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
