Читать книгу Legacy of Lies - JoAnn Ross - Страница 15

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.

The applause grew more enthusiastic with each number. Indeed, editors from Vogue and Bazaar stood up to salute Alex’s other effort—a voluptuous velvet evening gown shown in a stunning pimento-red that added a flare of fire to the collection. From her viewing spot behind the curtain, Alex was certain she saw Grace Mirabella wipe away a tear with the knuckle of an index finger.

By the time the show ended with the traditional wedding gown, this one white satin and studded with seed pearls, the verdict was clear. Surrounded by television lights, Debord joined a dozen models on the stage as the crowd bravoed wildly.

Within moments his unshaven jaw was smeared with the lipstick of his admirers. He had successfully reclaimed his place at the uppermost tier of the fashion pack; he was, everyone agreed, a genius!

“Well,” Eleanor said, raising her voice to be heard over the enthusiastic applause, “that was quite inspiring. I do believe it’s time to invite Debord into our corporate family.”

“The show certainly seems to be a success,” Zach said. He’d left the back of the room and joined the two women.

“I told you the man was worth his weight in gold to Lord’s,” Miranda said. Her face had the kind of beatific expression Zach usually associated with religious paintings.

Neither Zach nor Eleanor brought up Debord’s earlier disaster. After today’s triumph, there was no need.

“No point in trying to talk business with the guy now,” Zach decided, eyeing the crowd of women surrounding the designer.

“Tomorrow will be soon enough,” Eleanor agreed.

She was suddenly more tired than she cared to admit. But the way Zachary had been hovering over her like an overprotective guard dog ever since that silly heart flutter she’d experienced during the séance, she knew that if she confessed the slightest fatigue, he’d rush her immediately to the Hôpital Américain.

Zach turned to Miranda. “Ready for dinner?”

“If you don’t mind, darling, I think I’ll stay and schedule my fittings with Marie Hélène.”

“Now?” Zach’s expression revealed that he damn well did mind. He’d been looking forward to ravishing her in the suite’s hedonistic marble tub.

“You know what they say.” Miranda’s smile reminded Zach of a sleek, pampered cat. “Never put off until tomorrow what you can do today.”

She linked her arms around his neck and brought his mouth down to hers, apparently oblivious to their audience and the whirring sound of camera motor drives freezing the heated kiss on film.

“I won’t be long,” she murmured caressingly. Her pelvis pressed against his groin in a blatantly sexual promise. “I promise. After all, we can’t miss Debord’s party.”

As her wet tongue insinuated itself between his firmly set lips, Zach relented, as he’d known all along he would.

* * *

The private party celebrating Debord’s triumph was held in a converted Catholic Church in the first arrondissement. The gilded altar and carved oak pews had been replaced by three balconies, five bars, a giant video screen and three dance floors.

The guests were a mix of high society, artists, models, and the occasional Grand Prix driver and soccer star; the music was just as eclectic, ranging from the tango and bossa nova to fifties’ and sixties’ rock and roll.

Alex was standing on the edge of the crowd beneath a towering white Gothic pillar—one of many holding up an arched, gilded ceiling emblazoned with chubby cherubs—sipping champagne and watching the frenzied activity when Debord materialized beside her.

“Are you ready to leave mon petit chou?”

She looked up at him, surprised. “So soon? Don’t you want to celebrate?”

“That’s precisely what I had in mind.” He plucked her glass from her hand and placed it on the tray of a passing waiter.

He put his arm around her, ushering her through the throng of merrymakers, pausing now and again to accept glittering accolades.

Anticipation shimmered in the close interior of his Lamborghini. He reached over and slid his hand beneath the hem of her dress. Few women possessing such bright hair would dare wear the scintillating pink hue; confident in her unerring sense of style, Alex resembled a brilliant candle.

“It was a good day, non?”

His caressing touch on her leg was making her melt. “A wonderful day,” she breathed.

“And it will be an even better night.” His fingers tightened, squeezing her thigh so that she knew he would leave a bruise. It would not be the first mark of passion he’d inflicted during these past weeks together, and if his husky tone was a promise of things to come, it would not be the last.

He returned his hand to the steering wheel and continued driving. “I received good news tonight,” he told her. “From Lady Smythe.”

Alex had seen him talking to the British heiress. She hadn’t recognized Miranda’s escort, a tall, handsome man who’d literally stood head and shoulders above the other guests.

“She bought your entire collection,” Alex guessed.

“Better. Eleanor Lord has finally seen the light.”

Alex remembered the call she’d interrupted the day months ago when she’d shown Debord her sketches. The call canceling Lord’s proposed collaboration with the designer. “Do you mean—”

“There will soon be an Yves Debord collection in every Lord’s store in America,” he revealed with not a little satisfaction. “And, of course, London.”

“That’s wonderful! I’m so happy for you!” She waited for him to mention her own small contribution to his successful line.

“It is about time that old woman recognized my genius,” he said instead.

Reminding herself that without his oversize ego, Debord would not be the man she’d fallen in love with, Alex tried not to be hurt by his dismissal of her efforts. She realized he could not acknowledge her publicly. But it would have been nice if at least privately, he’d given her a smidgen of credit.

Trying to look on the bright side, that some of the richest women in the world would soon be wearing her designs, Alex reminded herself how lucky she was.

Here she was in Paris, the most romantic city in the world, about to make love to the man who’d played a starring role in her romantic fantasies for years. She would not ruin the moment by wishing for more than Debord was prepared to give.

As they passed the magnificent église du Dome, Napoléon’s final resting place, Alex realized that Debord was taking her to his home. It was the first time he had. Her heart soaring, Alex took the gesture as an important shift in their relationship.

“Welcome to my little maisonette,” he said as they entered his hôtel particulier.

Unlike the stark modernism of his atelier, where she knew she could work for a hundred years and never feel comfortable, Alex found Debord’s Paris residence charming.

He’d decorated it in the colors of eighteenth-century France—sunny golds, flame reds, rich browns. The walls were expertly lacquered and trimmed with marblized bases and moldings. Small, skirted tables were adorned with candid photographs of the designer with Nancy Reagan, Placido Domingo, Princess Grace, all testaments to Debord’s high-gloss life.

As Debord led Alex up the stairway to his bedroom, she caught a fleeting glimpse of the art lining the walls, and although she was no expert, she did recognize a Dali giraffe woman, a Monet Gypsy and a Picasso sketch.

They entered the bedroom. Outside the window, a white, unbelievably large full moon looked as if it had been pasted onto the midnight black sky.

She held her arms out toward this man she loved, anticipating his kiss. But he turned away to light the fire some unseen servant had laid. “Take off your clothes,” he commanded brusquely.

Although it was not the romantic approach she would have wished for on this special night, Alex obliged. But by the time she’d dispensed with the final scrap of silk and lace, the heat that his dark gaze could always instill in her had begun to cool.

His expression remained inscrutable, his eyes devoid of warmth. She stood there, hands by her sides, firelight gleaming over her nude body, growing more and more uneasy.

His dark eyes continued to hold her wary gaze with the sheer strength of his not inconsiderable will as took off his own clothing. When he put his arm around her and led her to the bed, Alex’s heart leapt. Now would come the tenderness, the love, she’d been yearning for.

But instead of kissing her, as she’d expected, after drawing her down onto the smooth Egyptian-cotton sheets, Debord’s teeth closed sharply on her earlobe.

“What are you doing?” Shocked, she touched her stinging lobe, startled to see the drop of crimson on her fingertip.

Once more, his eyes locked on hers as he took her finger between his lips and licked the faint drop of blood from it. There was a menace in his gaze that frightened her.

“Making love to you, Alexandra, of course. What did you think?”

“I don’t want this.” A dark shadow moved across the ghostly moon. Another moved over her heart. Her earlobe throbbed; the warmth between her thighs went cold.

Alex tried to turn her head away, but his fingers grasped her chin and forced her face back to his.

“Of course you do,” he said. “You want me to penetrate you, to possess you.”

“Yves, please. Let me go.”

“You know that’s not what you want.”

When she tried to pull away, he tightened his hold. His eyes glittered dangerously, and for a moment Alex thought he was going to hit her. Afraid, but unwilling to show it, she held her ground, refusing to flinch.

He obviously mistook her silence for consent. His lips curved in a cruel, unfamiliar smile. “I promise to make this a night you will remember always.”

Before Alex could determine whether to take his words as a promise or a threat, Debord pinned her wrists above her head and thrust into her dryness, smothering her startled cry with his mouth.

At first she fought him, but she was no match for his superior strength. A vicious, backhanded blow cracked across her face like a gunshot.

He took her with a savage, relentless, animal ferocity. Finally, when she didn’t think she could stand the searing pain another moment, he collapsed on top of her, his passion spent.

The moon reemerged from behind the cloud. Alex lay bathed in its cold white light, feeling cruelly violated and sadder than she’d ever felt in her life. He shifted onto his side, his elbow resting on the rumpled sheet, his head propped on his hand, and looked down at her. Unwilling to meet his gaze, Alex covered her eyes with her forearm. She heard the bedroom door open. Surprised, since she could feel Debord still lying beside her, watching her with his unwavering intensity, she removed her arm and looked up.

The newcomer was Marie Hélène. The woman was standing over them, clad only in a crotch-length strand of pearls. For the first time since Alex had known her, she was smiling.

“Ah, ma chère.” As if nothing unusual had happened, as if it were commonplace for his sister to arrive unannounced and undressed in his bedroom, Debord rose and drew the nude woman into his arms, showing her the tenderness he’d denied Alex.

“Your timing is perfect,” he murmured when their long, openmouthed kiss finally ended. He looked down at Alex. “Isn’t it, chérie?”

As they smiled down on her with benevolent, expectant lust in their eyes, Alex realized that this was not the first time the brother and sister had engaged in such activities.

Self-awareness came crashing down on her like a bomb. She’d thought she was oh, so sophisticated, with her darling little Paris apartment and her fancy couture career and her French lover!

Now she realized that deep down inside, where it really counted, she was just a country bumpkin who’d come to the big city and lost her heart. The trick was to escape before she also lost her soul.

Although every muscle in her body was screaming, she managed to push herself to her feet. Her nose was running. Wiping it, she saw the bright blood on her hand.

“Speaking of timing, I think it’s past time that I went home.” She managed, with effort, to push the words past the sob that was lodged in her throat.

She looked frantically around the room, searching for her wispy panties and stockings. When she couldn’t spot them, she reminded herself that the important thing was to escape this nightmare.

“Surely you do not intend to leave now?” Debord questioned with an arched, mocking brow. “Not when the celebration is just getting started?”

Vomit rose in Alex’s throat. She swallowed it back down again. “If you think I’m going to—” her voice was muffled by the dress she was pulling over her head “—play musical beds with you and Morticia here, you’re sadly mistaken.”

“Alexandra.” Debord caught her arm and shook his head in mock chagrin. “I have spent these past weeks patiently introducing you to a world of erotic pleasures. I’ve taught you passion. I’ve taught you to set free your darkest, most innermost emotions.”

That much was true. Some of the things he’d asked Alex to do in the name of love had made her grateful that her bedroom was usually so dark he couldn’t see her blush. Many of them she hadn’t enjoyed. But he obviously had. And at the time, to her, making Debord happy had been the important thing.

“A ménage à trois with Marie Hélène is simply the next step in your education.”

Her blood was like ice in her veins; it pounded behind her eyes like a jackhammer. “You’re both disgusting.” What the hell had happened to her shoes?

“I warned you about Americans,” Marie Hélène sniffed, slanting a knowing glance at her brother.

“I thought you were turning into a sophisticate,” Debord told Alex. His fingers tightened painfully on her upper arm. “But non, my sister was right about you. You are merely a silly schoolgirl with dreams of Prince Charming on a white charger.”