Satin Doll (42 page)

Peter Frank’s voice spoke in her ear. “Sammy? Great. Interpol gave us this London number. I’m glad we found you. Here’s Jack.”
 

“Baby, where the hell are you?” Jack Storm’s rich, smooth voice came on the line. “Sammy, get your beautiful ass on a plane and fly into Paris. I’m going to lay the world at your feet, gorgeous. Are you listening? We’re announcing you’re the new head of Jackson Storm, Paris, today. Turn on your TV. Get your morning newspaper. It’s all there.”
 

“What?” Samantha looked up. Chip, a towel around his waist, had come to stand in the doorway of the bedroom. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jack. What’s ‘Jackson Storm, Paris,’ anyway?”
 

“I need you, Sammy,” the voice said commandingly. “I love you doll, but I’m not going to push you. I don’t want you to make any decisions right now. We can always talk about that later. Right now I want you in Paris. We’re all over the place here, it’s Jackson Storm in Paris time, a demand like you wouldn’t believe.”
 

Her heart was beginning to pound. “Jack, wait—”
 

“Write your own ticket, Sammy. You want the Maison Louvel, you got it. You want to dump the couture idea, open up a big glitzy boutique, take Paris with some good American mass-market merchandising, Rodeo Drive-type shops, you got that, too. But we want you, baby. We need you. They’re going crazy here. They want Sam Laredo. So,” Jack Storm added softly, “do I, Sammy. We can work things out.”
 

Samantha kept her eyes on the grim, beautiful man in the doorway watching her. She didn’t know what to say. “Jack, wait a minute. I’m not coming to Paris. I—I’m getting married.”
 

There was a silence. Then Jack Storm’s voice said with a sudden tremor in it, “Sammy, it’s going to take a while for me to get a divorce. But, darling, you’ve made me the hap—”
 

“Jack,” she almost yelled, “I’m marrying somebody you don’t know! He’s—he’s a policeman who works for Interpol.” She took a deep, shivering breath. Her hand holding the telephone had suddenly gone sweaty.
I’m throwing away everything I ever wanted,
she was thinking,
all I’ve struggled for these past two years. Do I really want to do this?
“I—I think we’re going to get married right away,” she blurted.
 

The silence on the other end was so deep she wasn’t sure they were still connected. “Jack?” Samantha said uncertainly.
 

Jack Storm’s voice said after a long moment, “Whoever he is, Sammy, he’s not for you. I know you, lover. I know what you want, and only I can give it to you. In your heart you know that’s true, don’t you?” He paused and then he said softly, “Sweetheart, are you pregnant? Are you in trouble? Don’t marry this guy, come to me. I’ll do whatever you want, darling, I’ll take care of you.”
 

Pregnant? Samantha stared at the telephone in her hand. “Jack, I’m not in any kind of trouble. I know what I’m doing.” She stopped, suddenly realizing that she had definitely made up her mind. She was going to marry Chip and be happy as a policeman’s wife. It was no big thing, not when it was the man she loved. A feeling swept over her—wonderful, heady power. “I think you ought to love your wife, Jack,” she told him firmly, “and not play around like you do. After all, you’re not getting any younger. You know, if you have somebody who loves you, you ought to stick with them. I’m just finding that out.”
 

“You love
me,
Sammy,” the voice in her ear suddenly roared. “I’m the one you love, not some jerk you just met! Baby, I know you, you’re ambitious, you’re smart, you’ve got chutzpah, everything—but you’re still a kid. You need a strong man to help you get what you want. Jesus, do I have to get on a goddamned plane and come to London to get you?”
 

Sam looked across the room to where the man in the door stood listening. Jack Storm didn’t have any idea what he was getting into, if he thought he was coming to London to take her away from Inspector Christopher Chiswick.
 

“Look,” Sam said softly, “I don’t love you, Jack, I’m sorry. And I’m not a kid anymore, I’m not even Sam Laredo. I think that’s what Paris did for me. And Jack”—she hesitated—”what’s happening to Jackson Storm in Paris sounds like a great opportunity. And you’re taking advantage of all the publicity. The company really should do something in high fashion. When you get time, I think you ought to read my proposal.”
 

“You’re on the rebound, Sammy!” Jack Storm was actually shouting. “You don’t want to do anything crazy. You don’t want to throw away everything I’m offering you! Look, you found some guy when you were hurting—”
 

“He’s not just some guy!” she yelled. She turned to face Chip in the doorway, because she wanted him to see her face when she spoke. “Jack, this may be hard for you to believe, but I’m going to marry the most magnificent man I’ve ever met. He’s only a cop, but he’s given me everything I’ll ever want. And I love him very much!”
 

Sam didn’t wait for Jack Storm’s reply. She hung up the telephone, got to her feet and walked across the room.
 

Straight into Chip’s arms.
 

The Hotel Connaught was a rather small, seemingly unpretentious place off a pretty little park full of leafy green trees called San Pedro Square. The doorman greeted Chip as though he knew him.
 

Well, Sam thought, watching Chip pay the cab driver, the hotel looked like the sort of place a Scotland Yard policeman would go to—small, conservative, probably not too expensive. She gave Chip a loving look as they went through the door of the Connaught into the dark, wood-paneled lobby. He was wearing a dark blue suit, a crisp white shirt and his usual gray and blue striped tie, and his black hair was still unruly in spite of his efforts to comb it down. He looked tough, hard-faced and perfectly wonderful. And he was hers, she thought proudly.
 

At the door of the dining room Sam began to upgrade her estimate of the Connaught Hotel. It could be quite expensive, she thought, looking at the dark wood paneling, the ancient chandeliers, the thick, rich carpeting. The headwaiter, a tall, gray-haired man with the air of a bank president, knew Chip, too. “We haven’t seen you in quite a while, milord,” the headwaiter said.
 

Chip held her elbow in a tight grip. “I’ve been out of town, Lawrence.” He suddenly seemed in a hurry. “Give us the usual table, if you will.”
 

Samantha stared at the dining room of the Connaught, seeing that it was full of well-dressed people who looked as though they ate very expensive food. The Connaught Hotel restaurant was quiet, clubby, with an air of exclusiveness and, Sam guessed, very English. Chip rushed her after Lawrence so fast she hardly had time to look around.
 

Their table was next to a window that overlooked a charming walled garden. “Lady Constance was with us Wednesday,” the headwaiter said, handing Chip a large menu. “She’s looking forward to seeing you back in London, your grace.”
 

Samantha had no idea Chip knew someone called “Lady” anything, but then, she had already decided, there was a lot she didn’t know about him. They were staying in an apartment rather elaborately furnished with what seemed to be genuine eighteenth-century antiques. It was in a London town house in a very fashionable part of the city, not what you’d expect for someone on a police inspector’s salary. The apartment belonged to a corporation, Chip had explained when she asked him about it. He borrowed it from a friend when he was in town.
 

“Try Dover sole,” Chip said from behind the big parchment menu. “It’s usually quite good.”
 

“Who’s Lady Constance?” Sam asked in a discreet whisper.
 

Slowly, the parchment descended and she saw Chip’s face with its familiar stony look, his eyes veiled. Inspector Christopher Chiswick was back, authoritative, a little stern. “Samantha, let me warn you, in the Connaught you do not raise your voice. It creates all sorts of havoc. This is not Paris and not the Wild West. And I’m hungry, I want my lunch. Try the mixed grill.”
 

“But I wasn’t raising my voice,” she said, amazed. She looked around the elegant dining room, glad she was wearing a fairly dressy beige silk shirt and matching pleated skirt and a string of
faux
pearls. “I’ll have the Dover sole. And if Lady Constance is an old girlfriend, I don’t care what you did in the past. I love you and we’re going to get married.” She had a sudden thought. “She’s not a stripper, is she?”
 

“Samantha,” the man across the table said gruffly, “she’s not a stripper. And yes, you are going to raise your voice, but when you do, I will stuff this napkin in your mouth. Is that understood?”
 

“But I’m not raising my voice.” Sam was beginning to wonder what was going on, as she saw a little muscle in his jaw quivering almost imperceptibly. “But if you try to do anything with that napkin, you’ll regret it, believe me,” she said, sticking out her lower lip. “I have four brothers and I lead with my left.”
 

“I love you, Samantha. For God’s sake, try to remember that.” He lifted the menu again and said from behind it, “And properly it is ‘milord’ and not ‘your grace’—that’s my second cousin. Lawrence just slipped up there a moment.”
 

“God, is there a Grace, too?” she said closing her eyes.
 

There was a silence. Then Chip lowered the menu once more and she saw an oddly beseeching look in that bold black gaze. He stared at her for several minutes before he took a deep breath and said in a low voice, “Darling, my given name is Percy Charles Christopher Edward George. The titles are Earl Bracegirdle, Viscount Warrington, Baron de Clare. My mother’s family owns Dozier Thread of Manchester. And she is Lady Constance Chiswick, Dowager Countess of Marle.”
 

Sam sat looking at him, her head cocked to one side, the sunlight glistening on her pale hair. “But you’re a cop,” she murmured, just to make that clear. “Who’s Percy Charles Christo—your
mother,
” she said more loudly, “is called
Lady Constance
?”
 

He clamped his jaws together even more grimly. “There wasn’t time to tell you this morning, and I knew that damned dress manufacturer would use the number Interpol gave him. I wanted to wait.”
 

“You wanted to wait?” None of this was getting through to her. “You mean you wanted to wait to see if I liked all those names? Like Earl and Baron?”
 

“They’re titles,” Chip said through clenched teeth. “I’m not named Earl, I
am
an earl. Also a viscount and a baron.” When he saw her expression change, he went on rapidly, “You’ll like my mother. We’ll go down to Surrey this afternoon and take tea with her. She’s half American. Her mother—”
 

Sam was looking wild-eyed now, her hands gripping the edge of the table. “Wait a minute,” she cried. “An earl is a lord, isn’t he? You mean you’re an aristocrat? Like Lord Somebody?”
 

“I have an advanced degree in criminology from the University of Leeds,” he ground out, “and I prefer to work. My mother works, too. She’s chairman of the board of Dozier—”
 

“You can’t do this to me,” Sam yelled. “I’m giving up everything to marry a cop. Hells afire, you know how I feel about aristocrats. I had enough of them in Paris! I was counting on being poor again!”
 

“Samantha, I’ll give you anything you want,” he said, his eyes glittering. “I’m ten times richer than Jackson Storm. And I
am
a cop. My next assignment is Hong Kong.”
 

“No, it isn’t,” she cried. “You’ve lied to me. Your name is Percy something. I heard you say something about girdles!”
 

Chip put the napkin back down on the table carefully. “Bracegirdle. It’s a very old English title, but the family name is Chiswick.” He reached over the table and seized her hand, holding tightly to it when she tried to pull it away. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry you can’t make the ultimate sacrifice and be poor again, but when you marry me, you’ll be quite rich and a countess.” He clamped his fingers around her hand in an iron grip and dragged it to his mouth to kiss it determinedly.
 

“I don’t want to be a countess,” she said, struggling to get her hand away. “It’s just a step down from bag lady!”
 

“Not in England it isn’t.” His teeth nibbled on the knuckles of her imprisoned hand rather sharply. “Consider, my darling, you’ll never have to be sorry for yourself anymore. You’ll never wake me up in the middle of the night squalling about snowstorms and not being loved, because you’ll have everything you need, and more. The flat in Mayfair is owned by the family corporation, but I’m the president, so I get to use it. Then there’s the country house, Chiswick Manor, in Surrey, a nice little house in Ayrshire and my second cousin manages the ranch in Alberta, where you can go to look at cattle if you’re homesick.” He moved the Connaught’s vase of flowers quickly away from her thrashing elbow with his free hand. “There’s also quite a lot of family jewelry my mother’s been waiting to pass on to her future daughter-in-law, and you’ll have a peeress’ chair in Westminster at coronations, where you get to wear the bloody Warrington tiara. You’ll be Countess Bracegirdle, Lady Warrington, et cetera, et cetera. And Mrs. Christopher Chiswick,” he added warningly as her foot kicked him under the table. “But the Morgan’s strictly mine, love. I just turned down an offer of twenty thousand pounds for it.”