Legacy of Lies (8 page)

Once more, his eyes locked on hers as he took her finger between his lips and licked the faint drop of blood from it. There was a menace in his gaze that frightened her.

“Making love to you, Alexandra, of course. What did you think?”

“I don't want this.” A dark shadow moved across the ghostly moon. Another moved over her heart. Her earlobe throbbed; the warmth between her thighs went cold.

Alex tried to turn her head away, but his fingers grasped her chin and forced her face back to his.

“Of course you do,” he said. “You want me to penetrate you, to possess you.”

“Yves, please. Let me go.”

“You know that's not what you want.”

When she tried to pull away, he tightened his hold. His eyes glittered dangerously, and for a moment Alex thought he was going to hit her. Afraid, but unwilling to show it, she held her ground, refusing to flinch.

He obviously mistook her silence for consent. His lips curved in a cruel, unfamiliar smile. “I promise to make this a night you will remember always.”

Before Alex could determine whether to take his words as a promise or a threat, Debord pinned her wrists above her head and thrust into her dryness, smothering her startled cry with his mouth.

At first she fought him, but she was no match for his superior strength. A vicious, backhanded blow cracked across her face like a gunshot.

He took her with a savage, relentless, animal ferocity. Finally, when she didn't think she could stand the searing pain another moment, he collapsed on top of her, his passion spent.

The moon reemerged from behind the cloud. Alex lay bathed in its cold white light, feeling cruelly violated and sadder than she'd ever felt in her life. He shifted onto his side, his elbow resting on the rumpled sheet, his head propped on his hand, and looked down at her. Unwilling to meet his gaze, Alex covered her eyes with her forearm. She heard the bedroom door open. Surprised, since she could feel Debord still lying beside her, watching her with his unwavering intensity, she removed her arm and looked up.

The newcomer was Marie Hélène. The woman was standing over them, clad only in a crotch-length strand of pearls. For the first time since Alex had known her, she was smiling.

“Ah,
ma chère
.” As if nothing unusual had happened,
as if it were commonplace for his sister to arrive unannounced and undressed in his bedroom, Debord rose and drew the nude woman into his arms, showing her the tenderness he'd denied Alex.

“Your timing is perfect,” he murmured when their long, openmouthed kiss finally ended. He looked down at Alex. “Isn't it,
chérie?
”

As they smiled down on her with benevolent, expectant lust in their eyes, Alex realized that this was not the first time the brother and sister had engaged in such activities.

Self-awareness came crashing down on her like a bomb. She'd thought she was oh, so sophisticated, with her darling little Paris apartment and her fancy couture career and her French lover!

Now she realized that deep down inside, where it really counted, she was just a country bumpkin who'd come to the big city and lost her heart. The trick was to escape before she also lost her soul.

Although every muscle in her body was screaming, she managed to push herself to her feet. Her nose was running. Wiping it, she saw the bright blood on her hand.

“Speaking of timing, I think it's past time that I went home.” She managed, with effort, to push the words past the sob that was lodged in her throat.

She looked frantically around the room, searching for her wispy panties and stockings. When she couldn't spot them, she reminded herself that the important thing was to escape this nightmare.

“Surely you do not intend to leave now?” Debord questioned with an arched, mocking brow. “Not when the celebration is just getting started?”

Vomit rose in Alex's throat. She swallowed it back down again. “If you think I'm going to—” her voice was muffled
by the dress she was pulling over her head “—play musical beds with you and Morticia here, you're sadly mistaken.”

“Alexandra.” Debord caught her arm and shook his head in mock chagrin. “I have spent these past weeks patiently introducing you to a world of erotic pleasures. I've taught you passion. I've taught you to set free your darkest, most innermost emotions.”

That much was true. Some of the things he'd asked Alex to do in the name of love had made her grateful that her bedroom was usually so dark he couldn't see her blush. Many of them she hadn't enjoyed. But he obviously had. And at the time, to her, making Debord happy had been the important thing.

“A
ménage à trois
with Marie Hélène is simply the next step in your education.”

Her blood was like ice in her veins; it pounded behind her eyes like a jackhammer. “You're both disgusting.” What the hell had happened to her shoes?

“I warned you about Americans,” Marie Hélène sniffed, slanting a knowing glance at her brother.

“I thought you were turning into a sophisticate,” Debord told Alex. His fingers tightened painfully on her upper arm. “But
non,
my sister was right about you. You are merely a silly schoolgirl with dreams of Prince Charming on a white charger.”

Something that felt horribly like hysteria began to bubble up inside Alex. She struggled for dignity, vowing she would not let them see her cry.

“You're certainly entitled to your opinion.”

Shaking free of his possessive touch, she marched barefoot toward the door with an amazing amount of contemptuous disdain for a woman whose lifelong dream had just been shattered.

She paused in the bedroom doorway, raked her gaze over
the unholy coven of two and said, “Oh, and by the way. I quit.”

Debord revealed not a scintilla of surprise. He nodded his head even as he wrapped his arm around Marie Hélène's nude waist, drawing his sister tightly to his side.

“That is your choice. Just remember, Alexandra, any designs you created while employed by the House of Debord belong to me. If you attempt to take them elsewhere, I will make certain that you never work again.”

After what he'd done tonight to her body, not to mention her pride and self-esteem, this threat seemed nothing. Less than nothing. Indeed, rather than frighten her, his words turned her into a towering pillar of wrath.

“You're fucking welcome to them,” Alex shouted with renewed bravado. “Since they're the only decent thing in your new line.”

She slammed the door behind her, feeling a faint satisfaction when she heard a painting fall from the wall. Running back down the stairs, as if the devil himself were on her heels, she left the house.

The street was dark and empty. Numb as she was, the only way she knew she was still walking was that the stone sidewalk felt cold and wet and rough against her bare feet.

Finally, blessedly, a taxi appeared. She flagged it down, grateful when the bulky, mustachioed man displayed no interest in the fact that she was alone on the street at this time of night without any shoes.

Her head was splitting by the time she reached her apartment, but her nose, for the time being, had stopped bleeding. The elevator, naturally, had chosen this night to stop working, forcing her to climb the stairs. Each step proved an effort.

In a delayed reaction to the events of the past hour, as soon as she entered the safety of her apartment, Alex began
to shake. She barely made it to the small cubbyhole masquerading as a bathroom before throwing up all the champagne and caviar she'd had at the party celebrating Debord's brilliant showing. She flushed the toilet, longed to wash her face, but was too tired to stand up again. So she remained there on the tile floor, her back against the wall, knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs. Resting her sore cheek against her knees, Alex finally allowed herself to cry.

A long time later, after she'd run out of tears, she brushed her teeth, then took a shower, scrubbing herself viciously in a futile attempt to wash tonight out of her mind, to rid her body of Debord's touch. His scent. His seed.

The hot water turned tepid. Then cold. Alex rubbed her reddened skin dry, pulled on the most sexless, oversize pair of sweats she owned, then dragged herself back out into the hall to the pay phone.

With trembling fingers, she managed to place a collect call to the States.

The following morning, she piled suitcases filled with her clothing, sketch pads and her pencils into the back of a taxi.

Turning her back on the city that had for so long represented her most heartfelt dream, Alex was on her way to California, determined to begin a new life.

 

In the luxurious first-class section of the Air France jet winging its way over the Atlantic, Eleanor, Miranda and Zach sipped champagne and orange juice cocktails, and toasted Miranda's newest discovery.

Twenty-six rows back, Alex was shoved between a woman with a crying baby and a portly businessman who'd
made two passes before the plane had even taxied down the runway.

How had she been so stupid to allow herself to fall under the spell of such a horrible, self-indulgent man as Debord?

The answer came to her as the jet chased the waning moon across the night-black sky. The truth, as unpalatable as it might be, was that she'd closed her eyes to any faults her idol might possess. She'd seen in the designer only what she'd wanted to see. Flattering images born in a teenage girl's romantic fantasies.

And now, because of her foolishness, the dream that had sustained her for years, the dream that had fed her soul during those long periods of personal struggle, had disintegrated like a puff of smoke from a Left Bank chimney.

Los Angeles

W
allowing in self-pity had never been Alex's style. By the time her flight landed at LAX, she'd roused herself out of the abyss and managed to regain most of her usual bravado. Her experience with Debord, as exhilarating, fulfilling and ultimately horrendous as it had been, was over.

And now, Alex vowed, as the flight attendant bid her
adieu
with a professional smile, there would be no looking back.

Sophie Friedman was waiting for Alex at the door of the jetway. Her admiring gaze swept over Alex, clad in a scoop-necked cotton peasant dress. Embroidered pink flowers bloomed on the billowy mint green skirt, appearing like Queen Anne's lace on an Alpine meadow. Impractical for traveling, the outfit was one of Alex's favorites. She'd worn it hoping it would raise her spirits. It hadn't.

“Lord, child, you remind me of a half-wild Tyrolean shepherdess. Hell, if I had any sense, I'd turn in my pro
ducer's card, become an agent, drive you straight to the nearest studio, negotiate a multipicture, multimillion-dollar deal, then sit by my swimming pool and wait for the bucks to roll in.” Before Alex could insist she had no theatrical ambitions, Sophie was filling her in on the latest episode in her divorce, which she dubbed “The Hundred Years' War.”

Sophie didn't stop talking the entire time it took to collect Alex's luggage. Although she interrupted herself constantly, from what Alex could discern, this latest skirmish had begun over custody of Prince Andrew, more familiarly known as Randy Andy, a champion Yorkshire terrier who'd been declared Stud of the Year by the American Kennel Club. Or perhaps it was Sophie's estranged producer husband who was the stud. Alex wasn't quite sure. Alex's depression momentarily lifted when she saw the white car purring beside the curb outside the terminal. “A limo?”

“Just the usual star treatment.”

“I'm hardly a star,” Alex murmured as the dark-suited driver swept open the passenger door.

“Not yet. But stick with me, kid, and you will be.”

The seats were wide and white and smelled of leather balm. After they settled in, Sophie leaned forward and gave Alex a very intense look. “Is that an example of Debord's handiwork?”

Alex's hand went instinctively to her cheek, covering the bruise she thought she'd successfully hidden with concealer and makeup. “I don't want to talk about it.” She was still too embarrassed to admit to such a horrid lapse in judgment.

“I was thinking about getting Prince Andrew neutered. To keep my rat of a husband from getting any stud fees,” Sophie revealed. “But I've got a better idea. Why don't
we take the nut cutters and do a snip job on a certain French designer?”

Alex smiled in spite of herself. “He's not worth the jail time. But thanks, anyway.”

“Men,” Sophie muttered. “Just because God gave them a set of balls, they think they rule the fucking world.

“Do you believe in fate?” Sophie changed the subject suddenly as the limousine eased into the bumper-to-bumper, circling and suicidal lane changing that was standard driving procedure at the nation's third-busiest airport.

Alex cringed as a white Jaguar abruptly cut off a blue BMW, earning a blast of a horn and an expansive hand gesture from the BMW's driver. “Not really.”

“Neither did I.” Sophie took a bottle of Dom Pérignon from a bucket filled with ice and poured the sparkling wine into two glasses. “Having come up the hard way, I always figured if you wanted to get ahead, you needed to make your own luck.”

Murmuring her thanks, Alex accepted the proffered flute. “That's pretty much what I've always thought.”

She certainly hadn't waited for fate to secure her a job with Debord. Alex frowned as she thought about the treacherous, amoral designer.

Sophie observed Alex's scowl without comment. “But,” she revealed, “since meeting you, I've changed my mind.”

“Oh?” Alex took a sip of the champagne, enjoying the way the tiny bubbles exploded on her tongue.

“I was getting ready to call you when you telephoned.”

“About designing for your daytime soaps?”

“Not exactly.”

“Oh?” Surely Sophie wouldn't have invited her to Hollywood and met her at the airport with a stretch limousine to tell her she'd changed her mind, would she?

Alex didn't believe Sophie capable of such behavior, but she'd recently discovered that when everything seemed to be coming up roses, it was prudent to watch out for thorns.

“Last month I got an invitation to lunch from this network honcho. Seems they did a market study with some focus groups, and my soaps blew away all the competition.”

“I'm not surprised. They're wonderfully written.”

“Bless the girl!” Sophie lifted her expressive eyes heavenward. “She didn't even tack on the usual ‘for soaps.'

“Anyway,” she continued, “although it hasn't been announced yet, I just signed to create a weekly nighttime television drama with a continuing storyline. A prime-time soap, so to speak.”

“Like ‘Dallas'?” Alex had seen the show in Paris. Although it seemed strange watching Larry Hagman and Victoria Principal speaking French, soon she, like the rest of the world, was addicted to the story revolving around the wealthy Texas oil family.

“Like ‘Dallas,'” Sophie confirmed. “But the network guys want more glitz and glamour than the Ewing family. More sex and sin.”

She refilled their glasses. “Which naturally made me think of you. Well, your designs, anyway. Whatever sex and sin you have in your private life is your own business.”

Alex's expression remained outwardly calm even as Sophie's reference to sex made her hands turn to ice. “I'm flattered.”

“Don't be. I told you I thought your creative vision was cinematic. Which was why I couldn't understand why you'd want to hide all that creative light beneath Yves Debord's barrel.”

Alex didn't want to talk about Debord. “Tell me about the story line.”

“Well, it's still in the planning stages, but the plot revolves around a fiftyish New Orleans oil baron and the three women in his life—his conniving ex-wife, who has maintained a chunk of the business and is always trying to finagle more, his saintly current wife who does her best to make his mansion a home, and his young, ambitious mistress, a dancer working on Bourbon Street. I want to set a hot, steamy atmosphere. Sort of a cross between Tennessee Williams and Harold Robbins.”

Such disparate personalities would offer myriad design opportunities, Alex mused. “That sounds like a challenge.”

“Don't worry. We've got plenty of time. The network wants an extravagant look to ‘Blue Bayou' and I didn't want to be rushed into putting a sloppy show on the air, so I worked a deal allowing us to spend the entire upcoming season creating story lines, getting actors under contract, designing sets and wardrobes. Then the show's going to premiere as a miniseries over three consecutive nights during Sweeps week. We've got a twenty-six-week guarantee, which is double the norm for new show contracts.”

“Twenty-six weeks. That's a lot of wardrobe.”

“I plan to use enough beadwork to keep an entire village in India working overtime.”

“That won't be inexpensive,” Alex felt obliged to warn.

“Not to worry. The network brass is behind us all the way. We're going to do a lot of shooting on location, and as for wardrobe, the sky's the limit.”

The woman's enthusiasm was contagious. Alex felt a slow smile spread across her own face. “It sounds wonderful.”

“Doesn't it?” Sophie lifted her glass in a salute. “To ‘Blue Bayou.' And the lady who's going to make it shine.”

“To ‘Blue Bayou,'” Alex agreed absently.

She was relieved to discover that although he may have
stripped her of a dream, Debord hadn't killed her optimism. Rich colors and fabrics were already spinning around in her mind, changing and tilting like the facets of a kaleidoscope.

Professing a desire to clinch the deal over lunch, Sophie whisked Alex off to the famed Bullocks Wilshire Tearoom, high atop the landmark 1929 Art Deco store. The restaurant, a longtime Los Angeles tradition, boasted a high-domed ceiling and, Sophie claimed, the best Caesar salad in town.

As she leaned back in the comfortable chair and watched the lanky models from the department store sashay around the room, Alex found herself sharing Sophie's belief that perhaps there was something to be said for fate, after all.

 

While Alex and Sophie celebrated their new artistic collaboration, Miranda was entering an office building on Sunset Boulevard, not far from Frederick's famed purple lingerie palace.

The sign on the glass door said Galbraith and Bailey. Though Jonathon Bailey had been dead for more than a quarter century, Theodore Galbraith had not removed his former law partner's name from the door. He was a man comfortable with tradition. A man of principle. Principles Miranda had every intent of testing.

She'd dressed carefully for this meeting, in a black silk Geoffrey Beene dress that set off her pale skin and displayed an intriguing bit of décolletage. She'd pulled her blond hair back into a society-girl style at the nape of her neck, held with a black satin bow. Her Italian pumps boasted four-inch heels that made her silk-clad legs look as if they went all the way up to her neck.

“Dear, dear Teddy,” she greeted the attorney with a warm smile that suggested secrets to share. “It's been too
long! How kind of you to make time for me in your busy schedule.”

Theodore Galbraith rose quickly and went around his partner's desk to greet her. “When a beautiful woman invites an old fogie like me to lunch, I not only make time, my dear,” he responded with a twinkle, “I clear my calendar for the day.”

Galbraith was a balding, rumpled man in his late sixties. A contemporary of James and Eleanor Lord, he'd been their lawyer since the beginning, when James had opened his first store. Unlike the new wave of trendy L.A. attorneys, who favored silk Bijan blazers, linen trousers and sockless loafers, Galbraith was not overly concerned with outward appearances.

But Miranda knew the man's aging Savile Row suit, the frayed cuffs on his monogrammed white shirt, the half glasses purchased from a rack at the Walgreens drugstore down the street, all belied a brilliant legal mind.

“Shame on you for talking that way,” she scolded lightly. “Why, you're not at all old, Teddy.” She took hold of both his hands, allowing her slender white ones to rest in his blue-veined ones slightly longer than necessary. Arthritis had swollen his knuckles, but his grip remained firm and sure. “On the contrary, you are just reaching your prime.”

A pleased flush rose from his white collar. “That's a vast exaggeration, Miranda,” he said, “but since, like most men, I plead guilty to being highly susceptible to feminine flattery, I won't argue with you.”

“It isn't flattery at all. It's true,” she lied deftly. “And I know it's very naughty of me to call you on such late notice, but I must be returning to London soon, and I'm so very concerned about Aunt Eleanor.”

He frowned. “I do hope she hasn't had another occurrence of that heart problem.”

“Oh, no, nothing like that, thank goodness,” Miranda hastened to assure him. “But she has been behaving quite strangely lately. I felt it prudent to obtain advice.”

His fuzzy white eyebrows lifted above the rim of his reading glasses. “Legal advice?”

“Not really.” She lowered her eyes to the faded carpet, as if trying to frame her answer. “Actually,” she murmured as she met his waiting gaze again, “I came to you, Teddy, because you're her dearest friend. And I'm terribly afraid Aunt Eleanor is going to need all the friends she can get.”

“Oh, my. This does sound ominous.”

“Wait until you hear the entire story.”

They lunched at the Polo Lounge, where it was apparent that the attorney enjoyed being seen in the company of a much younger, attractive woman. Miranda knew he'd been widowed for nearly as long as he'd been running the office without a partner. Her spies had also told her that for the past decade, he'd been living a scholarly, celibate existence more suited to a Trappist monk than a rich attorney in Lotus Land.

Well, that would soon change. Teddy Galbraith didn't know it, she thought with an inward smile as she refilled their glasses from a second bottle of Tattinger champagne, but he was about to get lucky.

They were both slightly tipsy when her driver finally returned them to his office. Teddy more than her. But she'd been careful that he hadn't gotten too drunk. She definitely hadn't wanted to render the elderly attorney impotent.

“I can't believe Eleanor's involved in the mumbo jumbo spirit world,” he said for the umpteenth time. He'd been upset by Miranda's description of the séances, not to mention the suspicious circumstances surrounding the deaths of
Clara Kowalski's former husbands. “She's always been such a sensible woman.”

“I know. That's what makes her behavior all the more bizarre,” Miranda agreed earnestly.

It was late afternoon. His secretary had gone for the day, leaving them alone in the office. Miranda sat down on the leather sofa and crossed her legs.

For a moment he seemed tempted to join her on the couch. She smiled to herself as he overcame the temptation and chose the high-backed chair behind his desk, instead. If he thought that wide expanse of oak was going to protect him, she mused wickedly, the old dear was sadly mistaken.

“I do wish there was something, anything, we could do,” she murmured.

He ran a hand over his head, ruffling his wispy white hair, torn between dual loyalties. “I agree this is worrisome, Miranda.” Unaccustomed to drinking in the middle of the day, his tongue felt thick and awkward, forcing him to speak slowly.