Authors: Eve Bourton
Franco gave a shrug – he had too much to do to have time to attend to the cogs turning the wheels at the House of Hervy. ‘Well, you’ve done some brilliant PR for me with your picture in all the papers.’
‘Where’s Patrick?’
‘Back there,’ he said, jerking a thumb over the rail. ‘Look, Yolande, perhaps you’d do me a favour now you’re here? I have some very influential people out there today. One in particular – he may get me the backing I need to set up on my own.’
‘You’re leaving Hervy? But why?’
‘My contract runs out next year, and Paul Dupuy’s already recruiting my replacement.’
Paul was always terrified that Hervy would lose its reputation for dressing the discreet and discerning. Franco had been considered a daring gamble when appointed by Jean-Claude Marchand straight out of fashion college in London, but he had succeeded in maintaining the ‘Hervy look’, albeit at the expense of his natural flamboyance. Yolande fully understood his desire for independence, though as an owner of Hervy’s parent company it ought to have worried her.
‘So what do you want me to do?’ she asked.
‘Just look gorgeous and tell this guy how wonderful I am.’ He cast a critical eye over her figure-hugging dress, flatteringly cut in dark grey jersey, then dashed off to a table nearby, returning with some chunky costume jewellery which he draped around her neck.
‘But Patrick …’
‘He’s all yours after the show. Come on, Yolande – there isn’t much time.’
A tangible air of expectancy could be sensed amongst the occupants of the hard gilt-framed chairs arranged in a semi-circle beneath the grand chandeliers in the Hotel Intercontinental’s Salon Opéra. Fashion editors and buyers, film and television celebrities, a couple of European princesses, a few sports stars, and a battalion of photographers. Only a few of the seats still bore place-cards, a fact that clearly pleased Hervy’s operations director, Paul Dupuy, sitting next to his wife in the front row with a self-satisfied smile on his face. The fashion writers were impatient for something,
anything
to liven things up. The shows had been predictable this season. No earth-shattering new trends, no dramatic sackings of erratic designers. Juicy copy was at a premium. Had any of them known that Franco Rivera was presenting one of his last collections for Hervy, there would have been uproar.
But the lights dimmed and music began, so few people noticed Franco discreetly ushering Yolande to a chair next to Count Ulrich von Stessenberg, who was chatting quietly to Althea, sociable wife of the dull but exceedingly rich American entrepreneur Hank Pedersen. Stessenberg stood up, bowed slightly, and kissed Yolande’s hand as she was introduced, greeting her in one of those hard-to-place international accents – English with American undertones, yet occasional hints of European stress. Althea Pedersen looked at her quizzically when she heard her name.
‘Rikki, you’re flirting with a girl who’s just become president of a big company here. Am I right?’ she asked Yolande.
Yolande sat down while Franco hurried away. ‘I’m afraid not. My sister’s the new president.’
‘Marchand Enterprises, Althea,’ said Stessenberg. ‘Didn’t you know they own Hervy?’
‘Well I saw your picture in the paper, so I thought it must be you,’ continued Althea doggedly. ‘Who can figure out all that French? Are you French?’
‘Half. My mother’s English. She’s married to an American now – Tex Beidecker. Perhaps you’ve met him?’
Althea raised her well-manicured hands in a comic gesture. Didn’t the whole of New York know Tex Beidecker? He was a great guy. They knew Yolande’s mother too, and Stessenberg made some flattering remarks about her which drew a volley of giggles from Mrs Pedersen. Yolande noticed that he still kept cool appraising eyes on Franco’s collection as the models started strutting down the catwalk. Remembering Franco’s brief, she was enthusiastic in her praise of the designs, and the count was keen to get her opinion.
‘Is this the Hervy look according to Franco Rivera, or Franco Rivera according to Hervy, mademoiselle?’
A tricky question, thought Yolande, surveying the lean contours of his face. German or Austrian? She wasn’t sure, but it was a patrician face. Keen, slightly sardonic, but inscrutable; a closed book. He was perfectly dressed, faultlessly polite, and altogether chilling.
‘Well, Franco tries to do his own thing, but there are limits. We have a strong brand to promote.’
‘He’s under exclusive contract to Hervy, isn’t he?’
‘Yes – until next year.’
‘Hey, I go for that one,’ whispered Althea, as Catherine fluttered past in a revealing crimson ensemble.
Yolande didn’t think it would suit her at all, but remained quiet.
‘What do you think of that?’ Althea asked, as another, more restrained dress appeared on the catwalk.
‘Elegant and timeless,’ remarked Stessenberg, turning to Yolande. ‘That’s Hervy rather than Franco Rivera, eh?’
Before the show ended, she found herself invited to have dinner with them both at Le Grand Véfour that evening. Franco was delighted when she told him, hugging her with Italian verve as he promised to make her look fabulous.
‘You are coming with me, Franco? I can’t go alone, and you want to speak to this guy, don’t you?’
‘Not yet, Yolande. Paul Dupuy has spies in every restaurant in Paris. If I’m seen with Stessenberg …’ He drew a finger expressively across his throat. ‘All you need do is a little discreet advertising. Take Patrick – I’ll lend him something to wear. He always looks so hungry.’
‘
Merde
!’ Patrick Dubuisson surveyed his reflection dismally in a mirror propped against a wall of his studio flat in the Marais. ‘I actually look respectable. It’s gross.’
‘You look marvellous.’ Yolande danced round him, straightening the collar of his loosely cut Hervy evening jacket. ‘I wish you’d dress like this more often.’
He put his hands around her waist and gave her a serious look. ‘Yolande, don’t try to change me. I’m an actor, remember – and tonight I’m playing a part just for you. So, what does Franco want? Mean and moody?’ He fixed his heart-throb features in a gangster’s glare and looked terrifying. ‘Sweet country boy up to see the sights?’ Yolande struggled with laughter as he adopted a vacuous smile. ‘Or simply irresistible.’ The lust poured out of his eyes into hers.
‘You’re just supposed to wear the clothes,’ she got out before she collapsed with giggles. ‘Idiot.’
‘My talents are wasted on you,’ he said in mock disgust.
She caught his face in her hands. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Mr Irresistible.’
‘God, you’re so beautiful.’
She met his lips eagerly, desire erupting through her whole body. Patrick always had this effect on her. His arms tightened around her, his mouth feeding greedily on hers. She could feel him hard against her as his fingers moved unerringly to the concealed zip at the side of her low-cut dress.
‘No, darling, later. We’re supposed to be there at eight.’
But her impatient tongue in his mouth was telling him the exact opposite. He pulled the dress down to the floor and rubbed his thumbs over her nipples, teasing them until they were aching with expectation. Then his tongue followed, while his fingers moved down to stroke between her legs. She was already wet, swollen, begging for it. He liked making her beg. She whimpered and started to move rhythmically against him, her hands tugging away his clothes.
‘Two weeks without you …’ he groaned. ‘I thought I’d go mad.’
He had her naked and on the bed in a matter of seconds, pulling her gorgeous long thighs apart while he freed himself from his trousers. He couldn’t hold it much longer. Crushing his mouth to hers, he simply plunged into her. Yolande arched up to receive him, feeling at last that she was home. It wasn’t making love. Patrick thought
making love
was for wimps. It was raw sex, visceral need, possession, pain, ecstasy. Fast, breathless, merciless. She screamed out his name as they shuddered to climax, her nails digging into his buttocks. Afterwards he lay still inside her while she kissed him over and over again.
‘I love you,’ she murmured.
‘Didn’t you love me before?’
‘Yes – but I kept thinking it would have to end, that it was all wrong.’
Patrick rolled off her on to his back, his hazel eyes anxious. ‘So you’re not going to marry your baron now?’
‘No.’ Yolande smiled, then bent her head and kissed him lingeringly on the lips. ‘Aren’t you pleased?’
He didn’t know how to react. He hoped she wouldn’t propose to him. She was beautiful and passionate and he couldn’t get enough of her, but long-term commitment wasn’t on his agenda.
‘Patrick … is everything OK?’
He grinned and pulled her back towards him. They were more than half an hour late leaving for the restaurant.
‘Do you think we ought to order, Rikki? She’s obviously not going to show.’ Althea Pedersen enviously eyed the guests at a neighbouring table in Le Grand Véfour.
‘Fashion’s such an exhausting business, isn’t it?’ said Stessenberg. ‘I take it you’ve ordered something from Hervy?’
‘It means staying here for the fittings, but Hank’s tied up with his bid for Brenton so I might as well enjoy myself.’
‘The pharmaceuticals group?’
‘Yeah. He’s really after their cosmetics subsidiary but they won’t sell it off. Somehow I don’t think you’ve got any fittings lined up.’ She gave him a canny glance. ‘What are you up to, Rikki?’
Stessenberg leaned back in his chair. ‘I’m simply soaking up the history. Do you know that revolutionaries used to meet here two hundred years ago?’
‘Should I be bothered?’
‘Only if you believe in ghosts.’
‘It would take more than some old French ghosts to scare me. Well, here she comes at last!’ exclaimed Althea, as Yolande breezed in and heads swivelled. ‘Who’s the hunk with her?’
‘I don’t know, but he reminds me of someone.’
Althea took Patrick in from head to toe as he and Yolande were ushered to the table. Twenty-four or twenty-five. Five-eleven and slim. Tousled short brown hair, sexy eyes, luscious mouth. Decidedly French. And a very cute butt. Yolande’s profuse apologies left no one in any doubt as to what had delayed them.
‘I hope you don’t mind me bringing my boyfriend? Patrick Dubuisson – he’s an actor.’
Althea liked the gallant way he kissed her hand, and registered something in his eyes that said he wasn’t impervious to her thirty-eight-year-old charms. Though not beautiful, she had a very good figure, an attractive face, and knew how to make the most of herself. Stessenberg called for the menu, and was rather put out by Patrick’s broad smile when he ordered a bottle of Château Lafitte.
‘Don’t you like Bordeaux?’ he enquired.
‘Yolande is from Burgundy. She ’as ’er own wine.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ said Yolande. ‘My father … I mean, my sister and I have a vineyard at home in St Xavier.’
‘St Xavier!’ exclaimed Althea. ‘Not
the
St Xavier?’
Yolande nodded. ‘It’s been owned by the Marchands since 1792.’
‘What did I tell you about ghosts, Althea?’ whispered Stessenberg.
But she didn’t hear. ‘You mean you actually
own
it?’
‘One of my ancestors bought it when monastic property was confiscated during the Revolution.’
Yolande would have been glad to leave the subject there, but Althea kept at it throughout the entrées. It transpired that Mr Pedersen, as well as owning a global corporation with interests ranging from petrochemicals to toiletries was also a wine connoisseur.
‘He’s thinking of buying a winery in California, you know, but he only wants the best. They don’t come on the market very often.’
Patrick raised his eyebrows in disbelief. ‘You know, in Paris very few bars ’ave the American wine. Sometimes I go to ’Arry’s Bar to see the film producer there. But is not possible to ’ave good discussion without the French wine.’
It was the longest continuous speech he had ever managed in English, and he looked round triumphantly.
‘If you want to cut it in Hollywood, you’d better restrain your chauvinism,’ said Stessenberg in fluent French.
‘Hollywood? I asked Yolande to help me with my English so I could do a screen test, but you see how far I’ve progressed. Do you know any producers who want French actors?’
‘Not off hand.’
‘Hey, what’s all this about Hollywood?’ interrupted Althea, annoyed at being unable to follow the conversation.
She soon found out, and the main course was punctuated by a discussion of the American film industry. Patrick’s polite interest became real as the names of famous stars were mentioned casually as neighbours or friends of the Pedersens.
‘I’m from California, and we have a beach house at Malibu,’ explained Althea. ‘We don’t use it much, I guess. Hank’s mostly in New York, and I’m often some place else. But I suppose I know all the big names. Vic Bernitz, for example.’
Patrick was impressed. ‘The director of
Night Below Zero
? One of my favourite films.’
‘He’s a neighbour. A real nice guy.’
Yolande felt ill at ease and suspicious. They were baiting him, teasing him, dangling the Hollywood carrot in front of his nose; and he had fallen for it completely. She wished she hadn’t come, and feeling cross, departed for the ladies’ room. Althea gave Stessenberg a sly smile, then asked Patrick for his telephone number.
‘I’ll pass it on to Vic when I get back home. You’ve been in some movies already?’
‘Yes – French. One film of Jacques Bertin I am in won two awards at Cannes this year.’
‘Not bad,’ remarked Stessenberg. ‘I thought I recognised you.’
‘So you ’ave seen
Souvenir Amer
?’ asked Patrick eagerly. ‘What you call in English …
Bitter
…’
‘
Bitter Memory
? I don’t think so.’
‘I know I haven’t,’ said Althea. ‘I don’t get it. I was sure I’d seen you somewhere before too.’
Patrick lapsed into silence, and when Yolande returned the conversation dwindled into meaningless small talk. She was glad when at last she got him away from the seductive atmosphere and outside into the warm Parisian night. They started to walk.