Legacy of Lies. JoAnn Ross

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