Legacy of Lies

Chapter Six

Paris

Alex’s days, weeks and months flowed into each other like long ocean swells as she labored under Debord’s watchful, unrelenting eye.

The designer continued to closely monitor her work, brutally subtracting a flounce here, dispensing with what she considered marvelously sexy feathered trim there, all the while treating her to a dizzying array of seemingly casual touches and intimate smiles that left her weak in the knees.

His personal attention to his new protégée did not go unnoticed by the other assistant designers. Jealousy, that ugly emotion rampant in the fashion business, reared its green head on an almost daily basis.

More than once Alex arrived at work only to find that the “cleaning woman” had mistakenly tossed out yesterday’s sketches. Or a colleague “accidentally” spilled coffee over designs she’d labored past midnight to finish. Even her beloved pencils disappeared, fortuitously discovered buried beneath some discarded towels in the change room.

Although the others steadfastly refused to accept her, nothing could banish the joy Alex felt every time she entered the studio.

Four months after her promotion, Debord invited Alex out to dinner. Refusing to play coy, she immediately accepted.

They dined at the Café le Flore, a place that remained unchanged from the days when Picasso had made it his unofficial salon and Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir had sat out the German occupation at a table in the back.

But Alex’s mind was not on the past but the future. The immediate future, to be exact. She wore one of her own creations, which had been designed to capture and hold a man’s attention. Created of tissue lamé, the strapless dress dipped to her waist in the back. The sparkling gold fabric duplicated the lightest strands in her multihued hair; layers of black net petticoat peeked enticingly from beneath the billowy skirt.

Glittery gold stockings, ridiculously impractical backless high heels and gold chandelier earrings that dusted her shoulders completed the festive look.

“Did I tell you that I plan to include two of your designs in the fall line?” Debord asked.

“No!” Pleasure surged through her. “Which ones?”

“The silk dinner suit with the sarong-style skirt, for one. It should work up nicely in smoke.”

Her tawny eyebrows crashed down toward her nose. “Gray?”

“Purple is inappropriate.”

Momentarily putting aside her excitement that the master had chosen her work, Alex crossed her legs with a quick, irritated rustle of ebony petticoats. “It’s not purple. It’s amethyst. Jewel-toned.” Alex had intended to press to have it also offered in ruby, emerald and sapphire.

“More women can wear gray than purple. The suit will be offered in smoke. And, of course, black.”

Of course, Alex thought. Although she knew she should be thrilled, she felt like a mother who’d just handed over her only child to the Gypsies.

“What other design did you like?”

Although asking Alex to hold her tongue was a little like asking her to stop breathing, she was clever enough to know that getting into an argument with Debord over the line that would ultimately bear his name would prove a fatal mistake.

Patience, she reminded herself for the umpteenth time in months.

“The velvet evening dress with the gold braid.”

“Oh, that’s one of my favorites.” After the brutal change he was making to her dinner suit, Alex could hardly believe he’d actually selected her most flamboyant and sexy design. “I’m surprised you like it,” she admitted.

He lifted an amused brow. “Because it is cut to showcase a woman’s curves?”

“Well, yes, actually. I know you usually prefer to design for a thinner female shape.”

Debord’s gaze moved over her, taking in the softly feminine curves displayed by her gilt dress.

“Although I will not take back what I said about men preferring their wives to dress like ladies, I will admit that you are definitely correct about one thing, chérie.”

His voice lowered, becoming deep and intimate. His gaze caressed her breasts, causing her nipples to harden into little points that pressed painfully against the gold tissue lamé.

Alex swallowed. “What’s that?”

“A man tires of fashionably bone-thin women.”

His unwavering gaze was rife with sexual promise. A woman could drown in those eyes, Alex mused. And this man wouldn’t lift a finger to save her. Such thoughts, which should have frightened her away, strangely only made her want this passionate, talented man all the more.

Conversation lulled as they sat close enough for their thighs to touch on the red banquette, exchanging glances that grew longer and more heated as the evening progressed.

When she suggested they have their after-dinner drinks at her apartment, Alex was only following her heart, bringing things to their natural conclusion.

Their lovemaking, she told herself as they stood side by side in the slow, creaky elevator, had always been inevitable. With the single-mindedness that had allowed her to achieve, at the relatively young age of twenty-six, so much of her dream, she couldn’t put aside her belief that she and Debord were destined to be together. In every way. The elevator finally reached her floor. The ornate brass door opened. Alex walked with Debord down the hall, her full skirt swaying.

When she went to open her apartment door, the key stubbornly stuck in the lock. She twisted it viciously. Nothing.

“Allow me.” Alex could have wept with relief when Debord took over. The door opened, as if by magic.

“Would you like something to drink?” Suddenly horrendously nervous, Alex found her arsenal of feminine allure had mysteriously deserted her. “Some wine? Cognac? Coffee?”

“Cognac will be fine.”

“Cognac it is.” Although it cost far more than she could comfortably afford, Alex had purchased the expensive Rémy Martin that afternoon. Just in case.

She poured the dark brandy into two balloon glasses, handing one to Debord. His fingers, as they curved around the glass, were long and tapered. The thought of those fingers stroking her body sent a jolt of desire surging through her.

As they sipped their drinks, a pregnant silence settled over them. Debord was the first to break it. He put down his glass on the table in front of him, took hers from her nerveless fingers and placed it beside his. Then he turned toward her.

“You are beautiful, Alexandra Lyons.” He trailed his fingers up her throat. “And so very talented.”

They were precisely the words she’d been hoping—longing—to hear. “Do you really, honestly think so?” she whispered.

His hands were warm and strong and gentle as they cradled her head. His smile warmed her to the core. “Bien sûr.”

Desire clouded her mind even as his words thrilled her. Warmth seemed to leave his fingertips and enter her bloodstream, flowing through her, down her legs, through her arms to her fingertips, waves of shimmering, silvery light.

His lips captured hers in a devastatingly long, deliriously deep kiss that left her drugged. She felt hot. Feverish. She wanted to melt into him, she wanted to feel his naked body next to hers, she wanted to immerse herself in the scent of his flesh. Never had Alex known such need! She pressed herself against him. She felt his hardness and wanted him deep inside her.

He stood up and looked down at her for a heartstoppingly long time, his expression unfathomable. When he finally extended his hand, she took it, allowing him to pull her to her feet.

Very slowly, he unzipped her dress. It fell to the floor in a gilt-and-jet puddle at her feet. Alex stepped out of it.

She was wearing a lace-trimmed, strapless, gold satin teddy, and a pair of thigh-high gold stockings. As he carried her into the adjoining bedroom, Alex clung to him mindlessly, eager to go wherever he took her.

She didn’t question how her underclothes were whisked from her. She only knew that they disappeared, as if by magic.

And then Debord’s clothes were gone, as well. He stood beside the bed, blatantly aroused. The ancient bedsprings creaked as he lay down beside her. “You are so voluptuous, ma cocotte.” His fingers closed over her full, aching breasts. “So hot.” His tongue laved her burning flesh.

He touched her, kissed her, licked her all over—her neck, her breasts, the backs of her knees, her stomach, on the insides of her thighs, in the furrow between her buttocks, even her toes.

He lay bare all her feminine secrets, all the while murmuring seductive suggestions in French that thrilled her.

It was torment. Torment mingled with escalating pleasure. The exciting, feverish floating feelings built even higher. Her body flushed strawberry pink.

“Please.” Alex wanted him wildly. Madly. She begged him to take her. “I don’t think...I need...” She could stand this no longer.

But he taunted her with his control, stripping away her defenses layer by layer, leaving her raw and vulnerable.

And then finally he took her. As the passion rose, furiously like a wind before a thunderstorm, Alex clung to Debord, surrendering to the rhythm. To him.

The designer arched his back for a long, charged moment, every gleaming muscle in his body cast into sharp relief. Heat flooded through Alex’s body, echoing his primal cry. It was as if the flame of their passion had ignited into a blinding fireball, searing them together for all time.

Forever, she thought as she lay in the strong protective circle of his arms, her lips curved in a secret womanly smile. The final phase of her life’s plan had blessedly come true. Just as she’d always dreamed. She and Debord were now inexorably linked—creative minds, spirits and bodies. Forever.

London

Located in the heart of modern London, The City, as it was known, was considered by many to be the wealthiest square mile on earth. It was also synonymous with power. Roman legions had once camped on land now taken over by towering high-rise office buildings, medieval guilds had plied their trades here, and swashbuckling capitalists—men who financed wars and countries—had transacted million-pound deals on the strength of a gentleman’s handshake.

These days, Americans and Japanese were rushing into The City in droves, clutching stuffed briefcases and folded editions of the Financial Times. The deals now made in The City tended to be about French films, Arab oil imports and shopping centers.

“You’ve come a long way from the bayou, boy,” Zach murmured as he watched a flock of pigeons circling the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral.

“You talking to me?” the taxi driver asked, looking at his fare in the rearview mirror.

“No. Just thinking out loud.”

The driver shrugged and concentrated on making his way through the crush of traffic.

The business day was coming to a close. Workers poured forth from the buildings, headed toward the Underground which would take them back to their homes in Knightsbridge and Mayfair. Buses forged their way through the crowded streets.

Tomorrow morning the same people would all rush back, talking fast, working hard, coming up with innovative new ways to make dizzying amounts of money. Because one thing that never changed was that money remained the lifeblood of The City.

Just as money was the reason for Zach’s being in London. He’d come here on Lord’s business. Or at least that was what he’d been trying to tell himself.

But the minute Miranda’s butler opened the door, Zach knew that the overriding reason he’d flown across a continent and an ocean was to be with the woman he’d not been able to get out of his mind for the past three weeks.

He knew he was behaving uncharacteristically. He couldn’t remember a time, even during his horny teenage years, when he’d been so obsessed with sex. Of course, he’d never met a woman like Miranda Lord before, either, Zach mused as he followed the dark-suited butler into the drawing room.

“It’s done,” he greeted her without preamble.

“Done?” She stubbed out her cigarette in a Lalique ashtray and crossed the room on a swish of crimson silk. “Do you mean...”

Feeling like a knight returning after a successful Crusade, he set his briefcase on a priceless Louis Quinze table and extracted a single piece of paper.

“Lord Smythe deeply regrets having caused you emotional distress. As proof of his willingness to accept full blame in the breakup of your marriage, not only has he dropped all claims against your assets, but he insists on paying all legal fees having to do not only with his attempt to acquire your Lord’s stock, but the divorce, as well.”

“Surely you jest!” She grasped the piece of paper from his hand, her avid eyes eating up the lines of text. “You darling, wonderful man.” Her voice was a low, satisfied purr. She pressed her hand against his chest, moving it lower. Then lower still. “How ever can I thank you?”

There was nothing subtle about her stroking fingers or the invitation gleaming in her eyes. Zach had come to the conclusion that directness was one of Miranda’s greatest charms.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” he said amiably.

Much, much later, Zach telephoned Eleanor from Miranda’s antique bed and amazed his employer by announcing that he was taking five rare days off.

Since they couldn’t make love twenty-four hours a day, Zach and Miranda managed to leave the bed from time to time. Miranda proved an enthusiastic tour guide as she took Zach to all the attractions. Hyde Park, the Tower of London, Kensington Gardens.

She also took him to the London Lord’s. For a man in charge of a chain of department stores, Zach was an anomaly in that he’d always hated shopping. But unable to resist Miranda’s polished charms, he spent an afternoon following her through the big store, and while he couldn’t get excited about the aisles of china and linen, he had to admit that the cashmere sweater she selected for him was quite comfortable.

One evening they attended a concert at Albert Hall, immortalized by the Beatles in their Sergeant Pepper album. “Did you know,” Miranda offered, as they climbed into the back seat of the Daimler limousine that was waiting to take them back to her town house after the concert, “when Tom Jones played here, women actually threw their underwear onto the stage?”

Zach arched a brow. “Surely not proper English women,” he said with feigned shock.

Miranda nodded. “So I’ve been told.”

Her eyes glittered like the diamonds she wore at her ears and throat. Her gown was little more than a slip, which clung to every curve of her body, outlining the pert upthrust of her breasts and rounded buttocks in a shimmer of silver satin. It was obvious she was wearing nothing underneath it.

“Sounds like I’m in the wrong business,” Zach said. It had begun to rain; the steady drizzle diffused the streetlights and made the streets glisten like black glass.

Miranda’s sultry laugh promised myriad sensual pleasures. “You have absolutely nothing to worry about in the bedroom department.” She pushed the button that caused the thick, tinted glass to rise between the front and back seats.

Kneeling in front of Zach, she unzipped his slacks, then bent her head, draping his groin in a curtain of blond silk as she lowered her glossy lips over him. With every pull of her mouth, Zach came closer to exploding. When he didn’t think he could hold back another moment, he yanked her back up onto the seat, arranging her so that she was lying across his lap.

She sprawled wantonly across him, her silver kid shoes on the seat, her skirt riding high on thighs, which, illuminated by the glow of the streetlights, gleamed like porcelain.

He trailed his fingers up her thighs in a seductive pattern that left her trembling. When he caressed her mound and played with the pale blond hair covering it, Miranda squirmed and arched her back, pressing against his hand.

Threading his fingers through the soft pubic curls, he began stroking her moist vaginal lips. “Tell me what you want,” he ordered, crazed to hear it. He’d never had an acquisitive streak. But from the first minute he’d seen her, he’d wanted Miranda. During these past five days, he’d discovered he was a greedy man. The more he had, the more he wanted.

“You, dammit,” she complained on a low moan that had nothing to do with surrender. “I want you.”

Zach kissed her deeply, tasting himself on her lips. Then he turned her in his arms, his hands spanning her waist, and with one swift, strong movement, lowered her onto him.

Naked flesh seared naked flesh as Miranda met his challenge; her pelvis ground into his, her white teeth nipped at his neck.

The ripe scent of passion filled the car; their bodies were hot and slick with it. Zach’s fingers dug into her skin, he suckled greedily on her breasts, and she felt a corresponding tightening deep within her.

She rode him relentlessly, up and down, harder and faster, demanding more and more until they crossed the finish line together. Exhausted, she collapsed against him.

They stayed together for a long time, neither having the inclination nor the energy to move. The only sound was their heavy, ragged breathing and the soft patter of rain on the roof of the limousine.

“I believe I’ve made a decision,” Miranda murmured against his chest.

“What’s that?”

She tilted her head back and smiled up at him. “After the Paris shows, I believe I’ll take a holiday in America.”

“How long a holiday?”

“I was thinking a fortnight. That would also give me an opportunity to examine all the new things you and Aunt Eleanor have been doing with the American stores. I’m always on the lookout for new ideas for the London Lord’s.”

Zach had already discovered that underneath Miranda’s patina of steamy sexual appeal lay a quicksilver brain. She’d been a driving force behind Lord’s couture boutiques, and although the deal with Debord had fallen through, she’d been lobbying Eleanor nonstop to give the avant-garde designer yet another chance.

“New ideas are the lifeblood of retailing,” he agreed mildly.

“And then, of course, there’s Auntie’s unfortunate friendship with Mrs. Kowalski. Someone has to help you keep an eye on her.”

Seeing through Miranda’s flimsy excuses, Zach enjoyed the idea that this unbelievably sexy creature was willing to cross an ocean for him—a former bayou brat who hadn’t worn shoes until he’d gone to school.

“I think,” he said, as he felt himself growing hard again, “that’s an excellent idea.”

Chapter Seven

Paris

Debord’s fall show took place late on a cold, rainy evening in July. Instead of the traditional runway, a huge wooden platform had been constructed over the Olympic-size pool at the Ritz Hotel. Seated around the pool, looking like so many judges at a diving competition, the world’s fashion herd had gathered to see if they would be writing the former wunderkind’s obituary. Like locusts, the rich and famous, along with thousands of buyers and thousands of fashion reporters, had winged their way to Paris. By the time the last model had twirled her way down the platform, these arbiters of society chic would either praise or bury the king of fashion.

They were, as always, prepared to do either.

No attempt had been made to protect celebrities from the omnipresent paparazzi. Seated in the front rows as many were, they were obvious targets, forced to put up with the hordes of photographers who ambushed them at point-blank range, camera shutters sounding like rain on a tin roof.

“Over here, Bianca,” they called out to the former Mrs. Jagger, hidden behind a pair of wraparound sunglasses. “Look this way!... Hey, Ivana, how about giving us one of those million-dollar smiles!” This too, was part of the ambience. The razzle-dazzle game of couture.

Also on hand were a trio of Saudi Arabian wives, properly draped in black for the occasion and accompanied by a phalanx of turbaned, grim-faced bodyguards who’d caused a stir when they’d refused to give up their daggers. From time to time the men’s hands would slip inside their dark jackets, ensuring that their automatic pistols were still nestled in their shoulder holsters.

In the pit around the platform the photographers stood on their camera cases for a better view. One enterprising photographer from the Baltimore Sun had brought along her own folding stepladder. When the trophy wife of a Wall Street trader continued to loudly complain that a photographer from a big Texas daily was blocking her view, he merely flashed her a snappy salute with his stubby middle finger and kept snapping away.

In the midst of all this sat Miranda and Eleanor Lord. Although one of the prized gilt chairs had also been reserved for Zach, he preferred to watch the show from the back of the crowd.

Backstage, chaos reigned supreme.

Trying to do ten things at once, Alex thought the hectic scene resembled the worst of Lewis Carroll’s Wonderland. The surrealistic Mad Hatter’s Tea Party, perhaps. Models in various stages of undress raced about like tardy white rabbits, hotly pursued by hairdressers who teased and spritzed, and dressers who tortured them into clothing no normal body could wear even as makeup artists wielded false eyelashes and stubby red pencils and complained that absolutely no one, dear heart, was holding still long enough to draw in a decent lipline!

Debord paced, barked orders and chain-smoked.

“Dammit, Alexandra,” he snapped, “you have put the wrong earrings on Monique! She is to wear the crystal teardrops with that gown. Not the tourmalines!”

He viciously yanked the offensive jewelry from the model’s earlobes, making both Alex and the model glad they were clip-ons. “Merde. Foolish girl! What am I paying you for?”

“Sorry,” she murmured, changing the earrings without pointing out that indeed, Debord himself had specified the green tourmalines. Three times.

On the other side of the curtain, their performances timed with stopwatch precision, sleek, sloe-eyed models glided across the platform beneath the unforgiving glare of arc lights.

“Numéro cinq, number five...Place des Vosges,” a voice announced as a trio of towering mannequins, clad in trousers and smoking jackets, done up in Debord’s signature black and gray, marched past the onlookers.

“Numéro treize, number thirteen...Jardins du Luxembourg.” This season Debord had chosen to name his collection after familiar Paris landmarks.

“Numéro vingt, number twenty...Palais-Royal....”

It was soon apparent to all assembled that this collection was more eclectic than usual. One of the smoking jackets boasted wide gold lapels, and a pair of jet trousers were shown with an eye-catching, beaded tuxedo jacket.

No one knew, of course, that the glittery additions had been Alex’s contribution. Since a couture line bore the name of the designer, assistants’ efforts routinely went unrewarded.

Alex had finally talked Debord into trying her silk dinner suit in some other hue besides black and gray. Although he’d steadfastly refused to make it up in her beloved amethyst, the burst of applause the suit received when shown in the rich ruby made her heart swell with pride.

“Turn for me, baby,” the male photographers called out, whistling flirtatiously as the model spun and twirled.

The familiar ponchos from last season returned, along with huge shawls flung over the shoulder and allowed to hang on the ground. Several of the shawls were fringed; many were offered in graduated colors, from misty mauve through dark heather to the deep, rich, royal purple Alex had been denied in the suit.