No More Lonely Nights (25 page)

Dominique put down the paper and stared out the window. What was so unique about the new French line? Well, it was three types of products at once: cosmetics, sportswear, and evening wear. That hadn’t been done before. So what? Why did three make it more interesting than one? Dominique thought about it and decided that wasn’t the angle to pursue. Instead, she focused on the designer himself. Jean-Claude Berri was a rugged looking thirty-two-year-old whose top model was his twenty-one-year-old wife. Berri had created a sensation in the design world when he had left the house of Christian Dior to launch his own line of young, innovative clothes. His announced goal was to capture the eighteen-to-forty-year-old market by designing bold ready-to-wear and selling it for thirty percent less than his competition. Couture, he said brashly, was for the over-fifty crowd. The fashion press pounced on the story, devoting many pages to photographs of the glamorous couple. Sketches from Berri’s spring line, exhibited in Paris the previous fall, filled the trade press.

It had been a coup for Orman’s to obtain the exclusive right to market Berri’s products in the United States. The June event would introduce the American public to the designer’s fall/winter line. Dominique’s goal was to create an event that reached a wide public as well as the popular press. She had to make Jean-Claude Berri a household name in the cities where Orman’s had branch stores: San Francisco, Los Angeles, Chicago, and New Orleans.

What could she do? Dominique looked around the little café as though she would find a clue there. The brick walls were hung mostly with the original art of patrons, but six framed travel posters behind the bar added to the international flavor of the place.

Dominique focused on the posters. Exotic locales often provided effective themes for events, she knew. One poster was a splashy drawing of extravagantly costumed dancers. The caption underneath, in bright red lettering, read, “Rio de Janeiro.” The second poster was a surrealistic photograph of a beautiful blonde sitting at a poolside table with a much older man. They both wore bathing suits and sunglasses, but over the blonde’s shoulders was draped an ermine. A surfeit of diamonds glittered at her throat, wrists, ears, and fingers. “Hollywood,” read the caption. Dominique almost laughed out loud. She’d never really noticed it before. The next poster depicted an outdoor café overlooking a yacht-filled harbor. On the table in the foreground was a bottle of wine and a vase of daisies. The caption read “Côte d’Azur.”

Dominique sighed, struck with a sudden pang of homesickness for the place she had visited every year of her life—until that year. It was a shame New York didn’t have more sidewalk cafés. She turned away from the poster and picked up her coffee cup. But just as she was about to drink from it, she stopped. Her head swiveled back to the Riviera poster. It was as if a light bulb had come on. That was it! What could be more atmospheric—and more inclusive—than a sidewalk café on a fashionable street? She wouldn’t just hold her event in Orman’s, she would hold it
outside
of Orman’s. She would throw open the doors to the store and line the surrounding sidewalks with cute little tables and chairs. People would be able to order French food and wines. She would hire street entertainers like she saw in Paris—acrobats and jugglers and fortune tellers. Musicians would play café music. And while the people were sitting at the little tables enjoying the atmosphere, she would parade Jean-Claude Berri’s latest fashions before them.

Then another brainstorm seized her. This wouldn’t be an invitation-only event! They would advertise it, publicize it, and draw in the general public. But was a French café on a city street enough to draw in large numbers of shoppers? To attract significant press coverage? There had to be a way to enhance the idea. Dominique thought again of the cafés in Europe. Their festival atmosphere came from the people who crowded around them. Europe had broad sidewalks and plazas just made for people watching. New York sidewalks were narrower, and traffic would distract from Dominique’s show. Unless… She thought of Europe’s most exciting streets and plazas. Many were closed to traffic. Suppose she were able to obtain a permit to block off the streets near Orman’s? That would be the perfect solution, she thought excitedly. She had seen such an event in San Francisco once. It had been called a block party.

Dominique imagined the streets around Orman’s lined with crepe stands and ice-cream vendors. She envisioned a section devoted to artists with their easels, just as in Paris’ Montmarte. She saw little booths resembling the flea market, except that Berri products would be sold. It would be unlike anything that had ever been done before!

Dominique was filled with elation. She pulled a small notepad from her purse and began to scribble. She intended to present Bruce Fisher with a coherent, defensible plan. He would bring up potential problems. She would need answers. As long as she anticipated all the problems that might arise, things would go smoothly. And that wasn’t so difficult, was it?

TIME was whizzing by too quickly, Dominique thought, as she riffled through a pile of papers on her desk. With only four days until her debut event, she had begun to virtually live at Orman’s, going home only to shower, change clothes, and snatch a few hours of sleep. Despite that, there remained a plethora of last minute things to be done.

Dominique finally located her checklist with a sigh of relief. She scanned it, a frown on her face. Then a movement in the corner of her eye made her look up.

“Lucinda, thank God, you’re back. We need to—”

Lucinda interrupted her. “Dominique?” She was pale, hesitant.

Dominique’s stomach knotted. “What’s wrong?”

“Berri’s evening dresses weren’t in the shipment!” Lucinda blurted.

Now it was Dominique’s turn to go pale. “What do you mean? His office promised they would be in this one. We have the wire right here!” Dominique pulled a yellow piece of paper from her desk and waved it in front of her.

Lucinda looked pained. “I’ve been through every crate. I don’t know what to do.”

Dominique tried to still the panic that was rising in her. Everything was going wrong. She wanted to rush in a thousand different directions. Things she couldn’t possibly have foreseen were eating up valuable time. And the clock was ticking! She tried to think of what to do next. “Call Berri’s people. Find out exactly who the shipper is and when they picked it up!”

“Right.” Lucinda nodded nervously and scurried away.

A man in a blue uniform appeared at the door wheeling a dolly piled high with boxes. “Where d’ya want these?” he asked between puffs of his cigar.

The smell assailed Dominique’s nostrils and made her head ache all the more. “What are those?” she asked, approaching the dolly.

The man looked at the clipboard in his hand. “All it says here is ‘Samples.’”

“Oh, the gift baskets.” To be given away with purchases, they included samples of Berri perfume and cosmetics. Their arrival was the first good news Dominique had received all morning. “Put them in there, please.” She gestured toward Hank’s office.

The man wheeled in his load and left. A few moments later, a strong smell began to fill the office.

Dominique raised her head and sniffed. Slowly, she stood up and looked around. Perfume. Strong perfume. She jerked open her desk drawer and pulled out her pocket book. The perfume inside was intact. Then she remembered the boxes in Hank’s office. “Oh, no!” she cried. She pushed herself away from her desk and ran to the little room near the reception area. The bottom half of one of the cardboard boxes was soaked. Dominique could see the wet spot rising higher as more perfume was absorbed into the thirsty cardboard. “Oh, no!” she repeated. She sank to her knees and pulled the box open. Sure enough, several bottles of perfume lay in shards amidst the stuffing.

“Stay calm,” she whispered to herself. “This is not a serious problem.”

“What happened?” Hank stood in the doorway, his expression perturbed.

“Don’t ask,” Dominique replied wearily. “And don’t say anything. Just don’t.”

“But that smell. It’s… it’s suffocating.” Hank protested.

Dominique gave him a crooked smile. “Don’t let the press hear you say that. I’ll call the janitor and have it cleaned up.”

Hank studied Dominique for a moment, then said, “Look,
I’ll
call the janitor. You just go ahead with your work.”

“Thanks,” Dominique said gratefully.

“It’s okay.” He paused. “Say, is everything going all right?”

Dominique gave him a droll look. “Oh, yes, smooth as silk.”

The night of the party, Dominique saw success unfurl before her like a red carpet. From the moment the first curious passersby entered the French café, Dominique knew the evening would be a hit. The café was filled in less than half an hour. By sunset, the blocked-off street in front of Orman’s was choked with people. The store was open and sales booming. It was a festival, a fantasyland,
the
place for all Manhattan to be that night. The lights from Orman’s made Fifty-seventh Street as bright as day.

Smart young career women came, lured by a Berri dress or a bottle of perfume. And, just as Dominique intended, dwellers of the fashionable neighborhood that surrounded the store were drawn by the noise from the street party.

The store’s gold-charge customers were invited to a private cocktail party with Berri himself that preceded the block party. Chic Manhattanites in little black dresses and society doyennes in Chanel suits crowded around the designer and his models, eager to be his first clients in America. Their daughters came, too: chattering debutantes, for once in agreement with their mothers that Berri was
absolutely
the last word. Dominique had expected the rarefied types to leave once the block party began, but only a few did. Instead, the exclusive gathering, well lubricated by French wine, spilled into the street festival when it began an hour later.

Jean-Claude Berri and his beautiful wife were delighted. Photographers dogged their footsteps, blinding them with their flashes. Reporters pounded them with questions. Dominique was stunned to see a crew from a network news show just outside the store’s main entrance. And she was even more shocked when Hank and Bruce pushed her forward and introduced her as the creator of the event. Larry Orman personally congratulated her.

“What’s your name again?” he yelled over the noise from the crowd.

“Dominique Avallon,” she said into his ear.

He pumped her hand and repeated the name, as though committing it to memory. Then he was swallowed by yet another throng of photographers.

“Did I hear correctly? Dominique Avallon?”

Dominique turned in the direction of the man’s voice—a voice as deep and smooth as vintage cognac—and found herself looking into a pair of mesmerizing blue eyes. Bedroom eyes, she immediately thought—to her embarrassment.

The man gave her a rakish grin and held out his hand. “Clay Parker.”

Why was the name familiar? Dominique extended her hand and watched it disappear into his. A surge of warmth flared between them at the contact. The man was tall, his presence so dominating that Dominique was suddenly heedless of the crowd surrounding them. God, he was handsome! Movie star handsome, with luxuriant chestnut hair and the kind of tanned, chiseled face—almost beautiful in its perfection—that would look breathtaking in film close-ups.

Dominique had almost forgotten what it was like to feel this kind of attraction. It hit her like a lightning bolt, taking her unaware. Her body came alive with energy. It radiated from her, magnetic and utterly compelling.

Clay Parker’s eyes gleamed appreciatively. “I would have never guessed that the person responsible for all this”—he made a gesture that took in the entire street scene—“could possibly be so young and—” He didn’t falter; rather he stopped deliberately, suggestively. His blue eyes narrowed, focusing tightly on Dominique’s face.

Against her will, she blushed. “I headed the project, but a lot of other people were involved, too.”

For a moment, Parker’s flirtatious demeanor was replaced with one of respect. “Congratulations on a superb job,” he said. “I think the Berri line will be a huge success.”

Dominique’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “You’re familiar with it?”

Clay laughed. “My company delivered it here. And I personally escorted the evening gowns that your office was so worried about.”

Parker Shipping, Dominique thought. Very impressive.

She put her hands on her hips in mock anger. “You drove us crazy!” she declared.

Clay bowed, a graceful, courtly movement. “My apologies.” Upright again, he gave Dominique a sheepish look. “One of our barges ran aground and there was a delay. When I found out how soon you needed the goods, I decided to bring them personally. Larry Orman invited me to the party anyhow, so I just came a couple of days early.”

Dominique forgave him instantly. It would have been impossible not to.

Clay responded to the softening of her features with a devilish grin.

He knows how seductive he is, Dominique thought, as his eyes swept over her. A thrilling little frisson pranced up Dominique’s spine.

“Your accent,” Clay said in a low voice, “drives me crazy.”

Dominique laughed, glad she was having the same effect on him that he was on her. For an instant, Stephen flashed in her mind. It had been so different with him. The attraction had evolved over several weeks, and at its base had been mutual respect. With this man, there was instant electricity. Desire, pure and simple.

He gestured toward one of the outdoor cafés. “Listen, why don’t you take a break and have a drink with me?”

“Thank you,” Dominique smiled. She imagined that it was very difficult to say no to a man with a voice and manner so charming. Where was he from, she wondered? He himself had a mellifluous accent that captivated her.

As soon as they were seated, a waiter materialized at their side.

“Drink?” Clay asked.

Dominique laughed again, with a lovely flash of her dimples. He was making her light-headed. But she had to keep her balance. She had responsibilities. “Just coffee. I need to stay alert.”