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He looked down at her hand, the glint of sapphire and diamonds against creamy white skin. "What do you want me to do?"
"First, keep this between us for now."
He turned his hand over, linked his fingers with hers. "All right. What else?"
"If you could help me figure out how and where to sell what I have to sell. How to get the best price. I haven't managed my money well. Hell, I haven't done such a hot job with my life either, but I'm going to start now. I don't want to get fleeced because I'm not sure what something's worth, or because I'm in too much of a hurry."
He picked up his wine with his free hand, considered. Not just what she was asking, but what it meant, and what could be done. "I can help you, if you're sure it's what you want."
"I'm sure."
"You've got a couple of choices, as I see it. You can get an agent." Keeping his eyes on hers, he topped off their wine. "I know an outfit here in Milan that's very trustworthy. They'll come in, appraise what you've selected, give you around forty percent."
"Forty? But that's terrible."
"It's actually a bit on the high side, but we do a lot of business with them and you'd probably get it."
Grimly, she set her teeth. "What are my other choices?"
"You could try one of the auction houses. You could go with an appraiser and then contact some of the antique or collectible shops and see what you'd get there." He leaned closer, watching her face. "But, if you ask me, you should sell yourself."
"Excuse me?"
"Margo Sullivan can sell anything. What else have you been doing for the last ten years but hawking someone else's products? Sell yourself, Margo."
Baffled, she sat back. "Excuse me. Aren't you the one who just finished rapping my knuckles for mentioning doing just that?"
"Not your picture. You. Open a shop, stock it with your own possessions. Advertise it. Flaunt it."
"Open a shop?" Her laugh bubbled out as she reached for her glass. "I can't open a shop."
"Why not?"
"Because I… I don't know why," she murmured and deliberately pushed her glass aside. "I've had too much wine if I don't know why."
"Your flat's already a small-scale department store."
"There are dozens of reasons why it wouldn't work." Her head spun just thinking about it. "I don't know anything about running a business, keeping books."
"Learn," he said simply.
"There's taxes, and fees. Licenses. Rent, for Christ's sake." Flummoxed, she began to run her fingers up and down the jeweled chain she wore. "I'm trying to eliminate bills, not make more of them. I'd need money."
"An investor, someone who would be willing to pump in the startup money."
"Who'd be stupid enough to do that?"
He lifted his glass. "I would."
Chapter Seven
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She spent most of the night picking the idea apart, tossing in bed and reciting all the sane objections she should have thought of in the first place.
It was a ridiculous notion. Reckless and foolish. And it had come along just when she was trying so hard to stop being ridiculous and reckless and foolish.
When tossing in bed frustrated her enough, she rose to pace in the dark. Obviously Josh knew little more about business than she did, or he would never have suggested such a preposterous plan.
