JoAnn Ross creates captivating stories about the choices and chances that come once in every woman’s life. But what happens when a woman discovers her life may be a legacy of lies…?

From a childhood nurtured by unconditional family love to her stunning triumph as one of Hollywood’s leading fashion designers, Alexandra Lyons has always been spirited and independent. But everything she believes about herself is thrown into question when she meets Eleanor Lord. The powerful matriarch is convinced that Alexandra is Anna Lord, her long-lost granddaughter and heir to a family dynasty.

Has Alexandra’s life been a lie? Is she really Anna Lord—or the victim of an even darker hoax? The truth lies buried in the past, in a dark explosion of jealousy, betrayal and murder, and remains as deadly now as it was nearly thirty years ago.

Praise for the novels of

“Masterfully weaves a tale of momentum and curves. Between the intrigue and the steamy romance, you’ll be left breathless.”

—RT Book Reviews on Confessions

“JoAnn Ross takes her audience on a thrilling roller coaster ride that leaves them breathless.”

—Affaire de Coeur on Confessions

“A steamy, fast-paced read.”

—Publishers Weekly on No Regrets

“A moving story with marvelous characters that should not be missed.”

—RT Book Reviews, 4 1/2 stars, on No Regrets

“JoAnn Ross masterfully paints a picture of a magical, mystical land. With delightful touches of folklore storytelling, Ms. Ross tells a tale that delivers laughter, tears and so much joy.”

—RT Book Reviews on A Woman’s Heart

“A Woman’s Heart will find a place in every fan’s heart, as it is an extraordinary tale that will charm the audience. This is one time the luck of the Irish will shine on every reader.”

—Affaire de Coeur

Legacy
of Lies
JoAnn
Ross

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To Jay,

who gives my life meaning

Dear Reader,

During a time when Jackie Collins was dishing about Hollywood wives, and readers worldwide had fallen in love with Princess Daisy, I was writing hardcover glitz novels featuring spunky heroines with glamorous careers who traveled in the world of the ultra-rich, where they’d fall in love with scrumptious, complex men, battle evil and decadence, and in the end, finally receive the happy ending they so deserved.

I was thrilled when Legacy of Lies was chosen to be one of the launch novels for Harlequin MIRA and am delighted that they’ve chosen to reprint Alexandra Lyon’s story. I hope you’ll enjoy traveling with Alex first to Paris, then Hollywood, as she encounters passion, obsession and betrayal on her personal journey to discover the truth behind a legacy of lies.

Happy reading!

JoAnn Ross

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Epilogue

Prologue

Santa Barbara, California

April 1958

It rained the day Eleanor Lord buried her only son. A cold wind, bringing with it memories of a winter just past, blew in from the whitecapped gray sea. Not that the inclement weather kept anyone away; it appeared that the entire town of Santa Barbara had turned out. Rows of black umbrellas arced over the grassy knoll like mushrooms.

Nothing like a scandal to draw a crowd, Eleanor thought. After all, it wasn’t every day that the scion of America’s largest department store family and his wife were murdered.

If a double homicide wasn’t enough to set tongues wagging, the fact that the victims were two of the town’s leading citizens added grist to the gossip mill. Then there was Anna....

Eleanor’s heart clenched at the thought of her missing two-year-old granddaughter. A sob escaped her tightly set lips.

“Are you all right?” Dr. Averill Brandford asked with concern. He was holding an umbrella over her head; his free arm tightened around her shoulders.

“Of course I’m not all right!” she snapped, displaying a spark of her usual fire. “My son and his wife are about to be put in the ground and my granddaughter has vanished from the face of the earth. How would you feel under similar circumstances?”

“Like hell,” he answered gruffly. “Don’t forget, Robert was my best friend. And Anna’s my goddaughter.”

Averill Brandford and Robert Lord had grown up together. Clad in rainwear and shiny black boots and armed with shovels, rakes and buckets, they’d dug for clams in the coastal tidelands. Robert had been the pitcher of the Montecito High School baseball team; Averill had been the catcher. Together they’d led the team to three district championships in four years. Inseparable, they’d gone on to USC, pledged the same fraternity and only parted four years later when Robert went east to Harvard Law School and Averill to medical school, making his father, the Lords’ head gardener, extremely proud.

Eventually they were reunited in the Southern California coastal town where they’d grown up. These past horrendous days, Averill had been a pillar of support. He’d arrived at the house within minutes of Eleanor’s frantic phone call, rarely leaving her side as she waited for the kidnapper’s call.

Tears stung her eyes. Resolutely Eleanor blinked them away, vowing not to permit herself to break down until her granddaughter was home safe and sound.

She thanked the minister for his inspiring eulogy, not admitting she hadn’t heard a word. Then she turned and began making her way across the mossy turf.

In the distance the Santa Ynez Mountains towered majestically in emerald shades over the red-roofed city; a few hardy souls were playing golf on the velvet greens of the Montecito Country Club.

Out at sea, draped in a shimmering pewter mist, a tall masted fishing boat chugged its way up the Santa Barbara Channel. Watching the slicker-clad men on the deck, Eleanor felt pained to realize that people continued to go about their daily lives, that the earth had not stopped spinning simply because her own world was crumbling down around her.

As she neared her limousine, Santa Barbara’s police chief climbed out of his black-and-white squad car, parked behind it, and approached them. The look on his face was not encouraging.

“Good afternoon, Chief Tyrell.” Though there were shadows smudged beneath Eleanor’s eyes, her gaze was steady and direct.

The police chief lifted his fingers to his hat. “Afternoon, Mrs. Lord.” He doffed the hat and began turning it around and around between his fingers. “The FBI located your granddaughter’s nanny in Tijuana, ma’am. Rosa Martinez checked into a hotel under an assumed name.”

“Thank God, they’ve found her,” Eleanor breathed. “And Anna? Is she well?”

“I’m afraid we don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“She didn’t have a child with her when she checked in.”

“But surely Rosa will tell you where Anna is. Even if she refuses to cooperate, don’t you people have ways of encouraging people to talk?” Thoughts of bright lights and rubber hoses flashed through her mind.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible.” His voice was heavy with discouragement. “The nanny’s dead, Mrs. Lord.”

“Dead?”

“She hung herself.”

“But Anna...” Eleanor felt Averill’s fingers tighten on her arm.

“We don’t know,” Chief Tyrell admitted. “With the nanny gone, no witnesses and no word from the kidnappers, we’ve run into a dead end.”

“But you’ll keep looking,” Averill insisted.

“Of course. But I’m obliged to tell you, Mrs. Lord,” the police chief said, “that the little girl’s nanny left a suicide note asking for God’s—and your—forgiveness. The FBI’s taking the note as a sign that your granddaughter’s, uh—” he paused, looking like a man on his way to the gallows “—dead.”

No! For the first time in her life, Eleanor felt faint. She took a deep breath, inhaling the mild aroma of petroleum wafting in from the offshore oil derricks; the light-headed sensation passed.

She heard herself thank the police chief for his continued efforts, but her voice sounded strange to her own ears, as if it were coming from the bottom of the sea.

Back at her Montecito estate, she forced herself to remain calm as she accepted condolences from mourners. Finally, mercifully, everyone was gone, leaving her alone with Averill.

“Are you sure you want to stay here tonight?” His handsome face was stamped with professional and personal concern.

“Where would I go? This is my home.”

Needing something to do with her hands, Eleanor absently began rearranging a Waterford vase filled with white lilies. The house was overflowing with flowers; the rich profusion of sweet and spicy scents was giving her a blinding headache.

“Would you like some company?” Averill asked solicitously. “I’d be glad to stay.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I appreciate your concern, Averill, but if you don’t mind, it’s been a very long day and I’d like to be alone.” When he looked inclined to argue, she said, “I’ll be fine. Honestly.”

He frowned. “If you can’t sleep—”

“I’ll take one of those tablets you prescribed,” she assured him, having no intention of doing any such thing.

She’d succumbed to his medical prompting that first night, only to discover that the pills made her feel as if her head were wrapped in cotton batting. It was important she be alert when the police called to tell her they’d located Anna.

Although he appeared unconvinced, the young doctor finally left. Eleanor sat alone for a long silent time. After being in the public eye all day, she was grateful for the opportunity to allow herself to droop—face, shoulders, spirits.

Finally, when she thought she could manage the act without collapsing, she got to her feet and climbed the elaborate Caroline staircase to the nursery, where she kept her vigil far into the night.

Chapter One

Paris

December 1981

Oblivious to any danger, Alexandra Lyons ran full tilt across the icy street, deftly weaving her way between two taxis, a gunmetal-gray Mercedes and a jet-black Ferrari. Her hooded, red wool cape was like the brilliant flash of a cardinal’s wing against the wintry gray Paris sky and the falling white snow.

Her long legs, clad in opaque black tights and pointy-toed red cowboy boots, earned a quick toot of the horn and an admiring second look from the driver of the Ferrari.

It was Christmas in Paris. Glittering semicircles of Christmas trees had replaced Rond Point’s formal gardens, and garlands of lights had been strung up in the city’s leafless trees, turning the Avenue Montaigne and the Champs-élysées into great white ways, reminding one and all that Paris was, after all, the City of Light.

But Alex’s mind was not on the lights, or the joyful season. Her concerns were more personal. And far more urgent.

She was on her way to the atelier of Yves Debord to try again to win a coveted position with the French designer. And though she knew her chances of winning a position at the famed house of couture were on a par with catching moondust in her hand, even worse than failing would be to grow old and never have tried.

Emerging ten years ago as haute couture’s enfant terrible, the designer had been immediately clutched to the décolleté bosom of the nouveaux riches. Fashion celebrity oozed from the perfumed corners of his atelier, glinted off the windshield of his Lamborghini, glowed from the crystal chandeliers in his many homes.

Hostesses in Los Angeles, Dallas and New York fawned over him. He skied in the Alps with movie stars and was welcome at presidential dinner tables in Rome and Washington and Paris.

During Alex’s student days in Los Angeles, the Fashion Institute had shown a documentary about the designer directed by Martin Scorsese entitled Pure Pow: The World of Debord. Enthralled, Alex had sat through all three showings.

She now paused outside the showroom to catch her breath. Adrenaline coursed through her veins at the sight of her idol’s name written in gleaming silver script on the black glass.

“You can do it,” she said, giving herself a brisk little pep talk. “The answer to all your dreams is just on the other side of this door. All you have to do is to reach out and grasp it.”

She refused to dwell on the fact that after months of daily visits to the bureau de change to cash her dwindling supply of traveler’s checks, she was almost out of funds.

Her night job, serving beer and wine at a Montparnasse nightclub, barely paid her rent. The hours, however, allowed her to search for work in the fashion houses during the day, and if sleep had become a rare, unknown thing, Alex considered that a small price to pay for a chance to fulfill a dream.

Throwing back her shoulders, Alex lifted herself up to her full height of five feet seven inches and then, with her usual bravado, entered the showroom. Behind her, the door clicked shut with the quiet authority of a Mercedes.

The front room, used to greet customers, was a vast sea of cool gray. Modern furniture wrapped in pewter fabric sat atop silvery gray carpet that melded into the gray silk-covered walls. Marie Hélène, Yves Debord’s sister and house of couture directress, was seated behind a jet lacquer table.

She was dressed in black wool jersey, her platinum hair parted in the center and pulled into a severe chignon at the nape of her swanlike neck.

When she recognized Alex, she frowned.

“I know,” Alex said, holding up a gloved hand to forestall the director’s complaint. She pushed back her hood, releasing a thick riot of red-gold hair.

“You’ve told me innumerable times in the past six months that there aren’t any openings. And even if there were, you don’t take Americans. But I thought, if you could only take a look at my work—” she held out her portfolio “—you might consider showing my designs to Monsieur Debord.”

Alex’s chin jutted out as she steeled herself for yet another cool rejection. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

To Alex’s amazement, Marie Hélène didn’t immediately turn her away as she had all the other times. “Where did you say you studied?” she inquired in a voice as chilly as her looks.

“The Fashion Institute. In L.A.”

“Los Angeles,” the directress said with a sniff of disdain, as if Alex had just admitted to being an ax murderer. “You’re very young,” she observed, making Alex’s youth sound like a fatal flaw. “When did you graduate?”

“Actually, I didn’t. I felt the curriculum put too much emphasis on merchandising and too little on technique.” It was the truth, so far as it went. “Besides, I was impatient, so I quit to go to work in New York.”

She felt no need to volunteer that a more urgent reason for leaving school had been her mother’s diagnosis of ovarian cancer.

As soon as Irene Lyons had called her with the dark news, Alex had gone to the registrar, dropped out of school and, with a recommendation from one of her professors, landed a job with a Seventh Avenue firm that made dresses for discount stores.

“New York?” Marie Hélène’s brow climbed her smooth forehead. “Which designer? Beene? Blass? Surely not Klein?”

“Actually, I worked for a company that made clothing for department stores.”

She lifted her chin, as if daring Marie Hélène to say a single derogatory word. While not couture, she’d worked damned hard. And although her suggestions to bring a little pizzazz to the discount clothing were more often than not rejected, she was proud of whatever contribution she’d been allowed to make. After her mother’s death, no longer having any reason to remain in New York, she’d followed her lifelong dream, making this pilgrimage to the birthplace—and high altar—of couture.

“But I continued to design on my own,” she said, holding out the portfolio again.

When the directress continued to ignore the proffered sketches, Alex steeled herself to be rejected once more.

Instead, Marie Hélène rose from her chair with a lithe grace any runway model would have envied and said, “Come with me.”

Unwilling to question what had changed the director’s mind, Alex rushed after her through the labyrinth of gray walls and silver carpeting. They entered a small Spartan room that could have doubled as an interrogation room in a police station. Or an operating room.

Though the steel shelves on the walls were filled with bolts of fabric, there was not a speck of lint or dust to be seen. Open-heart surgery could have been done on the gray Formica laminated plastic table in the center of the room.

Beside the table was a faceless mannequin. Marie Hélène took a bolt of white toile from one of the shelves, plucked a sketch from a black binder, lay both on the table along with a pair of shears and said, “Let us see if you can drape.”

“Drape? But I came here to—”

“I had to dismiss one of our drapers today,” the directress said, cutting Alex off with a curt wave of her hand.

Her fingernails were lacquered a frosty white that echoed her glacial attitude. A diamond sparkled on her right hand, catching the light from the fixture above and splitting it into rainbows on the white walls. Those dancing bits of light, were, along with Alex’s crimson cape, the only color in the room.

“I discovered she was sleeping with a press attaché for Saint Laurent.” Marie Hélène’s mouth tightened. “Which of course we cannot allow.”

Uncomfortable with the idea of an employer interfering in the personal life of an employee, Alex nevertheless understood the paranoia that was part and parcel of a business where the new season’s skirt lengths were guarded with the same ferocity military commanders employed when planning an invasion.

“With the couture shows next month, we must hire a replacement right away,” the directress continued. “If you are able to drape properly, I might consider you for the position.”

Draping was definitely a long way from designing. But Alex wasn’t exactly in a position to be choosy.

She glanced down at the black-and-white pencil sketch, surprised by its rigid shape. Debord had always favored geometric lines, but this evening gown was more severe than most.

“Is there a problem?” Marie Hélène asked frostily.

“Not at all.” Alex flashed her a self-assured smile, took off her cape, tossed it casually onto the table, pulled off her red kid gloves and began to work. Less than five minutes later, she stood back and folded her arms over her plaid tunic.

“Done,” she announced as calmly as she could.

Marie Hélène’s response was to pull a pair of silver-rimmed glasses from the pocket of her black skirt, put them on and begin going over the draped mannequin inch by inch.

Time slowed. The silence was deafening. Alex could hear the steady tick-tick-tick of the clock on the wall.

“Well?” she asked when she couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. “Do I get the job?”

The directress didn’t answer. Instead, she turned and submitted Alex to a long judicious study that was even more nerve-racking than her examination of Alex’s draping skills.

“Where did you get that outré outfit?” Marie Hélène’s nose was pinched, as if she’d gotten a whiff of Brie that had turned.

Imbued with a steely self-assurance that was partly inborn and partly a legacy from her mother and twin brother, who’d thought the sun rose and set on her, Alex refused to flinch under the unwavering stare. “I designed it myself.”

“I thought that might be the case.” The woman’s tone was not at all flattering. “My brother prefers his employees to wear black. He finds bright colors distracting to the muse.”

“I’ve read Armani feels the same way about maintaining a sensory-still environment,” Alex said cheerfully.

The directress visibly recoiled. “Are you comparing the genius of Debord to that Italian son of a transport manager?”

Realizing that insulting the designer—even unintentionally—was no way to gain employment, Alex quickly backtracked.

“Never,” she insisted with fervor. “The genius of Debord has no equal.”

Marie Hélène studied her over the silver rim of her glasses for another long silent time. Finally the directress made her decision. “I will expect you here at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. If you do not have appropriate attire, you may purchase one of the dresses we keep for just such an occasion. As for your salary...”

The figure was less than what she’d been making at the nightclub. “That’s very generous, madame,” she murmured, lying through her teeth.

“You will earn every franc.”

Undeterred by the veiled threat, Alex thanked the directress for the opportunity, promised to be on time, picked up her portfolio and wound her way back through the maze of hallways.

As she retraced her steps down the Avenue Montaigne, Alex’s cowboy boots barely touched the snowy pavement. Having finally breached the directress’s seemingly insurmountable parapets, Alexandra Lyons was walking on air.

“If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere,” she sang as she clattered down the steps to the metro station. Her robust contralto drew smiles from passing commuters. “I love Paris in the winter, when it drizzles.... Or snows,” she improvised. “Boy, oh boy, do I love Paris!”

She was still smiling thirty minutes later as she climbed the stairs to her apartment.

The first thing she did when she walked in the door was to go over to a table draped in a ruffled, red satin skirt that could have belonged to a cancan dancer at the Folies Bergère, and pick up a photo in an antique silver frame.

“Well, guys,” she murmured, running her finger over the smiling features of her mother and brother, whose life had been tragically cut short when his car hit a patch of ice and spun out of control on the New Jersey turnpike six years ago. “I got the job. I hope you’re proud.”

Alex missed them terribly. She decided she probably always would. They’d both had such unwavering confidence in her talent. Such high hopes. Alex had every intention of living up to those lofty expectations.

When she’d left New York, two days after her mother’s funeral, she’d been excited. And nervous. But mostly, she’d been devastated.

As the plane had reached cruising level thirty thousand feet over the Atlantic, she’d collapsed and to the distress of the flight attendants, who’d tried their utmost to uphold the Air France tradition of esprit de service—even bringing her a glass of the cognac strictly reserved for first-class passengers—she’d wept like a baby.

For the first time in her life, she’d been truly alone. And though she’d been raised to be independent, deep down inside, Alex had been terrified.

Now, against all odds, she’d achieved the first part of her goal. She’d gotten her boot in Debord’s black glass door. Next, all she had to do was prove to the designer she was worthy of the opportunity. Once Debord recognized her talent, she’d be bound to win a promotion.

Could she do it?

Her full lips curved into a wide grin. Her amber eyes, touched with golden facets that radiated outward, lighted with Alex’s irrepressible lust for life.

“You bet,” she decided with a renewed burst of her characteristic optimism.

Chapter Two

Paris

February 1982

Alex’s knees were aching. She’d been kneeling in the close confines of the cabine for hours, laboring under the watchful arctic eye of Marie Hélène.

Alex was grateful to still have a job. Last week, at the season’s défilé de mode held in the gilded splendor of the Salon Impérial of the Hôtel Intercontinental, Debord had experienced the fashion media’s ugly habit of chewing up designers and spitting them out.

“Fashion for nuns,” American Vogue had called his totally black-and-white collection. “A tour de force of hideous taste,” Suzy Menkes of the International Herald Tribune declared, attacking the designer’s androgynous black jersey for its dismal, breast-flattening style. “A cross between Grace Jones and Dracula,” Women’s Wear Daily said scornfully. Its sister publication, W, gave the collection a grade of S—for scary—and said Debord’s depressing black shrouds looked as if they came right out of the comic strip Tales from the Crypt.

After the disastrous showing, the femmes du monde, accustomed to making twice-yearly pilgrimages to this revered salon, deserted the French designer, rushing instead to Milan and Debord’s long-detested rival, Gianni Sardella.

Surprisingly, Sophie Friedman, daytime television producer and wife of Hollywood mogul Howard Friedman, paid no heed to the fashion mavens. On the contrary, she amazed even the unflappable Marie Hélène by ordering six evening dresses and twice that number of daytime suits.

Considering that each garment was literally built onto the client, Mrs. Friedman and Alex had spent most of the past week locked in the cramped fitting room together.

“I think it makes me look fat,” Sophie said, raising her voice over the classical music played throughout the building.

“It is only the white toile that makes it appear so, Mrs. Friedman,” Marie Hélène assured her smoothly. “Once it is worked up in the satin, you will discover that black is very slimming.”

“Do you think so?” Sophie ran her beringed hands over her substantial hips, tugging at the material. Alex bit back a curse as the pins she’d just inserted pulled loose. The zaftig woman looked unconvinced. “What do you think?” she asked Alex.

Alex was unaccustomed to being addressed by a customer. A mere draper, she was in the lower echelons of the profession.

But Sophie Friedman had already proved herself to be one of Debord’s more eccentric clients. Unwilling to accept the idea that man was meant to fly, Sophie eschewed airline travel. The first day in the fitting room, she’d explained how she’d taken a private Pullman from Los Angeles to Grand Central Station, then the QEII to Cherbourg, thence to the Avenue Montaigne by Rolls-Royce.

The woman might be eccentric, Alex thought. But she was no fool. “Madame is correct about black being slimming,” she hedged.

“So I won’t look fat?”

Alex didn’t want to alienate Marie Hélène. Those who dared question the directress were summarily dismissed. Without references.

A tendril of unruly hair escaped the chignon at the back of Alex’s neck. Buying time, she unhurriedly tucked it back into place. “You’re certainly not fat, Madame Friedman.”

Actually, that was the truth. So far as it went. If she was to be totally honest, Alex would suggest that Debord was not the right designer for this middle-aged woman. The designer believed women came in two categories: polo ponies—those who were short and round—and Thoroughbreds—tall and slender. He prided himself on designing for the Thoroughbreds.

Using Debord’s criteria, Alex decided he would probably consider the tall, robust Mrs. Friedman to be a Clydesdale.

“I’ve always had big bones,” Sophie agreed. “But I still think this dress makes me look fat.”

Alex’s innate sense of honesty warred with her common sense. As she’d feared, honesty won out.

“Perhaps,” she suggested, ignoring Marie Hélène’s sharp look, “if we were to use a softer material than satin, perhaps a matte jersey. And draped it, like this.” With a few quick changes she concealed the woman’s short waist and broad hips and emphasized her firm, uplifted bustline.

Sophie Friedman’s eyes lit with approval. “That’s just what it needed.” She turned to the directress. “Would Monsieur Debord be willing to make the changes?”

“Of course.” Marie Hélène’s words were tinged with ice, but her tone remained properly subservient. “It is Madame’s prerogative to alter anything she wishes.”

“Then Madame wishes.” That settled, Sophie looked down at her diamond-studded watch. “Madame is also starving.”

“We will take a break,” Marie Hélène murmured on cue. “It will be my pleasure to bring you lunch, Madame Friedman.”

“No offense, Marie Hélène,” Sophie said, “but I could use something more substantial than the rabbit food you serve around this place.” She looked down at Alex. “How about you?”

“Me?”

Startled, Alex dropped the box of pins, scattering them over the plush gray carpeting. Marie Hélène immediately knelt and threw three handfuls of pins over her shoulder. Alex had grown accustomed to the superstitions accompanying the business. Baste with green thread and you kill a season. Neglect to toss spilled pins over your shoulder and you’ve guaranteed a dispute. Lily Dache, legendary hat designer, would show on the thirteenth or not at all. Coco Chanel would wait for Antonia Castillo’s numerologist to schedule Mr. Castillo’s shows, then schedule her own at the same time. The irate designer was rumored to have used a Coco doll and pins for retaliation. Debord himself was famous for not shaving before a show.

“I could use some company, Alexandra,” Sophie announced. “It is Alexandra, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Madame Friedman,” Alex answered from her place on the floor as she gathered up the scattered pins.

“Well, then,” Sophie said with the no-nonsense air of a woman accustomed to getting her way, “since I hate to eat alone and you need to eat, why don’t you let me buy you lunch?”

Alex could feel the irritation radiating from Marie Hélène’s erect body. “Thank you, Mrs. Friedman, but I’m afraid—”

“If you’re worried about your boss, I’m sure Monsieur Debord wouldn’t mind.” Sophie gave Marie Hélène a significant look. “Considering the dough I’ve dropped in his coffers this week.”

Marie Hélène got the message. Loud and clear. “Alexandra,” she suggested, as if the idea had been her own, “why don’t you accompany Madame to déjeuner. Monsieur Debord has an account at the Caviar Kaspia, if Russian food meets with Madame’s approval,” she said to Sophie.

“Caviar Kaspia it is,” Sophie agreed robustly.

Ten minutes later Alex found herself sitting in a banquette at the legendary Caviar Kaspia. The Franco-Russian restaurant, located above a caviar shop, had long been a favorite of couture customers with time to kill between fittings.

Across the room, Paloma Picasso, wearing a scarlet suit that matched her lipstick, was engrossed in conversation with Yves Saint Laurent. Nearby, Givenchy’s attaché de presse was doing his best to charm a buyer from Saks Fifth Avenue. Renowned for her no-nonsense, hard-as-nails approach to the business, the buyer had walked out midway through Debord’s showing.

“You’re an American, aren’t you?” Sophie asked as she piled her warm blini with beluga caviar.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So what the hell are you doing here in Paris, pinning overpriced dresses on women with more money than sense?”

Not knowing how to address the last part of that question, Alex opted to focus on her purpose for coming to Paris. “I’ve wanted to be a designer for as long as I can remember.

“My mother had her own dressmaking business for a time, but she was a single mother—my father left before my twin brother and I were born—and since taking care of two children took up too much time to allow her to continue designing, she ended up doing alterations for department stores and dry cleaners.”

Alex frowned as she fiddled with her cutlery. “I’ve always felt guilty about that.”

“Oh, I’m sure your mother never considered it a sacrifice,” Sophie said quickly, waving away Alex’s concerns with a plump hand laden down with very good diamonds.

“That’s what she always insisted whenever I brought it up,” Alex agreed. “Anyway, she taught me everything I know about sewing. When I was little, I designed clothes for my dolls. Eventually I worked my way up to creating clothes for her.”

“Lucky lady,” Sophie said. “What does she think of you working for Debord?”

“She died before I came to Paris.”

“I’m sorry.”

“She was ill for a long time. In a way, her death was a blessing. After leaving school, I worked on Seventh Avenue for a few years.” Alex continued her story, briefly describing her work at the design firm.

“I’ll bet you didn’t come clear to France to be a draper,” Sophie said as she topped the glistening black caviar with a dollop of sour cream.

Alex shrugged, unwilling to admit to her own impatience. Her mother had always cautioned her that destiny wasn’t immediate. But Alex couldn’t help being in a hurry.

“All my life I’ve wanted to work in couture. Paris is couture.” In Paris, entering a house of couture was taken as seriously as entering a convent; indeed, in French, the expression to enter une maison was applied to both cases. “And Debord is the best.”

When she was in high school, Alex had pinned pictures of Debord cut out of fashion magazines on her bedroom wall, idolizing him in the way other girls had swooned over rock stars.

Although the photographs had come down years ago, she still harbored a secret crush on the designer.

“He was the best,” Sophie corrected. “This season his stuff stinks to high heaven. In fact, I’d rather suck mud from the La Brea tar pits than wear one of that man’s dresses in public.”

Secretly appalled by the direction her idol had taken, Alex found herself unable to defend his current collection. “If you feel that way, why are you buying so many pieces?”

“My soon-to-be ex-husband is buying those clothes,” Sophie corrected. “And since your boss is the most expensive designer in the business, he was the obvious choice. Even before last week’s disastrous show.”

Alex realized that Sophie Friedman had come to Paris to buy “fuck-you clothes.” Although haute couture’s clientele traditionally consisted of wealthy clients linked together in a solid-gold chain that stretched across continents, mistresses and angry discarded wives made up a remarkable percentage of Debord’s customers.

American women were infamous for borrowing couture. The always thrifty French purchased modèles—samples. Only the Japanese, along with shadowy South American drug baronesses and Arab brides paid full price. In fact, a recent Saudi wedding was all that was keeping the house from going bankrupt.

“Of course, I’m giving the stuff to charity as soon as I get back to L.A. It does my heart good to think about that two-timing louse buying couture for some Hollywood bag lady.” Sophie grinned with wicked spite. “Although, you know, the changes you made on that evening dress made a helluva difference,” she allowed. “I think I’ll keep that one.”

She chewed thoughtfully. “What would you think of having it made up in red?”

Alex, who adored bright primary colors, grinned. “Red would be marvelous. Coco Chanel always said that red—not blue—was the color for blue eyes.”

Sophie nodded, clearly satisfied. “Red it is.”

The woman appeared in no hurry to leave the restaurant. Finally, after a third cup of espresso that left her nerves jangling, Alex reminded the client of her afternoon fitting.

“First, I want to see your designs,” Sophie declared.

“My designs?”

“You do have some examples of your own work, don’t you?”

“Well, yes, but...”

Ambition warred with caution in Alex’s head. Part of her knew that Marie Hélène was waiting for them to return. Another part of her was anxious to receive someone’s—anyone’s—opinion on her work.

She had given Marie Hélène her sketches, hoping they might find their way to Debord. For weeks she’d been waiting for a single word of encouragement from the master. Undaunted, she’d begun a new series of designs.

Giving in to her new friend’s request, Alex took Sophie to her apartment. It was located two floors above a bakery in a building that boasted the ubiquitous but charming Parisian iron grillwork, dormer windows, a mansard roof and red clay chimneys. She’d sublet the apartment from an assistant to an assistant editor of Les Temps Modernes, who’d taken a year’s sabbatical and gone to Greece to write a novel.

The first time Alex had stood at the bedroom window and stared, enchanted, at the Jardin du Luxembourg across the street, she’d decided that the view more than made up for the building’s temperamental old-fashioned cage elevator that more often than not required occupants to rely on the stairs.

Alex could have cursed a blue streak when the unpredictable elevator chose this day not to run. But Sophie proved to be a remarkable sport, though she was huffing and puffing by the time they reached Alex’s floor.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, looking around the apartment. “This is absolutely delightful.”

“I was lucky to find it.” Viewing the apartment through the older woman’s eyes, Alex saw not its shabbiness, but its charm.

Near the window overlooking the gardens, a chintz chair was surrounded by scraps of bright fabric samples; atop the table beside it was a box of rainbow-bright Caran D’Ache colored pencils and a portfolio. The Swiss pencils, the very same type Picasso had favored, had been an extravagant birthday gift from her mother. Two days later Irene Lyons had died.

But her memory lived on, just as she’d intended; Alex never sat down to sketch without thinking of her.

Drawn as if by radar, Sophie picked up the portfolio and began leafing through the sketches.

“These are wonderful.” The fluid lines were draped to emphasize the waist or hips, the asymmetrical hemlines designed to flatter every woman’s legs.

Alex glowed. It had been a long time since anything she’d done received recognition.

Sophie paused at the sketch of a long, slip-style evening gown of ebony silk mousseline with midnight lace and a low, plunging back. “This would be perfect for Angeline.”

“Angeline?”

“She’s a character on The Edge of Tomorrow,” Sophie revealed absently, her attention captured by a clinging silver gown reminiscent of films of the thirties and forties. “A former hooker turned movie star turned romance writer.”

“Oh, I remember her. I watched that show all the time when I was going to fashion school.”

“You must watch a lot of old films, too,” Sophie guessed.

“I love old movies.”

“I figured that. Your artistic vision definitely has a cinematic scope. So, although television admittedly isn’t the big screen, how would you like to come to work for me?”

“For you?”

“I’ve currently got three soaps in production. Since my shows are famous for their glamour, we keep three costumers shopping overtime to supply outfits for each one-hour drama. The after-six wear and lingerie is the toughest to find, so I’ve been considering hiring someone to design specifically for us. From what I see here, you’d be perfect.”

The idea was tempting. Especially after all the months trying to land a job, then these past weeks laboring away in obscurity. But Alex was not yet prepared to let go of her dream.

“It’s not that I’m not flattered,” she began slowly, choosing her words with extreme caution. “Because I am....”

“But you’re hoping that one of these days, that idiot Debord will open his eyes and realize what a talented designer is toiling right beneath his nose.”

Alex felt herself blush. “That’s pretty much it.”

Sophie shrugged her padded shoulders. “Well, if that scenario doesn’t happen, just remember, you’ve always got a job with me.” She opened her bag, pulled out a business card and a pen and scribbled a number on the back.

“Here’re the phone numbers for my office at the studio, my car, my home and my pager. Give me a call sometime, even if it’s just to talk, okay?”

Alex took the card and stuck it away in a desk drawer. “I’d like that. Thank you.”

When Alex cast another significant glance at her watch, Sophie sighed with ill-concealed resignation. “All right, I suppose we’d better get back before Marie Hélène sends the fashion police looking for us.”

When Alex and Sophie returned to the salon, they found Debord waiting in the cabine. Clad in his smock, his sable hair pulled back into a ponytail to display his Gallic cheekbones to advantage, he looked every inch the temperamental artist.

Dior and Balenciaga had started the tradition of the white smock; Yves Saint Laurent and Givenchy continued it. Debord, always pushing against the boundaries of tradition, had altered it to an anthracite gray. Brightening the breast of the gray smock was the red ribbon of the Chevalier de la Légion d’honneur. Although he was not tall, beneath the smock, Debord possessed the broad chest and shoulders of a Picasso etching of a bull.

“Ah, Madame Friedman,” he said, greeting her Continental style with an air kiss beside each cheek, “it is a pleasure to meet such a discerning woman.”

“I like your stuff,” Sophie lied adroitly, “although I have to admit, it was a toss-up between you and Gianni Sardella.”

The room went suddenly, deathly still. The only sound was the soft strains of Vivaldi playing in the back-ground. Marie Hélène, normally a paragon of composure, blanched.

Alex’s dark eyes widened. Surely Mrs. Friedman knew of the antipathy between the two designers! Stories of their mutual loathing were legion. Not only did Debord not permit his rival’s name to be spoken in his presence, last spring he allegedly pushed a client down the grand staircase of the Paris Opera for wearing one of Sardella’s beaded evening gowns.

All eyes were on Debord. The back-and-forth motion of his jaw suggested that he was grinding his teeth. His eyes had narrowed to hard, dark stones; a vein pulsed dangerously at his temple. Just when Alex thought he was going to explode, he forced a flat smile.

“I am honored you chose me,” he said between clenched teeth.

That, more than anything, displayed to Alex how far her employer had fallen. Before this season’s showing, he would have shouted something about philistines and demanded Mrs. Friedman leave these hallowed halls and never darken his doorway again.

Sophie appeared undaunted by the tension surrounding them. Indeed, Alex considered, from the twinkle in her eyes, she appeared to be having the time of her life.

“Your reputation is equaled only by your prices, monsieur,” she said. “I hope you realize how lucky you are to have Alexandra working for you.”

He looked at Alex, as if seeing her for the first time.

“What I can’t understand is why she isn’t a designer,” Sophie declared. “With her talent, along with her Seventh Avenue experience, I would have thought you’d have wanted her creative input on this season’s collection.”

“A designer?” Yves looked at his sister. “You did not tell me that Mademoiselle Lyons was a designer.”

Marie Hélène looked as if she could have eaten an entire box of Alex’s straight pins and spit out staples. “She designed day wear. Little polyester American dresses,” she tacked on dismissively, her tongue as sharp as a seamstress’s needle.

“They may have been polyester, but if they were like any of the designs I saw this afternoon, they must have sold like hotcakes,” Sophie shot back.

Debord turned to Alex. “You have sketches?”

“Yves...” Marie Hélène protested.

The designer ignored his sister. “Do you?” he asked Alex again.

Alex finally understood why her sketches had been rejected without comment. Debord had never seen them. Alex shot a quick, blistering glare Marie Hélène’s way. The directress responded with a cool, challenging look of her own.

Knowing that to accuse his sister of treachery would definitely not endear herself to the designer, Alex bit her tongue practically in two. “My portfolio is at my apartment.” Anger and anticipation had her heart pounding so fast and so hard she wondered if the others could hear it.

“You will bring your sketches to my office first thing tomorrow morning. I will examine them then.”

Ignoring his sister’s silent disapproval, Debord turned again to Sophie. “I hope you enjoy your gowns, madame. As well as the remainder of your time in Paris.”

“If the rest of my trip is half as much fun as today has been,” Sophie professed, “I’m going have one helluva time.” She winked conspiratorially at Alex.

For the first time in her life, Alex understood exactly how Cinderella had felt when her fairy godmother had shown up with that gilded pumpkin coach.

Her idol was finally going to see her sketches!

And when he did, he was bound to realize she was just what he needed to instill new excitement into his fall collection.

Alex indulged in a brief tantalizing fantasy of Debord and herself working together, side by side, spending their days and nights working feverishly to the sounds of Vivaldi, united in a single, brilliant creative effort.

As she returned Sophie Friedman’s smile with a dazzling grin of her own, Alex decided that life didn’t get much better than this.

Chapter Three

Alex didn’t sleep all night. As she dressed for work, running one pair of black panty hose and pulling a button off the front of her dress in her fumbling nervousness, all she could think about was the upcoming moment of truth. When Debord would view her designs.

When she entered the salon, Alex was met with the cold, unwelcoming stare of Marie Hélène.

“Bonjour, Madame,” Alex said with far more aplomb than she was feeling.

Marie Hélène did not return her greeting. “Debord is waiting in his office.”

Taking a deep breath that should have calmed her, but didn’t, Alex headed up the stairs to the designer’s penthouse office.

As she paused before the ebony door, with its Défense d’Entrer sign, Alex had a very good idea how Marie Antoinette must have felt on her way to the guillotine. Sternly reminding herself that a faint heart never achieved anything, that this was what she’d always wanted, she knocked.

Silence. Then, Debord’s deep voice calling out, “Entrez!”

Squaring her shoulders, clad in an uplifting, confidence-building scarlet hunting jacket she’d defiantly worn over her black dress, she entered the designer’s sanctum sanctorum.

Debord was talking in English on the phone. After gesturing her toward a chair on the visitor’s side of his desk, he spun his high-backed chair around and continued his conversation. From his tight, rigidly controlled tone, Alex sensed that the telephone call was not delivering good news.

She took advantage of the delay to study the office. Like the workrooms, everything was pristine. The desk had such a sheen Debord was reflected in its gleaming jet surface. On the stark white wall behind the desk, Debord appeared in triplicate in Warhol portraits.

“Of course, Madame Lord,” Debord was saying. “I understand your reluctance to commit funds just now.”

Alex watched his fingers twist the telephone cord and had an idea that the designer would love to put those artistic fingers around Madame Lord’s neck.

She’d heard about the possibility of Debord designing a line of ready-to-wear for Lord’s, the prestigious department store chain. After last week’s debacle, the gossip around the atelier was that the designer was desperate for such a deal in order to salvage a disastrous season.

Now, unfortunately, it appeared that Eleanor Lord, like everyone else, had deserted Debord.

“Certainly. I will look forward to seeing you at the fall défilé in July. We shall, of course, reserve your usual seat. Certainement, in the first row.”

That statement revealed how important he considered the American executive. Seating was significant at couture showings; indeed, many fashion editors behaved as if their seat assignments were more important than the clothes being shown.

“Au revoir, Madame Lord.”

The designer muttered a pungent curse, but when he turned toward Alex, his expression was bland. He did, however, lift an inquiring brow at her jacket. When he failed to offer a word of criticism, Alex let out a breath she’d been unaware of holding.

“Americans,” he said dismissively. “They cannot understand that risk-taking is the entire point of couture.”

“Mrs. Friedman bought your entire collection.”

“True. However, I cannot understand why she chose my designs when they are so obviously inappropriate for her figure.”

“She told me she likes your work.” Alex was not about to reveal Sophie’s actual reasons for buying Debord’s collection. “And Lady Smythe seemed pleased with that black cocktail dress.”

That particular purchase had been viewed as a positive sign, since Miranda Smythe not only happened to be Eleanor Lord’s niece and style consultant for the Lord’s London store, but was rumored to be the person who’d brought Debord to the department store executive’s attention in the first place.

Unfortunately it appeared that when it came to business Lady Smythe had scant influence with her powerful aunt.

“I would feel a great deal better about the sale if Miranda Smythe had actually paid for the dress,” he countered. “I cannot understand Marie Hélène. The discounts she allows that woman are tantamount to giving my work away.”

Alex was not about to criticize Debord’s formidable sister. “I suppose it doesn’t hurt to have the wife of a British peer wearing your designs,” she said carefully.

“Such things never hurt. But the British are so dam-nably tightfisted, they seldom buy couture. The average Englishwoman would rather spend her money on commissioning a bronze of her nasty little dogs, or a new horse trailer. Besides, Lady Miranda is about to get a divorce.”

Alex had heard Marie Hélène and Françoise, Miranda Lord Baptista Smythe’s personal vendeuse, discussing the socialite’s marital record just yesterday.

“Let us keep our fingers crossed,” Debord decided. “Perhaps, with luck, this time the fickle lady will wed a Kuwaiti prince. They never ask for discounts.”

Alex laughed, as she was supposed to.

At last she couldn’t stand the suspense a minute longer. “I know you’re very busy, Monsieur. Would you like to see my portfolio now?”

“In a moment. First, I would like to know why such a beautiful woman would choose to labor behind the scenes when she could easily be a successful model.”

“I’m not thin enough to be a model. Or tall enough. Besides, I’ve wanted to be a designer forever.”

“Forever?” he asked with a faintly mocking smile.

“Well, ever since I watched Susan Hayward in Back Street. That’s an old American movie,” Alex explained at his questioning glance. “She plays a designer. The first time I saw it I fell head over heels in love.”

“With Susan Hayward?” He frowned.

“Oh, no.” Alex laughed as she followed his train of thought. “Not the actress. I fell in love with the glamour of the business. It became an all-encompassing passion.” Her grin was quick and appealing. “Some of my friends would tell you that designing is all I think about.”

“Really?” Debord’s eyes, so like his sister’s, but much warmer, moved slowly over her face. “I find that difficult to believe. A beautiful young woman such as yourself must have some other interests—parties, dances...men. Perhaps one particular man?”

He was watching her carefully now, the blue of his eyes almost obscured by the ebony pupils. Alex swallowed.

“Let me show you my designs.” The portfolio was lying across her knees. She began to untie the brown string with fingers that had turned to stone. “I should probably tell you right off that most of the teachers at the institute didn’t really like my style,” she admitted. “But since I believe this is my best work, I’d really appreciate a master’s opinion.” Her words tumbled out, as if she were eager to get them behind her.

“I do not understand why Marie Hélène did not tell me about your talent,” Debord said as Alex continued to struggle with the thin brown fastener.

Personally, Alex had her own ideas about that, but knowing how close Debord was to his sister, she kept them to herself.

“She’s very busy.” Finally! Cool relief flooded through Alex when the maddening knot gave way.

Yves Debord took her sketches and placed them facedown on the desk. Before looking at them, he pulled a gold cigarette case from his jacket pocket. After lighting a Gauloises, he turned his attention toward the colorful presentations.

Alex was more anxious than she’d ever been in her life. She kept waiting for him to say something—anything!—but he continued to flip through the sketches, front to back, back to front, over and over again.

Did he like them? Hate them? Were her designs as exciting and modern as she perceived them to be? Or were they, as one of her instructors had scathingly proclaimed, clothes for tarts?

Time slowed to a snail’s pace. Perspiration began to slip down her sides.

“You are extraordinarily talented,” Debord said finally.

“Do you really like them?”

He stubbed out his cigarette. “They are the most innovative designs I’ve seen in years.”

Alex beamed.

“They are also entirely unmarketable.”

The words hit like a blow from behind, striking her momentarily mute. “You have flown in the face of tradition,” he said in a brusque no-nonsense tone that didn’t spare her feelings. “This is costuming for the theater. Not the real world.”

She’d heard that accusation before. But never had it stung so badly. “I was trying to be innovative. Like Chanel in the twenties with her tweed suits. And Dior’s postwar New Look. The sixties’ revolution, when Yves Saint Laurent introduced the pantsuit. And of course, Courreges’s minidress.”

She took a deep breath. “You just said that couture was about risk. All the great designers—Norell, Beene, you yourself—have gained fame by insisting on having a spirit of their own.”

“You have talent, but you do not understand couture,” he countered. “A designer must see women as they want to be seen.”

“That’s true,” Alex conceded, even as it crossed her mind that, instead of telling women what they want, designers should ask them what they want.

Patience, she could hear her mother warning her.

“This design, for example.” He held up a sketch that happened to be one of her favorites. An evening gown of tiered gold lace over black chiffon, cut like a Flamenco dancer’s dress. “This gown would make a woman look as if she were dressing for an American Halloween party.”

That hurt. “I can’t see what’s wrong with thinking of life as a party.” Patience. “Besides, I thought it was sexy.”

“The first thing you must learn, Alexandra, is that husbands want their women to look like ladies. Especially American husbands, who have a habit of marrying younger and younger brides without really knowing their pedigree.”

He ignored Alex’s sharp intake of breath. “Since the husbands are the ones paying the bills, a wise couturier designs with them in mind.”

“That’s incredibly chauvinistic.”

“Perhaps. It is also true. The British have a saying,” Debord continued. “Mutton dressed as lamb. Never forget, Mademoiselle Lyons, that is precisely what we are paid to do.”

“But what about celebrating the female form—” Alex couldn’t help argue “—instead of focusing on androgynous, sexless women?” When he physically bristled, Alex realized she’d hit uncomfortably close to home with that one. After all, Debord’s disastrous new line had carried androgyny to new extremes.

His stony expression would have encouraged a prudent woman to back away. Unfortunately caution had never been Alex’s forte.

“You say we must design for the husbands,” she said, leaning forward. “I can’t believe any man really wants his woman looking like a malnourished twelve-year-old boy.”

“Not all men do,” Debord acknowledged, his steady gaze taking in the softly feminine curves her stark black dress and scarlet jacket could not entirely conceal. “But the fact remains, Alexandra, wives should look like ladies. Not sirens.”

In Alex’s mind, there was absolutely nothing wrong with looking like a lady in the daytime and a siren at night. After all, this was a new age. Having proven they could do men’s work, Alex believed it was time women started looking like women again.

“May I ask a question?” she said quietly.

“Certainement.”

“How can you consider me talented when you hate everything about my designs?”

“On the contrary, I don’t hate everything about them. I love the energy, the verve. I think your use of color, while overdone, is magnifique.”

“Well,” Alex decided on a rippling little sigh, “I suppose that’s something.”

“It’s important.” He stood and smiled down at her. “It is time we found a proper outlet for your talents.”

“Do you mean—”

“I’m promoting you to assistant designer,” Debord confirmed. “I shall inform Marie Hélène that you will be moving upstairs. Immediately.”

Joy bubbled up in Alex. It was all she could do to keep from jumping up and flinging her arms around Debord’s neck. She knew the broad grin splitting her face must look horrendously gauche, but couldn’t keep herself from smiling.

“I don’t know how to thank you, monsieur.”

“Just do your best. That is all I expect.” Debord walked her to the door.

Feigning indifference to Marie Hélène’s cold stare, Alex moved her colored pencils and sketch pads into the design office located above the showroom floor.

She was hard at work at her slanted drawing table later that afternoon when Debord entered the office. He made his way slowly around the room, offering a comment on each designer’s work. Some were less than flattering, but all were encouraging. Until he got to Alex.

“A zipper is inappropriate,” he declared loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. His finger jabbed at the back of her evening gown design. “This gown lacks spirit.”

He plucked the slate pencil from her suddenly damp hand and with a few deft flourishes, sketched in a row of satin-covered buttons. “There. Now we have passion.”

The buttons running from neckline to hem were admittedly lovely. They were also highly impractical. Alex wondered how a woman would be able to wear such a dress without a maid to fasten her up. And then there was the little matter of getting out of the gown at the end of the evening.

“It would seem to me,” she countered mildly, “that trying to deal with fifty tiny, slippery satin buttons running down the back of a dress would tend to stifle passion.”

There was a gasp from neighboring tables as the others in the room realized that this newcomer had dared argue with the master. Debord shot her a warning look.

“The way couture differs from ready-to-wear is in the decorating,” he said shortly. “Specialness comes from the shape, the cut, the workmanship.

“Embellishing. Some fringe here.” He ran his hand over her shoulder. Down the notched black velvet lapel of her scarlet hunting blazer. “A bit of beading here.

“We all must eat, Alexandra. Yet who among us wouldn’t prefer a steak tartare to one of your American hot dogs? A glass of wine to water? A crème brûlée to some diet gelatin mold?”

“Are you comparing the designs of Debord to fine French cuisine?” Alex dared ask with a smile.

“Bien sûr.” He rewarded her with an approving smile of his own. Alex could have spent the remainder of the day basking in its warmth. “I knew you would be an adept pupil, Alexandra.”

As he leaned forward, his arm casually brushed against her breast. “Now, let us review your interpretation of a Debord dinner suit.”

Chapter Four

Santa Barbara, California

June 1982

The house, perched dramatically atop a hill, was draped in fog. Inside, candles flickered in Wedgwood holders. A fire blazed in the high, stone library fireplace.

Beside the fireplace, two women sat at opposite sides of a small mahogany table. Eleanor Lord wore an ivory silk blouse and linen slacks from Lord’s Galleria department.

Across the table, theatrically clad in a lavender turban and a billowy caftan of rainbow chiffon, Clara Kowalski reached into a flowered tapestry bag and pulled out a small amethyst globe.

“The crystal is radiating amazing amounts of positive energy today,” Clara said.

“Do you really believe Jarlath can locate Anna?”

Clara clucked her tongue. “Jarlath is merely a guide, Eleanor. Aiding you to evolve to a higher dimension.”

“I’d rather he skip the evolution stuff and find my granddaughter,” Eleanor muttered.

Eleanor considered herself a logical woman. She had always scoffed at those tales of farmers being kidnapped by aliens. Nor did she believe in the Bermuda Triangle, Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster. From the beginning of her marriage, Eleanor had been an equal partner in The Lord’s Group, the department store chain established by her husband. When James Lord had died of a heart attack nearly thirty years ago, she took over the business without missing a step.

Despite her advanced years, despite the fact she now preferred doing business from her Santa Barbara home rather than trek down the coast to the chain’s Los Angeles headquarters, Eleanor remained vigorous and continued her quest to keep Lord’s the most successful department store in the world.

That same single-mindedness that had made Lord’s a leader in fashion merchandising contributed to another, even more unrelenting obsession.

Eleanor had vowed to find her granddaughter, whatever it took. And although twenty-four years had passed, she had not stopped trying.

Each year, on the anniversary of Anna’s disappearance, she’d place an advertisement offering a generous reward for information regarding her granddaughter’s abduction in numerous metropolitan and small-town newspapers.

Thus far, once again, the advertisement had yielded nothing.

A less stubborn woman would have given up what everyone kept telling her was a futile search. But tenacity ran deep in Eleanor’s veins. Besides, some inner sense told her she’d know if her granddaughter had been killed. Anna was alive. Of that, Eleanor had absolutely no doubt.

“As a businesswoman, you utilize your left brain, your logical side,” Clara was saying. Eleanor returned her thoughts to the séance. “Jarlath will help you get in touch with your intuitive side. Once that doorway is open, you will have your answer.”

Eleanor admitted to herself that the medium sounded uncomfortably like one of those frauds Mike Wallace was always unmasking on “60 Minutes.” But, not wanting to leave any stone unturned, she was willing to try anything. Even this dabbling in the occult, which undoubtedly had all her Presbyterian ancestors spinning in their graves.

“Well,” she said briskly, “let’s get started.”

Clara placed an Ouija board between them, took a chunk of quartz from her bag and placed it in the center of the board.

“Rock quartz is allied to the energies of the moon,” she said. “I’ve found it makes a more sensitive channel than the usual pointer. The amethyst shade is exceptionally powerful.”

Eleanor nodded and wondered, not for the first time, what had made her agree to this farfetched idea.

“Now,” Clara said as she lit a stick of incense, “you must clear your mind. Banish all doubts. All cynicism.”

Just get on with it, an impatient voice in Eleanor’s cynical mind insisted. She shifted restlessly in her seat.

“I’m sensing negative energy,” Clara chided. She began to sway. “Jarlath will not come if he is not welcome. Write your negative thoughts on a mental blackboard. Then erase them.”

Immensely grateful that no one she knew was witnessing this outlandish scene, Eleanor took a deep breath and tried again.

“Ahhh.” Clara nodded. “That’s better. Relax your body, Eleanor. Feel yourself growing serene. Open your mind. Allow your physical and spiritual states to become harmonized and aligned,” she intoned. She placed her fingers on the chunk of quartz. “Jarlath. Are you there?”

Eleanor watched as the violet stone slowly slid across the board, stopping on Yes.

“Welcome, Jarlath. This is my dear friend, Eleanor Lord. She needs your help, Jarlath. Desperately. She is trying to locate her granddaughter, Anna.”

Although she knew it to be impossible, with the fire blazing nearby, Eleanor thought the air in the room suddenly felt cooler.

She leaned forward. “Ask him if he’s seen Anna.”

“Patience,” Clara counseled. “Jarlath reveals in his own time.” Nevertheless, her next words were, “Is Anna with you?”

No. “I knew it!” Eleanor crowed triumphantly. Clara’s guide was saying what she’d always known herself. Anna was alive!

There was a long pause. Then the gleaming rock moved to A. Then N. Then O. It moved slowly at first, then faster and faster until it had spelled out Another wishes to speak. The flames of the candles suddenly shifted dramatically to the right, as if a wind had caught them. Caught up in the drama of the moment, Eleanor forgot to disbelieve.

“Who is with you?” Clara questioned. “Who wishes to speak with Eleanor Lord?”

This time the amethyst stone raced across the board. Candlelight reflected off its crystalline surface. Dead.

“Dear Lord, perhaps it’s James. Or Robbie.” Eleanor’s voice trembled at the thought of her son. “Or Melanie.” Her son’s beautiful, tragically unhappy wife. Anna’s mother.

No.

Clara frowned across the table as if to remind Eleanor just who was in charge of this séance. “Who, then?”

Silence.

“Place your fingers on the stone with mine,” Clara advised. “It will increase the energy flow.”

Eleanor did as instructed. Haltingly, the quartz began to move. R. O. Heat seemed to emanate from the amethyst. Eleanor’s fingertips grew warm. S.

“Rosa,” Eleanor gasped. Anna’s nanny.

Confirming her thoughts, the crystal stopped on A. Eleanor felt light-headed. Spots danced in front of her eyes. The fire flared. Though there was no wind outdoors, the glass panes in the windows began to rattle. Then everything went dark.

* * *

“You’re overreacting,” Eleanor insisted an hour later. She was still in the library. And she was a very long way from being in a good mood. “It was merely a little heart flutter. Nothing more.”

Dr. Averill Brandford frowned as he took the seventy-one-year-old woman’s pulse. “That’s your opinion. I hadn’t realized you’d gotten your medical degree.”

Having been called here from the yacht harbor where he moored his ketch, Averill was casually clad in a blue polo shirt, white duck slacks and navy Top-Siders. His face was tanned and his hair was sunstreaked from sailing excursions off the coast.

“You always did have a smart mouth, Averill,” Eleanor returned. “I remember the summer you boys turned seven and you taught Robbie to curse. Although I’ll admit to finding the episode moderately amusing, James did not share my feelings. It was a week before Robbie could sit down.”

“It was winter. And we were nine.” A tape recorder on a nearby table was playing Indian flute music. He turned it off. “And for the record, it was Robbie who taught me.” He went over to the desk. “I’m checking you into the hospital for tests.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’m fine.”

“Let’s just make certain, shall we?”

“Do they teach all you doctors to be such sons-of-bitches in medical school?”

“The very first semester. Along with how to pad our medicare bills.”

“Smart mouth.” Eleanor shook her head in disgust.

Her hair, like her attitude, had steadfastly refused to give in to age. It was as richly auburn as it had been when she was a girl, save for a streak of silver at her temple, which had occurred overnight, after the tragic double murder and kidnapping.

“I think you should listen to Averill, Eleanor,” the other man in the room, Zachary Deveraux, counseled with quiet authority.

“This isn’t fair. You’re ganging up on me.”

“Whatever it takes,” the tall, dark-haired man returned easily, appearing unfazed by her blistering glare.

Zachary was leaning against a leather wall, arms crossed over his chest, his legs crossed at the ankles. Unlike the doctor’s recreational attire, Zach was wearing a conservative dark suit, white shirt and navy tie. His shoes, remarkably staid for even this Republican stronghold, were wing tips.

“As president of The Lord’s Group, it’s my responsibility to do everything I can to keep the company strong. You’re more than a vital asset, Eleanor,” he said with a slight French-patois accent that hinted at his Louisiana Cajun roots. “You’re the lifeblood of the chain. We need you.”

His dark eyes, more black than brown, warmed. His harshly cut masculine lips curved in a coaxing smile. “I need you.”

Although she might be in her eighth decade, Eleanor was a long way from dead. Was there a woman with blood still stirring in her veins who could resist that blatantly seductive smile?

Before she could accuse him of pulling out all the stops to win his way, the library door opened and Clara burst into the room. An overpowering scent of orrisroot and clove emanated from the silver pomme d’ambre she wore around her neck.

“Eleanor, dear.” Moving with the force of a bulldozer, she practically knocked both men over as she rushed to the side of the sofa. “I’ve been absolutely frantic ever since your two bodyguards banished me from the room.”

She shot a blistering glare first at Averill, then another directly at Zach, who merely stared back. The only sign of his annoyance were his lips, which tightened into a grim line.

Eleanor’s slender hand disappeared between the woman’s two pink pudgy ones. “I’m fine, Clara. Really,” she insisted. “It was merely a flutter. Nothing to be concerned about.”

“Of course not,” Clara Kowalski agreed heartily. “Don’t you worry, dear. I have just the tonic you need in the greenhouse.”

She smiled reassuringly. “A little extract of hawthorn, followed by some pipsissewa tea. That will definitely do the trick.”

“I believe you’ve done enough tricks for today, Mrs. Kowalski,” Averill said.

Crimson flooded the elderly woman’s face, clashing with her lavender turban. “I am not a magician, Doctor. I do not do tricks.”

“Oh, no?” Zach countered, scowling at the Ouija board. “Looks like just another fun evening at home with Hecate.”

“Zachary,” Eleanor murmured her disapproval. “You mustn’t talk that way. Clara’s my friend. And she’s been very helpful. We almost had a breakthrough.”

“A breakthrough?” He didn’t conceal his scorn concerning Clara Kowalski’s alleged psychic powers.

“We nearly made contact with Rosa, Anna’s departed nanny.” Clara’s eyes, nearly hidden by folds of pink fat, dared him to challenge her claim.

“Clara’s guide said Rosa was willing to talk to us,” Eleanor said.

“Ah, yes, the infamous guide,” Zach agreed. “What was the guy’s name again? Jaws?”

“Jarlath!” Clara snapped.

“That’s right.” Zach nodded. “Summer sales could be stronger this season. How about asking old Jarlath to see what he can do about bringing more shoppers into the stores?”

“Jarlath does not control things,” Clara replied waspishly. “He is a spiritual guide, not a fortune-teller.”

“Sounds a helluva lot like voodoo to me.” Zach turned back to Eleanor, his exasperation obvious. “Dammit, Eleanor—”

“Don’t you see, Zachary,” she interrupted earnestly, “Rosa can tell us what happened to Anna.”

The two men exchanged weary, resigned looks. Zach raked his hand through his jet hair and cursed softly in the Acadian French, that during his childhood years, had been the only language spoken in his bayou home.

“Eleanor,” Averill said softly. Gently. “It’s been twenty-four years since Robbie and Melanie were...” He paused, selecting his words carefully. “Since Anna disappeared,” he said, instead. “Don’t you think it’s time you gave it up?”

“I promised Robbie I’d find Anna. Since I never broke a promise to my son while he was alive, I’ll be damned if I start with this one.”

“I’m only suggesting a few days in the hospital,” Averill said. “For tests. And some well-deserved rest. After all, you need to be in tip-top shape to keep up your search. If that’s what you insist on doing.”

“It is.” But Eleanor’s determined expression wavered. Her gaze went to the table, where they’d been so close to contacting the nanny.

“It won’t hurt to have a checkup before we leave for the Paris shows next month,” Zachary pointed out with the unwavering logic she’d always admired.

In so many ways Zach reminded Eleanor of her dear James. Granted, their backgrounds were vastly different. But even discounting her late husband’s family wealth, both James Lord and Zachary Deveraux were quintessential self-made men.

Zachary had been her personal discovery. Eleanor had watched his meteoric progress with a certain secret pride. And although he didn’t yet know it, she was grooming him to take over the reins of the Lord’s chain when she retired.

Upon her death, this man she’d come to think of as a son would receive enough of the family stock to ensure control of The Lord’s Group. But included in her will was a provision for Anna to receive the bulk of Eleanor’s personal estate.

“All right. Three days,” Eleanor said finally, ignoring Clara’s frustrated huff. “Then if you won’t release me, I’m checking myself out.”

Although Eleanor knew Zach was more than capable of handling business, she insisted on remaining a vital part of Lord’s. She’d seen too many of her male colleagues retire, only to drop dead of a heart attack six months later. Eleanor had no intention of joining their ranks.

“Three days,” Averill agreed. “That’s all I’m asking.”

“And I want Clara to have a bed in my room.”

“Impossible,” Zach ground out before Averill could respond. His rugged face could have been chiseled from granite. “There’s no way you’re going to get any rest with Sybil the Soothsayer hovering over you like one of Macbeth’s damned witches.”

Clara’s scowl darkened. She crossed her arms over her abundant bosom and glared at him. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a very negative aura, Mr. Deveraux?”

“All the time,” he snapped.

“Eleanor—” Averill deftly entered the debate “—Zach’s right. You need rest. Time away from all this.” He waved his hand, encompassing the accumulation of mystical accoutrements that had taken over the house.

Eleanor held her ground. “Those are my terms, Averill. Take them or leave them.”

Professional demeanor was abandoned as he allowed his frustration to show. “There are times when I can’t decide whether you are the most obstinate woman I’ve ever met or simply crazy,” he muttered, picking up the receiver to make the arrangements.

If she was insulted, Eleanor didn’t reveal it. “That’s precisely the reason I’m going to find Anna.”

Chapter Five

Two days later, Miranda Lord Baptista Smythe burst into Eleanor’s hospital room. She was fashionably thin and sported a sleek blond hairdo that was as much a signature of her British Ascot class as her accent. Although she was in her midforties, her complexion, thanks to a benevolent British climate and the clever hand of her plastic surgeon, was as smooth and unlined as that of a girl in her twenties.

“Dear, dear Aunt Eleanor,” she greeted the older woman with a brush of powdered cheek. “I rushed over from London on the Concorde as soon as I heard! Honestly, I don’t understand how you could have let that horrid old witch get you so upset!”

“Clara doesn’t upset me, Miranda,” Eleanor said mildly.

“She gave you a heart attack.”

“It was a flutter. And Clara had nothing to do with it.”

Miranda took a cigarette from her Gucci bag and was prepared to light it when she caught sight of the No Smoking—Oxygen in Use sign posted beside Eleanor’s hospital bed.

“Those things already killed your mother,” Eleanor pointed out knowingly.

“Living like some over-the-hill party girl, squandering her inheritance from my father, instead of putting it somewhere safe such as blue-chip stocks or bonds, is what killed my mother,” Miranda said. “Why, if it weren’t for all the money she threw away on those damned gigolos, I wouldn’t be fighting to keep the wolves away from the door.”

Lawrence Lord, James’s younger brother and business partner, and Miranda’s father, had been an avid tennis fan and nationally ranked amateur player. Forty-six years ago, when he’d returned from a trip to Wimbledon with news that he had fallen in love with the genteel daughter of an impoverished viscount, James had established a Lord’s in London and made his brother president of the new European branch, where Miranda now worked as a style consultant.

“You’re far from destitute, dear,” Eleanor reminded Miranda. “Your salary is generous. And you still have your stock.”

“That’s another thing.” Miranda began to pace, the skirt of her emerald silk YSL dress rustling with each long stride. “My barrister assures me the prenuptial agreement will be upheld, but in the meantime, Martin is demanding a share of London Lord’s.”

Eleanor frowned. She knew Miranda’s latest marriage—to a London bond trader—was in the process of ending, as had her marriage to a Brazilian polo player before it, in divorce. But she hadn’t been informed of this unfortunate legal development.

“Well, we certainly can’t have that,” she said.

“I’d shoot Martin through his black heart with one of his antique shotguns before I let him get his greedy, aristocratic hands on the family business,” Miranda agreed grimly.

“I believe we can defuse this little problem without resorting to violence,” Eleanor murmured. “Why don’t I ask Zach to meet with your attorney? Or even with Martin himself? Zachary can be very persuasive.” Eleanor knew from personal experience that Lord’s president also wasn’t above employing street-fighter skills when necessary.

Frown lines etched their way into Miranda’s smooth forehead. “If you think it will help. Although I still prefer the idea of shooting the bastard. Or perhaps putting poison in his sherry.”

As if aware of how unpleasant she sounded, she said, “But enough about my petty problems. Let me arrange your pillows, Auntie. You need your rest.”

Her niece’s pretense of concern grated. Before Miranda’s dramatic entrance, Eleanor had overheard her talking with Averill outside the room.

Averill had spoken gently, in the reassuring way doctors had. Although with proper care she probably had many years left, if Eleanor’s heart did fail, Miranda would be able to glean comfort from the fact that her aunt had had a full life. And though she would be missed, all that Eleanor had done would remain as a memorial.

Averill had reminded Eleanor of a man rehearsing a eulogy. The unctuous testimonial had made her mad enough to want to spit nails.

“The rumors of my impending death have been greatly exaggerated,” she paraphrased Mark Twain now.

“Of course, Auntie,” Miranda agreed quickly. Too quickly, Eleanor mused. “We all know you’re going to live forever.”

Well, maybe not forever. But if Averill or Miranda thought she was going to die anytime soon, they had another think coming. Because Eleanor refused to leave this world until Anna was back home again. Where she belonged.

“Miranda, dear, would you do me a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Would you please find Clara? I believe she’s in the cafeteria.”

Miranda’s forced smile revealed her distaste for Clara, but she held her tongue. “Of course.”

“Oh, and Miranda?”

She turned in the doorway. “Yes?”

“Ask her to bring her tarot cards. I had a dream about Anna when I dozed off earlier. I think a reading is in order.”

A nerve twitched at the corner of Miranda’s red lips. “Whatever you say, Aunt Eleanor.”

* * *

Zach sat in a corner of the hospital cafeteria, drinking coffee from a brown-and-white cardboard cup and eating a ham-and-Swiss-cheese sandwich. The coffee tasted like battery acid, the cheese was processed, the dark rye bread stale.

His mind was not on his unsavory meal. It was on what he was going to do about Eleanor. Every morning, when he went to work, he was in charge of millions of dollars and thousands of Lord’s employees. He was intelligent, capable and clever. So why the hell couldn’t he figure out what to do about Eleanor’s unwavering efforts to locate her missing granddaughter? A granddaughter who’d likely been dead for twenty-four years.

Zach polished off the thick, unappetizing coffee and lost in thought, began methodically tearing the cardboard cup to pieces. On some level, he was vaguely aware of a growing commotion nearby. But since this was a hospital and there was always some tragedy occurring, he paid the raised voices no heed.

Last year Eleanor had been convinced she’d discovered Anna. The woman, a blackjack dealer in a Las Vegas casino, had been an obvious impostor. It was also obvious she’d been put up to the charade by her boyfriend, a low-level gangster.

But when Zach had argued that the things the woman professed to remember about the Montecito house and the family could be found in newspaper morgues and style magazines, Eleanor, her steely logic fogged by unrelenting desire, had refused to listen.

Ignoring Zach’s protests, Eleanor had moved the woman and her boyfriend into her home, treating them like family. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was too good for her darling “Anna.” On one memorable day, Zach had arrived in Santa Barbara with the quarterly reports just as Eleanor and “Anna” returned home laden down with resort clothes, dresses, and elegant evening gowns—suitable for all the parties Anna would be attending, Eleanor had pointed out. Later that same afternoon, a red Corvette from a local Chevrolet dealer had been delivered.

Although Zach detested anything resembling a lie, he had reminded himself that what Eleanor was seeking was family. That being the case, did it really matter all that much if this newly discovered family member was not really tied by blood?

It did.

Six weeks after their arrival at Eleanor’s door, the unsavory pair absconded with all the gifts Eleanor had bestowed upon the woman she’d believed to be her granddaughter, along with several thousand dollars from the household expenses checking account, a tea set crafted by Paul Revere that had been in the family for two hundred years, and a stunning diamond-and-pearl necklace set in platinum that James had given Eleanor on the occasion of their son Robert’s birth.

Had it not been for the necklace, Eleanor, horribly embarrassed by her uncharacteristic mistake in judgment, undoubtedly would have let the matter go. But the sentimental value of that jewelry overrode any fear of public humiliation.

She’d pressed charges, and two weeks later, the couple was discovered celebrating their good fortune in Cancun. Well aware that what he was doing was bribery, Zach traveled to Mexico with an attaché case filled with American dollars to grease the normally slow-moving machinery of Mexican justice.

He was successful. The fugitives were extradited to California, charged and convicted.

Although still slightly bothered by the way he’d skated along the razor’s edge of principle—bribery and veiled threats were not his usual method of doing business—Zach did not for a single moment regret his actions.

The son of an impoverished Louisiana trapper and sugarcane farmer, Zach had come up the hard way and was immensely proud of his white-collar status. He also understood that it was not that great a distance between wearing a starched shirt and suit in his executive suite to his early days laboring in a sweat-stained T-shirt on the loading dock of the New Orleans Lord’s.

Eleanor Lord had offered Zach wealth, security and the opportunity to prove himself. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her.

The voices in the cafeteria grew louder, infiltrating their way into his thoughts. When he recognized Clara’s voice, he looked over to see what the witch was up to now.

She was engaged in an argument with another woman whom Zach recognized as Eleanor’s niece. Eleanor kept a crystal-framed photo of Miranda Lord, smiling up at her first husband, the dashing, unfaithful Brazilian polo player, on her desk.

Deciding he’d better intervene before the two women started pulling hair, Zach cursed and pushed himself to his feet.

Clara’s pudgy face was as crimson as today’s turban, while equally bright color stained Miranda’s cheekbones.

“Excuse me,” he murmured, from behind Miranda’s shoulder, “but you ladies are drawing a crowd.”

Miranda spun around. “Who the bloody hell do you think you are?”

Her green eyes were flashing like emeralds and her complexion reminded him of the Devonshire cream he’d sampled the time Eleanor, intent on teaching him manners, had taken him to afternoon tea at the Biltmore.

“If you do not mind, Mr. Deveraux,” Clara said, giving him her usual glare, “we are having a discussion.”

“Sounded more like an argument to me.”

“Mr. Deveraux?” One perfectly shaped blond brow lifted. The fury faded from her bright eyes, replaced by blatant feminine interest. “You’re Aunt Eleanor’s famous Zachary?”

Miranda Lord was reminiscent of an F. Scott Fitzgerald heroine. One of those bright, shining people, like Daisy from The Great Gatsby. Zach felt a burst of masculine pride that she knew of him. “Not all that famous.”

“On the contrary.” Her lips curved, and he was reminded of a cat regarding a succulent saucer of cream. “You’re practically all Auntie talks about. And although I knew you were a change from those old fogies who usually sit on the board, I don’t know why she never mentioned how—” she allowed her eyes to sweep slowly over him “—substantial you are.”

When her gaze lingered a heartbeat too long on his thighs, Zach knew he was being expertly, seductively summed up.

Her openly predatory gaze returned to his face. “I’m so sorry,” she cooed. “All this has been so upsetting that I’ve completely forgotten my manners.” She held out a slim, perfectly manicured hand. “I’m Miranda Lord. Soon to be the former Lady, or Mrs. Martin-the-bastard-Smythe.” Her silvery, breathless voice, a voice Judy Holliday had invented and Marilyn Monroe had perfected, carried an unmistakable British upper class tinge.

“I heard about your divorce.” Her hand felt soft and smooth. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t be,” Miranda insisted. “Personally, I look on divorce as not so much of an ending, as a new beginning.”

She gave him a suggestive smile before turning back to Clara. “My aunt wishes to see you. Oh, and she wants you to bring your tarot cards.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Clara huffed. Gathering up her immense shoulder bag, she waddled from the bustling cafeteria.

“Do you suppose,” Miranda suggested, “that if we threw water on Clara, she might melt?”

Zach threw back his head and laughed. A rich, booming release of sound that eased the tension. “It’s definitely worth a try.”

“Why don’t we discuss the logistics? Over coffee.” She glanced disparagingly around the room. “I’m absolutely exhausted from traveling. But I doubt the chef at this bleak establishment knows how to brew a proper pot of tea.”

“No problem. I know just the place.”

Placing a palm at her elbow, he led her out of the hospital.

Ten minutes later, they were sitting in the Biltmore’s La Sala lounge. The lounge, with its wealth of polished stonework, luxuriant greenery and comfortable, overstuffed sofas and armchairs, was the most gracious in the city.

“I really am so horribly worried about Aunt Eleanor,” Miranda said over porcelain cups of impeccably brewed Earl Grey tea. Her heady, exotic scent bloomed in the warmth of the room, mingling with the aroma of cedar from the fireplace.

“Join the club,” Zach said. “If it’s any consolation, there’s no sign of senile dementia.”

“You actually considered that possibility?”

“Of course. Your aunt’s a logical, pragmatic wom-an—”

“Except when it comes to her darling Anna.”

“Except when it comes to Anna,” Zach agreed. “But although she’s admittedly driven and obsessive when it comes to finding her granddaughter, it’s only been these last few months that she’s decided to try the spirit world.”

“That is so bizarre,” Miranda murmured. “I had my barrister retain a private detective when Clara moved into the house with Aunt Eleanor.” She frowned. “Did you know she’s a widow? Three times over? And that all her husbands have been wealthy?”

“I had her checked out, too.” Zach knew Eleanor would hit the roof if she found out about his investigation, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to protect her. “One of her neighbors insists Clara poisoned her husbands with her herbs.”

“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 roulered 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 invitation 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.”

Chapter Six

Paris

Alex’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 primal 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.

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 town house 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.”

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.”

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