Danielle Steel - Zoya

“Are you Russian?” he inquired as the elevator stopped on their floor, and she nodded, blushing faintly, a failing she had decided was destined to plague her for a lifetime.

“Yes,” she spoke in a soft voice, admiring the way he walked. His room seemed to be right next to theirs, and he strode along the ample corridors, suddenly making them seem too narrow. He had the shoulders of a football player, and the energy of a boy as he walked beside them.

“So am I. My family is anyway. I was born in New York.” He smiled, and the two women stopped at Zoya's room. “Have a good time with your shopping. Bonne chancel” He spoke in heavily accented French as he disappeared into his own room.

Axelle commented as they walked into Zoya's room, and they took their shoes off, “God, my feet hurt … I'm glad we met him. He has a good line. I wanted to take a look at it again when we go back. We need more coats for next fall, and if we don't get everything here, we can buy a few models from him, if he gives us a decent price.” She smiled and Zoya ordered tea as, once again, they went over the day's orders. They only had four more days in town, before they sailed back to New York on the Queen Mary.

“We really ought to be thinking more about hats and shoes,” Zoya said pensively, as she closed her eyes and thought for a moment. “We have to give them more than just dresses and evening gowns and suits … that's always been our strength. The whole look they love so much.”

“That's what you're so good at.” And then out of the blue, as she looked at the pretty woman in the mauve dress, her hair unleashed from its knot and cascading down her back like a child's, “Handsome, isn't he?”

“Who?” Zoya opened her eyes in obvious confusion. She had been trying to decide if they should order their hats from Chanel to go with the suits, and if they should order some of her fabulous costume jewelry. Their clients had so many jewels of their own, she wasn't sure they'd understand the chic of what Chanel was doing.

“The coat man from New York of course. If I were twenty years younger, I'd have grabbed him.” Zoya laughed at the image of the ladylike Axelle grabbing anyone. She could almost see the man flying into the room, tackled by Axelle, and she laughed at the thought again.

“I'd like to see you do it.”

“He's so rugged-looking, and he has a nice face. I like men like that.” He had been almost as tall as Clayton but much broader, but Zoya hadn't given him a thought since they'd left him. “I'll take you with me when I go to his showroom. Maybe he'll invite you out to dinner, after all you're both Russian.” She was teasing, but not entirely. She had seen the way he had looked at Zoya, and the interest on his face when he heard the title.

“Don't be silly, Axelle. The poor man was just being polite.”

“ Afon oeil! My eye,” she said, as she wagged a finger at Zoya. “You're far too young to act like a nun. Do you ever go out with anyone?” It was the first time she had dared to ask her, but they were far from home, and it was easier to ask personal questions here, away from the shop, and their clients.

“Never,” Zoya smiled, looking strangely peaceful. “Not since my husband died.”

“But that's awful! How old are you now?” She had forgotten.

“Thirty-seven. That's rather too old to act like a debutante. We see enough of those at the shop.” She laughed easily and Axelle narrowed her eyes in friendly disapproval, as Zoya poured her another cup of tea from the usual silver tray. The luxuries of the Ritz were becoming pleasantly addictive.

“Don't be ridiculous!” she scolded, “at your age I had two lovers.” She looked mischievously at her young friend, “Unfortunately, both were married” But one of them had set her up with the shop. It was a rumor Zoya had heard before but had never lent much credence to. Perhaps it was true after all. “In fact,” she went on to add, “I see a very nice man in New York now. You can't just spend the rest of your life between the shop and your children. They'll grow up one day, and then what will you do?”

Zoya laughed, but she appreciated Axelle's concern. “Work harder. There's no room in my life for a man, Axelle. I'm at the shop till six o'clock every night, and then I'm busy with Sasha and Nicky until nine or ten. By the time I bathe, read the newspapers, and an occasional book, it's all over. I'd fall asleep in my plate if anyone took me out.” Axelle knew how hard she worked, but she was sorry for her. There was an aching void in the younger woman's life, and Axelle wasn't even sure Zoya knew it.

“Maybe I should fire you, for your own good,” the older woman teased, but they both knew there was no danger of that. Zoya was too important to her now. At last, she had found a safe harbor.

But the next morning, when they went back to Dior again, to discuss shoes this time, they ran into Simon Hirsch getting out of a taxi at the same time they did.

“We meet again, I see. I'd better be careful or you'll be selling the same coats I am!” But he didn't look worried. He cast an eye over Zoya again, this time in a bright pink linen suit that made her look almost girlish.

“No danger of that, Mr. Hirsch,” Axelle assured him, “we've come back to discuss shoes.”

“Thank heaven.” He followed them in, and they met again on the way out, and this time all three of them laughed. “Maybe we should combine our schedules, just to save time and money on taxis.” He smiled at Zoya, and then glanced at his watch. He was well dressed, with obviously handmade English shoes, and a very good-looking suit, and the watch on his wrist was one he had just bought at Cartier. “Do you ladies have time for lunch, or are you too busy?”

Zoya had been about to decline, when Axelle startled her by accepting. And without halting for a beat, Simon Hirsch hailed a cab, and gave him the address of the new George V Hotel.

“They do a very nice lunch. I stayed there the last time I was in Paris.” He looked serious then, as they approached the hotel just off the Champs-Élysées. “I went to Germany then, it was only a year ago, but I'm not going back this time. It was extremely unpleasant.” He didn't elaborate as they got out, and when they reached the dining room, the headwaiter took them to an excellent table. They ordered lunch and he asked Axelle if they were going anywhere else, but she said they only had time for Paris.

“I bought some beautiful fabrics in England and Scotland before I came, for my men's line. Beautiful goods,” he said, as he ordered wine, and Zoya sat back quietly in her chair and watched him. “I won't set foot back in Germany though,” he mentioned again. “Not with all this business with Hitler.”

“Do you think he's really doing the things they say?” Zoya had heard about his hostility to the Jews, but she wasn't quite sure she believed it.

“I don't think there's any doubt. The Nazis have created an atmosphere of anti-Semitism that permeates the whole country. They're almost afraid to talk to you these days. I think it's going to lead to some very serious trouble.” His eyes were quiet but angry, as Zoya slowly nodded.

“It seems difficult to believe.” But so was the revolution.

“That kind of insanity always is. My family left Russia because of the pogroms. And now it's starting here, in a subtler way, of course, but not much. There's nothing very subtle about going after Jews,” his eyes burned with quiet fire, as the two women listened. And then, as though to change the subject, he turned to Zoya with a quiet smile of interest. “When did you leave Russia, Countess?”

“Please,” she blushed in embarrassment, “call me Zoya. In ‘real life,’ my name is Zoya Andrews.” Their eyes met and held, and she looked away for a moment before answering his question. “I left Russia in 1917. Just after the revolution.”