Chapter 2 #2
Cassandra was a brilliant businesswoman.
A couple of years older than me, with hair the colour of honey, an incisive mind and a body that made everyone stand to attention as she passed by.
I was fascinated by her, almost immediately, when she joined our management team.
Things happened quickly between us and I took steps, I thought, to protect myself and the company, taking myself out of her chain of command, detailing everything with HR, all the while falling for her.
We moved in together, and I was ready to propose.
Until I found out she was sleeping with a competitor, and feeding him company secrets.
A fucking double knife to the heart. I went into damage control, moving everything out of our house, locking down the company and terminating her employment with immediate effect.
My lawyers urged me to sue, but I didn’t want to do that to her, preferring to take the high road.
Then she’d sued me, threatening to expose intimate photos and video she’d taken without my knowledge, unless I paid out her contract.
I paid it out. Then I let everyone know what she’d tried to do to my business.
I threw myself into work, limiting my relationships to casual flings, more to satisfy an urge than anything else.
The company grew exponentially. And I grew very good at keeping myself apart.
Yet, as Zara leans over the large glass table in my office, her slender fingers moving pieces of paper around, it’s all I can do not to stand close behind her, breathing her in. Her perfume tantalises my nostrils, pale afternoon light catching the sheen of her hair. I’m utterly drawn in by her.
“What do you think?” The words come out rough, and I clear my throat.
She turns to me, a questioning look in her eyes. She’s still slightly bent over and the movement causes her shirt to shift, a gap opening up between the buttons. I glimpse a curve of soft breast, a hint of lace. Christ. This is going to undo me in a moment.
“About the photos?”
“And the clothes. All of it.”
She blinks, the slender line of her throat moving as she goes back to the images on the table.
They’re sample photographs for our latest line of Ocean’s Curl clothing, dresses made using fabrics printed by female artisans in India.
A few of the shots feature Sarah Peterson, one of our Sand Stars.
She’s dancing, twirling, her arms in the air, the dresses swirling around her.
They’re beautiful images, but I’m not sure.
I need a second opinion, and my gut is telling me to ask Zara.
I haven’t got where I am without following my instincts but, as she leans forward again, I wonder whether it’s my gut or my dick that’s guiding me in this instance.
“Um.” Zara has her bottom lip between her teeth and I watch, mesmerised, as she worries the soft pink flesh. She glances at me, her brown eyes wide.
“Say it.” The words come out curt, more than I mean to. I soften my tone. “Be honest.”
She nods, once, then straightens up. Her hands twist together in front of her. “Okay, so, the dresses look nice.”
“Nice?”
A little crease appears between her brows. “The thing is…” She points at one of the dresses. “This one. It has ribbon ties at the wrists and, well, I know they’d be super irritating to wear, as well as difficult to fasten.”
“Go on.”
“And this one. It’s pretty, but it makes Sarah look… bulky.” She glances at me again. “If she doesn’t look good in it, what hope do the rest of us have?”
“Anything else?”
She pauses. “Do any of them have pockets?”
“Pockets?”
Pink blooms in her cheeks. “Yes. Women like pockets in their dresses.”
“They do?” I grin, unable to help it.
She smiles back, a flash of light, then turns back to the photographs. Her cheeks are still pink. “Pockets,” she says again. “And maybe some of these could be longer? Not everyone wears miniskirts.”
Unable to resist, I move to stand next to her. She’s absolutely right, I realise, as I look at the images. “Which ones should be longer?”
“This one.” Her hand trembles slightly as she touches one of the photographs.
“And… this one.” She’s chosen the two styles I also think should be longer.
“I love this one, though.” She points to a knee-length wrap dress in soft printed silk, with a flowing skirt and loose sleeves gathered at the wrists.
She would look amazing in it. Especially with nothing underneath.
“Very good,” I say.
I don’t think I imagine her swift intake of breath. I know I’m not imagining the stiffness in my groin. But she’s back to her cool self in a moment, straightening up and moving away from me as though she can feel how close I am to reaching out and having my way with her.
“Really?” Her voice shakes a little.
“Yes. You’ve confirmed my own thoughts. And I’ll consider the pockets, too.”
I’ve always run my company like this. Always taken time to manage the small details, the things that make a difference.
It’s why I’m going to Morocco. The African country is emerging as a top surf destination, eager to encourage investment along their wild ocean coast. And their artisans create beautiful fabrics, which I’d like to use in some new designs for the clothing line.
I could send someone else, but then I wouldn’t have my hand on it, and I believe in doing things once and doing them correctly, when I can.
It’s why we stand out from our competitors.
I hire talented people to work for me, and I give them the autonomy to make things happen.
But I also like to know that things are still meeting my own standards.
That hasn’t changed since the early days, working out of my dad’s garage in Torquay.
He’s the one who loaned me the money to start the business.
Mum had just died and we were both looking for ways to keep busy, to keep the pain at bay.
I’ve paid him back, a hundredfold, but it never seems to be enough.
The bond between us is twisted, the love stretched thin, yet it still has a hold on me, despite all the damage over the years.
I feel his shadow with every deal I make, every time I go the extra mile to make sure things are how I want them to be.
Every broken relationship, every time I push someone away, there he is.
“If that’s all you need, can I go over a couple of things with you about your upcoming trips?”
I blink, looking up. Zara, calm and collected once more, is standing by my desk.
“Fine.” I stay where I am as she starts going over the details, my gaze drifting to the photo of the dress on the table, the one she said she liked. I imagine her wearing it, walking along a beach. Shrugging out of it, the fabric sliding on her smooth skin.
Damn. I need to pull myself together.