Indiscretions (4 page)

“Vennie,” she had said, sitting up abruptly and hugging her knees, “why don’t you come home with me in Long Leave—it’s the weekend after next—right after the exams? We’ll celebrate.”

Venetia had gazed at her, dazzled. She was called Vennie, and she had a friend. Kate had invited her home for the holidays and her whole life had changed.

Venetia was still in the bath—the water was getting cold—when the sound of the doorbell intruded on her memories. She jumped guiltily. Goodness, they were here already and she wasn’t even dressed! And what was she going to wear? She dried quickly and ran to the cupboard to check. The guests were all older people tonight. Kate had gone to the theater and that meant Venetia would be the only young person there. Never mind, it would leave her free to take care of things in the kitchen, and with a bit of luck Marie-Thérèse would be back to lend a hand. She didn’t want the guest of honor to know she was American, she decided suddenly; she wanted to be very English tonight, a Lancaster, not a Haven. The ruffled pink Laura Ashley was a bit too milkmaidish, though,
and the red silk from Georgio’s that fitted like a second skin and left one shoulder bare was too Beverly Hills. That left the eccentric creamy knit from Joseph with the gray silk-knit over-vest, or the conservative yellow Belville Sassoon that was an old favorite and in which she always felt comfortable. Venetia hesitated between the two. Oh, to hell with it, she thought, flinging on the creamy knit, why not be eccentric—after all, she was one of the Lancasters! She streaked a sparkle of fuchsia pink over her eyelids and smudged them with kohl, drifted a glitter of pink and gilt across her high angular cheekbones, and transformed her pretty mouth into a vivid hibiscus-pink petal. For a moment Venetia comtemplated spraying a streak of matching pink through her pale hair, feeling an urge just to shock people with sheer exuberant youth where decoration is a total art-form and not merely what you wear. Lydia wouldn’t have minded in the least, but perhaps it might upset the American. She decided against it. There was just time to slip into the kitchen and check that Marie-Thérèse had decided to return and might possibly be persuaded to lend a hand. The avocados were placed in the oven and instructions as to their removal in fifteen minutes given, and Venetia was ready.

The drawing room buzzed with polite chatter and the discreet tinkle of ice, high-pitched English feminine laughter and charming public-school stammers voicing gentlemanly compliments. Venetia paused at the door to take in the scene. There was never any stiffness at Lydia’s dinners, they went with a swing from the start. Dinner jackets were worn with a comfortable air of belonging, no doubt because most of them were at least twenty years old, and dresses were unadventurous but “right.” Venetia felt quite outrageous in the Joseph knit.

One man stood out as though he were from another planet. It wasn’t just that his dinner jacket was of superb cut and his was the only shirt with two—very discreet
and very small—ruffles down the front; he was at the most only twenty-five years old. And, thought Venetia as their eyes met across the room, he was almost dazzlingly handsome.

“Ah, Vennie darling.” Lydia hurried toward her. “Do come and meet Mr. McBain.” She turned her warm smile on the young man. “This is Venetia Haven, our ‘lodger,’ ” she announced cheerfully, “and also—luckily for you—our chef tonight. Venetia this is Morgan McBain.”

“Oh”—Venetia’s smile was tentative—“but I thought … weren’t you supposed to be older?” she asked, puzzled. Morgan McBain’s firm, warm hand held hers.

“Unfortunately my father couldn’t make it and sent me to deputize. And I’m very pleased he did.”

Admiration shone from his eyes, as blue as her own, and Venetia smiled back at him, her spirits soaring. His hair was straight and very blond, as though bleached from some strong sun, and his skin was tanned to a ruddy glow. He looked, she decided, like the kind of American who sailed and swam surpassingly well, a true outdoorsman.

“You are the chef?” His deep voice was puzzled.

Venetia laughed. “That’s right. I hope you’ll enjoy your dinner.”

“If you cooked it, I’m sure I shall, but promise you’ll sit next to me.…” He gestured conspiratorially toward the other guests. “I guess I’ll need some help here.”

Venetia gazed at him demurely, with Jenny Haven’s devastating wide blue gaze. “I’ll see what I can do,” she promised. She headed first for the dining room to change the seating arrangements and then for the kitchen where the baked avocados should be just about ready. Life suddenly felt very good.

Amadeo Vitrazzi was only fifteen minutes late. Not bad for an Italian, thought Paris, pouring Scotch for her guest and Campari and soda for herself. She stole a glance at him from under her lashes as she arranged the glasses on the black lacquer Japanese tray. Amadeo was leaning against the massive center support beam of her attic studio, gazing around him with an amused smile on his lips. He was an attractive man, smoothly sun bronzed from a summer at his villa in St. Tropez, smoothly spoken and smoothly dark haired, with sharp greenish eyes that were missing nothing as he examined her combined home and workplace. How old? Paris wondered. It was hard to say; he was slender, but it wasn’t the slenderness of youth, more the well-worked-out fitness of a man concerned with his appearance. Maybe forty, maybe forty-five, decided Paris, giving him the benefit of that smile again as she walked toward him with the drinks.

“Scotch with ice and soda, signore.”

Amadeo Vitrazzi’s glance was appreciative. He enjoyed pretty women and this one was exceptionally pretty … not exactly his type, though. He preferred them a little rounder, with lusher curves, more fullness to the bosom, like Gina when he’d married her. Gina had been perfection then, a ripe, almost plump, young Italian girl, but that was twenty-five years ago. Gina was more than plump after five children, and now there was a grandchild on the way. Their first. Amadeo was forty-eight and nervously aware that that was awfully close to fifty. His smile to Paris was intimate as he reached for the glass she offered. It felt good to be with a young woman like this; even if she were a little too lean for his taste, that sexy smiling mouth could do things to a man.

“I like your home, Paris. It has charm.” He leaned back against the black wooden beam and glanced again
around the room. White walls, black beams, a crisscross of exposed pipes lacquered a startling emerald green. Nothing of any value in the room—except the old sleigh bed. “A nice piece, that.” He gestured toward it with his glass.

Paris shrugged. “My sister’s choice. She knows about these things. I only know about fashion.”

Their eyes met, hers deeply blue, intense, and slightly wary. She licked her lips and Amadeo caught the hint of nervousness. He was surprised. What could Jenny Haven’s daughter have to be nervous about?

The black Italian lamp that curved across the drawing table left the rest of the work area in shade, and automatically his attention was drawn to the sketches that littered its surface.

“Would you like to see my designs now?” Paris’s hand lay lightly on his arm and he smiled again into her eyes.

“Why not,
cara?
Let’s see what you’re up to.” His tone was indulgent, and Paris quickly led the way across the bare wooden floor to her table. This was her true world, the place of her hopes and her dreams, of her flights of imagination and inspiration, her fantasies of fashion and concepts of style. And her driving ambition. Paris knew she had talent. She knew her capacity for solid hard work. She believed in herself infinitely. All she needed now was someone else to believe in her as much as she believed in herself.

Amadeo was aware of her light breath on his cheek as together they leaned over the table while she placed the sketches in front of him. They were clever, there was no doubt about it. And original—sometimes too much so. His expert eye calculated the retail possibilities of such a line … risky but exciting. “You might get the smart, younger boutiques to take some of these. Those on the Place des Victoires, for instance, or one or two in Les
Halles. You should make up samples and take them round,
cara
. I’m sure they’ll be pleased to try them.”

Paris’s deep, dark blue eyes widened in horror. “Oh, but it’s a
couture
line. I must do the
whole
collection. Don’t you see, Amadeo, it all goes together, the colors, the fabrics, the entire feeling.”

Amadeo flung back his head and laughed. “You want to start at the top, then, Paris Haven?”

His eyes mocked her and to her horror Paris felt herself blush.
Merde
, she thought angrily, I haven’t blushed in years, why am I now? People have laughed at me before. She turned away moodily.

“Why not?”

Her voice trembled slightly and he could see the delicate curves of her profile. Her full, voluptuous mouth belied the slenderness of her body, giving more than a hint of sexuality to her face. He’d indulge her, he decided, glancing at his watch. He had the time and she was intriguing.

“Why not?” repeated Paris turning to face him. “Where else is there to start?”

This time Amadeo hid the smile. It was obvious that Jenny Haven’s daughter had a lot to learn.

“A good attitude,
cara
,” he said, slipping his arm around her shoulders and leading her back toward the luxurious sleigh-bed sofa. “Come and sit here and let us discuss it together. Tell me how I can help.”

Paris felt the weight of tension and anxiety lift from her like a cloud dispersed by the wind. He
had
liked the designs, then, he must have done. Why else would he want to know how he could help? She refilled his glass generously with whiskey and topped up her Campari, straight this time with just a thin green sliver of lime floating in its rosy pinkness. She sipped it slowly, enjoying its slightly bitter taste.

“You see, Amadeo,” she began, “I know I can be a
success. I worked for three years in major couture houses. I did everything. I stitched, I did fittings, I learned how to plan out a pattern, I was taught how to cut by a master, I even provided sketches for three of the last collections. My designs
sold
, Amadeo, they were a success! But of course there was no acknowledgment that they were my designs. I couldn’t bear the rigid attitude of the couture houses any longer. I needed to be on my own, to develop my own style. And now I feel that I have.”

Amadeo took her hand and held it lightly in his. Her skin was soft, the fingers long and slender, and he stroked the hand lightly. Paris’s voice had a passion born of her eagerness. Just watching her mouth as she talked, the cushiony curve of her underlip, stirred his excitement.

“Go on, little one, tell me all,” he murmured, bringing her hand to his lips.

Paris scarcely felt his light kiss. She was carried away by her own words, by her own desires. She had Amadeo Vitrazzi here now and he was listening to her, she
must
convince him
now
.

“Youth has its own kind of elegance, Amadeo. It demands clothes with more freedom of expression, pieces that can be flung together and yet look like a whole. That’s the concept I based my collection on, and that’s why it must all be seen together. It can’t be taken from boutique to boutique in a suitcase and shown across a counter. My clothes would look like hell seen like that. They need young, moving bodies inside, they are meant to be lived in. You and I both know that the secrets of good dressmaking are line, fabric, and color. I’ve used the hard-earned apprenticeship where I learned those elements to design
these
clothes. And I’ve designed them for tactile effect, using contrasts of fabrics. I need buttery-soft suedes, real linen—the sort that creases—coarse cotton knits that feel crunchy against the skin. And silk,
Amadeo. The softest, sexiest, most luxurious fabric in the world. The kind that only you produce, Amadeo.”

Amadeo leaned back against the cushions, watching her indulgently. She was so intense, this child, so carried away by her ideas.

“Show me,
cara
, show me what you mean,” he suggested soothingly.

Paris leapt to her feet. Her smile was radiant now. “Wait,” she called over her shoulder, racing across the room to her desk, “just wait a moment while I get the sketches and samples.”

Her long sweep of black hair swung behind her as she whirled across the room. Its texture looked almost as soft and supple as one of his own silks.

“Here, you see.” She leaned closer to point out a special color, a change of texture, why this one must be in silk, it was the
only
thing she could possibly use.

Amadeo slid his arm around her shoulders and her hair brushed his face. She smelled of some familiar, vibrant scent, warm but not too heavy. He liked that, it meant that you could smell her skin, too, not just the perfume. And this close her skin looked and smelled wonderful.

Paris looked up from her sketches. “Well, Amadeo, what do you think?”

“Splendid,
cara
, wonderful designs and wonderful colors. You are a gold mine of new ideas.”

Paris threw her arms around his neck and hugged him enthusiastically. “Of course I am, Amadeo, it merely took someone of your genius to recognize it! I’m going to make a fortune before too long, Amadeo Vitrazzi.” She leaned back a little, her hands resting on his shoulders. “But I need your help.”

“My help?” His glance was quizzical as he slid both arms around her. “What can I do to help you, Paris?”

Paris wriggled uncomfortably, realizing her position.
His hands were stroking her back and his face was close to hers. Too close. She leaned back farther. “I need credit, Amadeo.” She wriggled free and rummaged through the sketches littered on the floor at her feet until she came up with an itemized list. “I need your fabrics, but I also need six months’ credit, just until I get started. And I need a good price. Only
your
fabrics will do. They are the best, I can’t possibly use anything else.”

Amadeo knew his fabrics were the best. He also knew that they were very expensive. He’d be a fool to give her credit; only the major houses were permitted to operate on that, and then never six months. And why should Jenny Haven’s daughter need credit anyway? Surely the mother would endorse her own child?