Legacy of Lies (28 page)

“Alex! It's all right. It's only a dream!” Zach shouted.

Immersed in her own horror, Alex couldn't hear him.

“It's all right,” he insisted, sucking in a sharp breath as a flailing fist slammed against his ribs. “You're safe, sweetheart. No one's going to hurt you.”

The struggle continued for another minute, a time that seemed longer to both Zach and Alex. Finally his soothing voice and gentling touch had their effect.

As his wide hand stroked her hair, Alex looked up at him. Fright still lingered in her expressive eyes.

“I had another nightmare.”

“I know.” He pressed his lips against her hair. “But it's all right. You're all right.”

“Yes.” Alex sighed and rested her cheek against his bare chest.

Zach listened to her breathing return to normal. Beneath his stroking hand, her flesh warmed. “Feeling better?”

“Uh-huh.” She nodded. “I was dreaming of Anna,” she murmured drowsily. Secure in his arms, she had already begun falling back to sleep.

Zach decided he must have misunderstood her. “Anna? You were dreaming about Anna Lord?”

“Mmm.” She nestled closer against him. “I was dreaming about when she was kidnapped.”

His blood chilled. “Oh?” he asked with a studied calm. “What about it?”

But Alex had fallen asleep again. Leaving Zach to watch her. And wonder.

The following morning, to Zach's secret frustration, Alex could recall nothing of her terrifying nightmare. Which kept him from learning if the dream had only been of things Clara and Eleanor had told her, or something else. Something only Anna Lord would have known.

After
croissants
and strawberries in bed, and another leisurely session of lovemaking, Alex reluctantly returned to Los Angeles.

As he watched the executive jet take off into the vast, blue Arizona sky, Zach was forced to ponder the possibility that, as amazing as it might seem, there was an outside chance, just perhaps, that Eleanor was right about Alexandra Lyons.

O
n the day of the Chicago opening, there was more excitement than the time Queen Elizabeth and Nancy Reagan visited the Long Beach Lord's. Behind the scenes, as she made last-minute adjustments to the models' gowns, Alex's heart was beating so hard and so fast she was certain it would leap from her chest.

They'd flown to Chicago the previous day on the Lord's executive jet—Alex, Zach, Eleanor, the actresses and models, and, of course, Sophie. Concerned about the slight angina attack Eleanor had suffered a week prior to the trip, Averill had come along, as well. As had Miranda, who seemed determined to keep her husband away from Alex.

A by-invitation-only fashion show was planned for those valued credit-card holders and the fashion press. Afterward, the public would be allowed into the newest store on Michigan Avenue's Magnificent Mile.

The Blue Bayou boutique was on the sixth floor, set advantageously between designer gowns and fur coats. It was a romantic setting, with soft, piped-in music, tufted blue
ottomans and deep-cushioned sofas designed to make a waiting husband or lover as comfortable as possible.

The set for today's fashion show resembled an old plantation; the designer—one of several set designers borrowed from the television show—had twined fragrant pink, red and white flowers around
faux
Grecian marble pillars. A pair of trees draped in Spanish moss flanked the stage.

A white satin-covered runway bisected the boutique; on either side were gilt chairs; a rose had been placed on each white brocade seat.

“It's absolutely stunning,” Alex breathed softly, staring at the boutique above which, as Eleanor had promised, her name appeared in sky blue neon.

She'd seen the drawings, of course. And she'd been here the previous evening, but although she'd stayed till past midnight, the stage had still been little more than scaffolding, and the flowers had been safely stored in the florist's walk-in cooler.

“Not as stunning as the clothes,” Eleanor answered. “I knew you were talented, Alexandra, but you've surpassed even my expectations.”

Having discovered exactly how demanding Eleanor Lord could be, Alex took her words as high praise indeed.

Only minutes before the show was to begin, Zach appeared backstage. After some vague and incomprehensible remarks about needing her input on pricing structure, he led her into a nearby dressing room and shut the door.

“Zach,” she whispered, “the show's about to begin.”

“Not for another five minutes.” He played with the ends of her hair. “Have I ever told you that I love your hair?”

“Yes, but—”

“Relax, sweetheart. They haven't even opened the downstairs doors yet…. I do, you know.” He ran his hand down the mass of waves. “I love the color. The scent.”
He kissed the top of her head. “I love the feel of it draped over my chest. My thighs.”

His unthreatening touch was a direct contrast to the seductive images his words were currently invoking. She put a hand on his chest, whether to draw him closer or push him away, Alex could not quite decide.

“Dammit, Zach,” she complained on a soft, shaky little laugh, “you have rotten timing.”

“I know.” He lifted her hand from his white dress shirt and began nibbling on the sensitive flesh at the inside of her wrist. “It's my single flaw. But I promise to improve.”

When he scraped his teeth against her knuckles, Alex's knees turned to water. “You're driving me crazy.”

“That's the idea. Because you've been doing the same thing to me and I refuse to make the trip alone.” He folded her fingers and returned her hand, enveloped in his larger one, to his chest. His smiling mouth was a breath away from hers. “I wanted some time alone with you, just the two of us, before you got even richer and more famous.”

She looked up at him in surprise. Could he possibly think her financial status would make any difference to her love? “It won't change how I feel.”

“I know.” His soft sigh was one of pleasure, not regret or sorrow. He lifted his eyes upward, to a heaven that, until Alex, he'd never been totally sure he believed in. “Thank you.”

And then he lowered his lips to hers.

The kiss was soft, but deep. The kind of kiss a woman could drown in. The kind that could make a woman float. A soft breath escaped her parted lips as Alex closed her eyes and followed Zach into the mists.

“I love you,” he murmured, unwilling to relinquish her lips when the warm, stolen kiss ended.

“I know.” She smiled up at him, her heart glowing in her eyes. “And that makes everything worthwhile.”

“I'm glad to hear you say that.” Reluctantly he released her, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles the embrace might have caused in her bright silk dress. “But I think this is where you're supposed to tell me that you love me, too.”

“I love you.” She kissed his mouth. “Love you.” His chin. “Love you.” His throat, above the perfect Windsor knot of his tie. “Love you.”

His body was growing hard. Not wanting to face all those waiting women in an aroused state, he laughed and put her a little away from him. “That's all I wanted to hear.” Still grinning, he gave her a proprietary once-over. “You look gorgeous.”

“Thank you.” She gave a quick curtsy. “I thought about wearing something softer hued, to match the set, but red always gives me confidence.”

The silk dress, with its deeply scooped neckline and short skirt was emblazoned with huge poppies. The way the material hugged Alex's curves was enough to make any male with blood still flowing through his veins want to pick those bright flowers.

“It suits you.” He gave her another proprietary look and forced himself not to think of what vibrant confections she was wearing beneath the flowered silk. “But something's missing.”

“Missing?”

She spun around, studying herself in the three-way mirror. At Eleanor's suggestion, the lighting in the dressing room was a warm and complimentary soft pink, vastly different from the usual color-draining fluorescent. It was lighting designed to make a woman look her best.

“I'm no expert on female fashion, but I think it needs
this.” He pulled a gray velvet box from his suit-coat pocket.

“Oh, Zach!” Alex gasped as she looked down at the slender chain of hammered gold accented with a diamond heart. “It's spectacular.”

“Not as spectacular as you. But they haven't invented a gem that even comes close, so I suppose it'll have to do.”

She grinned her pleasure at both his flattering words and his extravagant gift. “Flatterer.” Turning around, she lifted her hair, baring her neck. “Would you put it on?”

As he fastened the chain, Zach found himself yearning for the time when such intimacies wouldn't have to take place behind closed doors.

Soon,
he told himself as they left the dressing room. If everything worked out according to plan, in a few short weeks he would be a free man.

It had been Eleanor's idea that Alex describe her own designs, insisting it would increase the name recognition of the line. Afraid she'd suffer from stage fright, Alex had reluctantly agreed.

Giving in to Alex's belief that live music would be preferable to taped, but wanting to keep costs from soaring into the stratosphere, Zach had compromised with a jazz quartet. The musicians, who hailed from New Orleans, fit both his and Alex's criteria: they were talented and came cheap. And the music, Eleanor had pointed out with her usual marketing flair, was perfect for the Blue Bayou theme.

The fashion show began with daytime wear: graceful, fluid dresses created from whisper-soft silks printed with impressionistic images of flowers and leaves, seductively draped to enhance any woman's figure. Along with the romantic dresses were narrow little suits reminiscent of the fifties, worn with sequined bustiers or crayon-bright silk camisoles.

“Of course, every woman needs a special dress for an afternoon at the theater,” Alex read from her script. She lowered her voice. “Or for that forbidden midday assignation.”

There was a ripple of excited recognition as Mary Beth, whom every woman in the room loved to hate as the amoral mistress Tiffany, walked out from behind one of the Grecian pillars.

When she unfolded from her cocoonlike fuchsia stole, displaying the snug minidress embroidered with silk flowers, the audience gasped their surprised pleasure, then applauded.

“When temptation is the name of the game, dare to out-dazzle the bright lights of Monte Carlo,” Alex read, “in a short, sassy, sparkling evening gown….

“Wear this and everything stops but the music,” she described the strapless floor-length tube of clinging red silk.

“And for your gypsy soul…” A trio of models twirled down the runway, resembling flamenco dancers in their calf-length black, red or gold mousseline dresses cascading with ruffles.

The spontaneous burst of applause for the same design Debord had so harshly rejected made Alex's heart soar. Her nervousness vanished; the remainder of the show passed in a glorious blur.

After she'd taken countless bows, the doors to the newest Lord's store in the diamond-bright chain were flung open to the public with a flourish by white-gloved young men wearing red jackets.

Hordes of women clogged the escalators to the sixth floor. The resulting stampede attested to a pent-up demand created by what had been essentially a weekly, hour-long television commercial for Alexandra Lyons clothes. When the number of shoppers quickly swelled to 20,000, the
store's security people—whose idea of an incident might be two women fighting over a cashmere sweater—got nervous and ordered the doors temporarily closed until order could be restored.

Once again Eleanor's instincts proved flawless as shoppers proved thrilled to be able to buy the same mint green, satin peignoir set the beleaguered wife had been wearing when arrested for murder on the season-ending cliff-hanger. Another popular outfit turned out to be the royal purple silk suit Tiffany had worn on that same episode when she went to the morgue to identify the body of her much older third husband.

As the cash registers rang up the sales, shoppers revealed both their good and bad sides. According to Zach's up-to-the-minute computer tallies, the saintly wife's classic, yet sexy business suits were the best sellers in the daytime wear, the ex-wife captured the cocktail dress crown, while the mistress won the battle of the underwear, hands down.

Even Zach, who had never understood Miranda's obsession with couture clothes, had to admit that the sight of seven hundred dresses and five hundred peignoirs streaming from the store like the soap's leading character's black gold, was quite a sight. If first-day receipts were any indication, the Alexandra Lyons collection was going to be a smashing success.

By the time the harried security guards shut the doors at the end of the day, Lord's had sold most of the Blue Bayou stock and was into back order. Indeed, any woman who wanted to get married in Tiffany's pearl-and-rhinestone-studded wedding gown would have to postpone her ceremony for several weeks to allow the Brooklyn factory to catch up to demand.

The following morning brought even more good news. During a breakfast meeting prior to the return flight to Cal
ifornia, Zach announced that on Wall Street, the opening of Lord's shares had been delayed forty-five minutes after the bell because of the crush of would-be investors clamoring for the stock.

When trading finally did begin, Lord's shares went up considerably. As the company jet crossed over Kansas, the stock had continued to climb and showed no sign of slowing.

It was official. Both the fashion press and the financial media had declared the Alexandra Lyons Blue Bayou collection an unqualified success.

The news came as a vast relief to Alex, who'd harbored a secret fear that perhaps Debord may have been right about her designs not being marketable.

Life would be perfect, she considered as the pilot pointed out the Grand Canyon below, if only for one thing.

If only she could share her happiness with Zach.

Alex was sitting in the richly appointed cabin, lost in thought, idly watching the clouds, when Miranda suddenly appeared in front of her.

“Congratulations. How does it feel to be fashion guru to the middle class?”

Zach's wife's words were not meant, Alex realized, as a compliment. “I'm pleased people like my work.”

“Isn't that nice.” Miranda lifted the crystal old-fashioned glass to her lips. From the way she was swaying ever so slightly on her Charles Jourdan high heels, Alex suspected it was not mineral water Miranda was drinking. “It's not going to work, you know.”

“What isn't going to work?”

“This little act you have going.” She waved her arm, splashing vodka onto Alex's white jeans.

Alex pulled a tissue from her purse and began dabbing at the moisture. “Act?”

“You're nothing but a scheming little opportunist,” Miranda spat, pointing a scarlet fingernail into Alex's face. “Or are you going to deny you slept with Debord to get that job in Paris?”

Alex's first thought was surprise that Miranda knew about her affair with the designer. Her second thought was that Zach's wife had garnered the attention of everyone on board.

“You've got your facts wrong, Miranda,” Alex managed to reply calmly.

“That's what you say.” She leaned forward, her red lips twisted into an ugly sneer. “You're not only a conniving slut—you're a liar.”

Zach, who'd been in the cockpit with the pilot, returned just in time to hear his wife's poisonous accusation. “You've had too much to drink, Miranda.” He took hold of her arm and tried to take the glass from her hand, but she pulled away.

“That's where you're wrong, darling. Because I haven't had nearly enough to get the taste of your little trollop out of my mouth.” Throwing back her blond head, she finished off the rest of the drink. “I know you're sleeping with my husband,” she hissed at Alex. “I also know why. Because you're using him to infiltrate yourself into my aunt's life.”