

“You’re splitting hairs. Talking to your mother that way is disrespectful, and you know it.”

“Don’t you even want to know what it was she said?”

“No. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you must always treat your mother with respect.”

“But, Marcus—”

“No buts.”

“So I can’t even disagree with her?” The defiant glare was back in full force.

“I didn’t say that. It’s entirely possible to have a difference of opinion without being rude...or disrespectful.”

Vanessa rolled her eyes. “You know, Marcus, as much as I love you, you have a tendency to sound like some old man. I mean, come on, no one talks the way you do anymore.”

“Excuse me?” he said stiffly. If he sounded older than he was, maybe it was because he’d never had a choice. Did she ever think of that? A week after his father’s death, he’d had to put on a suit and tie and meet with Barstow’s board to convince them he’d be capable of assuming the company’s reins in five years. It wasn’t something he’d ever wanted to do, but who else was there to do it?

And this was what his sister thought of him now? Suddenly he saw Vanessa through the eyes of their mother. Maybe Laurette had been right all along. Maybe he did spoil Vanessa.

“I’ve been defending your bad behavior long enough,” he said, hardening his heart. “Mother is right. From now on, things are going to be different. You will apologize to Mother. And you will be grounded for the weekend.”

“Grounded! I’m twenty years old! You can’t ground me.”

“I most certainly can. The fact that you are twenty years old has no bearing on anything, especially when you still sometimes behave as if you are ten. Remember this, Vanessa. You live under my roof. You are dependent on me. That means you follow my rules. If you don’t want to follow my rules, then you’re free to find a place of your own.”

Her mouth dropped open. He knew she was shocked, for he had never before talked to her this way.

“Now get dressed and come downstairs and apologize to your mother. I’m leaving for my meeting, and when I come home tonight, I expect you to be here. And that you will have already given Mother your sincere apology.”

As he turned to go back downstairs, he fully expected to hear her door slam, because Vanessa had a temper. Instead, there was silence. He strode down the hall, then stopped. Shaking his head, he turned around and walked back to his sister’s door. He was sorry to have spoken so harshly. After all, he did know how difficult his mother could be and how she could strain anyone’s patience.

He grasped the knob of Vanessa’s door, but he didn’t open it. He couldn’t. At the age of twenty, he’d had to thrust aside all his dreams and hopes for the future. He’d had to grow up fast. To assume responsibility for both his siblings and his mother, not to mention an entire corporation and the workers who depended on him.

If he wanted Vanessa to be a credit to him and to their family, to become the lovely woman he knew she could be, then this rebelliousness of hers needed to be reined in.

He released the knob and headed for the stairs. This time, he didn’t look back.


Chapter Two

On Monday, Chick left for Oregon and a buying trip, so Joanna put the phone on voice mail and took a couple of hours for lunch. Luckily, it was a pretty day—cool but sunny—so she walked the fifteen blocks from Chick’s office to Up and Coming’s trendy location in Belltown, right on the fringes of Queen Anne.

Joanna had read about Up and Coming in Phoebe Lancaster’s column in the July issue of Around Puget Sound magazine. The gallery featured new artists, and apparently they weren’t limited to painters and sculptors because sometime this fall they were scheduled to showcase the work of a jewelry designer. When Joanna had read that, she’d immediately wondered if it might be possible to have her work shown there, too. After all, she was an artist—every bit as much as someone who designed jewelry. The idea had excited her, and she’d filed it in the back of her mind, thinking it might be something she could explore in the future.

Well, the future was here. Up and Coming was one of her last resorts. Maybe her very last resort.

Located on a shady, tree-lined street where several restaurants and boutiques mingled with half a dozen galleries, Up and Coming had an elegant facade with double walnut doors flanked by old-fashioned gas lamps. Its two large display windows held vividly colored ceramic vases and bowls, along with fanciful animals carved from what looked like mahogany. One—a mouse with an impudent expression—made her smile. It also gave her hope that the owner had an open mind about what constituted art.

Tiny silver bells tinkled when Joanna opened the door and walked inside. A tall blonde with a severe hairdo, slicked back and fashioned into a tiny ballerina bun, looked up at Joanna’s entrance.

“Yes?” She didn’t smile. Instead, her gaze flicked to Joanna’s knee-high boots with their four-inch heels, then traveled up and over her diamond-patterned black stockings, black miniskirt and tight leather jacket.

“Hello,” Joanna said brightly. Walking over to the counter where the woman stood with an open catalogue in front of her, Joanna extended her right hand. “I’m Joanna Spinelli. I wrote to you last week about the possibility of showing my work here.”

The blonde ignored the hand. “And what might that work be?” Still no smile. In fact, her eyes, a frosty dark blue that matched her long-sleeved, high-necked wool dress, were looking at Joanna as if she had wandered into the gallery by mistake.

“I’m a, um, fashion designer.” Joanna could have kicked herself for the hesitation in her voice. “You may have heard of my label? JS Designs? I did the bridesmaids’ gowns for the Fairchild wedding in the spring. There was a spread in Puget Sound Magazine—”

“We are an art gallery, Miss...”

“Spinelli,” Joanna repeated.

The blonde fingered her double strand of pearls. “Spinelli.” This was said as if the name itself was distasteful.

“And I know you’re an art gallery,” Joanna said, “but I read an article recently about how you’ll be showing some jewelry by a local artist and I thought—”

“Yes. Well. That designer is the sister of the owner.”

“Oh.” Joanna’s heart sank. This was not going well. “Um, then, perhaps I could speak to the owner? I brought my portfolio with me to show—”

“Mr. Barlow is a busy man and rarely here.”

Telling herself not to be cowed by this snobby woman, Joanna drew herself up to her full five feet three plus the four-inch heels. “And you are?”

The blonde’s eyes narrowed as if she couldn’t quite believe Joanna had the audacity to ask her name. For a moment, Joanna was sure she didn’t intend to answer, but finally she said, “I am the manager of the gallery. Brenda Garfield.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Garfield. Now, if you could just take a look at my designs...”

Lifting the portfolio to the glass countertop, Joanna opened it to the first photograph. The model, a favorite of Joanna’s, was an ethereal-looking redhead—a Nicole Kidman type, Joanna had always thought—and she was wearing one of Joanna’s hand-crocheted dresses—a pale apricot confection with a swirling skirt, worn over a matching silk slip. The photographer had created the illusion of sun-kissed clouds drifting around her. It had cost Joanna the earth to have these photographs shot, but she figured the investment in her future was worth it.

The Garfield woman barely glanced at the photo.

Determined not to give up, Joanna turned the page. This photo featured a willowy, dark-haired model standing on a moonlit balcony. She was wearing a midnight-blue satin evening dress overlaid with ecru lace and held a champagne glass in her hand.

Brenda Garfield’s eyes briefly skimmed the photograph, then rose to meet Joanna’s own. “I doubt Mr. Barlow would be interested,” she said coldly.

Joanna would have liked to say what she was thinking, but stopped herself just in time. Never burn bridges. How often had her mother advised that? “I’ll just leave my card,” she said politely. “He can look at my designs on my website.”

“As you wish.”

Joanna figured the card would be thrown in the trash the moment she was out the door. Suppressing a sigh, she closed her portfolio and, head held high, said, “Thank you for your time.”

Joanna waited until she’d walked outside and out of sight of the snooty Brenda Garfield before giving vent to her feelings. I won’t cry, she told herself as the full weight of her crushed hopes and lost dreams bore down on her shoulders.

“I might as well forget about this damn place,” she said aloud. “She isn’t going to tell the owner about me.” For one second, she almost pitched the album containing the photos into the trash container standing on the curb.

But something stopped her.

Maybe the portfolio was worthless. Maybe no one else would ever look at her designs again. Maybe things looked dark right now, but tomorrow was another day.

And she was not a quitter.

Besides, these photos were too beautiful and had cost too much to end up in a public trash receptacle.

* * *

Cornelia Fairchild Hunt had just finished arranging a large bouquet of fresh-cut flowers in the morning room when Martha, her longtime housekeeper who had come along with her when she’d moved into her new husband’s mansion in the spring, walked into the room.

“Mrs. Hunt, Georgie’s on the phone.”

“Thank you, Martha.” Cornelia smiled, always delighted to hear from her oldest daughter. Now that Georgie had married such a wonderful man, and was stepmother to three equally wonderful children, she always had interesting news and funny stories to recount. And soon, to Cornelia’s delight, Georgie would be adding another baby to Cornelia’s growing list of grandchildren. Life was good.

Cornelia lifted the phone. “Hello, Georgie.”

“Hi, Mom. What’re you up to today?”

“Oh, nothing much. Just doing some flower arranging. Thinking about having a toes-up later.”

They chatted for a while, and then Georgie said, “Mom, I wanted to bounce something off you.”

“What, dear?” Cornelia listened thoughtfully as Georgie explained about her best friend Joanna Spinelli’s dilemma, finishing up with “I just wish I knew the owner of that gallery so I could put in a good word for Joanna. Unfortunately, he’s older than me, and I don’t believe I’ve ever met him. Do you by any chance know him?”

“Well, first of all, what’s his name?”

“Oh, sorry. Marcus Barlow. You might have read about him. He’s the head of Barlow International, that import/export company that’s doing so much business in Asia. Seattle Today did a big feature article on him back in May. I also read somewhere that he was going to appear on 60 Minutes.”

“Actually, Georgie, I’ve met Mr. Barlow. He was seated next to me at the heart association fund-raiser last month. He’s a really charming young man.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then Georgie exclaimed, “Mom! That’s wonderful. I can’t believe you know him.”

“Well, I don’t know him well, of course, but we did have the loveliest conversation that evening. And, in fact, on the drive home, I mentioned to Harry that we ought to invite Mr. Barlow to one of our dinner parties.” She remembered how, even though Marcus Barlow was an attractive, influential, wealthy man, and women had fawned over him all evening, he hadn’t paid them much attention. He’d seemed happier talking to Cornelia, even though she was old enough to be his mother. There was something about him that had really touched her that evening. Afterward, she’d thought perhaps she’d sensed a quality of loneliness in him and she’d responded to it.

“Do you think you could—”

Georgie didn’t have to finish her question. Cornelia knew what her daughter wanted from her. “I wouldn’t mind calling him and mentioning Joanna, if that’s what you’re suggesting. As I said, I wanted to invite him to dinner anyway.”

“Oh, gosh, that would be wonderful. But you could never let Joanna know you’d done so.”

“Why? Do you think she’d be upset?”

“Oh, you know how she is.”

“Well, darling, if what you’ve told me is accurate, if anyone needs a fairy godmother, it’s Joanna.”

Even though thousands of miles separated them, Cornelia knew Georgie was smiling. “And there’s no one better to fulfill that role than you, mother of mine.”

After they’d hung up, Cornelia decided she liked the idea of being Joanna’s fairy godmother. For years Cornelia had had all she could handle just keeping body and soul together and making sure her four daughters didn’t suffer from the sins of their father. She hadn’t the wherewithal to play Lady Bountiful. But now—especially since Harry had, over her objections, settled some sixty million dollars on her the week after their wedding—she had the means to do whatever she wanted to do.

Now, just where had she put that business card of Marcus Barlow’s?

* * *

Marcus had to pass right by the gallery on his way back to his office, and he couldn’t resist stopping in. Up and Coming was an indulgence, and he knew it—it barely paid for itself—but he didn’t care. He’d had to give up his dream of becoming a working artist when his father’s death had redirected his life. Up and Coming was his way of staying a part of the art community.

Granted, owning a gallery was a far cry from living his art, but at least now he felt he was contributing something important. From the day he’d opened its doors, Up and Coming had featured the work of new and struggling artists. Because of the boost he’d given them, Marcus could count half a dozen in the past few years who had gone on to make a success of their chosen careers.

Smiling, thinking how much he enjoyed his role with Up and Coming, he felt all his worries and responsibilities fade away as he entered the gallery.

Brenda, as always, seemed glad to see him. When the gallery had first opened, Marcus had been concerned about stopping by as often as he wanted to. He hadn’t wanted Brenda to think he questioned her abilities as his manager or that he was checking up on her. He needn’t have worried. Those thoughts never seemed to enter her mind.

In fact, sometimes she seemed too glad to see him. As a result, he was careful to maintain a strictly professional relationship. During the few times she had attempted to discuss his or her personal life, he had always steered her back to business.

Today was no exception. “You look tired,” she said.

He shrugged. “I wondered if you’d had a chance to contact Jamison Wells.”

“We talked right after lunch.”

“And?”

“He’s thrilled, of course.”

“Is November a good month for him?”

“He says yes. He guaranteed us forty paintings.”

“Great. When can we see them?”

“I told him you’d call to fix a time.”

After Brenda brought him up-to-date about two more new artists they were considering for future shows, she excused herself and headed toward the restroom. A moment later, the telephone rang, and Marcus walked behind the counter to answer it. After giving the caller directions to the gallery, he disconnected the call and was about to walk away when he noticed a business card on the floor next to the waste basket. He picked it up and glanced at it.



J S Designs

When you want to feel like a princess



There was a name in small type at the bottom—Joanna Spinelli—a phone number and a website address, but nothing else. The message on the card intrigued him. What kind of designs was the woman talking about? He was just about to take the card back to the office and look up the website when Brenda returned.

Seeing the card in his hand, she frowned. “I thought I threw that away.”

“You missed the basket. I found this on the floor.” When she said nothing further, he added, “What kind of designer is she?”

Brenda made a face. “She designs clothes. I told her I doubted we’d ever be interested in anything like that.”

He nodded. Normally he would have agreed with Brenda. Fashion had never interested him, especially couture fashion. But for some reason, he was curious about this woman’s designs. He guessed the statement about feeling like a princess was what had intrigued him.

Casually, he put the card in his jacket pocket. Brenda noticed, though. He saw her lips tighten. Deciding he owed her no explanation, he said he had to be going and would drop by again later in the week.

Back at his office, he pulled out the business card and looked up the woman’s website. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t what he found.

The dresses and gowns featured on the website were exactly the kinds of clothes he would like to see his sister wear, exactly the kinds of clothes he would want a wife of his to wear. They were stunning—beautiful and elegant. The Spinelli woman hadn’t exaggerated. Her clothes were fit for a princess.

He wished there were more of them on the website instead of the half dozen featured. He also wondered about the designer herself. There was no picture, no bio. Just contact information.

He was about to do a search of the designer’s name when his secretary buzzed him to say Cornelia Hunt was on the line. He smiled and picked up the phone. “Hello, Cornelia. What a nice surprise.”

“Is it? I’ve been meaning to call you ever since the night we met. And today I had the perfect excuse. Harrison and I are having a small dinner party next month on the eighth, and I was hoping you could come.”

“The eighth...” Marcus checked his calendar, saw that the evening was free and said, “That sounds good.”

After she gave him the particulars, she said, “If you’ve got a few more minutes, there’s one other thing I wanted to ask you about.”

“I have as many minutes as you need.”

“I know you own an art gallery in Belltown.”

“Yes. Up and Coming.”

“And you sometimes feature artists and designers who work with unusual materials. I believe my daughter mentioned a jewelry designer whose work will be shown in October?”

“That’s right.”

“Have you ever considered showing the work of a fashion designer?”

Taken aback, Marcus wondered if Cornelia Hunt was a mind reader. It was almost as if she’d known he was thinking about Joanna Spinelli. “I haven’t given it a lot of thought,” he said, “but yes, I have considered it.”

“In that case, I wanted to recommend someone. This young woman is very talented. In fact, she designed the bridesmaids’ dresses for my wedding and she also designed the bridal gown my oldest daughter wore when she was recently married. Her name is Joanna Spinelli, and she’s currently working on finishing her first collection and I’d really like to be able to help her out a bit. So I thought if you were interested I could introduce you.”

“It’s odd you should mention Ms. Spinelli, because she visited the gallery today and left her card. In fact, when you called, I had just finished looking at her designs on her website.”

“And what did you think of her work?”

“I was favorably impressed.”

“Lovely,” Cornelia Hunt said.

“In fact,” he said, thinking aloud, “it’s possible we could combine her designs and my sister’s jewelry into one show.” That would give Vanessa a boost, too, plus make for a more interesting evening for possible buyers. “I forgot to mention that the jewelry designer we’re featuring this fall is my sister, Vanessa.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

The more Marcus thought about it, the more logical his idea seemed. Of course, everything would depend on whether Vanessa liked the Spinelli woman and her designs and vice versa and whether the clothing and jewelry would be complementary, but it was certainly worth exploring.

“So, would you like me to arrange a meeting?” Cornelia asked.

“It’s not really necessary. I have Ms. Spinelli’s card. I’ll give her a call.”

“That’s even better, because the truth is, I was hoping Joanna didn’t have to know that I’d talked to you about her. She’s...rather proud, you see.”

“I understand. I’m rather proud myself.”

Cornelia laughed softly. “There’s nothing wrong with a little pride. It makes one work harder, don’t you think?”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

* * *

Joanna didn’t call Georgie after the fiasco at Up and Coming. Normally she would have. But right now she was too bummed to talk to anyone, even Georgie. It was all very well to tell herself she wasn’t a quitter, but she really had exhausted every possibility she or Georgie could think of.

What if she called Phoebe Lancaster? Maybe Joanna could talk the reporter into doing a feature spread on her and her designs, kind of a follow-up to the story about Cornelia’s wedding.

But really, what good would that do? Sure, it would be nice to have a bit of publicity, but without a collection to show and somewhere to show it, what was the point?

No, Joanna might as well face it. If something good didn’t happen soon, Joanna might as well pack it in and forget about her dreams. Because right now, the way things were, she had about as much chance of becoming an Oscar-winning actress as she did a successful fashion designer.

* * *

“Corny, dearest, I thought you’d decided to stay out of the matchmaking business.”

Cornelia frowned. “Whatever do you mean? I’m just trying to give Joanna a leg up, that’s all.”

“And when you decided to call him, it never entered your mind that she and Marcus Barlow might make a nice couple?” Harry said disbelievingly.

“No, of course not.” And it honestly hadn’t. But now that Harry mentioned it, she couldn’t help thinking how nice it would be if that lovely young man should like Joanna and vice versa, because Joanna was a terrific person, just the sort of spunky, strong young woman Cornelia admired.

“Knowing how romantic you are, I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, believe it. When I called Marcus, the only thing on my mind—other than inviting him to dinner—was securing a show for Joanna at his gallery.” Cornelia had already decided she was going to help Joanna financially, too. She had it all planned. She would arrange for Joanna to have a “loan” through the Queen Anne Community Bank in Cornelia’s old neighborhood, where she had banked for years. The money would actually come directly out of Cornelia’s account, but Joanna wouldn’t have to know that. Just as she wouldn’t have to know about Cornelia’s call to Marcus.

“What are you smiling about?” Harry said, drawing her closer. The two of them were sitting in front of the fire and enjoying their predinner cocktail.

“Oh, I was just thinking how much like you I’m becoming.”

Harry grinned and nuzzled her neck. “Really?” he murmured. “In that case, I hope you’ve chosen one of my better qualities to emulate.”

“I don’t think deviousness is a better quality, but sometimes it’s very useful.”

Harry laughed out loud. “So you admit you’re devious? Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Everyone is devious once in a while. Especially for a good cause.”

“The end justifies the means, in other words.”

“Well...” Cornelia hated to admit when Harry was right. Better to keep him guessing.

“Now, c’mon, Corny. Be fair.”

Cornelia took a sip of her Bellini, then set it down. She shivered as Harry’s arms tightened around her. Turning to face him, she murmured, “I guess I could be persuaded.”

As his lips met hers, she decided it wasn’t so bad admitting you were wrong when the reward was so deliciously sweet.


Chapter Three

Joanna was still pinching herself. It was more than eight hours since she’d received the call that had the potential to change her life, and she still could hardly believe it.

Marcus Barlow had called her! He was interested in meeting her! He liked her designs! Yes, yes, yes!

She knew she was even thinking in exclamation points, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. Truly, if—after meeting her—he agreed to give her a venue to show her collection, her life would be totally different from what it was today.

Having a show at Up and Coming and all that would entail would put JS Designs on the map. Literally on the map. If she caught the eye of the right people, if they liked her work and ordered her designs, she would be able to do all the things she’d only dreamed about doing: rent a proper workroom, with not only a place to create her designs, but a place to display them and to sell them. Ideally, there would be enough room for her to both live and work.

And once she had the promise of a show at Up and Coming, she could go back to the various banks. Surely, with the show in her future, someone would be willing to lend her operating capital.

Grateful that Chick the Rat was still out of town and she didn’t have to take a sick day to have enough time to meet with Marcus Barlow, Joanna began getting her things ready for her eleven-thirty appointment. She was just about to leave for the gallery when her cell phone rang.

She frowned at the display. Queen Anne Community Bank? Why were they calling her? Thinking it was probably some kind of credit card offer, she almost let the call go to voice mail, but she had a few minutes, so she might as well answer and get rid of them. Otherwise, they’d just pester her again.

Seven minutes later, in stunned disbelief, she disconnected the call. Holy cow! She hoped she’d made sense in her conversation with the loan officer. What on earth was going on? Was the entire world tilting on its axis? Why else would everything suddenly make a 180-degree swing and begin to go right for her when yesterday everything in her life had been totally hopeless? It was almost as if some fairy godmother had waved a magic wand, she thought in dazed disbelief.

Queen Anne Community Bank had decided to lend her the money she needed to finance her collection. Actually, the loan they’d proposed would be enough to keep her in operating capital for a year or more. It would enable her to find a place to do business and to hire as many employees as she needed to assist her in fulfilling future orders. She’d also be able to purchase all necessary materials and equipment to run the business.

She was so excited she wasn’t sure she trusted herself to drive to the gallery. Maybe, just this once, she’d indulge herself and take a taxi.

Thirty minutes later, as her watch showed it to be 11:22, the cab pulled up in front of Up and Coming. Joanna had dressed carefully for this interview. She’d worn her most demure black dress—a long-sleeved lightweight ribbed wool turtleneck that ended a modest three inches above her knees—sheer black tights and four-inch-high black suede platforms. She’d even considered removing her black nail polish, but couldn’t bear to ruin her manicure, which she’d gotten Saturday and could ill afford. Dangling silver earrings and an armload of silver bangle bracelets completed her outfit, and she’d even managed to tame her unruly black hair into some semblance of a plain pixie without spikes.

The only thing worrying Joanna right now—other than actually securing the show—was the prospect of having to work with Brenda Garfield. The woman had made no secret of the way she felt about either Joanna or her designs, had she? So even if Marcus Barlow liked Joanna’s work and agreed to give her the show, if the Garfield woman wasn’t on board, she could make life difficult.

Worse, she could ruin the show.

Well, Joanna would just have to make sure that didn’t happen. She’d worked her butt off for another chance at the brass ring. And now that it was here, she intended to grab it and hold on to it for dear life, because nothing—not Brenda Garfield, not Ivan Klemenko, not Chick, not anyone or anything—was going to take it away from her.

Not this time.

* * *

Marcus was looking forward to meeting Joanna Spinelli. From her designs, and from Cornelia Hunt’s glowing recommendation, he figured he knew what to expect. He pictured a slim, elegant young woman, someone refined, with delicate features and classic beauty. She would be the kind of woman who could wear the lovely clothing she designed and do justice to it. He imagined someone modest and old-fashioned—the kind of woman he continually hoped to meet but never seemed to. Someone the exact opposite of Amanda Warren, his most recent relationship, which had ended badly.

So when Joanna Spinelli walked into the gallery just before eleven-thirty, he thought she was a salesperson...or a customer. Yes, a customer. Salespeople generally dressed more conservatively than the young woman approaching the counter.

“Hello, Miss Garfield,” the woman was saying. “I’m here for my eleven-thirty appointment with Mr. Barlow.”

Marcus, who stood just out of sight behind a latticework screen, stared, finding it hard to believe that this woman, who was the polar opposite of the kind of woman he’d pictured, was the designer of those beautiful clothes.

Brenda looked in his direction. “Marcus,” she said.

Still in disbelief, Marcus walked out from behind the screen. “Good morning. I’m Marcus Barlow.”

“Good morning. Joanna Spinelli.” Her dark eyes met his.

In them, he saw intelligence and intensity. They shook hands. Her handshake was firm and strong. His initial disappointment at the way she looked faded, to be replaced by a mixture of curiosity and something else, something very close to admiration, even though she was not the type of woman who normally appealed to him. In her, though, he recognized a worthy opponent. The thought startled him. Why think of her as an opponent? If things went well today, they would be colleagues.

And he did want them to go well, even though up to this moment he hadn’t been one hundred percent sure of that. “Shall we go into my office?”

Once they were settled in the office—him behind the desk, her seated in front of it, with her portfolio on the desk between them—he said, “I was impressed by the designs on your website, Ms. Spinelli.”

“Thank you. But please, call me Joanna.”

She should smile more often; it made her seem warmer. “And I’m Marcus.” She really was quite attractive, once you got past all that black eyeliner and mascara and the dark red lipstick. Not to mention the black nail polish.

Even Vanessa knew better than to wear black nail polish in his presence. He did notice that Joanna’s nails were quite short. He figured she kept them that way because it made it easier for her to work with the delicate fabrics she seemed to favor in her designs. “Before we discuss a possible show for you, I have some questions.”

“Of course.”

“First of all, how many designs have you ready to show?”

“Right now I have nine completed and the tenth about half done. But I’ve only recently found out that a business loan I applied for has been granted, so I’m planning to give notice at my day job in the morning. Once I’m working on the collection full-time, I should be able to get half a dozen more designs ready by, say, the first of November.”

“I know very little about the fashion industry, but sixteen seems like a good number for a show.”

“It’s actually more than most designers show. I had been hoping for twelve designs. So if you feel sixteen is too many, having a couple extra would give us more options to choose from.”

He nodded. “If I may ask, where are you getting a business loan?” He hoped it wasn’t from some fly-by-night finance company that would gouge her.

“From the Queen Anne Community Bank.”

“Really?” He couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice. Queen Anne Community Bank was one of the most conservative banks around. Joanna’s hardly seemed like the kind of business they would be willing to back. They generally wanted something physical they could use as collateral against default, like a building or expensive equipment. What would she have? A few sewing machines?

“I know,” she said, her own voice echoing his disbelief. “I can still hardly believe it myself. They just called me, right before I left to come here. I was shocked. I—I’ve been turned down everywhere. In fact, I’d given up hope.” She made a face. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this.”

He liked her better because she had. After all, anyone with an ounce of business sense would know she wasn’t a good financial risk. No artist was.

“That answers another important question,” Marcus said. “I was curious about how you’ve been financing your work.”

“It’s been tough. Up till now, I’ve had to squeeze every penny out of my personal finances. Although my family has helped out some.” She smiled again. “In particular, my grandmother. She believes in me. Well, actually, my entire family believes in me. But they’re not wealthy. Besides, this is my dream. I knew going into it I would have to work really hard and probably have to sacrifice a lot if I was going to make it. I didn’t expect anything less.”

Marcus studied her thoughtfully. He was surprised to find he liked her. She seemed to have a commonsense approach to her work and a good, level head. “You might have noticed that we are planning to show the work of a young jewelry designer sometime soon.”

She nodded. “Truthfully? That’s the reason I thought about approaching you. When I read about the jewelry designs.”

“How would you feel about our combining the two shows? Having some of the jewelry worn by your models.”

She frowned. “I don’t know. Um, what kind of jewelry is it? I know the designer is your sister. Miss Garfield told me. But she didn’t say anything about the jewelry itself.”

“I have some photos.” He got up and walked to the bookcase, where he took down a thin album. He laid it in front of her and watched her face as she turned the pages and studied the various designs.

“I like them a lot,” she said, finally looking up. “She makes exactly the kinds of things I like to wear, but do you really think they’re compatible with my designs? I mean, the jewelry is ultrasleek, and my designs are completely the opposite.”

“I think that’s exactly why they’ll look good together. Because they’re so unexpected a combination.”

She hesitated. “I don’t know. I told myself I would agree to anything you suggested, but I’m just not sure this will work. Is...this a deal breaker?”

He was a bit taken aback that she hadn’t immediately agreed with his suggestion. And yet he couldn’t help respecting the fact that she wasn’t afraid to stand up for herself. “Not necessarily. I would like for you and my sister to meet so you can see her work in person. Can you reserve judgment until then?”

She nodded, but he could see the doubt remaining in her eyes. No problem. He’d change her mind. Most people, even if they disagreed with him initially, came around to his way of thinking. “Good. We’ll see if we can set something up for next week. Perhaps lunch one day? Would that work for you?”

“That sounds perfect.”

He had planned to show her the work of the artist whose paintings would be featured throughout the month of November to see how she felt about being paired with him, but now he decided to wait until she and Vanessa met. He wasn’t really worried about the outcome of the meeting—he was confident he could convince both women his idea was a good one—but it paid to be cautious.

“Um, Mr. Barlow...Marcus...what if, after meeting your sister, I would still prefer not to be paired with her?”

She had guts, he’d give her that. “You mean, will I still be interested in giving you a show?”

She nodded.

“Yes, I will.”

“So it’ll be my decision?”

He almost laughed. She definitely had guts. He was right to imagine her as an opponent earlier. “Yes. It’ll be your decision. In fact, I’ll ask my assistant to draw up a contract today and call you when it’s ready.”

Business concluded, he escorted her out to the gallery floor and watched her leave. Why all the black? he wondered. Was she trying to make some kind of statement? If so, in his opinion, it was the wrong one. But he wasn’t worried about that, either. They had plenty of time to work on changing her look.

“So you sent her packing?” Brenda said once the door closed behind her.

Marcus’s head shot around. He’d almost forgotten Brenda was there. “Sent her packing? No. I liked her, and I like her designs. If everything works out, I plan to give her a show.”

Brenda’s eyes narrowed. “I think that’s a mistake, Marcus.”

“And why is that?”

“Because she’s hardly the type of person you want to promote.”

“Her designs are beautiful.”

“They’re pretty enough, but I question her taste level.”

“Her taste level? What do you mean?”

“Well, just look at her. I’d expect to find someone like her behind a makeup counter in one of the department stores, not here, in a gallery like ours.”

“That’s easily fixed.”

She looked as if she wanted to continue to argue with him. Instead, she said, “Who were you thinking of pairing her with?”

“I’m not sure.” He was, but he wasn’t in the mood to share the information with Brenda just yet, especially since she’d obviously taken a dislike to Joanna.

“Well,” she said stiffly, “I still think you’re making a mistake. I also think you’re setting a precedent that you will regret.”

“You could be right, but we’ll have to agree to disagree this time.”

He turned to walk back into the office when she muttered, “I just hope you don’t expect me to introduce her to prospective buyers.”

Marcus stopped and just looked at her. Her head was bent over some papers, and even though he knew she knew he was looking at her, she didn’t look up. After a few seconds, Marcus continued into the office without saying anything more. Because he knew if he did, it would be something he might be sorry for later.

* * *

“So, how’d the meeting at the gallery go today?”

“Except for the fact that I don’t think Marcus Barlow likes me, it went fairly well.” Joanna explained about Marcus Barlow’s sister and her jewelry designs. “We’re having lunch together sometime next week to see how we get on.”

“Then what you said doesn’t make a lick of sense,” Georgie said. “If he didn’t like you, he would have shown you the door today.”

“That’s not necessarily true.”

“Why on earth do you think he doesn’t like you?”

“The way he looked at me, for one thing. It was obvious he disapproved of me.”

“Joanna, come on. You’re exaggerating, surely.”

“No, I’m not. I’m used to that look. Men either want to get me into bed or turn up their noses when they see me. There’s seldom a happy medium. And men like Marcus Barlow belong to the latter group. I’m surprised he even wants to give me a show.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Why would how you look have any bearing on his decision to give you a show? It’s your designs that will be shown, not you. I mean, I’ve seen the way some of the big-name designers look, and trust me, a lot of them are downright weird.”

“Yes, but this isn’t New York or Paris. This is Seattle.”

“Seattle’s not a cow town, you know. It’s considered very hip and cool.”

“By the people who live here, maybe.”

“Now you’re not making any sense at all. I can’t imagine that a man who would own a gallery like Up and Coming would be bothered because you look more avant-garde than conservative. Anyway, we could argue about this all day and get nowhere. So let’s move on. Tell me what he’s like—other than the fact that you think he doesn’t like you or approve of you.”

“In a nutshell, he’s handsome, arrogant and used to telling people what to do.”

“Arrogant? Really?”

“Really.”

“That’s funny.”

“What’s funny?”

“My mother said he was charming. She really liked him. And she’s a good judge of character.”

“What do you mean, your mother said he was charming? When did you talk to your mother about him?”

“I, uh...”

“Georgie, did your mother have anything to do with him calling me?”

“Well, I, um, may have mentioned something to her about him and the gallery and how you wanted to have a show there.”

“Georgie!”

“Jeez, Joanna, don’t get all worked up. It’s normal in the business world to use your contacts. Why shouldn’t you? Anyway, I don’t know if my mother called him or not. Didn’t you say he said something about getting your business card from that manager of his?”

“Yes, but—”

“Well, maybe he never talked to Mom. But even if he did, it’s not a big deal. He would never offer to give you a show unless he liked your work.”

“Maybe that’s why he wants to combine his sister’s work with mine. Maybe he thinks mine needs help.”

“I would think,” Georgie said, “if he wants to show your work along with his sister’s, that he really loves your work. I mean, his sister, Joanna.”

“I told him I wasn’t sure I wanted to have my models wearing her jewelry.”

“You did? Really?”

“Yep.”

Georgie laughed. “I can’t believe you sometimes. And what did he say to that?” She was still laughing.

“He said it would be my decision.”

“Then I have no idea what you’re worried about! Sounds to me like he was perfectly reasonable and nice to you.”

Joanna sighed. “On one level, I know you’re right. But on another, I just have this feeling.”

“What feeling?”

“That as far as my show is concerned, Marcus Barlow is going to want to have everything his way. And I’m not sure his way is my way. In fact, I’m sure it’s not.”

For a moment, Georgie didn’t say anything. When she did, Joanna could tell she was trying not to laugh again. “Sounds to me like there might be fireworks ahead.”

Joanna just hoped she wouldn’t be the one getting burned.


Chapter Four

“But, Marcus, I thought this was going to be my chance. I don’t want to share my show with someone else.”

Marcus had figured Vanessa wouldn’t be any more eager to share a show than Joanna had been, but his sister wasn’t really in any position to argue the point, not after her behavior last week.

“This isn’t fair,” she cried. “You’re just doing this to punish me because you’re still mad at me. You grounded me all weekend! Isn’t that enough?”

“I am not punishing you. Besides, combining the two shows isn’t cast in stone. If, after you meet her and see her designs, you still feel you don’t want to do a show with her, we’ll keep them separate. But I think combining the two will enhance the work of both of you, and I’d like you to consider it.”

“But I don’t have to do it if I don’t want to?”

“As I told Miss Spinelli, no, it’ll be your decision. Yours and hers.”

“So she’s not any more eager to combine shows than I am?” Her eyes brightened.

“She’s keeping an open mind. Now, will you take a look at her designs?”

Vanessa sighed. “Oh, all right, I’ll go look at her website now.”

Half an hour later, she came into the study where he was going over the household accounts. “Okay, I went to her website. And she does design beautiful clothes. They’re not the kinds of things I would ever want to wear, but I can see how they’d appeal to a lot of girls. Still, I don’t think—”

“They’re the kinds of things you should wear,” Marcus said, interrupting. He gave a disparaging glance at her torn jeans and tight, layered T-shirts. At five nine and a half, with her wheat-colored hair and beautiful eyes, Vanessa would be striking in one of Joanna’s elegant ensembles. In fact, the dark blue evening gown overlaid in lace would look great on her. Not that she ever went to the kinds of places a young woman would wear something like that. It was all he could do to get her to attend charity functions sponsored by the family. Vanessa gave him a long-suffering look. “As I started to say, I don’t think my jewelry and her designs would look good together.”

“And I think the contrast between them would be interesting.”

“Oh, c’mon, Marcus. You don’t know anything about fashion. Her clothes cry out for high-end jewels, the kinds of things made by Neil Lane or Harry Winston.” She rolled her eyes to show what she thought of them.

“Most young women would kill to be able to wear high-end jewels,” he said mildly.

“I’m not like everyone else.”

Where had this rebellious streak come from? Until recently, Vanessa had been one of the most agreeable sisters imaginable. In fact, she would have done just about anything to please him. But lately she seemed to delight in opposing him. “I only want you to meet the woman.”

“But what’s the point?”

“The point is, I’ve asked it as a favor to me.”

If looks could kill, hers was lethal. “Oh, whatever. Fine. I’ll meet her.”

“Good.”

“When?”

“We’ll go to lunch with her one day early next week.”

“I have a really busy week coming up.”

“One lunch won’t take up that much of your time.”

Marcus put his head in his hands after Vanessa, with another elaborate sigh and still grumbling under her breath, left the room. Why couldn’t people just be reasonable? It was a good thing this day was nearly over. Between the problems he’d had this morning with a new supplier in Copenhagen, Brenda’s almost insubordination after the meeting with Joanna Spinelli, and Vanessa’s pouts and sighs, he was ready for something different.

Unfortunately, he still had dinner with his mother to look forward to. And with the way his luck was running, she’d have a list of problems she expected him to solve.

Sometimes Marcus just wanted to throw in the towel. Pack a bag and take off for parts unknown.

But he wouldn’t do that, would he?

No, because unlike the women in his life, Marcus didn’t shirk his responsibilities. He’d accepted his path long ago, and he’d follow it to the bitter end. There were no deal breakers for him.

* * *

Although Joanna could hardly wait to give her notice, there was no way she was giving up her day off, so it was Friday morning before she could tell Chick the news.

“Hey, babe,” he said when he sauntered in at ten. Chick was not an early riser.

“I’m not your babe, Chick.” She tossed the empty container from her breakfast of blackberry yogurt into the trash can.

“Ah, come on.” He smiled down at her. “No hard feelings. We’re still friends, aren’t we?”

Joanna gave him a look. Friends. What was it with some guys? Did they think they could do anything and you’d still slobber over them? She’d be willing to bet he still believed she’d forget how he’d treated her and jump into the sack with him if he acted the way he wanted her to. “I don’t think we were ever friends,” she muttered.

He acted as if he hadn’t heard her and was already heading into his office.

“There’s an important letter sitting on your desk,” she called after him.

Less than two minutes later, he came stomping out, brandishing the letter, an expression of stunned astonishment on his face. “You’re quitting?”

She smiled sweetly, tamping down the urge to say, Can’t you read English? “Yes, I am.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m deadly serious.”

“Oh, come on, Joanna. I thought we were past all that.”

Joanna sighed. “Chick, this is not about you and me. It’s about me finally getting the chance to do what I’ve always wanted to do.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m going to be a full-time fashion designer from now on.”

“And you think you can support yourself doing that?”

Joanna had always known he didn’t take her aspirations seriously, and his attitude this morning proved it. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be just fine.” Earlier this morning she wasn’t sure if she would tell him about her upcoming show or not. Now she decided he didn’t deserve to know. Let him be shocked when he read about it in the paper or saw it covered on the local news. “Do you want me to call the employment agency or do you want to do it?”

He stared at her. “You’re really quitting.”

She nodded. “Afraid so.”

“Fine,” he sputtered, “but you can forget about this two-weeks bull. You can’t leave until we can find someone else and you can get her trained, no matter how long it takes.”

“I’m sorry, Chick, but that’s not the way it works. Two weeks’ notice is all I’m required to give you.” She almost felt sorry for him. But not sorry enough to give him any more of her precious time than she absolutely had to. After all, it wasn’t as if she needed a reference. She had no intention of ever working at anything but designing clothes again. Besides, knowing him, he would drag his feet forever without a reason not to.

“But that may not be enough time.” Now he sounded panicky. “What if I can’t find someone right away?”

“In that case, I guess you’ll just have to use a temp.”

“A temp? Are you crazy?”

Now it was her turn to stare at him.

Finally he said, “Okay. Okay. Call the agency. And be sure to tell them it’s urgent. Christ, this is the worst possible time of year for you to do this to me.”

Ignoring his grumbling, she said, “What shall I tell the agency about salary?”

He named a figure a good ten percent higher than he was currently paying her. She figured he did it just to piss her off. But she decided not to give him the satisfaction. “I’ll call them right now.”

Half an hour later, she was in the midst of relaying to Chick what the agency had had to say when her cell phone rang. Seeing Barlow International on the caller ID, she said, “Excuse me, Chick. I have to take this call.”

“Miss Spinelli?” the caller said. “This is Judith Holmes. I’m Mr. Barlow’s assistant. He asked me to tell you he has your contract ready and wondered if you could meet him at the gallery sometime this afternoon.”

“The only time I could come would be after work. But I quit at four on Fridays, so I could be there by five o’clock.” The gallery stayed open until six on weeknights.




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/patricia-kay/holiday-by-design/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.