Prologue

Jordan Devereaux sat silently at the head of the long table, watching the small woman flit around a second woman who stood still as a mannequin on the stage. The smaller woman, Miyuki, was marking and pinning parts of the outfit hanging on the middle-aged model. Although Miyuki was one of their best designers, she tended to get lost in her art and often forgot the executives sitting around the table. Being the senior executive, Jordan figured she should speak up and remind the designer that they were there.

“Miyuki?”

She froze, then turned back to the people gathered around the polished wood table. “Oops.” Her almond shaped eyes twinkled with humor at herself. “Sorry, as I was showing you the skirt, I realized I could make it look better if I put a dart...” Trailing off, she shrugged apologetically and picked up her notes off the stage where she had dropped them next to the model’s foot.

As Miyuki began talking again about the outfit, Jordan felt her eyes glaze over. It wasn’t that the designer was boring, it was the fact that she had absolutely no interest whatsoever in the clothing industry. But since the previous president of the company felt the need to be in on every meeting, she did the same.

Dean Devereaux, her father, had been a micro-manager and so the staff had expected the same from her when she took over the company several months before. Unlike her father, Jordan respected the people who worked for her and wanted to give them the responsibilities they had earned over the many years. But old habits were hard to break and inevitably, the staff continued to invite her to every meeting they held. That made her days long and often filled with squabbling she didn’t need to hear. And no matter how often she told the staff that she trusted their judgement, her schedule continued to fill with endless meetings.

“So, Jordan, what do you think?” Miyuki asked.

Caught, Jordan’s eyes flew to hers. “I trust your judgement, Miyuki,” she announced, hoping her response was at least pertinent to the discussion that had been going on around her. She was relieved when the designer grinned and turned to shoo the model off the stage. Inwardly she groaned as a younger woman replaced her and Miyuki launched into another long narrative about the outfit being modeled for the upcoming spring line. Staring at the woman who was now posing on the stage with a goofy grin on her face, Jordan tapped a finger on the notepad in front of her. They had several different lines of clothing, some of which appealed to the more mature customer–like the first model–some of which appealed to the younger women. All of their clothes were geared toward the upper class and in general, were only affordable to them. The Devereaux line was highly regarded and often other companies tried to knock-off their designs, but their regular clientele could tell the difference. Devereaux used nothing but the best quality and workmanship, employing only the best workers. From the workers in the factories all the way to those who worked behind desks, they were a loyal faction. Most of them had been hand-picked by her father many years ago, although they were now getting an influx of younger designers. Miyuki had been with them for almost ten years and the woman’s talents seemed to have no end, for which Jordan was eternally grateful. She was one of the few designers who worked on almost all of their lines because her design skills were so varied. She might be a little flighty during presentations, but she ran a tight shop and was one of their highest regarded designers.

Jordan shifted in her chair and picked up her pen, hoping to stay focused on what the designer was saying. After making a few notes, her mind began to wander again and her notes turned to scribbles and doodles. It was very unprofessional of her, but these presentations took so long and were so boring. She understood the need for them, but not the need for her to be involved. She was a good businesswoman, otherwise her father would have never passed the reigns on to her, but she knew squat about making clothes. She really had no fashion sense and depended on her personal seamstress to make sure she was appropriately supplied for all business-related events. At home, she was just as happy in jeans and a sweatshirt or leggings and a tee shirt. Besides all that, she always got the sketches of the clothing when they were in their infancy stages and had the opportunity to make comments at that point. But once again, her father’s legacy left her stuck here in this never-ending meeting. And unfortunately, these meetings happened several times a month in preparation for each season’s lines.

Miyuki finished her presentation and after taking a few questions, gathered her notes and left the room.

Before Jordan could even take a breath, the next designer strode in with yet another model hot on her heels. Pushing to her feet, Jordan crossed to the sideboard and refilled her coffee cup in the hopes that the caffeine would keep her from falling asleep. As she stood with her back to the rest of the group, she closed her eyes and prayed for her secretary to summon her with some kind of emergency so she could get the hell out of dodge. As she was settling back into her chair, resigned to another two hours of darts and seams, the phone at her elbow bleated.

Crossing her fingers under the table, she pressed the intercom button. “Yes?”

“Jordan, I’m sorry to interrupt, but you have a call on line four. They said it was important,” the company’s receptionist informed her.

“Okay, thanks.” She held up a finger to the waiting designer before picking up the receiver and pressing the button for line four. “Hello?”

“Yo.”

Mentally, Jordan cheered and did a little happy dance. It was her brother, D.J, coming to her rescue. Somehow he always knew when these meetings were scheduled even though he didn’t work for the company. More often than not, he would call and she would make her apologies, saying she had to take the urgent call. “How are you?”

“You owe me, you know. I had to leave a really hot woman to make this phone call.”

Leave it to D.J. to have a date in the middle of the afternoon. “Oh, that’s not good. Can you give me about five minutes to wrap up here so I can call you from my office? We’ll handle this right away.”

“Yeah, sure you will. You always say that, but you never really mean it,” he teased. “You’ll hang up with me and disappear into your fancy office and I won’t hear from you for days.”

“I understand and I’m happy to get this resolved right away. I’ll talk to you shortly.” Placing the receiver back in its cradle, she turned back to the group with a frown. “I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve got to deal with this right away.” She gathered up her notepad, her pen and her coffee and got to her feet. “Just send the meeting notes over to Stacey and I’ll make sure to review them tomorrow morning.” Giving them an apologetic smile, she hurried out of the room to the elevators that would take her back to her top floor office. First thing in the morning her assistant and secretary, Stacey, would hand over a folder with notes from the abandoned meeting. She would take a few minutes to skim them and then hand them back for filing, having saved hours of her time.

As she approached her office, she made a mental note to take her brother out for a good steak dinner to thank him.

“Are they finished already?” Stacey asked, looking up from her computer screen.

“Uh, no, not exactly.”

Rolling her eyes, she handed over several phone message slips. “You really do owe D.J. big time.”

Jordan gave her a sheepish grin, flipping through the messages to see if there was anything pressing. “Yeah, I was just thinking that. Anything I need to know?”

“Nope.”

“Okay. Give me about an hour before you put any calls through.”

“Yeah, we wouldn’t want anyone to know that you’re playing hooky.” As Jordan disappeared through the doorway to her office, Stacey called after her, “You’re a bad influence on the rest of us model employees!”

Jordan snorted before closing the door between them, leaving her assistant cackling madly on the other side.

Jack stood in the front room at the church, a closed door between him and the guests gathering to watch him join his life with another person under the eyes of God. As time ticked forward, he paced back and forth to the window, watching the people who were milling around outside. He hadn’t tied his tie yet, his cummerbund was sitting on the small loveseat across the room and the wedding band he and Ellen had purchased together was sitting on a nearby table.

As usual, he was alone in the room. More than likely Ellen’s parents were with her in the bride’s room, but he was by himself. In deference to his lack of family, they had decided to not have any attendants and guests would be allowed to sit on either side of the aisle in the sanctuary. Even though Ellen was an only child, she had many more friends and extended family than he did. In fact, he could count the number of people attending on his side on one hand and they were mostly the guys who worked in his department at the office.

Sighing, he turned away from the window and picked up the ring box off the table. He turned it over and over in his hands, his mind running at full speed. In so many ways, he and Ellen were alike and yet...

He set the ring box down again and turned to the mirror so he could tie his tie. Time was running short and he needed to finish getting ready. It was impolite for the groom to be late to his own wedding. Purposefully he kept his eyes locked on his neck as he tried time and again to get the tie just right. He knew he should have gotten the clip-on tie, but he had wanted to be old fashioned. Frustrated, he left the tie as it was–crooked–and reached for his cummerbund. At least that was easy to put on, pleats facing up he had been told, to catch the crumbs. Smiling wryly, he turned back to the mirror and stared at his pale image.

“I, Jack Morgan, take you, Ellen Brayden...” Clearing his throat, he tried again in another voice. “I, Jack Morgan, take you, Ellen Brayden...” With a groan, he turned away from the mirror. It didn’t just sound wrong, it felt wrong.

“Five minutes, Mr. Morgan,” the church’s assistant called through the closed door.

The church wedding had been Ellen’s idea. As a matter of fact, getting married had been Ellen’s idea. He had sort of gone along with her, riding the idea to its logical end. But now he was feeling the wrongness of this down in his soul. Wedging a finger in between the tight shirt collar and his neck, he looked toward the emergency exit for what seemed like the tenth time in as many minutes.

It took him only an instant to write, “I’m sorry, Ellen.” on a piece of paper and then he was gone.