Chapter 7 #2
“Stella, come on. Let’s discuss this,” I said, inhaling a strain of rose petals.
I brushed up against the silk of her blouse.
I was entirely too close to her, and I took a step back.
I put my hands in my pockets, stopping myself from pushing her hair off her face so I could see those eyes better.
“You can understand that the kind of properties I work on require a designer with a track record working at the cutting edge of design. I’m just trying to protect us both. ”
“Sounds to me like you want to have your cake and eat it, too. You asked me to name my terms.”
I needed to think fast. I wasn’t a man who liked being held at gunpoint but that was what Stella was doing. But the alternative was the bank blowing my brains out. I had to get to Henry. I’d do whatever it took. Maybe she could work alongside the designer I already had on board for the project.
“I know this isn’t an interview,” I said. “But humor me.” She held my gaze and didn’t flounce out, so I continued. “Say I agreed to have you work on the Mayfair project. What’s your vision?”
She sighed but began to speak. “I’d say you’re trying to appeal to wealthy people who have their main home in the country and just want a pied-à-terre or childless singles and couples.
And you’re selling to an international market—we’d have to consider that.
I think the style of your last development in Fitzrovia works well, but potential buyers are going to expect a little more luxury, more exclusivity with the same classic style.
I’d suggest we have each unit have something unique about it.
That’s not unusual in these high-end developments but most of them go modern—I suggest we go vintage.
We could use antique glass in the bedrooms, inset some reclaimed marble into one of the walls in the bathroom with glass shelving in front.
A theatre close to my office is being refurbished.
We could buy the stage off them, restore it, and use it as the floors in a master bedroom.
Or I can source light fixtures from stately homes.
We don’t want to overdo anything—just one or two things in each apartment that no one else has that has a history that we can use as part of the story of what’s so appealing about the flat. It’s beautiful. But it’s marketing.”
I liked her ideas. And she understood I was aiming to sell the apartments, not just make them look pretty.
I took a deep breath. She had me by the balls.
If I said no, I’d say goodbye to my best chance of getting the Dawnay building.
“I’ve got to have the right to pull you from the development if things aren’t working out.
” Maybe I could get her to take me to the wedding and then renegotiate—give her a one-off flat to design and then use my normal designer on the Mayfair project.
Worst-case scenario, I’d just have to gut the place after she was done.
She pulled out her folio case from where it was tucked under her arm and produced some paperwork. “You can fire me if I miss the deadlines set out in the project plan or if I overspend by more than seven percent. It’s set out there in clause ten.”
I flicked through the contract for services she’d handed me.
“It’s all standard stuff,” she said. “Just sign on the last page.”
Without a contract, I had options. If I signed, I was out of negotiating power. I had no choice other than to sign and worry about it later. “You better be good,” I said, pulling my pen from my inside pocket and leaning the contract on the back of the door.
“I’m better than good. Oh, and just one more thing.”
I dotted the “i” in Wilde and glanced up, waiting to hear what she was going to say—she probably wanted input on layouts or a profit share.
“You have to pretend you’re my boyfriend—serious-about-to-propose-completely-in love-with-me boyfriend.”
I grinned. Was she asking me on a date? “At the wedding?” I asked.
“Yes, at the engagement party and while we’re in Scotland and any other event that comes up.”
I leaned against the door and took her in. “How many events are there?”
Again, her gaze flitted from my shoulder to the dome of St Paul’s cathedral behind me. “I don’t know. There’s the wedding and engagement party as far as I know.”
This must be her way of asking me out. “If you want to make this a real date, you just had to say. You’re an attractive woman, and—”
She sighed. “Don’t be an arsehole. I don’t need a boyfriend.
I just need to look like I have a boyfriend.
” She snatched the signed contract from me and stuffed it into her bag.
“It’s strictly a business deal. Just like this.
” She waved the paperwork in front of me.
“I just need it to be believable. That’s all. ”
It was obviously important to her, but I didn’t get it. “So you want us to pretend when we’re in public but not when we’re alone?”
She tipped her head to the side. “I’m not asking you to be my gigolo, Beck.
Everything would be for show.” She rolled her eyes as if I was just the stupidest man she’d ever met.
Stella London was a new experience for me.
I was used to women flirting. Smiling. Playing with their hair when they spoke to me—not being exasperated like I was an annoying little brother.
“But why?” I got the feeling I was an extra in a daytime soap and hadn’t received all the script.
“Does it matter? It’s part of my terms. Agree or don’t go. It’s as simple as that.”
I wasn’t complaining. It was weird but not a deal-breaker. I just was curious about why she’d make it a condition. “Okay. I’ll make-believe to be your boyfriend.” I wasn’t much of a real boyfriend, but who knew, maybe if I faked it, I’d be better at my next relationship.
“Then you’ve got a deal. Engagement party’s this Saturday.” She turned toward the door. “Pick me up at seven.” Stella headed out of my office.
“Hang on, I need your address. And your number.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You tracked me down at my favorite bar, after all.” The door slammed shut on me feeling like I might be on the losing end of this deal.
This woman was going to give me a run for my money. But, for ten million quid, my future business and the chance to right the wrongs of my past, I’d put up with it.