She was indeed; she could have been a supermodel or a Latino movie star. Thick black hair cascaded down her back and her eyes were the colour of Cognac. Roger had some experience with hookers – he’d had a regular girl in his thirties before he’d met Rebecca – but Roger felt a crushing sense of guilt as the luscious brunette sat close to him, the
curve of her breast like a ripe peach spilling over her low-scooped dress. But his sex life with Rebecca had slowed of late and as Fernandez put her hand at the top of his thigh, he felt himself grow hard immediately.
‘I’m going upstairs,’ said Fernandez seductively. ‘Come up when you’re ready.’
Roger glanced at Ricardo.
‘We travel to Bahia tomorrow and look over the business plan. In the meantime I want you to have some fun.’
Roger pushed away his thoughts of Rebecca. After all, it was rude to refuse – it might even damage the deal. He stood up and headed towards the stairs, a small smile on his face.
40
Dressed in nothing but a cream silk Sabbia Rose dressing-robe that skimmed over every curve, Cassandra watched Max pour two glasses of wine, determined to make every minute of his flying visit to her apartment count. It was 9 p.m. on a Monday night and he’d already told her he couldn’t stay much after midnight without Laura asking questions. Padding across the spacious living room she pressed a remote control so that the open fire set into the wall roared to life, feeling its warmth through her gown. She rarely drank alcohol at home but she was grateful for the Chablis that Max handed her. The last two months had been hectic. Not only had there been the Georgia Kennedy shoot to organize, she’d been busy planning her empire. Her latest project was researching the feasibility of a Cassandra perfume, for which she had visited a perfume manufacturer in Paris and flown out to visit their factory in Grasse, all of which had been written off as researching brand extensions for Rive. Max had taken off his shoes and tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. He picked up a black leather portfolio on the glass coffee table and flicked through. Inside were a dozen mocked-up covers for Cassandra’s magazine, Grand.
‘Just a few ideas I’ve been throwing around with an art director friend.’
She didn’t need Max to tell her they were good. They were fabulous in every sense: classy, intelligent and commercial all at the same time. Cassandra was more excited about the prospect of having her own magazine than anything else in years. Except perhaps the prospect of getting Max all to herself.
‘Speaking of work, come here,’ said Max, fetching his briefcase and taking a document from it.
‘What’s that?’ asked Cassandra, curious.
‘A proposition for you.’
‘Really?’
He strode over to her by the fire and Cassandra thought how glorious he looked in its glow: powerful thighs under fitted Brioni trousers, light casting shadows on his face so that he looked mysterious, almost feral.
‘We’ve been tracking a medium-sized French holding company with a view to acquiring it,’ he said.
Cassandra’s interest began to wane.
‘Darling, you’re a partner in a private equity company. Isn’t that what you do every day?’ she sighed.
‘This company is largely involved in the paper and timber industries; those are the divisions of the group we really want, but they have other interests – a tyre company, an insurance brokerage – things we’ll probably sell on if we buy the holding group.’
Cassandra took a sip of wine to hide her yawn.
‘Why are you telling me this? A share tip-off? Because being CEO of a tyre company isn’t exactly what I had in mind.’
‘The company has a textile division which contains a little jewel,’ continued Max, his dark eyes boring into her. ‘Clochiers. What do you know about it?’
Cassandra’s eyes opened wide.
‘Clochiers? Of course. They were a 1930s couture house, smaller, less influential than Schiaperelli or Madame Vionnet, but well known for their beautiful day dresses. Maria Clochiers died young before the label could ever really take off, but fashion historians believe that had she lived she could have been as big as Coco Chanel.’
Max grinned, swilling the Chablis round in the bottom of his glass.
‘That’s what my analysts told me too,’ he smiled. ‘I think you could do something special with Clochiers.’
‘Me?’
She immediately thought of discussing it with Giles. He was an expert on French design houses of the 1920s and 1930s and would know all there was to know about Clochiers. Max nodded.
‘It’s still a working company, but clearly off fashion’s radar, manufacturing small-scale evening wear – scarves and the like – to an aging client base. In the right hands I think it could be brought back to life.’
Cassandra was practically salivating. Clochiers! Her mind raced ahead, thinking of the things she could do with a brand of this heritage, of this class. Who needs Milford?