The Bitch-Proof Suit

Text copyright © 2010 by De-ann Black

Cover Art & Illustration © 2010 by De-ann Black

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written consent of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by Toffee Apple Publishing 2012

Smashwords Edition

The Bitch–Proof Suit

ISBN-13: 978-1-90872-75-7

Toffee Apple Publishing

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

For Sebastian

Contents

Introduction

1 - If Looks Could Kill

2 - She Who Daire’s Wins

3 - Secrets and Spite

4 - Head for the Malls

5 - Bar Brawling and Atrocious Lies

6 - Dining with the Enemy

7 - Self Promoting Glory Hogs

8 - The Ultimate in Temptation

9 - Absinthe Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

10 - Irish Martinis and Bad Behavior

11 - The Beautiful and the Spellbound

12 - Scents and Sensibility

13 - Magnets for Trouble

14 - Fortune Telling in the Rain

15 - Dinner or a Date

16 - Enviable Green Hair

17 - Mayhem at the Extravaganza

18 - The Edge of Viciousness

19 - The Masquerade Ball

20 - A Storm Was Brewing

Epilogue

More books by De-ann Black (sample chapters)

About De-ann Black

Introduction

Manhattan, New York

Bitching can destroy you. It’s a process of erosion. Once the rust sets in you can kiss your ass goodbye. I knew the business bitches were waiting for me but I wasn’t going down without a fight.

It had been raining during the night in Manhattan and the hot, early morning sunlight glinted off the streets, bathing the city in a brand new glow. The air was fresh with the scent of potential. That’s what I was hoping for too — a fresh start, a chance to work on the other side of the world for a few months, and I was going after it, no holds barred. This was my big chance to work in Dublin, and I had a few reasons for wanting to go back to the Irish city, including one who was tall, dark and heartbreakingly luscious.

I hurried along the busy street at eight in the morning. I was running a fraction late, but I was armed to the teeth with everything I needed to succeed including one thing in particular — my bitch–proof suit. In the world of fashion marketing, I was about to put my suit to the ultimate test when I vied against a boardroom full of killer heeled, conniving business bitches to win the top job assignment — to head the coolhunting department in the company’s new office in Dublin, and settle a few scores at the same time.

I’ve worked in fashion marketing for years. I’m known as a coolhunter or futurehunter — someone who susses out what’s going to be the next big thing. Call it a faze, call it a fad, I call it being able to see the potential in something new that people will like. In my case it’s fashion. But back to the suit . . .

My marketing experience helped me create the perfect suit. A lot of work had gone into honing the precise look, the design, the exact tone of charcoal gray for the jacket and skirt, teamed with an arctic white blouse that made the most of my blonde hair, which was styled to a mid nape length and gave just the right balance of fierce gorgeousness. It was a suit by no specific designer. I preferred to use bespoke tailors and have my clothes made with twice the precision at half the price. No labels, no trends, just sheer cutting edge class. I was never model material (unless prettyish, medium height, slender but shapely blondes ever became fashionable on the designer runways), but the suit upgraded what I had to work with.

You could cut through glass with the sharpness of the jacket. It was a classic, two button, single breasted design that could be dressed up or down for day or evening. The stitching and finish, from the length of the sleeves to the specific shoulder styling, was perfection personified. The suit skimmed the figure fluidly, rather than hugged it tight, and created a shield that deflected and defended the wearer from incoming insults. What was there to snipe about? Surely not the longer line jacket that flattered every ass from all angles, or the smooth lapels that emphasized the female form without brazenly shoving it in your face. The hem of the perfectly cut, A–line skirt sliced just below the knee with no trace of hemming, and of course, on the derriere there was no hint of visible panty line. We shouldn’t even be thinking about VPL at this level. It just doesn’t happen.

The anonymity of the suit and accessories was paramount. No specific designer was crucial. And I chose my shoes carefully. My shoes have great heels. I could run the length of Brooklyn Bridge in them and back at a pace that would make grown men crumble. Imagine court shoes of the third millennium. Futuristic, functional and fabulous. Beat that you bitches.

Several of us were vying for the prime opportunity to work in Dublin’s design metropolis. Mega bucks, prestige and the power to influence the core of the fashion industry were at stake. So, as you can imagine, no one was going to take the challenge lightly.

The unspeakably glamorous and influential Verde Valmont (pronounced Verdi), had already set the wheels in motion. As one of the New York directors, she’d flown over to Dublin with her assistant, Emer, to secure the ideal offices and start scouting for potential trendsetting designers. Verde was known to her friends as Vee–Vee, so you didn’t hear that name very often.

If I got the job, I’d be working with Verde, the epitome of a prize bitch, who gave a whole new meaning to the phrase, fiercely ambitious — seriously. When she’d been refused the backing of the company’s board of directors for one of her projects, she threatened to jump out of the window of the boardroom unless they relented and gave her exactly what she asked for. They’d still refused. Big mistake — on their part . . .

I was there at the meeting that day, and had I not witnessed it for myself, I’d never have believed it. Verde, seething with rage, called their bluff. Taking everyone by surprise, she jumped from the fourth storey office window, but with it being spring, all the ad banners and canopies were out, and when she jumped, to spite them I may add, the canopies broke her fall and she landed with an undignified thud on the sidewalk below, and then got up and came back in with nothing more than a broken wrist. Whether she knew the banners would break her fall, we’ll never know, but the boardroom backed down and she got what she wanted. That was over a year ago, and by all accounts her wrist still cracked whenever she wrote a check. She wore expensive bracelets and bangles to disguise the slightly wonky wrist bone. They rattled whenever she moved and always reminded me of the ticking croc in Peter Pan.

Taking a few deep breaths of fresh air, I headed into the building. In the elevator I guessed who would be there. Company bigwig, Randolph, would be chairing the meeting, as always. Anyone who abbreviated his name to Randy immediately highlighted themselves as an outsider. He had about as much sex appeal as a concrete lamppost, and was just as gray, inflexible and toweringly tall as one. The only surprising thing about Randolph was his age. He was sixty, but he’d been a silver fox for over thirty years. Those who worked for his company were accustomed to his distinguished persona. He was rather like a statue that stands in pride of place for decades and never changes. Everyone thought he’d still be chairing meetings ad infinitum.

One of the main contenders for the job, and my official Manhattan based nemesis, Marina DeMar, would be throwing down the gauntlet for sure. Marina recently swore she had Irish blood in her veins from her great, great, great grandmother’s side of the family and therefore she should go to Dublin. Go figure. It was a blatant lie of course. Last season she’d been of French Canadian descent. I seriously doubted Marina had any blood in her. She was frighteningly pale, wafer thin, and when the air conditioning was at its coldest, her blue veins looked like a road map. Okay, so she was an ex–model, but she still looked like death warmed up.

Then there was Azuree. Like the other harpies drenched in cookie cutter fashions, Azuree had a degree in superficiality, her only qualification for the job. The last time we’d gone after the same assignment, she’d won, and had stuck a diamond spangled finger up at me as she left the meeting and headed for Milan. I swear if you looked beneath the designer clothes that draped her fabulous figure, you’d find a ninety percent silicone label on her somewhere.

Not that I’m against giving nature a helping hand, but it’s just not for me. And in a room with polished wood floors and nothing but original artwork and first edition books, it seemed I was the only one to get the irony of the plastic asses seated on the antique chairs.

Around fifteen faces that looked like they wanted to rip my throat out, verbally or otherwise, were waiting in the executive floor office. The sun threatened to burn a hole through the large expanse of glass, but it probably knew better. The temperature was warm, but the atmosphere was cold as steel.

Marina DeMar was glaring daggers at me. Her eyes were telling me I was late. My eyes were warning her to think twice about opening her plum lipstick mouth to even hint at it. The moment passed. I walked the length of the boardroom. Silence. Not one word, just vibes that were so strong you could’ve signaled by satellite on the seething energy. Another day in the life of an independent bitch slayer. By the way, my name’s Blue (Bluebell) Byrne. Welcome to my world.

Chapter One

If Looks Could Kill

The meeting kicked off with Verde. Oh yes, she was still in Dublin, but she wasn’t going to let the vast expanse of half the globe get in the way. Just typical. She was taking part in the meeting in Manhattan via webcam and her wide blue eyes watched me from the computer monitor as I approached my seat. Her disapproval of me was clear judging by the expression on her pursed pink lips that looked like a pussycat’s ass. Like I cared.

‘Hi, Bluebell,’ she said, with all the false brightness of a fake diamond. ‘Can I give you a brief personal message from Dublin . . .?’

I steeled myself for the flack. Whenever Verde called me Bluebell, it signaled an incoming dose of verbal vitriol. But I was feeling good. Give it your best shot I thought to myself. Unfortunately, her first strike was well below the belt. It hit me like a sucker punch.

‘Morgan says hi,’ she said, in her usual honeyed, husky tone, without letting her smile falter. Ventriloquists had nothing on Verde. ‘We had dinner again together last night and he sends his, eh . . . his regards.’

Yeah, right. Like hell he did. Men like Morgan Daire should come with a warning. Beware. This man will rip your heart out and feed it to the vultures if you’re ever stupid enough to fall for his Irish charm, dimpled smile, sparkling eyes the color of green absinthe and silky dark hair that makes him look like a roguish pirate rather than one of the top movers and shakers in Dublin. Six years ago I’d made that mistake, believing he was the one. I’d spent a year working in Dublin, building contacts, making progress in my career, and I’d stupidly let my guard down and invited him into my life. The biggest mistake I’d ever made.

Morgan was sharp. A Machiavellian bastard to the core. He’d argued that I’d judged him too harshly, that I couldn’t see the real man behind the scathing facade. It was business, it wasn’t personal, he’d said. If there’s one phrase that makes me want to spit fire it’s that one. How if it involves me is it not personal?

He’d had the audacity to say he was actually being kind and that there was no place for me in Dublin or a future for us. He’d effectively jumped on me from a great height, crushing my career aspirations, hopes and dreams in one fell swoop. If that was him being kind, I was in for one hell of a fight when I went back to confront him, to continue where I’d left off, to challenge him on his home turf.

He’d raged at me the night I finally found the courage to pack my bags and leave him, and Dublin, behind. ‘You’re nothing but a marketing mercenary, Blue,’ he’d shouted as I ran across the Ha’penny Bridge over the city’s River Liffey. ‘Go on, run home to New York where you belong.’

And so I did. I threw my mobile phone into the Liffey, got in my hire car and drove to the airport. It had been a harsh goodbye.

Anyway . . .

I smiled calmly at Verde, as if taking the message at face value. Had she scored a point? She wasn’t sure, and that was enough for me. I decided to chalk it up to yet another bad experience of being within ten feet of her, even if she was only on a computer monitor. And if anything, it made me a hundred times more determined to get this job, so in the oddest way, she’d done me a favor.

Indecision is something that really bugs Verde. I could see her flicking her blunt cut, glossy auburn hair in mild annoyance. After a few minutes of Randolph’s introduction to the meeting, Verde had another run at me, just to be sure she’d put the knife in deep enough. I bet she wondered if I’d found someone else. Maybe Morgan Daire was indeed history and I didn’t give a damn about him. Of course, this wasn’t true. The hurt had mellowed, but it still bothered me when I thought about him, and how things could have been.

‘You’re looking . . .’ Verde began, and then she couldn’t find anything snide to say about my appearance. The bitch–proof suit was working. She didn’t know what to pick on. Okay, so she could have said I looked tired (which I didn’t, but that usually deflates most women’s confidence), in need of a facial (ditto), or anything else, but when I wear this suit, it seems to disconcert those who’d like to undermine me. And the beauty of it is, they can’t quite pinpoint why — the whole thing is subliminal. All that happens is that they get a feeling of not being able to dish out their usual spiteful comments. It has that effect. You see, no one knows this suit is designed to fight off bitchy attacks and protect the wearer from venomous remarks. It works ninety percent of the time, which is a huge bonus as far as I’m concerned. Anything to help water down the verbal poison gets my vote.

I’d never told anyone here about my suit. It was my secret. If I even hinted to Verde about its design, I could risk ruining its effectiveness. And I’d never do that. In fact, I have variations on its theme. You can’t possibly wear the same look all the time. It’s not a uniform. So I’ve also got a basic black and a classic plaid — and even a red hot scarlet version for specific occasions. However, I have to say, the gray ensemble is the ultimate bitch–proof suit, and I really needed it for the meeting.

Verde’s voice sliced through the air. ‘We all know why we’re here. Fashion is in a rut. Our clients are relying on us to find out where the industry’s future lies. We’ve got to go beyond our usual coolhunting territory and scan the globe for the next big thing.’

I started to tune out. It was like listening to the commercials before watching a movie. I wished she’d just cut to the chase. We always heard the same old blurb about how the company was built on being one step ahead of the pack. How fashion trends were more difficult to pin down than a firefly. Firefly my ass. Each decade of the twentieth century, barring the nineties, had a very specific look. Now it was my job to find out what the future looked like. Some call it coolhunting. I call it futurehunting. I’ve got a degree in marketing, studied fashion and design, and I’d merged these skills to carve a niche for myself in Randolph’s marketing company as a new futurehunter. I’d worked for him since I was twenty, and for the past eight years I’d been searching for what was hot and predicting what the market wanted. This information was filtered down to the fashion designers and peripheral industries. Sometimes they used the data, sometimes not, but it was exciting to be part of the process.

‘Blue, we’ll start by hearing your take on things,’ Verde said briskly.

Here we go, I thought. But I was ready.

‘We’ve got to look to the future,’ I said, sitting where I was, and keeping my notes firmly closed.

‘You’re not suggesting some stupid spacey fashions,’ Marina chipped in.

‘Hardly,’ I said. ‘Silver suits and space age wear isn’t where the future lies. I wouldn’t want to hit the shops dressed in aluminum regardless of the labels.’

‘Women need something new,’ said Randolph. He spread his arms and glanced around the boardroom. ‘We all want something new.’

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘No one in this company has found it yet. Not in New York or anywhere else. I reckon Dublin’s pretty cool — a cosmopolitan city where innovative ideas are bubbling under the surface. I want to be the one to find them.’

Verde cleared her throat, for attention and effect. ‘Perhaps it’s escaped your notice, Bluebell, but I’m in Dublin right now, working on that precise thing.’

‘And you’ve been there since when . . .?’ I said.

‘January.’

‘This is what . . . the beginning of summer? I haven’t read any of your reports on finding the niche of fashion gold we’re searching for, Verde.’ I was sailing very close to the wind with this one.

If looks could kill, I’d be toes up in the bone yard.

Marina decided to throw her opinion into the ring, which thankfully took the heat of me. ‘It was agreed last year that Dublin was an untapped source of designer talent, of fresh creations, and that’s why Verde spearheaded the new offices there. We just need the right coolhunter to track them down.’ She took a deep breath. The bitch was biting to get out. ‘I have to agree with Blue’s snide conjecture that you’ve failed miserably and that someone else, someone younger, needs to go there to do the real job. While of course you continue to run the show in Dublin behind the scenes.’

Not only was Marina standing on thin ice, she was skating her way down the slippery slope to nowhere fast. We all knew Marina was Randolph’s protégé but even he had his limits. It was one thing to insinuate, it was quite another to say she’d failed miserably and then add the killer twist — that Verde was way past her sell–by–date. Call me shallow, but inside I was cheering. I was mentally wearing a little ra–ra skirt and waving my cheerleading pom poms in the air. Marina was out of the contest.

A moment’s lull, like an icy breeze, wafted through the boardroom then disappeared rather like Marina’s career was destined to do.

Across the table, Azuree was flicking through her notes and getting set to argue why she should go to the Emerald Isle. For entertainment value alone, I didn’t want to miss it. Judging by the tired glaze behind her eyes, she’d had precious little sleep the previous night. If I knew Azuree, she’d been cramming for the meeting like it was a college exam. A sure sign of an amateur. If she didn’t know her marketing statistics by now, she wasn’t up to the task. No amount of meticulously applied under eye concealer could hide the fact that she was out of her league.

One by one the main contenders for the job bit the proverbial dust.

‘Right!’ Randolph finally announced. ‘I’ve had enough of this farce.’ He nodded to Verde who made no bid to disagree. Clearly she’d had enough too. The stress of listening to fifteen pitches for glory had actually taken the glow off her face and her blush was more pallor than perfect. Randolph put his hands on the table, fists clenched. ‘Blue. You’re going to Dublin.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, smiling.

‘And remember,’ Verde added, ‘fuck this up and you’re history.’

With this bolstering thought, the meeting was over.

As everyone poured out of the boardroom, Randolph took me aside. ‘I want you to contact someone when you get to Dublin. He’s set up an office in the city. Sears Pearson.’

‘Sears?’ I said, momentarily dropping my guard. I hadn’t heard that name in a long time.

He handed me a business card with the contact details. ‘Look him up. Find out what he’s up to. He’s always been a ruthless son of a bitch.’

I took the card.

‘E–mail me the details, Blue. Don’t go through Verde.’

I nodded. He didn’t have to explain. Sears and Verde had a history, not of love but of war. I never knew what the scandal was, but suffice to say, Sears hated her more than most.

I slipped the card into my bag and walked away. Sears Pearson. It was like hearing about a ghost from the past. He’d been the