She had gotten involved with only one other man after Pierre, and it had been nothing but disaster. Saving Massot was a duty. More than that, it had become her life.

An attraction—even a strong attraction—to the man who wanted to destroy it. No. She thought again, that won’t do.

“Mrs. Massot—”

“Madame. My husband was French, and I honour his memory,” Sophie said firmly. She tried to make sure this was true.

“Mme Massot.” He inclined his head. “I visited your showrooms in rue Faubourg today.”

Sophie said nothing. Let him make the running.

“May I say that your refurbishment is outstanding. The design is excellent, the lighting, the display—all superb.”

“I am glad you were pleased,” she responded coolly.

“I became a customer of House Massot.”

Sophie’s eyes sparked a little interest at that. “And what did you buy?”

“A peacock feather aigrette, after the first piece Tiffany designed.”

She nodded. “I know that brooch. It is a very beautiful piece; you have good taste. But then again, all our pieces are beautiful,” she added, with some firmness.

“So they are. But, Mme Massot. They are bespoke. And the prices are outrageous. You cannot make money in the haute couture market. May I give you my opinion?”

“You never seem to hesitate on that point.”

He grinned. “Perhaps not. Then let me say, fashion houses—jewellery houses too—make most of their money, almost all of it, in selling lesser-priced pieces to the masses. The individual stuff is just a loss leader. Chanel makes its money in scent. . . .”

“House Massot does not sell to the masses, Mr. Montfort. And nor do I intend to. Our jewellery will remain bespoke. And we will be profitable. There is nothing to limit us as to perfumes, however, in the future. For now, I intend to restructure the company and focus on our core market. This will mean more value to the shareholders than your lowball offer.”

Hugh sat back, surprised. She wasn’t right—of course not—but the short speech displayed at least a basic understanding of business.

He thought, as she sat there, bolt upright, in her black and pearl grey, with that stunning, just-right pendant—full of her own dignity, and bristling with hostility—that she might be the most attractive woman he had ever seen.

A flush of anger and guilt ran through him at his own betrayal. Georgie—Georgie was the most attractive. He would love Georgie till he died. There was no space for anyone else.

“You have no time for that. You only have a couple of months.” His tones were clipped. “Not enough time to convince your shareholders. After years of mismanagement.”

“We’ll see,” she said, mysteriously.

This annoyed Hugh. He ploughed on. “I understand you want to keep your husband’s empire alive. And I find the Massot re-branding quite convincing. So I am here to make you a new offer.”

“I’m listening,” Sophie said.