Chapter 2
BERNADETTE
The moment I stepped into Blackwell Couture’s gorgeous lobby, I knew I was walking into unfamiliar territory. I took a deep breath and casually glanced down at my navy pantsuit. It wasn’t high fashion, it was Ralph Lauren, and I felt like I was walking down Fifth Avenue in a paper bag.
I was thirty minutes early. Always early. Never late. That was a rule my father enforced.
I glanced around the lobby with massive posters of beautiful people in Blackwell Couture.
Damn. The dude with perfectly mussed dark hair and arctic blue eyes wearing nothing but a pair of linen pants on a beach was staring directly at me.
Holy shit.
He was beautiful. All tanned skin and defined muscles.
Man what I would do to him if I ever met him in a dark room.
Naughty things. All the naughty things. I pulled my eyes away from the poster and focused on the reception desk. I crossed the wide expanse with my Louboutin’s clacking against the hard floor. I loved the extra three inches my heels gave me. It put me right up to average height.
“Bernadette Simmons,” I announced. “Ten o’clock with Sebastian Blackwell.”
The woman quickly tapped on her keyboard and flashed a perfectly white smile. “Have a seat.”
I sat and noticed the man with the eyes was prominently featured in many of the posters around the lobby. I could see why. I would buy whatever he was selling.
But I was well aware men like that were not swimming in the ponds I got to fish in. My father’s company did okay and I wasn’t hurting for money, but I wasn’t uber wealthy. And I was definitely not model material. The women draped over my sexy blue-eyed man were all legs and boobs.
I had none of their charms. And when I told people what my job was, the cringe was real.
Most people heard “insurance” and their eyes glazed over like I’d just announced I specialized in watching paint dry. But specialty insurance wasn’t like that at all. We didn’t deal with car accidents or health claims. We dealt with the bizarre, the valuable, and the irreplaceable.
It was exciting. I got to see things most people didn’t.
Last month, we’d insured a champion racing pigeon for a million dollars. The owner had explained the bird’s pedigree and racing record like he was talking about a thoroughbred racehorse.
Before that, there was the famous comedian who’d taken out a policy in case he “lost his sense of humor,” which was essentially disability insurance.
And then there were the cold-feet policies for wealthy couples, protecting six-figure wedding investments in case one of them decided to bail at the last minute.
Even super rich people didn’t want to get stuck with a twenty-thousand-dollar wedding gown that would never be worn or a caterer that refused refunds.
It was weird. It was complicated. It was full of contingencies that most people’s brains would never consider in a million years. And I loved every minute of it.
The Blackwell Couture account had the potential to be a disaster, which was why my dad wanted me on the job. It was all going to be very hands on.
The policy itself was massive, including multi-million-dollar coverage for a destination fashion campaign on some pristine island in the South Pacific.
The Miratoan government had been incredibly hesitant to allow such a large production on their environmentally protected archipelago.
According to my research, it had taken months of negotiation and a substantial donation to their environmental agencies just to get permission.
The whole thing was fragile and our insurance policy protected both sides.
If the Blackwells violated the terms of their agreement with Miratoa or if there was an environmental incident, the entire production could be shut down.
The live runway show at the end, which was supposed to be streamed globally and attract international press, would be cancelled. Blackwell Couture would lose millions.
And that’s where my father’s company came in.
Dad decided to send me along to the island to oversee the entire two-week shoot.
It wasn’t standard operating procedure. Usually we just reviewed documentation and trusted our clients to follow the rules.
But this situation was too delicate to wait and see.
I had to be there to rein in any behavior that could cost us a pretty penny.
“Make sure those Blackwells don’t screw this up,” Dad had told me. “Watch them like a hawk. If they think the rules don’t apply to them, set them straight.”
Oh boy, did I intend to. I would make sure the production operated safely and that no damage was done to any people or to the delicate ecosystem on the island. My eyes drifted back to the man staring me down from some beach location.
Sebastian Blackwell. He would be in charge of the production our policy was insuring. He was the man I would be chasing around the island with the equivalent of a yardstick. If he stepped out of line, I’d whack his knuckles.
Every photo I’d found of him online was a black mark against his character.
He was always surrounded by models, actresses, and socialites that did nothing except be rich and beautiful.
Hoochies, if I was being totally honest and just a little bitchy.
I didn’t know them, but did I have to meet them to know they were all after one thing from him?
Sebastian was always holding a drink, always grinning that megawatt smile and looking like he was having the time of his life at whatever exclusive club or party or yacht he’d landed on.
He did not look like a serious man. And I had very little patience for unserious men.
My eyes drifted back to Sebastian wearing a tailored tuxedo with a gorgeous blonde casually draped on him.
His modeling pictures didn’t look all that different from the candid shots I had seen on the internet.
Either that was really him and he didn’t have to fake it for the modeling, or he was always faking it.
“Ms. Simmons?”
My focus bounced back to where a woman was standing not three feet in front of me. I had been caught up in my own thoughts. “Yes?”
“Right this way, please. Mr. Blackwell is just finishing up a call.”
She led me down a hallway lined with more framed photos of magazine covers featuring Blackwell designs.
More photos of Sebastian with those razor-sharp cheekbones, a jaw cut from granite, and those smoldering blue eyes.
I forced myself not to look too closely.
The man was extremely attractive. That was just biology.
It didn’t mean anything. So what if he won the gene-pool lottery?
Looks were not everything.
The conference room she showed me into was all glass walls and a massive table that could have seated twenty people. It seemed a bit much for just the two of us. Did he think he needed to impress me? Or was this intimidation?
Silly boy, he was going to learn it took a lot more than a big table to impress me.
“They’ll be with you shortly,” the assistant said. “Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
They. So they were going to try and gang up on me.
Bring it.
Once she left, I got to work. I pulled out my files and binders from my Kate Spade leather briefcase.
I arranged them on the table in front of where I’d be sitting.
The main binder with the comprehensive safety protocols and checklists.
The folder with the Miratoan government’s environmental requirements.
The documentation folder with every piece of paperwork Blackwell had submitted so far.
The binder filled with far-fetched but possible scenarios, like what happened if there was a tsunami or one of the unfriendly island inhabitants like a sea snake or centipede decided to attack.
Each talking point for our meeting had been noted with a color-coded sticky tab.
I ran my fingers over the binders and folders and straightened them so they were perfectly parallel. Perfectly straight. While the minutes ticked by, I reviewed my notes and breathed in the rich scent of the freshly brewed pot of coffee on the bar at the front of the room.
I was about to go pour myself a cup when the door opened.
Two men walked in, and I recognized them both immediately from my research. Briggs Blackwell, in an impeccably tailored suit, had the calm, assessing look of an attorney who’d seen everything. And Sebastian Blackwell, who also wore a suit but managed to look less buttoned up and more… troublesome.
He was taller than I’d expected. Beefier. And those blue eyes were even more distracting in person, which was deeply annoying, especially when he stared right at me and didn’t look away. His lips softened in an almost-smile, and for a moment, I couldn’t take my eyes off the way his lower lip—
“Ms. Simmons,” Briggs said, extending his hand with a professional smile. “Thank you for coming in. I’m Briggs Blackwell, and this is my brother Sebastian.”
I cleared my throat and stood up abruptly. My thighs hit the table and I let out a little yelp before clasping Briggs’s hand. “Nice to meet you both.”
“You alright?” Briggs asked.
“Fine.” I reached for Sebastian’s hand next, and he clasped my fingers in his own. His grip was firm, warm, and steady, just like his stare. I licked my lips and pulled my hand free. I sat back down and gestured to the chairs across from me. “Shall we begin?”
Briggs took a seat but immediately leaned back. “This is Sebastian’s show,” he said. “He’ll be running the production on Miratoa, so I’ll let him take the lead here.”
Sebastian nodded. “Let me begin by assuring you that most of the shots will be totally safe. Standard beach stuff, models in the dresses and swimsuits, very straightforward. But if I go with the paragliding stuff—and I’m really leaning toward it because the aerial shots would be incredible—you can coordinate with the speedboat captain on the safety measures. ”
I beg your finest pardon?
Surely Sebastian Blackwell had not just said what I thought he said.
“I’m sorry,” I interrupted, pulling my documentation folder closer. “The preliminary shot list you submitted made no mention of paragliding or speedboats.”
He blinked at me. “Well, yeah, that’s because I just thought of it. This is a fluid situation. Creativity strikes when it strikes.”
“Not if you want insurance coverage it doesn’t,” I said firmly.
His jaw tightened, and it made him look even more like the version of him on the posters in the lobby, but that easy smile quickly returned.
“Right. Okay. I get it. Rules and regulations and all that.” He leaned forward conspiratorially.
“Let me guess—you’re also going to tell me I can’t bring in the tigers? ”
“If you mean the animals?” I asked flatly. “No. But if you mean the baseball team? Also no.”
Briggs snorted and Sebastian shot him a prickly glare before taking a slow, methodical sip of his coffee. Sebastian reached into the folder he’d brought with him and pulled out a single sheet of paper, sliding it across the table toward me.
“I actually anticipated this,” he said. He looked so pleased with himself.
“I worked on this last night. It’s a list of additional safety measures I’ll be implementing for any new ideas I have.
It should cover all the bases. I apologize if it clashes with your…
” He trailed off and looked at my color-coded binders. “Whatever this is.”
He sat back and folded his arms across his chest, looking at me like he’d just checkmated a grandmaster.
I glanced down at the paper. The scrawled handwriting made a doctor’s chicken scratch look legible. Bless his heart.
Without a word, I reached for my main binder—all ninety pages of it, meticulously compiled over the past week—and slid it across the table to him. “Now here’s the safety protocols I’ve been working on.”
His eyes widened as he looked at it. Then he looked at me. Then back at the binder.
“You expect me to read that?” His voice had gone up slightly.
I nodded coolly. “Assuming you can read, yes.”
Briggs made no attempt to hide his laugh this time, a sharp bark of amusement that echoed in the conference room. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”
Sebastian’s mouth opened and closed a few times. He flipped open the binder, scanned the table of contents, flipped through a few pages of dense text and checklists, then looked back up at me like I’d just asked him to translate ancient Greek.
“This is a lot,” he said, frowning.
“That’s correct,” I said crisply.
“I’m just trying to take a few pictures,” he protested, and he actually looked wounded. “Beautiful, creative, inspiring art.”
“And I’m trying to make sure no one dies, gets sued, or triggers an international incident while you do it.”
We stared at each other across the table.
His blue eyes had lost some of that playful sparkle and now were assessing me like an opponent stepping into the boxing ring.
I met his gaze without flinching. I’d dealt with powerful men who didn’t like being told no before.
I’d dealt with clients who thought rules were suggestions.
I’d dealt with people who assumed that because I looked young, or because I was a woman, or because I was petite, I could be pushed around.
They all learned eventually, but sometimes, they needed a bit more time to process the fact that I was going to be right there every time they tried to break a rule.
Sebastian looked away from me, down at the binder again, then back up. Finally, he started reading, and I sipped my coffee.
That lasted a whole four minutes.
“Can I at least get this in audiobook format?” he asked.
Briggs rolled his eyes.
I stood, and both men rose with me. Briggs shook my hand again. “Thank you for your thoroughness, Ms. Simmons. It’s appreciated.”
“Just doing my job.”
Sebastian extended his hand as well, and I took it briefly. “Looking forward to working with you,” he said, and something in his tone made it sound almost like a challenge.
“Likewise,” I lied.
I left the conference room and made my way back to the elevator. Sebastian Blackwell was going to be exactly the pain in the ass I’d expected.
But he’d learn.
I was Bernadette Simmons. I was prepared for anything.
Even Sebastian Blackwell.