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
