Legacy of Lies (7 page)

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 townhouse 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.”

Paris

D
ebord'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 tear-drops 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.