Glitter Baby (7 page)

Fleur couldn’t bear the twisted, frightened expression on her mother’s face. “It’s okay. I’m not afraid.” A servant pulled back Fleur’s chair while Belinda sat frozen, her skin as pale as the white roses in front of her.

Fleur followed Alexi into the hallway. Their footsteps echoed off a vaulted ceiling, with violent frescoes of women in breastplates and men stabbing each other. They reached the gilded doors that marked the entrance to the main salon. He opened one of them and gestured for her to enter.

The room held only a shiny black casket banked in white roses and a small ebony chair. Fleur tried to act as though she saw corpses all the time, but the only dead body she’d seen had belonged to Sister Madeleine, and that had only been a glimpse. Solange Savagar’s wrinkled face looked as if it had been molded from old candle wax.

“Kiss your grandmother’s lips as a sign of respect.”

“You’re not serious.” She nearly laughed, but then she looked at him, and the expression on his face stopped her cold. He didn’t care about Fleur showing respect. He was testing her courage. This was a dare,
un defi.
And he didn’t believe for one moment she could meet it.

“Oh, but I’m very serious,” he said.

She locked her knees so they didn’t tremble. “I’ve been facing bullies all my life.”

His mouth curled unpleasantly. “Is that what you think I am? A bully?”

“No.” She forced her own mouth to form the same unpleasant sneer. “I think you’re a monster.”

“You are such a child.”

She’d never imagined she could hate anyone so much. Slowly she took a step, and then another. She moved across the polished floor toward the casket, and as she came closer, she fought the urge to run from this silent house, run
from the Street of Charity, run from Alexi Savagar back to the safe, suffocating comfort of the nuns. But she couldn’t run. Not until she showed him what he’d tossed away.

She reached the casket and sucked in her breath. Then she bent forward and touched her lips to the cold, still ones of her grandmother.

She heard a sudden, sharp hiss. For one horrifying moment, she thought it was coming from the corpse, but then Alexi grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back from the coffin.

“
Sale garce!
” He uttered a vicious curse and shook her. “You’re just like him. You’ll do anything to save your pride!” Her hair came loose and tumbled down her back. He shoved her into the small black chair next to the casket. “Nothing is too vile when your pride is at stake.” He wiped away the kiss with his bare hand, smearing her lipstick across her cheek.

She tried to push his arm away. “Don’t touch me! I hate you. Don’t ever touch me.”

His grip loosened on her arm. He said something so softly she almost missed it.

“
Pur sang.
”

She stopped struggling.

He stroked her mouth with his fingers, his touch gentle. He traced the line where her lips came together. And then, unexpectedly, his finger slid inside her mouth and moved gently along the barrier of her teeth.

“
Enfant. Pauvre enfant.
”

She sat there stunned, spellbound, mesmerized. He crooned as if he were singing her a lullaby. “You have been caught in something you don’t understand.
Pauvre enfant.
”

His touch was so tender. Was this the way fathers treated daughters they loved?

“You are extraordinary,” he murmured. “The photograph in the newspaper didn’t prepare me.” He gently tangled his fingers in the tendril of hair that had fallen over her cheek. “I’ve always loved beautiful things. Clothing.
Women. Automobiles.” He brushed his thumb over her jawline. She smelled his cologne, faintly spicy. “At first I loved indiscriminately, but I’ve learned better.”

She didn’t know what he was talking about.

He touched her chin. “Now I have only one obsession. The Bugatti. Do you know the Bugatti?”

Why was he talking about a car? She remembered what she’d seen in the garage, but she shook her head.

“Ettore Bugatti called his cars
pur sang
, pure blood, like a Thoroughbred horse.” The tips of his fingers brushed the polished onyx drops in her earlobes and pulled gently. “I have the finest collection of
pur sang
Bugattis in the world, all but the crown jewel—the Bugatti Royale.” His voice was soft, loving…hypnotic. She felt as if he’d cast a spell over her. “He built only six of them. During the war, one Royale was left in Paris. Three of us hid it from the Germans in the sewers beneath the city. That car has become a legend, and I’m determined to own it. I must own it because it is the very best.
Pur sang
, do you understand me,
enfant
? Not to possess the best is unthinkable.” He stroked her cheek.

She nodded, although she didn’t understand at all. Why was he talking about this now? But his voice was so loving, and the old fantasies rose up inside her. Her eyes drifted shut. Her father had seen her, and after all these years, he finally wanted her.

“You remind me of that car,” he whispered. “Except you are not
pur sang
, are you?”

At first she thought she felt his finger on her mouth. Then she realized it was his lips. Her father was kissing her.

“Alexi!” The shriek of a wounded animal penetrated the room. Fleur’s eyes flew open.

Belinda stood at the door, her face twisted with anguish. “Get your hands off her! I’ll kill you if you touch her again! Get away from him, Fleur. You mustn’t ever let him touch you!”

Fleur rose awkwardly from the chair. Her falter
ing words were unplanned. “But…He’s…He’s my father…”

Belinda looked as if she’d been slapped. Fleur felt sick. She rushed to her mother. “It’s all right. I’m sorry!”

“How could you?” Belinda’s voice was almost a whisper. “Does one meeting with him make you forget everything?”

Fleur shook her head miserably. “No. No, I haven’t forgotten anything.”

“Come upstairs with me,” Belinda said stonily. “Now.”

“Go with your mother,
chérie.
” His voice slid between them like silk. “We will have time to talk after the funeral tomorrow and make plans for your future.”

His words gave her a sweet, fluttery sensation that felt like a betrayal.

Belinda stood at her bedroom window looking through the trees at the headlights flickering past on the Rue de la Bienfaisance. Muddy mascara tears trickled down her cheeks and dripped onto the lapels of her ice-blue robe. In the next room, Fleur slept. Flynn had died without ever knowing about her.

Belinda was only thirty-five, but she felt like an old woman. She wouldn’t let Alexi steal her beautiful baby away. No matter what she had to do. She stumbled over to the stereo. An hour ago, she’d made a phone call. She couldn’t think what else to do. As she looked around for her drink, she knew that, after tonight, there couldn’t be any more.

Her glass sat on the floor next to the pile of record albums. She crouched in the midst of them and picked up the album that lay on top. The soundtrack from the Western
Devil Slaughter
. She stared at the picture on the cover.

Jake Koranda. Actor and playwright.
Devil Slaughter
was the second of his Bird Dog Caliber movies. She loved them both, even if the critics didn’t. They said Jake was
prostituting his talent by appearing in junk, but she didn’t feel that way.

The cover photo depicted the movie’s opening scene. Jake, as Bird Dog Caliber, stared into the camera, his face dirt-creased and weary; his soft, sulky mouth slack, almost ugly. Pearl-handled Colt revolvers gleamed at his sides. She leaned back, shut her eyes, and reached for the fantasies that made her feel better. Gradually the sounds of the distant cars slipped away until she could only hear his breathing and feel his hands on her breasts.

Yes, Jake. Oh yes. Oh yes, my darling, Jimmy.

The record album slipped from her fingers, jarring her back to reality. She reached for her crumpled pack of cigarettes, but it was empty. She’d meant to send someone out after dinner, but she’d forgotten. Everything was slipping away from her. Everything except the daughter she’d never let go.

She heard the sound she’d been waiting for, Alexi’s footsteps on the stairs. She splashed more scotch in her glass and carried it out into the hallway. Alexi’s face looked drawn. His newest teenage mistress must have worn him out. She walked toward him, her robe slipping over one naked shoulder.

“You’re drunk,” he said.

“Just a little.” An ice cube clinked dully against the side of her glass. “Just enough so I can talk to you.”

“Go to bed, Belinda. I’m too tired to satisfy you tonight.”

“I only want a cigarette.”

Watching her carefully, he drew out his silver case and opened it. She took her time pulling one out, then stepped past him into his bedroom. Alexi followed her. “I don’t remember inviting you in.”

“Pardon me for entering kiddieland,” she retorted.

“Go away, Belinda. Unlike my mistresses, you’re old and ugly. You’ve become a desperate woman who knows she has nothing fresh to bargain with.”

She couldn’t let his words hurt her. She had to concentrate on the awful obscenity of his mouth covering Fleur’s lips. “I won’t let you have my daughter.”

“
Your
daughter?” He took off his jacket and tossed it over a chair. “Don’t you mean
our
daughter?”

“I’ll kill you if you touch her.”

“
Bon Dieu, chérie.
Your drinking has finally driven you over the edge.” His cuff links clanked on the bureau as he discarded them. “For years you have begged me to include her in our family.”

Even though he had no way of knowing about the phone call she’d made, she had to fight to sound calm. “I wouldn’t be too confident. Now that Fleur’s older, you don’t have many holds left on me.”

His fingers paused on his shirt studs.

She forced herself to go on. “I have plans for her, and I don’t care any longer who knows that you’ve been raising another man’s daughter.” It wasn’t true. She did care. She couldn’t bear the idea of her daughter’s love turning to hatred. If Fleur discovered Alexi wasn’t her father, she wouldn’t understand how Belinda could have lied to her. Even worse, she wouldn’t understand why Belinda had stayed with him.

Alexi seemed amused. “Is this blackmail,
chérie
? Have you forgotten how much you love your luxuries? If anyone learns the truth about Fleur, I’ll cut you off without a penny, and you know you can’t survive without money. How would you keep yourself in scotch?”

Belinda walked slowly toward him. “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”

“Oh, I know you,
chérie.
” His fingers trailed a path down her arm. “I know you better than you know yourself.”

She gazed into his face, searching for some softness there. But she could only see the mouth that had crushed her daughter’s lips.

The morning after Solange’s funeral, Fleur woke up before dawn to the sound of someone in her room. As she eased her eyes open, she saw Belinda throwing clothes in her suitcase. “Get up, baby,” she whispered. “I have your things all packed. Don’t make any noise.”

Belinda wouldn’t explain where they were going until they’d reached the outskirts of Paris. “We’re staying with Bunny Duverge for a while at her estate in Fontainebleau.” Her eyes darted nervously to the rearview mirror, and lines of strain pulled at the corners of her mouth. “You met her when we were on Mykonos this summer, remember? The woman who kept taking your picture.”

“I asked her not to. I hate having my picture taken.” Fleur couldn’t smell any liquor, but she wondered if Belinda had been drinking. It wasn’t even seven o’clock. The idea upset her nearly as much as being awakened at dawn and dragged away from the house without an explanation.

“Fortunately Bunny ignored you.” Once again, Belinda’s eyes darted to the rearview mirror. “She called me a couple of times after I got back to Paris. She thought you were my niece, remember? All she could talk about was how striking you were and how you should be a model. She wanted your phone number.”

“A model!” Fleur leaned forward in her seat and stared at Belinda. “That’s crazy.”

“She says you have exactly the face and body designers want.”

“I’m six feet tall!”

“Bunny used to be a famous model, so she should know.” Belinda dug into her purse with one hand and pulled out her cigarette case. “When she saw that photo of you in
Le Monde
after the fire, she realized you weren’t my niece. At first she was angry, but two days ago she called and admitted she’d sent the Mykonos pictures to Gretchen Casimir, the woman who owns one of the most exclusive modeling agencies in New York.”

“Modeling agency! Why?”

“Gretchen loved the photos, and she wants Bunny to get some proper test shots of you.”

“I don’t believe it. She’s putting you on.”

“I told her the truth. That Alexi would never permit you to model.” She pulled the cigarette lighter from the dashboard. “But after what’s happened…” She filled her lungs with smoke. “We have to be able to support ourselves. And we need to get as far away from him as we can, which means New York. This is going to be our ticket out, baby. I just know it.”

“I can’t be a model! I don’t look anything like one.” She planted her loafers against the dash and drew her knees to her chest, hoping the pressure would ease the knots in her stomach. “I—I don’t understand why we have to go right now. I need to finish school.” She clasped her knees tighter. “And…Alexi doesn’t…He doesn’t seem to hate me so much anymore.”

Belinda’s knuckles turned white as she gripped the steering wheel, and Fleur knew she’d said the wrong thing. “I only mean—”

“He’s a snake. You’ve been begging me for years to leave him. Now I’ve finally done it, and I don’t want to hear another word. If those test shots are good, you’ll make more than enough to support us.”

Fleur had always intended to support them, but not like this. She wanted to use her math and language skills in business, or maybe be a translator at NATO. Belinda’s plan was a fantasy. Fashion models were beautiful women, not clumsy, too-tall sixteen-year-olds.