Fortune (25 page)

“You know how I found her? That nobody you were talking about earlier, the PR guy. Chance McCord. Found his name in those personal files of yours.”

He laughed with delight, the sound high and youthful. “I'll let you in on a little secret.” He leaned down, close to his father's ear and whispered, “Madeline wasn't crazy. You were blind. Just like she said.”

A sound escaped his father's lips, part agony and part fear. For his father had realized that his time had finally come. And only hell awaited.

“Unfortunately, you'll be gone. You won't be able to tell my little secret or become reacquainted with your long lost daughter. Such a shame.” He laughed again, all but giggling with delight. “But don't worry, I've taken care of everything. Within a month, she'll be calling Monarch's home.”

Griffen curled his lip, hatred welling inside him. “Aren't you even going to congratulate me? Are you just going to lie there, clutching your chest and gasping for air? You always were such a selfish bastard. Never could say, ‘Job well done, son.'”

Griffen leaned toward his father, then drew back, the smell of death wretched on the other man. “You want to hear the best part? The very best? She has no memory of us. No memory of her distant past. She suffers from repressed memory syndrome. Isn't that a hoot?”

Griffen tipped his head heavenward for a moment, then focused on his father once more. “I always knew she and I would be together again. And now I know how. We'll be husband and wife, Dad. Isn't that perfect? Mr. and Mrs. Griffen Monarch.”

For one moment, the fear and pain twisting his father's features was replaced by pure horror.

And then he was gone.

S
kye couldn't believe her luck. The call from Griffen Monarch had come out of the blue. The powers that be at Monarch's Design and Retail had seen her work in the MOMA exhibit and had been impressed. They were looking for a new designer, Griffen Monarch had said, and they would like to see her portfolio.

After sending it, she had waited two and a half nerve-wracking, nail-biting weeks for word on what they thought. It had gotten so bad that she had leaped every time the phone rang. By the end, she had decided she would even welcome bad news, just so long as she could stop wondering.

During that time, she had told herself all the things a levelheaded person would—not to get her hopes up; that she was an unknown; that they were undoubtedly looking at other artists, ones with a reputation, with experience, with something to bring to the party besides ambition and determination. It had been an honor, she had told herself, a thrill, just to have her portfolio requested by an atelier as old and as acclaimed as Monarch's.

Even as she had told herself all those sane, smart things, she had wished and prayed and agonized. She wanted the job so badly she had been able to taste it.

Then, her wildest dreams had become a reality. Griffen Monarch had called again, this time to arrange for a personal interview. Two days later, here she was in Chicago, being whisked down Michigan Avenue in a pure white limousine that was nearly as big as her living room.

The car had been a surprise. She had scraped together all the money she could, expecting to take a cab to and from the airport. Instead, a uniformed driver had been waiting at her gate, holding a placard with her name printed across it.

Skye ran her hand along the buttery-soft leather seat. Being in this car made her feel like a celebrity. Like royalty. Smiling, she leaned her head against the seat back. She could get used to this. Oh, yes. No problem at all.

Her lips lifted. She supposed she needed a reality check about now, something like—
Don't get your hopes up, Skye. Starving artists did not suddenly turn into princesses. Not ever. Period.

“Almost there, miss.” The driver met her eyes in the rearview mirror. “That's the old water tower on your right. That and the building across from it, the old pumping station, were nearly the only buildings left standing after the great Chicago fire. Watertower Place is there, on the left. Lots of fine shopping, if you're interested. Great food court, too. Like nothing you've ever seen.”

“Thanks.” Skye smiled. “But I won't be shopping. It's a quick business trip.”

He nodded and returned his attention to the traffic, which had slowed to a near crawl.

Skye took a deep breath, realizing that she hadn't in quite some time. She shook her head, amused. Kind of hard to breathe, with ambition burning in the pit of her gut the way it was. She needed to relax, to enjoy this and to accept that becoming the acclaimed designer she longed to be would take time. Despite the anxiousness clawing at her, she was willing to wait, to pay her dues.

It would happen, she thought fiercely. She would get the job that would give her her start. She knew she would.

If not this time, the next. Or the time after that.

Skye took another deep breath and lowered her eyes to her lap, to the envelope she clutched in her hands. If nothing else, Griffen Monarch's call had given her a piece of her past. She took the letter from the envelope and carefully smoothed it. At the left of the envelope the Monarch's logo stood out boldly in relief.

An ornate, curvy “M.”

Her “M.”

Skye's heart began to thrum. She trailed her index finger over the embossed “M,” excitement squeezing at her. When she had opened the letter and seen the logo, she had been stunned dumb. She had stared at it, her entire life, for that split second, coming into focus. Others, the outside world, had ceased to exist. Her universe had consisted of that logo and the unfathomable blackness of her past.

Then she had gotten a grip on herself. She had taken out one of her old drawings and compared the two “M”s. They were nearly identical.
Nearly.

So what, she had asked herself, did it mean? The answer had been painfully obvious—exactly nothing. The two “M”s could be totally unrelated. They probably were. And she was indulging in speculation and fantasies that could hurt her chances of getting this job.

Skye frowned, the beginning of a headache pushing at her temples. She hadn't told Griffen Monarch about recognizing his company's logo from the hundreds of times she had drawn it as a child, of course. He would have thought she was some sort of a nut. A real head case. She would have been able to kiss this interview—and any hopes of a job offer, present or future—goodbye.

No, she hadn't said anything about the “M,” and she wouldn't. Not ever. She stuffed the letter back into the envelope, then the envelope into her purse. The time had come to put all that nonsense behind her, anyway; she needed to let go of the past and embrace her future. Starting now.

The driver eased the vehicle to a stop. “Here we are, miss.”

Heart in her throat, Skye peeked out the window at the store's magnificent limestone facade. It was just as beautiful as she had dreamed it would be, she thought. Even more.

She moved her gaze up, taking in the winged Nike, then beyond, to the upper floors where the design department/ production studio was located. She swallowed hard, the enormity of what was happening hitting her full force. She was here for a job interview.
At Monarch's.
The place where so many of the creations she had admired and studied had been created. If she was hired, she would have the chance to put her mark on the world of jewelry.

The driver opened her door. People stopped to stare, hoping, Skye knew, to get a look at a celebrity. She smiled to herself, both self-conscious and tickled, wondering what they thought when they saw her, instead—a woman wearing dime-store sunglasses, a secondhand Timex and the latest in business attire from her neighborhood Sweet-Repeats shop.

Skye alighted the vehicle at the same moment Monarch's grand front doors swung open and a man stepped out. The sun spilled over him, shooting his dark hair with chestnut highlights. Long and lean, he wore a suit that was as unmistakably European as it was expensive. It fit as if it had been tailored especially for him, which, she realized, it probably had.

Skye's mouth turned to dust. He was the most handsome, most sophisticated, man she had ever seen.

And he was smiling at her. Walking toward her.

For a moment Skye thought he had her confused with someone else. Then she realized who he must be.

The man stopped before her and held out a hand. “Skye? Griffen Monarch.”

“Griffen.” She took his hand, shuddering slightly at his touch. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

“A bigger one for me, I assure you. I'm quite a fan.”

“Of mine?” she repeated, her cheeks heating. “I don't think anyone's ever said that to me before.”

“Well, get used to it.” He tucked her arm through his. “I'm just the first in what I'm sure will become a long line of admirers. Speaking of, Dorothy is anxious to meet you. She's been pacing all morning, and that's not at all good for her blood pressure.”

Dorothy Monarch was anxious to meet her? Skye marveled, not quite able to believe her ears. One of the greatest jewelry designers of the last half century, anxious to meet her?

As if Griffen could read her mind, he laughed again. “The time for modesty is over. You, Skye Dearborn, are an incredible talent.”

She laughed, beginning to relax, finding him to be as charming as he was handsome. “If
the
Griffen Monarch says so, I guess I have to believe it.”

“I like the way you think.” They started for the store's entrance. “If only the rest of my employees felt the same way.”

Skye kept her excitement in check, though barely.
“The rest of his employees”
implied that she was one, too. But she had not officially been offered the job, and until she was, it would not be wise to take anything for granted. This man was obviously a seasoned businessman, a man adept at working angles and deals. He had also, she was certain, blown wind up plenty a girl's skirt in his time; he might even be testing her in some way.

Still, Skye hung on to those words as Griffen took her through the store, introducing her around, stopping at various cases to point out particular pieces, series, stones.

“We've only just begun carrying the work of other designers.” He indicated a case with several pieces by Paloma Picasso and a few by Angela Cummings. “But only the best and only when their creations are far from our own milieu.”

He moved on, stopping before another case. “Some of our older designs have remained our most popular.” He indicated a matching pin and earring ensemble, styled in a dramatic, vertical swirl. “I'm sure you recognize Dorothy's Tornado.”

“Of course. It's part of her Wind series, one of my favorites.” Skye bent to get a better look at a pair of pavéset diamond earrings, a single, simple drop of gold and diamonds. “Classic never goes out of style,” she murmured. “Neither does quality.”

“True. But we're hoping to put some energy in new directions. After all, classics cannot become so until they spring from the mind of the artist. Our studio hasn't come up with much that's dramatically new lately. And one can't rest on their laurels forever.”

“Although, if one must rest, that's a fine place to do it.” Skye smiled. “I'd like to earn a few laurels myself.”

“And I have no doubt you will.” He pointed her toward the elevator. “We were excited by some of your less traditional work. You seem to have a great understanding of what's contemporary, especially in your combinations of materials and techniques. I was particularly taken with the titanium pieces in the MOMA show.”

“Thank you.” They stopped before the elevator's stainless-steel art deco doors, and he pushed the call button. Skye faced him. “So if I'm hired, I'd be allowed to pursue some experimental avenues?”

“Allowed?” He met her eyes, his alight with amusement. “No, Skye. You would be required to.”

Skye could barely contain her excitement. Working for Monarch's would be a dream come true, even if she had to temporarily put her personal creative expression on hold. But to work for Monarch's and still be able to push the edge of the design envelope, well, that would be heaven on earth.

The elevator arrived and they stepped onto it. The doors slid shut, and Griffen turned toward her. Mere inches separated them. Skye saw that his eyes were an almost amazing ice blue. Lighter than hers, even.

“I'm serious when I say Monarch's is actively searching for new classic designs. We want to return to the bold, visionary work that made us who we are.”

Skye struggled for a deep breath, the elevator feeling suddenly too small, closed in and airless. Suddenly, Griffen Monarch seemed alarmingly big, he seemed to tower over her.

He didn't notice her distress, and continued talking. “Dorothy has headed Monarch's studio for almost fifty years. And she's done an incredible job. But she's tired. In recent years, her health has begun to slip. She's ready to turn over her creative reins to someone younger and more energetic.” He looked away. “My father's recent death was hard on her.”

Skye swallowed and took a step backward, needing space, air. “Wha…what did you say?”

He turned back to her. “My father. He died a few weeks ago. A heart attack. He was only fifty-five. We all took it hard, but Dorothy—” Griffen drew his eyebrows together and leaned toward her. “Skye, are you all right?”

“Not really.” She managed a shaky laugh, fighting the panicky sensation that settled in the pit of her gut. “I'm feeling a bit…claustrophobic.”

“Does this happen to you often?” he asked, his expression concerned.

“Never before.” She managed another laugh, feeling like an idiot. That made a lot of sense—she had never been claustrophobic before, so it decided to pay her a visit today, the most important day of her life. Right. He probably thought she was a liar as well as a nut job.

“It's just nerves,” he murmured. “Relax. Take a deep breath and let it go.” The elevator stopped; the doors slid open. “Aunt Dorothy's a real sweetheart. She's going to adore you. Just wait and see.”

Skye hurried out of the elevator, the panicky sensations receding as she did. She took a deep, calming breath. He was right; she was nervous. After all, she was about to meet
the
Dorothy Monarch. The woman responsible for the creation of at least a half-dozen designs that had become a part of global consciousness, designs so in tune with their time that they had defined an era. No small feat. One accomplished by only a handful of decorative artists anywhere. Louis Comfort Tiffany. Jean Schlumberger. Elsa Peretti.

Dorothy Monarch.

And she, Skye Dearborn, was about to meet her.