Legacy of Lies (6 page)

“How horrible!”

“It would be if it was true. But the police lieutenant I spoke with said that same neighbor calls up after ‘Crime
Stoppers' reports on the news to say she's seen the criminal lurking around her neighborhood. He also assured me that there was no evidence of foul play in any of Clara's husbands' deaths.”

“Are you telling me you believe she's innocent?”

Zach shrugged. “At the moment, I can only conclude that Clara Kowalski simply seems to have better luck with her plants than with her husbands. But I'm keeping an eye on her.”

Miranda leaned forward and placed a hand on his arm. “You've no idea how that relieves my mind, Zachary. To know that someone besides me cares what happens to Aunt Eleanor.”

Sitting back again, she spread some frothy cream atop a scone, added a dab of dark red currant jam and took a bite. “Sublime,” she said on a soft, pleased sigh. “You have marvelous tastes in restaurants, Mr. Deveraux.”

Her lips left a red mark like a crescent moon on the scone; a dab of cream remained at the corner of her mouth. When she licked it away, Zach felt his body harden.

“Thanks.” He took a long swallow of tea and wished it was Scotch.

“From your disapproval of Auntie's foray into the spirit realm, I take it you don't believe in things that go bump in the night?”

“No. Although I grew up surrounded by voodoo, I've never bought into the spirit world.”

“Voodoo?” Miranda leaned forward, every muscle in her body taut with interest. Once again she reminded Zach of Fitzgerald's Daisy. Her voice suggested moonlight and starshine and champagne; her eyes were dazzling jewels.

“I grew up in Louisiana,” Zach revealed. “While it's not nearly as prevalent as it once was, voodoo still lives on in local superstitions and medicines.”

“Louisiana,” Miranda mused reflectively. Zach watched the wheels turning inside that gorgeous blond head. “But of course,” she said, clapping her hands. “That explains the accent I keep hearing. You're a Cajun!”

She was looking at him with the overt fascination one might give to a newly discovered species of animal. “Is it true what they say about your people?”

“What do they say?”

Zach braced himself for the usual stereotypical description of fire-eating swamp dwellers who communicated in an archaic French only they could understand and who had yet to join the nineteenth century, let alone the twentieth.

“That your motto is
Laissez les bons temps rouler?
”

“Let the good times roll?” Zach smiled. “Absolutely.” He tried to remember the last time in his own life recently that the
bons temps
had
rouler
ed and came up blank.

“I'm so relieved.” Her silky voice caressed, like sensually delicate fingers, making Zach consider suggesting they walk to the lobby check-in and get a room.

“So often the most wonderful things you hear turn out to be an exaggeration. And a crashing disappointment.” Miranda's expression revealed that she was finding Zach anything but a disappointment.

“It must be difficult,” Miranda mused, “trying to run the business while Aunt Eleanor's locked away in the library with that horrid old witch conducting séances.”

“I'm managing,” Zach said.

Some inner instinct warned him that Eleanor's niece might have a hidden agenda. The board needed Miranda's vote at this year's annual meeting. Zach wasn't about to give her any hint that the chain's future was not as sound as ever. Which it was. He wouldn't allow it to be otherwise.

“Perhaps things will get better for you,” she suggested.

Zach would have had to have been deaf to miss the in
vitation in her tone. When she smiled at him over the rim of her teacup, he felt another slow pull deep in his groin.

“Perhaps they will,” he agreed.

She inclined her head charmingly. Then, recrossing her legs with an erotic swish of silk, she gave him an enticing flash of lacy garter and smooth thigh.

It had begun to rain; a steady drizzle that streamed down the windows and made the line between ocean and sky blur.

“I'm afraid I must confess I don't really keep up on the details of the American end of the business,” she admitted. “I have enough to keep me busy with the London store. And, of course, my ongoing effort to increase the chain's couture lines.

“But I do know that Lord's headquarters are in Los Angeles. Before Auntie's unfortunate attack, had you come here to Santa Barbara on business? Or pleasure?”

This morning he would have answered business. But since there was no mistaking her signals, Zach answered, “A bit of both.”

“I've always admired a man who knows how to play as hard as he works.” She took another sip of tea and eyed him expectantly from under the silken fringe of her expertly dyed lashes. Leaning forward, she placed her hand on his knee and looked him directly in the eye. “Now that you've done your duty and provided me with much needed sustenance, I suppose we should return to the hospital. Heaven knows what that horrid woman has done to Aunt Eleanor's blood pressure.”

Her demeanor, as they left the lounge and waited for the valet to bring Zach's Mercedes, revealed that returning to the hospital was definitely not her first choice.

“I have some business to discuss with Eleanor. And then you'll probably want to visit with her again,” Zach said ten minutes later as he pulled into the hospital parking area.

“Aunt Eleanor and I have a great deal of catching up to do,” Miranda agreed.

“I thought you might. After your visit, I'll take you back to the house.”

“I'd appreciate that. If you're certain I won't be intruding on your busy schedule.”

She was. But Zach didn't care.
Laissez les bons temps rouler
. His mind was practically writhing with erotic images. “I'll shuffle things around while you're with Eleanor.” He cut the engine and pocketed the key.

“That's very kind of you.”

“And then, after you get settled in at the house, we'll go out to dinner.”

“It sounds positively delightful,” Miranda said.

Unable to resist the creamy lure of her skin another minute, Zach ran the back of his hand down her cheek.

“And then, after dinner, you'll spend the night with me,” he declared in a firm, deep voice that brooked not a single argument. “All night. In my room. In my bed.”

Miranda's lips curved in a slow, seductive smile that burned as hot as an Olympic flame. “Yes.”

Paris

A
lex'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 pri
mal 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.