Satin Doll (22 page)

The couple had turned to look up at the café. The young man lifted his hand to point with a gesture that said perhaps they should stop and get something to eat. He was wearing a simple black turtleneck sweater and black slacks that emphasized his lithe, slender frame, but it was his face that captured attention—black brows drawn ruler-straight over a short chiseled nose, high cheekbones, and a thin, volatile mouth brimming with fire and youthful sensitivity. The exquisite girl with him was a true French beauty, her classically lovely face and dark, somewhat melancholy eyes conveying a gentleness, a mask-like serenity that was the essence of cool, dreamy loveliness.
 

“Rudi Mortessier took this Gilles Vasse kid out of his mother’s dressmaking shop in Tours,” Brooksie said out of the corner of her mouth, “and brought him to Paris two years ago, sort of your Dior-Givenchy or your Dior-St. Laurent connection in the old days. The kid’s a hot fashion talent. He’s doing about sixty percent of Mortessier’s collections now. You see how gorgeous he is. Poor little Rudi is madly in love with him.”
 

Sam watched as the handsome boy drew the girl into his arms and kissed her gently on the lips. “Who’s in love with
whom?
” she said, confused.
 

“The kid was no dummy,” Brooksie went on in the same low voice. “He knew what was going on, and the whole damned Paris haute couture scene got up every morning and called each other to see how
l’affaire Vasse
was doing. Like Rudi is giving this kid a Jaguar, a full-length sable coat from Moscow, which Gilles almost never wears. Gilles plays soccer and needs soccer shoes, so Rudi gets him several custom-made sports outfits. Rudi had this beautiful gun made for him—a chrome-plated Beretta—and jewelry like you wouldn’t believe. Rudi is tearing his heart out. Big deal! After all, the kid was designing dresses for his
mother
? In her shop in Tours? What’s the flip side, anyway? Then this happens.”
 

“What happens?” Sam cried, baffled.
 

Brooksie watched the young couple disappear up the winding steps to their level. “That’s what everybody is trying to figure out. If you ask me, I think the kid and little Rudi were getting it together, because for a while Mortessier was so happy he was out of his mind. Then Vasse falls in love with Lisianne, who is the top mannequin for Galanos, maybe the top model in Paris, and the first thing you know Gilles and Lisianne are living together in her apartment.”
 

For a moment Sam sat staring at Brooksie. “Is Mortessier going to fire him?”
 

“Nah, Rudi is still in love with the kid. Besides, Rudi is such a nice little guy, really a doll, he wouldn’t do something like that. Also, Gilles designed most of Mortessier’s collection this year. He still goes over to Rudi’s apartment in Passy for dinner, all that stuff. Only when he’s with Lisianne, they stay out of sight. Except now. I wonder,” she muttered, “what in the hell that means?”
 

“Are you going to do a story on it?”
 

Brooksie turned her green eyes full on her. “On what? That there’s a three-way love affair going between some of the nicest people in town? That’s not news—that’s Paris.” The green eyes narrowed suddenly. “I want
your
story, that’s what I want, Sammy. The Storm King story—you know, the big stuff—that Jackson Storm is getting ready to invade the Paris couture market.” She watched Sam’s face closely as she said, “Jack Storm made a move on Louvel’s somehow without anybody knowing about it, didn’t he? And he sent you over to take a look, because the jeans market in New York is suddenly busted, and there was no reason for you to stick around, right?”
 

“Now wait a minute, Brooksie,” Sam said quickly. “I have got something to tell you but it’s not exactly—”
 

“Sam Laredo’s not showing anything in New York this July.” Brooksie wasn’t listening. “Sam Laredo Western wear’s been taken off the New York Dress Institute lists. All the Storm King Western wear lines are taking a bath, the boots, the kid stuff, Sam Laredo, everything. It was in
Women’s Wear Daily
Monday.”
 

Women’s Wear Daily?
Sam thought, staring at her.
 

She hadn’t read the fashion trade paper in weeks; she didn’t even know you could buy it in Paris. After a moment she said in a whisper, “What do you mean, Sam Laredo’s been taken off the lists?”
 

The other woman shrugged. “Jackson Storm’s dumping his Western wear lines, that’s what it means. And he’s not the only one. Cowboy clothes are dead this year.”
 

Sam sat staring down at her half-eaten sandwich, trying to think. It couldn’t be, not what Brooksie was telling her. Last year’s Jackson Storm’s Western wear fall preview in the ballroom of the Sherry Netherland had been an extravaganza that dominated the front pages of the
New York Times
special Sunday fashion section. Department store buyers and press people in New York for the Dress Institute affairs, many of them going on to Paris a week later, had crowded into the Sherry Netherland ballroom, and Jack Storm’s publicity teams had been frantic trying to find more caviar and champagne and enough chairs for the overflow crowds. Now this year’s fall Western wear show was canceled? And nobody had told her one word of what was going on?
 

“You’re going to give me the story, Sam,” Brooksie was saying. “If Jackson Storm is going to make the big move, it’s going to be the story of the year,
news
news, not just the fashion beat—like
Time
magazine, the
Wall Street Journal,
the
Washington Post,
everything.” She slammed her elbows on the table. “Are you listening to me? I don’t care what comes out of Jackson Storm New York. I want the story here, in Paris, from
you,
Sammy! Jeez, I should have known, you’re still his number one girl. He wouldn’t dump you, would he?”
 

Sam stood up quickly and pushed her chair back.
 

Brooksie stood up, too, blocking her way. “I need the money. I’m going to be broke as hell if you don’t give this story to me,” she cried. “You know what broke is in Paris? You can’t move in with your friends, you can’t bum a meal from your brother who’s got a steady job, you can’t go to live with your girlfriend, they’re not
here
!”
 

“Please,” Sam said, trying to step around her.
Poor. Hungry. Need the money
. They were words out of her own past and they sickened her. She stopped, and turned to face Brooksie. All the things she’d planned to say at lunch suddenly fell into place.
 

“I’m going to give you the story you want,” she said slowly. “I just have to work out some of the details, that’s all.” She saw Brooksie’s eyes widen. “The whole thing, Brooksie, I promise—better than you would believe!”
 

Chapter Twelve

“Get out of here, I mean it!” Samantha quickly shifted the large package from the
quincaillerie,
the hardware store in the avenue de l’Opera, behind her back to hide it. “Nobody is allowed in the building on weekends!”
 

Chip lay with his long, muscular body stretched down the first few steps of the Maison Louvel staircase, his elbows propped on the fourth-floor landing. Faded, skintight jeans strained over his thighs and the well-defined, masculine bulge in his crotch, and a leather motorcycle jacket gaped open to show the impressive muscles of his chest and the long sweep of his flat belly. Two helmets, one in shiny metallic gold plastic, one in silver swung carelessly from the fingers of a big hand. He blocked the way completely, sprawling across the steps.
 

“Move your damned feet.” Sam faced him squarely, one arm bent behind her to hide the paper-wrapped package. “I have to get around you.”
 

“Thought you might like to go for a ride, love,” he said huskily. “Where’ve you been? I’ve been waiting on these bloody stairs for the better part of an hour.” His bold black stare slid down her tailored shirt and jeans with considerable warmth. “A good day to get out of the house, breathe fresh air. You like motorcycles?”
 

Sam cautiously gauged Chip’s powerful body. She’d rushed from the lunch with Brooksie in Les Halles to the hardware store near the Opera and then down the rue des Capucines at a fast lope and she was still out of breath. Now here was Chip, lying in wait for her inside the Maison Louvel, just when she was beginning to think she’d finally got rid of him.
 

“What’s the matter, your other women turn you down?” The moment the words were out of her mouth she regretted them. But Chip wasn’t going to start anything with her, no matter what had happened before. The thought brought a telltale flush to her cheeks. Good lord, was that one mistake going to dog her forever? “Get up off the stairs,” she snapped, “I need to get by.”
 

“Mmmmm,” he said without budging. He crossed his legs, and looked up at her from under a tangle of thick black lashes. “You know, love, I’d like to see you in a skirt, something soft and feminine, just for once. The pants are lovely, you’ve got the figure for it with those stunning great long legs, but a dress would be quite charming. What’re you hiding behind your back?” he went on silkily. “Give us a look.”
 

“I want you to get out of my way,” she said between gritted teeth. The arm that held her package awkwardly behind her back was beginning to feel the strain. “I’m not hiding anything, and it’s none of your business, anyway.”
 

She stepped over his booted leg and started up the stair, squeezing close to the wall. But his hand snaked out quickly and caught her at the knee. He sat up.
 

“Samantha,” he said in a different tone of voice, “come go for a ride. I want to talk to you.”
 

“Let go of me, dammit!” She faced him, chin up, her eyes level with his as she stood several steps lower on the stair. She brought the package down to her side in full view. “I’m not afraid of you. If you manhandle me, you muscle-bound clown, believe me, I’ll make you regret it!”
 

He only stared at her, his hand still gripping her knee. “Is that what you think I’ll do? Manhandle you?” His voice dropped softly. “I spent most of one night in your bed, love, and I didn’t hear any complaints.” Without moving his black eyes he said, “What’s in the parcel?”
 

Before she could pull back, he had reached out and grabbed the package from her hand. Sam struggled for a moment, trying to hold on to it, but he was much stronger. “Give it back,” she yelled, “I mean it! I’m going to have you arrested for trespassing in this building, if it’s the last damned thing I do!”
 

He let her go, using both hands to peel back the paper wrapping. He held up the implement from the
quincaillerie,
two wooden handles with a formidable steel beak at their juncture. The black wings of his eyebrows arched up mockingly. “What are you planning to use it on, ducks? You going into business stealing bicycles?”
 

“Damn you, did you hear me?” She grabbed one of the handles. He held on to the other while she tugged at it vainly. “I said give it back! It belongs to the hardware store!”
 

Chip unrolled his long length from the stairs and pried her fingers loose from the handle of the chain cutter. “Don’t be stupid. You’re not going to use it yourself. You haven’t got the strength to break that padlock. All you’ll do is crack a bone in your wrist, you silly twit, or throw out your shoulder.”
 

“Give it back!” She started toward him uncertainly, her hands clenched, not sure what she was going to do. “It’s only rented, I didn’t buy it! Give it back!”
 

He held the cutter up out of her reach. “Temper, temper, don’t do anything foolish, love. What do you think’s inside the storeroom, Samantha? What do you want that’s in there?”
 

“Listen you—” she began and then stopped. He had the chain cutter. He was right about it taking a lot of strength to break a padlock. But Chip could probably open it, if he wanted to.
 

In the next instant she knew she was crazy to have anything to do with him. What he wanted, showing up here with the excuse of inviting her for a ride on his stupid motorcycle, was what he wanted from any woman who’d let him hang around—what he got from Solange Doumer and her daughter.
 

“There are clothes in there,” she said. “The ones the mannequins wore, that weren’t sold. I’ve seen the sketches. I want to get a look at them. I—I think they might be valuable.”
 

He still held the cutter out of her reach. “Valuable?”
 

“To
me,
you jerk,” she hissed. “I’m a designer! There’s—there might be years of clothes in there that are important!”
 

“Jesus,” he said under his breath. “You won’t give up on it, will you?”
 

“You haven’t got anything to say about it!” Sam burst out. “The Maison Louvel belongs to Jackson Storm Enterprises now, and I’m damned well going to look in the storeroom. That’s what I’m here for!”
 

He studied her enigmatically for a long moment. “Come along, satisfy your bloody curiosity then,” he said abruptly. He turned and started up the last few steps.