JoAnn Ross - Legacy of Lies

Also on hand were a trio of Saudi Arabian wives, properly draped in black for the occasion and accompanied by a phalanx of turbaned, grim-faced bodyguards who’d caused a stir when they’d refused to give up their daggers. From time to time the men’s hands would slip inside their dark jackets, ensuring that their automatic pistols were still nestled in their shoulder holsters.

In the pit around the platform the photographers stood on their camera cases for a better view. One enterprising photographer from the Baltimore Sun had brought along her own folding stepladder. When the trophy wife of a Wall Street trader continued to loudly complain that a photographer from a big Texas daily was blocking her view, he merely flashed her a snappy salute with his stubby middle finger and kept snapping away.

In the midst of all this sat Miranda and Eleanor Lord. Although one of the prized gilt chairs had also been reserved for Zach, he preferred to watch the show from the back of the crowd.

Backstage, chaos reigned supreme.

Trying to do ten things at once, Alex thought the hectic scene resembled the worst of Lewis Carroll’s Wonderland. The surrealistic Mad Hatter’s Tea Party, perhaps. Models in various stages of undress raced about like tardy white rabbits, hotly pursued by hairdressers who teased and spritzed, and dressers who tortured them into clothing no normal body could wear even as makeup artists wielded false eyelashes and stubby red pencils and complained that absolutely no one, dear heart, was holding still long enough to draw in a decent lipline!

Debord paced, barked orders and chain-smoked.

“Dammit, Alexandra,” he snapped, “you have put the wrong earrings on Monique! She is to wear the crystal teardrops with that gown. Not the tourmalines!”

He viciously yanked the offensive jewelry from the model’s earlobes, making both Alex and the model glad they were clip-ons. “Merde. Foolish girl! What am I paying you for?”

“Sorry,” she murmured, changing the earrings without pointing out that indeed, Debord himself had specified the green tourmalines. Three times.

On the other side of the curtain, their performances timed with stopwatch precision, sleek, sloe-eyed models glided across the platform beneath the unforgiving glare of arc lights.

“Numéro cinq, number five...Place des Vosges,” a voice announced as a trio of towering mannequins, clad in trousers and smoking jackets, done up in Debord’s signature black and gray, marched past the onlookers.

“Numéro treize, number thirteen...Jardins du Luxembourg.” This season Debord had chosen to name his collection after familiar Paris landmarks.

“Numéro vingt, number twenty...Palais-Royal....”

It was soon apparent to all assembled that this collection was more eclectic than usual. One of the smoking jackets boasted wide gold lapels, and a pair of jet trousers were shown with an eye-catching, beaded tuxedo jacket.

No one knew, of course, that the glittery additions had been Alex’s contribution. Since a couture line bore the name of the designer, assistants’ efforts routinely went unrewarded.

Alex had finally talked Debord into trying her silk dinner suit in some other hue besides black and gray. Although he’d steadfastly refused to make it up in her beloved amethyst, the burst of applause the suit received when shown in the rich ruby made her heart swell with pride.

“Turn for me, baby,” the male photographers called out, whistling flirtatiously as the model spun and twirled.

The familiar ponchos from last season returned, along with huge shawls flung over the shoulder and allowed to hang on the ground. Several of the shawls were fringed; many were offered in graduated colors, from misty mauve through dark heather to the deep, rich, royal purple Alex had been denied in the suit.

The applause grew more enthusiastic with each number. Indeed, editors from Vogue and Bazaar stood up to salute Alex’s other effort—a voluptuous velvet evening gown shown in a stunning pimento-red that added a flare of fire to the collection. From her viewing spot behind the curtain, Alex was certain she saw Grace Mirabella wipe away a tear with the knuckle of an index finger.

By the time the show ended with the traditional wedding gown, this one white satin and studded with seed pearls, the verdict was clear. Surrounded by television lights, Debord joined a dozen models on the stage as the crowd bravoed wildly.

Within moments his unshaven jaw was smeared with the lipstick of his admirers. He had successfully reclaimed his place at the uppermost tier of the fashion pack; he was, everyone agreed, a genius!

“Well,” Eleanor said, raising her voice to be heard over the enthusiastic applause, “that was quite inspiring. I do believe it’s time to invite Debord into our corporate family.”

“The show certainly seems to be a success,” Zach said. He’d left the back of the room and joined the two women.

“I told you the man was worth his weight in gold to Lord’s,” Miranda said. Her face had the kind of beatific expression Zach usually associated with religious paintings.

Neither Zach nor Eleanor brought up Debord’s earlier disaster. After today’s triumph, there was no need.

“No point in trying to talk business with the guy now,” Zach decided, eyeing the crowd of women surrounding the designer.

“Tomorrow will be soon enough,” Eleanor agreed.

She was suddenly more tired than she cared to admit. But the way Zachary had been hovering over her like an overprotective guard dog ever since that silly heart flutter she’d experienced during the séance, she knew that if she confessed the slightest fatigue, he’d rush her immediately to the Hôpital Américain.

Zach turned to Miranda. “Ready for dinner?”

“If you don’t mind, darling, I think I’ll stay and schedule my fittings with Marie Hélène.”

“Now?” Zach’s expression revealed that he damn well did mind. He’d been looking forward to ravishing her in the suite’s hedonistic marble tub.

“You know what they say.” Miranda’s smile reminded Zach of a sleek, pampered cat. “Never put off until tomorrow what you can do today.”

She linked her arms around his neck and brought his mouth down to hers, apparently oblivious to their audience and the whirring sound of camera motor drives freezing the heated kiss on film.

“I won’t be long,” she murmured caressingly. Her pelvis pressed against his groin in a blatantly sexual promise. “I promise. After all, we can’t miss Debord’s party.”

As her wet tongue insinuated itself between his firmly set lips, Zach relented, as he’d known all along he would.

* * *

The private party celebrating Debord’s triumph was held in a converted Catholic Church in the first arrondissement. The gilded altar and carved oak pews had been replaced by three balconies, five bars, a giant video screen and three dance floors.

The guests were a mix of high society, artists, models, and the occasional Grand Prix driver and soccer star; the music was just as eclectic, ranging from the tango and bossa nova to fifties’ and sixties’ rock and roll.

Alex was standing on the edge of the crowd beneath a towering white Gothic pillar—one of many holding up an arched, gilded ceiling emblazoned with chubby cherubs—sipping champagne and watching the frenzied activity when Debord materialized beside her.

“Are you ready to leave mon petit chou?”

She looked up at him, surprised. “So soon? Don’t you want to celebrate?”

“That’s precisely what I had in mind.” He plucked her glass from her hand and placed it on the tray of a passing waiter.

He put his arm around her, ushering her through the throng of merrymakers, pausing now and again to accept glittering accolades.