Cosima
“No.”
“Listen to me, dear heart.” Jensen Brask tried to reason with me over the speakerphone as I stood in the bathroom preparing for a charity event that evening. “We need you. Clemence Bisset has dropped out because she had an anaphylactic attack! It’s not like I planned this, but you really are our only hope to keep this campaign on schedule. You cannot tell me you don’t care about St. Aubyn. I know after that Bulgari afterparty you resigned from your spokeswoman role because you ‘had your reasons,’” he said, slightly mockingly. “But this is one of the best fashion houses in the world, and it’s the one that gave birth to your stardom. You owe it to us to substitute for Clemence.”
I sighed so heavily, I blew my powder brush off the sink sill and onto the floor. After picking it up, I braced my hands on either side of the porcelain basin and looked into my tired yellow eyes.
There was really no way I could risk going back to England. Once in the past four years had been one time too many. I wasn’t foolish enough to think that I could survive another visit without drawing the all-seeing eye of the Order.
“Laying on the guilt trip a little thick there, Jen,” I accused him as I resumed carefully contouring my eyelids with dark brown and gold shadow. “You know I will always be grateful for what you and St. Aubyn did for my career, but I was serious when I said I would never work for the brand again.”
Alexander Davenport owned the fashion house. There was no way I was going to have anything to do with any aspect of that man or his business.
He’d made it clear to me I had no role in it either.
When I’d first discovered the connection, I thought he might have set the entire thing up with Willa and Sinclair, that my duo in shining armor had been sent from the lord of the manor.
But there was no way.
I’d been ridiculous to think he cared about me enough to ensure my safety and success even after I’d abandoned him.
Even hearing the name St. Aubyn made my stomach ache.
“No, Jensen, I’m sorry, but I just cannot.”
“What if I told you the shoot wasn’t in London proper? You’d fly in and a driver would pick you up directly to transfer you to Cornwall. We’re doing an indoor/outdoor shoot on the cliffs of the Jurassic Coast. The theme is very Heathcliff and Cathy.”
“Wouldn’t that mean the moors of the Peak District?” I asked, because I knew just how atmospheric those rolling hills of purple and red heather could be.
Pearl Manor was there, nestled in the landscape like the setting for every great British literary classic.
“The cliffs are more cinematic. Honestly, Cosi, I wouldn’t have called you if you were not my last resort. The shoot is in two days, and we’ll be going to hell in a handbasket if we can’t make this work for the next fall catalogue.” A long pause then he said, “Do I have to make Willa call you?”
I worried my bottom lip as my chest went to war with conflicting emotions. Jensen and Willa had been my mentors for so long. I didn’t need the additional guilt from Willa to know that I was beholden to them eternally for their generosity.
If lack of desire to return to the birthplace of so much of my misery was the only thing keeping me from accepting the contract, I would have caved in immediately. I didn’t like saying no to the people I loved. In fact, I abhorred it.
Still, this was my safety on the line, and that was something I had learned the hard way not to take for granted.
“I can’t. I’m sorry, Jen, I really am. If things were different, if it wasn’t in England, I would do it in a heartbeat. I hope you know that.”
He sighed heavily, but when he spoke there was a smile in his voice. “What if I told you Xavier Scott was doing the shoot?”
I squeezed my eyes shut. Xavier Scott was a household name, and as a photographer, that was saying something. He did everything from the royal family’s photos to Vanity Fair spreads and National Geographic covers. He was the man behind the lens.
And he had never, not once, consented to work with me.
He was that famous. He chose his own models.
“He wants me?” I breathed like a child being told they could meet Santa Claus for the first time.
Jensen chuckled like the cat who ate the canary, knowing I was locked in. “He did.”
“Cazzo,” I swore under my breath, then said, “Fine. I’ll be there, but Jensen? I want a flight at the latest possible time and the first one out of there when we wrap.”