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The jeweler, being a woman, had been more of a challenge.
Margo had selected two of her best and most expensive pieces, and after sizing up her opponent as a clever, hardheaded, unsentimental businesswoman, she had adopted the same pose.
It had been, she thought, mano a mano, female style. They'd negotiated, argued, scorned each other's offers, insulted one another, then come to terms each of them could live with.
Now, adding the take from her furs, she had enough ready cash to hold her more impatient creditors off for a few weeks.
With the breathing room, she buckled down and completed a tentative cataloging of her possessions, and began to pack them up, knowing the sooner she thought of them as inventory, the easier it would be. No longer were they her personal possessions. Now they were business assets.
Each morning she studied the paper for available space to rent. The prices made her wince and worry and eventually concede that she wouldn't be able to afford a prime location. Nor would she be able to advertise by conventional means if she wanted her money to last. Which left her a second-rate location that she would have to make work, and unconventional means.
Comfortable in leggings and a T-shirt, she stretched out in a chair and surveyed her living space. Tables had been ruthlessly cleared off. A good many of them were stacked alongside packing boxes and crates. Her paintings remained on the walls. A symbol, she thought, of what she was risking in so many areas of her life just now.
She'd gone to work elsewhere in the flat as well. Her wardrobe had been cut down to a quarter of its original size. The other seventy-five percent was carefully packed away. She'd been merciless in her selections, with an eye to her new lifestyle rather than sentiment. Not that she intended to dress down as a merchant. She would dress as she would run her business. With flair and style and bold pride.
With luck, one of the three locations she had arranged to view that afternoon would be just the one she was looking for. She was anxious to begin before the press got a firm hold on her situation. There were already dribbles in the papers about La Margo selling her jewelry to pay her mounting debts. She'd taken to sneaking out of the service entrance to avoid the reporters and paparazzi who so often ambushed her outside the building.
She'd begun to wonder if she should just give up the flat after all. Kate had been right—trying to keep it was whittling her already meager resources to nothing. If she found a good location for the shop, she could simply move in there. Temporarily.
At least, she thought with a laugh, that way she would have her things around her.
She wished she had Josh to play the idea off of. But he was in Paris. No, she remembered, by now it was Berlin, and after that Stockholm. There was no telling when she would hear from him again, much less see him.
The few days they'd spent together in Milan, that jarring and exciting morning in his suite, were more like a dream now than a memory. She might have wondered if she'd actually ached when he'd kissed her, but whenever she thought of it, she ached again.
He was probably nibbling some Fraulein's ear right now, Margo thought and kicked at the corner of the sofa as she rose. He'd never be able to keep those clever hands of his off a willing female. The jerk.
At least she was going to get a car out of the whole mess. If nothing else, Josh Templeton was a man of his word.
She didn't have time to think about him—swilling beer and tickling some statuesque German goddess. She had to change for her appointments, adopt the appropriate image. As she dressed she practiced the technique she would employ with the realtor. Picky, she mused, braiding her hair. No enthusiasm.
"Questa camera…" A dismissive look, a gesture of the hand. "Piccola." Or, it would be too large to suit her needs. She would make unhappy noises as she wandered around and let the realtor try to convince her. Of course, she would remain unconvinced. She would say the rent was absurd. She would ask to see something else, say she had another appointment in an hour.
She stepped back, studied herself. Yes, the black suit was businesslike but had the flair the Italian eye recognized and appreciated. The smooth French braid was feminine, flattering but not fussy, and the oversized Bandalino bag was tailored like a briefcase.
Odds were, her opponent—and she thought of everyone on the other side of her business deals as opponents now—would have recognized her name. He would certainly recognize her face. So much the better. In all likelihood he'd assume he was meeting a flighty, empty-headed bimbo. And that would give her not only the advantage but the sizzling satisfaction of proving him wrong.
Drawing a long breath, she stared at herself. Margo Sullivan was not a bimbo, she insisted to the reflection. Margo Sullivan was a businesswoman, with brains, ambition, plans, goals, and determination. Margo Sullivan was not a loser. She was a survivor.
She closed her eyes for a moment, struggling to absorb the self-administered pep talk, needing to believe it. Doesn't matter, she thought with an inner quaver, as long as I can make everyone else believe it.
Damned if she wouldn't.
The phone was ringing as she shouldered her bag and headed out. "Just leave your name and a brief message," she told the insistent two-toned bell, "and I won't get back to you."
It was Kate's impatient voice that stopped her.
"Damn it all to hell and back, Margo. Are you ever going to answer this thing? I know you're there. I know you're standing right there sneering at the phone. Pick it up,
will you? It's important."
"It's always important," Margo muttered and kept right on sneering.
"Goddamn it, Margo. It's about Laura."
Margo pounced on the phone, jerking the receiver to her ear. "Is she hurt? What's wrong? Was there an accident?"
"No, she's not hurt. Take off your earring, it's clinking on the phone."
