Page 75 of Flare

Jack flicked a glance to the assistant still watching from the desk. “What a dick.”

Fifteen minutes later we finally escaped the store into torrential rain, but without drawing anymore unwanted attention from the assistant. We sprinted across the road and piled into Rhys’s bright red Kia Sportage parked just up the block—a couple of soggy but well-dressed Saturday morning shoppers. Nothing to see here, folks.

“You can’t put a price on creativity, huh?” Rhys laughed and kissed my sopping cheeks.

Goddammit.“I fucking knew I hadn’t muted that clip.” I threw my wet coat in the back and handed him the phone. “The rest are on there. It was taking too long to send them.”

He scrolled through the footage, his expression growing bleaker by the second.

“Fuck.” He shot an apologetic look Jack’s way. “Sorry.”

Jack shrugged. “You should’ve heard Uncle Beck in there. Every piece we found got us closer to being thrown out.Sevenpieces, Rhys. They had seven of your best designs in one form or another. And all a ton cheaper.”

Rhys was still scrolling. “Because they’re all in shoddy fabric.” He winced. “Jesus, look at that hem.” He held up the phone and pointed to a dangling thread of cotton. “Why would she do something like that? It’s not good for her own label’s reputation.”

“But this is her streetwear range, right?” I leaned closer, Jack’s head between us. “It’s supposed to be competitive. Would people really care as long as they got a shirt that looked like yours but was way discounted?”

He gave a pained look. “Most, probably not. Those in the know could spot the quality difference, but she’s not aiming at them. And having a cheaper knock-off in the market puts the picky ones off buying the original because they don’t want anyone to mistake what they’re wearing. Gloria’s targeting the cash poor but style hungry, and most of thosepeople would assumeIwas the one copyingher.” He slumped in his seat. “Jesus, no wonder I’m losing money hand over fist.”

“I’m so sorry, Rhys.” I laid a hand on his arm.

“Keep going,” Jack said, hanging between the front seats. “That last photo. There.” he pointed. “I thought I’d seen something like that jacket upstairs in your workroom when you sent me to get the Fashion Week posters. Gloria’s one wasn’t on the racks. I just happened to catch sight of it hanging out back of the service desk and asked to take a look. The guy said it was a sample and wouldn’t be available for a few weeks. He said it was gonna be big. It’s not a great shot because Uncle Beck had to take it without the guy seeing.”

Rhys stared at the photo, his face ashen. “Son of a bitch.”

“Shit.” Jack fell back into his seat. “I was right, wasn’t I?”

I took the phone from Rhys for a better look but kept hold of his hand. “This is your design?”

“Close enough.”

I stared at the gorgeous dark blue coat that finished just above the knee, tailored closely to the waist and with a couple of buttons to cinch it in before flaring ever so slightly. A tall stand-up, contrasting black collar folded just under the jaw line, pinned in place at its base with silver military-style buttons. And with sleeves that ran full at the shoulder and narrow toward the wrist, all it needed was a whip and a ruffled fronted shirt that I knew Rhys already stocked in his own design to complete the picture. A perfect Regency-style coat—an era I knew only too well. I taught about the poets who’d written in it, for fuck’s sake.

His voice shook as he explained. “This is orwasthe central piece in my collection for Fashion Week. Mine is only marginally different in a dark, almost black emerald-green, with the addition of pockets at the waist and brass rather than silver buttons. But without putting them side by side, you’d find it hard to pick the difference.”

He sank into his seat like the air had gone out of him. “It was a risk. Modern Regency has been done before but not for a while. This coat was intended to be the first design down the runway, a nod to the classical roots of the collection, while the rest of it has a decidedly more modern take,mytake, and a definite move away from what’s been done in the past. But now, I’m totally screwed. And how the fuck did she even know about the damn coat? Someone’s been fucking snooping.”

I frowned. “You’re going to have to explain the totally screwed thing.”

But it was Jack who answered, shouting over a particularly heavy squall of rain beating on the car’s roof. “Rhys can’t use this coat anymore, Uncle Beck. If Gloria puts this out in her storebeforethe show, people will have seen it, designers will have seen it, and Rhys can’t base his very first collection around a coat that’s already out there. He’ll look like an idiot.”

“Gee, thanks.” Rhys glanced in the rear-vision mirror.

Jack shrugged. “Sorry.”

I squeezed Rhys’s hand. “Can you design another?”

He stared like I’d lost my mind. “Another? That coat took me months to finalise.” His eyes flashed with fury. “And then I had to make it and get stock ready for orders. I can’t justwhip upanother, although I guess I’m going to fucking have to. But even if I do, once Gloria’s coat goes on sale, my whole collection hinged around that coat, and no matter what I do, it won’t look fresh anymore. This could seriously hurt me, Beck. This is my business on the line.” His voice had risen more than a few decibels and deep lines of frustration marked his face.

I held my palms up. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about this stuff.”

“Clearly.” He looked away and I tried to ignore the sting of his words, my gaze shifting to the endless stream of cars flying past and the spray from the slick roads fanning across the windscreen.

From his seat in the back, Jack looked between us and said nothing. Smart kid.

* * *

“She damn well knew about the jacket,” Kip fumed, staring at the footage. “But how? That coat has only ever been upstairs, and I’ve never even seen Gloria in the damn store.”

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