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He sets his dossier down. “Name them.”
In my head, I hear the sneer ofgold digger. But the ruthless businessman in front of me doesn’t let the opinions of others bother him. I’ve seen him squeeze his suppliers or customers for every dime they’re worth. If he can do it, so can I.
“I want a hundred thousand dollars. Half of it upfront.”
The sharp cut of his jaw dips once in a nod. “Agreed.”
So I’d asked for too little, but even this amount feels like a dizzying sum. For Nadine’s art exhibit and my start-up.
“My second condition. There’s an art gallery I want you to patron.”
One eyebrow rises. “To patron?”
“Yes. Go to the Francis Hunt Gallery a couple of times,” I say, clearing my throat. “Attend an opening and buy a few paintings, invite some of your famous friends. Create some buzz, you know.”
He gives another nod. “Fine. Specify all of that in the contract and I’ll look it over. Is that all?”
“One more thing,” I say. “I want you to mentor me.”
* * *
Victor St. Clair stares at me. “You want me to do what?”
“Mentor me,” I repeat, hands tightening around the back of the chair. “When you're not at Exciteur, you run a successful venture capitalist firm. Well, I’d like to start my own company, and I want your advice.”
His lips turn down. “You want me to be a silent partner?”
“No. I don’t want you to invest.” Not when I know just how ruthless he can be. There’s no way St. Clair is coming close to owning a piece of my new business.
“You want my time,” he says.
This is going to be a hard sell. “Yes. I want you available once every week for the year we’re married, to ask you any questions I have about my business. I want your unbiased, professional assessments.”
“You want to start a business.”
“Yes.”
His eyes narrow. “Do you know anything about running a business? Anything at all?”
“I have a BA in business administration,” I say. “I worked at several firms before Exciteur, and I’ve seen how both you and Mr. Conway work up close. I’m ready for my own start-up.”
I have no idea if I’m ready.
But business is all about faking it till you make it.
St. Clair reaches up to adjust his tie and the tone of his voice is arctic. “You made it clear you wanted away from me, Miss Myers. Not to negotiate for more time with me. No. I’ll double the amount instead. Two hundred thousand and patronage of an art gallery.”
“No,” I say. Tasting blood and feeling ready to bolt.
He raises an eyebrow. “No?”
“No. We can make our question-and-answer sessions once every two weeks. But they’re happening, or you can find yourself another bride-for-hire.”
Our eyes lock, the ice-cold blue of his freezing. I want to run to the safety of the corridor outside his office, to my desk and my half-eaten breakfast sandwich and Mason’s kind eyes.
But I stay and I watch him the way he’s watching me. The way he’s taught me. “One two-hour session a month,” he says, jaw tense. “And two fifteen-minute shorts. You’re to schedule them with my new assistant.”
“All right.”
