JoAnn Ross - Legacy of Lies

“It’s done,” he greeted her without preamble.

“Done?” She stubbed out her cigarette in a Lalique ashtray and crossed the room on a swish of crimson silk. “Do you mean...”

Feeling like a knight returning after a successful Crusade, he set his briefcase on a priceless Louis Quinze table and extracted a single piece of paper.

“Lord Smythe deeply regrets having caused you emotional distress. As proof of his willingness to accept full blame in the breakup of your marriage, not only has he dropped all claims against your assets, but he insists on paying all legal fees having to do not only with his attempt to acquire your Lord’s stock, but the divorce, as well.”

“Surely you jest!” She grasped the piece of paper from his hand, her avid eyes eating up the lines of text. “You darling, wonderful man.” Her voice was a low, satisfied purr. She pressed her hand against his chest, moving it lower. Then lower still. “How ever can I thank you?”

There was nothing subtle about her stroking fingers or the invitation gleaming in her eyes. Zach had come to the conclusion that directness was one of Miranda’s greatest charms.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” he said amiably.

Much, much later, Zach telephoned Eleanor from Miranda’s antique bed and amazed his employer by announcing that he was taking five rare days off.

Since they couldn’t make love twenty-four hours a day, Zach and Miranda managed to leave the bed from time to time. Miranda proved an enthusiastic tour guide as she took Zach to all the attractions. Hyde Park, the Tower of London, Kensington Gardens.

She also took him to the London Lord’s. For a man in charge of a chain of department stores, Zach was an anomaly in that he’d always hated shopping. But unable to resist Miranda’s polished charms, he spent an afternoon following her through the big store, and while he couldn’t get excited about the aisles of china and linen, he had to admit that the cashmere sweater she selected for him was quite comfortable.

One evening they attended a concert at Albert Hall, immortalized by the Beatles in their Sergeant Pepper album. “Did you know,” Miranda offered, as they climbed into the back seat of the Daimler limousine that was waiting to take them back to her town house after the concert, “when Tom Jones played here, women actually threw their underwear onto the stage?”

Zach arched a brow. “Surely not proper English women,” he said with feigned shock.

Miranda nodded. “So I’ve been told.”

Her eyes glittered like the diamonds she wore at her ears and throat. Her gown was little more than a slip, which clung to every curve of her body, outlining the pert upthrust of her breasts and rounded buttocks in a shimmer of silver satin. It was obvious she was wearing nothing underneath it.

“Sounds like I’m in the wrong business,” Zach said. It had begun to rain; the steady drizzle diffused the streetlights and made the streets glisten like black glass.

Miranda’s sultry laugh promised myriad sensual pleasures. “You have absolutely nothing to worry about in the bedroom department.” She pushed the button that caused the thick, tinted glass to rise between the front and back seats.

Kneeling in front of Zach, she unzipped his slacks, then bent her head, draping his groin in a curtain of blond silk as she lowered her glossy lips over him. With every pull of her mouth, Zach came closer to exploding. When he didn’t think he could hold back another moment, he yanked her back up onto the seat, arranging her so that she was lying across his lap.

She sprawled wantonly across him, her silver kid shoes on the seat, her skirt riding high on thighs, which, illuminated by the glow of the streetlights, gleamed like porcelain.

He trailed his fingers up her thighs in a seductive pattern that left her trembling. When he caressed her mound and played with the pale blond hair covering it, Miranda squirmed and arched her back, pressing against his hand.

Threading his fingers through the soft pubic curls, he began stroking her moist vaginal lips. “Tell me what you want,” he ordered, crazed to hear it. He’d never had an acquisitive streak. But from the first minute he’d seen her, he’d wanted Miranda. During these past five days, he’d discovered he was a greedy man. The more he had, the more he wanted.

“You, dammit,” she complained on a low moan that had nothing to do with surrender. “I want you.”

Zach kissed her deeply, tasting himself on her lips. Then he turned her in his arms, his hands spanning her waist, and with one swift, strong movement, lowered her onto him.

Naked flesh seared naked flesh as Miranda met his challenge; her pelvis ground into his, her white teeth nipped at his neck.

The ripe scent of passion filled the car; their bodies were hot and slick with it. Zach’s fingers dug into her skin, he suckled greedily on her breasts, and she felt a corresponding tightening deep within her.

She rode him relentlessly, up and down, harder and faster, demanding more and more until they crossed the finish line together. Exhausted, she collapsed against him.

They stayed together for a long time, neither having the inclination nor the energy to move. The only sound was their heavy, ragged breathing and the soft patter of rain on the roof of the limousine.

“I believe I’ve made a decision,” Miranda murmured against his chest.

“What’s that?”

She tilted her head back and smiled up at him. “After the Paris shows, I believe I’ll take a holiday in America.”

“How long a holiday?”

“I was thinking a fortnight. That would also give me an opportunity to examine all the new things you and Aunt Eleanor have been doing with the American stores. I’m always on the lookout for new ideas for the London Lord’s.”

Zach had already discovered that underneath Miranda’s patina of steamy sexual appeal lay a quicksilver brain. She’d been a driving force behind Lord’s couture boutiques, and although the deal with Debord had fallen through, she’d been lobbying Eleanor nonstop to give the avant-garde designer yet another chance.

“New ideas are the lifeblood of retailing,” he agreed mildly.

“And then, of course, there’s Auntie’s unfortunate friendship with Mrs. Kowalski. Someone has to help you keep an eye on her.”

Seeing through Miranda’s flimsy excuses, Zach enjoyed the idea that this unbelievably sexy creature was willing to cross an ocean for him—a former bayou brat who hadn’t worn shoes until he’d gone to school.

“I think,” he said, as he felt himself growing hard again, “that’s an excellent idea.”

Chapter Seven

Paris

Debord’s fall show took place late on a cold, rainy evening in July. Instead of the traditional runway, a huge wooden platform had been constructed over the Olympic-size pool at the Ritz Hotel. Seated around the pool, looking like so many judges at a diving competition, the world’s fashion herd had gathered to see if they would be writing the former wunderkind’s obituary. Like locusts, the rich and famous, along with thousands of buyers and thousands of fashion reporters, had winged their way to Paris. By the time the last model had twirled her way down the platform, these arbiters of society chic would either praise or bury the king of fashion.

They were, as always, prepared to do either.

No attempt had been made to protect celebrities from the omnipresent paparazzi. Seated in the front rows as many were, they were obvious targets, forced to put up with the hordes of photographers who ambushed them at point-blank range, camera shutters sounding like rain on a tin roof.

“Over here, Bianca,” they called out to the former Mrs. Jagger, hidden behind a pair of wraparound sunglasses. “Look this way!... Hey, Ivana, how about giving us one of those million-dollar smiles!” This too, was part of the ambience. The razzle-dazzle game of couture.