Indiscretions (5 page)

“Surely you must have made a few samples,” he stalled, “something to show a buyer? Is there nothing I could see?”

Paris hesitated. “They’re not in your fabrics,” she agreed finally, “so you mustn’t judge them on that basis. Just a minute.” She uncurled herself from the sofa and he let go of her hand reluctantly, eyeing her body as she ran to the velvet curtain and pulled it to one side.

“Here, there’s this, and this. And this one is my favorite.”

The garments she held up for his inspection looked formless and yet complicated. They meant nothing to him, and Paris caught the baffled expression on Amadeo’s face behind the polite acknowledgment.

“Oh, I
told
you,” she said desperately, “that they should only be seen
on
.”

“Then, my dear Paris, please put one on.”

Unhesitatingly, Paris slid behind the curtain. Her skirt, top, and boots were off in a flash and she stood for an instant clad only in a pair of mint-green satin French knickers. She felt almost breathless with excitement. He was going to look at her clothes. Amadeo was her first
audience and she desperately wanted his approval. Sliding the dress over her shoulders she pushed her feet into a pair of high-heeled shoes. A final smoothing of her skirt, a shake of her head to loosen her hair, and she was ready.

Amadeo stared at her as she posed in front of the silvery sheen of the old apricot velvet curtain. The gray silk slashed in one uncompromising straight line across the widened shoulders, skimming the waist to a narrow zigzagged hem that ended two inches above Paris’s elegant knees. Bands and diamonds of soft suede angled the skirt diagonally. Paris swung around slowly for him to see the back, where the silk swooped in a low, bloused V almost to her waist. She was right. It was a wonderful dress. But the admiration in Amadeo’s eyes was for the girl. He’d been wrong in thinking she was too lean; there were curves all right, in fact all the curves were in the right places. He rose and walked toward her. He needed to touch her, to feel what she was like. Her nipples jutted beneath the gray silk and her parted lips smiled at him tentatively.

“It’s wonderful,
cara
, wonderful,” he murmured, taking her hand and drawing her toward him. “You were right, you have the touch.”

“Really, Amadeo, you really like it?”

Amadeo leaned forward and kissed her gently on the lips. “I love it,
cara
, and on you it looks beautiful.”

Paris gazed into his eyes so close to hers. A tingle of excitement ran through her body. He
loved
her designs. Amadeo’s hands were on her naked back and he pulled her closer, kissing her gently on the neck, tiny kisses, light and undemanding, but she could feel the tremor of desire as he pulled her closer.

“Tell me,” she whispered, “tell me, Amadeo, how you like this dress … it’s a sexy dress, isn’t it, Amadeo? All my designs are like that, that’s why they’ll be so successful.”

Amadeo slid his hand across her gray silk breast. She was still talking about her designs, about this damned dress, when all he wanted to do was rip it off her. He hadn’t felt like this in a long time, not even Olympe had done this to him lately. His erection was hard as a rock and throbbing as if it couldn’t wait.

Paris laughed when he pressed himself against her; she felt high on excitement, turned on by the promise of the dazzling future that awaited her now that Amadeo approved her designs and would give her credit. Perhaps he’d do more; she might even persuade him to become her business partner. Amadeo’s fingers tempted her nipples through the silk and his mouth came down hard on hers. There was no doubt what Amadeo Vitrazzi wanted in return. Paris leaned back a little to allow the dress to slide from her shoulders, watching with detachment as his dark head sank onto her breast, feeling the first blast of sexual excitement hit her as his tongue found her nipples. And why not? she thought. If this is what he wants in return, then he’ll have it—and it’ll be the best he’s had in a long time. You’re not going to forget this, Amadeo. Pulling herself from his embrace she stepped back from him, smiling.

Amadeo tugged off his jacket.

“Wait,” commanded Paris.

Amadeo waited eagerly as Paris stepped out of the pale green satin French knickers. My God, look at her, wasn’t she the most sexily elegant woman alive, posing there naked but for her high-heeled shoes? My God, if he didn’t have her quickly this might turn out to be a disaster instead of a success.… What now? She was walking slowly toward him, her hands caressing her own body, hesitating on her nipples, drifting lightly over the dark inviting triangle of hair. Amadeo unfastened his belt.

“Wait.” Paris took his hand and placed it there, on the
soft springy dark triangle, smiling at him while his fingers curved between her legs.

He couldn’t stand it, he had to have her. Amadeo tugged at his zipper once more, hearing Paris’s teasing laughter as she leaned closer and began to unbutton his shirt.

“Wait, Amadeo, wait,” she murmured in his ear, “let me do it for you.”

First the shirt, carefully folded and placed across the chair, then the trousers urged lingeringly down over his erection. She still hadn’t touched him, she was going so slowly, taking her time, tantalizing him. Amadeo had never wanted any woman so much in his life. Ah, ah, that was it.

Paris knelt in front of him and slowly, slowly, slid her hands across his belly. “Oh, Amadeo,” she breathed admiringly, “Oh, Amadeo … now you don’t have to wait any longer.” Her black silken hair was soft against his thighs as she leaned over him, and her mouth was even softer. Amadeo’s fingers knotted in her hair as the long orgasm rushed through him—he couldn’t wait, he couldn’t hold back any longer.

He lay back drained, but Paris Haven’s voice was silkily coaxing while her hands moved across his body. Amadeo opened his eyes and met her dark blue intense gaze.

“Wait, Amadeo, just you wait, that was only the beginning.”

His body was nice, she thought, straddling him. He was lean and smooth and tanned, and he was almost ready for her … it could have been worse.

Jenny Haven’s daughter was selling herself.

India was lucky again. The space on the corner across from the Paroli Studios was just big enough to squeeze in her tiny red Fiat, or almost. The front stuck out just a little, but not enough to matter. India slammed the door cheerfully and slung the satchel over her shoulder. Bending quickly she checked her face and tidied her hair in the offside mirror. She smoothed her black skirt and pulled down the scarlet sweater that wrapped around her in a luxury of evening softness. She was very pleased with that sweater. Perhaps she should pay only one month’s rent when the pictures sold and buy the jacket that went with it! She’d see if Marella could get her a discount.

She wondered for a moment whether it was Fabrizio she wanted to look pretty for, or whether it was because his wife would be there tonight. Marisa had never shown even the smallest scrap of jealousy. In fact, she barely showed any interest in India at all, and somehow it made India feel as though she were too insignificant to threaten Marisa Paroli’s security. And Marisa was right; India knew it.

A string quartet seated on futuristic chairs that seemed to be carved from blocks of translucent topaz was playing Vivaldi very delicately in the foyer and already the showroom was crowded. Several hundred smartly shod cosmopolitan feet were treading Fabrizio’s pastel carpet, and India eyed it with dismay. Spilled champagne, crushed hors d’oeuvres, and cigarette ash were scattered over its newness. She had begged Fabrizio to put down the black just for today, but he’d said that it would defeat the purpose. “They must see the place and the designs as a whole,” he’d told her. “Putting in the black would ruin the effect. They’ll go back to their papers and write that Paroli has lost his touch, or they’ll go on to the next party and tell each other that it was a fiasco, that the
colors were all wrong.” Hesitating by the door, India wasn’t at all sure that he was right this time. After the first dozen, how many had even noticed the carpet?

There was no gentle hum of conversation; it was a full-throated roar, and as she pushed her way through to the bar set up against the right-hand wall, India kept her ears open for snatches of conversation, eager to pick up any comments. Hardly anyone seemed concerned with Paroli Studios or its wonderful interior; all the snippets of talk she heard were of summers on the Costa Smeralda or plans for skiing in Gstaad from women as glossy as any of Paroli’s lacquered tables, or of the state of the lire and the latest Wall Street average from bronzed and handsome men who looked as though they need never worry about either.

Fabrizio Paroli watched her elbowing her way through the crush with the unfazed American assurance that always made him smile.

“Look how pretty our little India looks tonight,” he murmured to Marisa.

Marisa looked. Her cool glance assessed India Haven’s appearance, deduced the name of the designer and cost of her new outfit, and wondered if Fabrizio had given her a raise. The process took her approximately fifteen seconds and there was no malice in it; it was simply the reaction any Italian woman of her wealth and stature made about every other woman in the room, an automatic placing of the girl into a precise economic and social bracket. The only time Marisa ever failed was with the English. It was almost impossible to tell where they were at because they wore what they bloody well pleased and often it would be Marks and Spencer or something run up by their local dressmaker in some odd though possibly expensive fabric cut so badly that any “line” was lost. Only their jewels gave them away, and the size of those dusty sapphires and emeralds had to be seen to be believed, but then of
course they were probably heirlooms from colonial days and most likely were owed to the tax collector.

India Haven was a different matter. Alone, she didn’t merit a seat at their table at tonight’s dinner after the opening. Yet she couldn’t be dismissed altogether. Now, if
Jenny
Haven were with her, then of course tonight would be a different matter. Marisa was only rich and social. Jenny Haven was a star.

“I’m going to introduce her to some people,” called Fabrizio, already pushing his way through the crowd toward India, smilingly accepting the compliments of his guests as he made his way toward the bar. He liked India. He liked the way she looked, her wide-boned face with its flashing smile that lifted from her mouth with its wonderfully even teeth to her sparkling brown eyes. Even her curly bronze hair, confined at the back in its fat braid, seemed to vibrate with energy. Two years ago, when India had finally come to terms with the fact that she wasn’t destined to be a great painter, she had approached him and begged him to take her on as an apprentice. “You see, I must learn something,” she’d cried, “and the only thing I know and like is color and form. Interior design is the only answer.”

Fabrizio had been quite brutal with her at first, mistaking her enthusiasm for pushiness, her smart appearance and multilingual facility for rich-girl boredom. “It’s not all line and color,” he’d snarled moodily, “it’s plumbing and cement and shouting at workmen and coaxing craftsmen. It’s dealing with rich complaining customers who have everything and want you to give them more—and it must always be
different!
It’s bloody hard work, and not for your sort at all.” His own fight from his poor childhood in Naples had added venom to his words, and India had shrunk back into her chair. Her big brown eyes had gazed at him, reproachfully innocent of ulterior motives, and instantly he’d regretted his words. Not that
they weren’t true, but even though little could be poorer than a poor childhood in the tenements of Naples, it was no reason for taking it out on the girl. She couldn’t be much more than twenty or so. It had been a difficult morning and he was tired. After a glance at his watch Fabrizio had apologized and said he regretted that he had to leave now for lunch. He’d left her sitting there in stunned silence and then he’d turned suddenly at the door and said, “I don’t suppose you’d like to have lunch with me, would you?”

He still remembered her response. Her face had lit with the same smile she was giving him now. “Would I?” She’d laughed. “And how!”

Lunch had been fun. And
he’d
done all the talking. He’d told her all about his childhood in Naples, about how its teeming narrow thoroughfares, its jumbled crushing buildings and thronging humanity had made him yearn for space and clean lines, of the scholarships to school, university, the endless architectural training, the design courses, and the long haul to success. And he’d told her of his marriage to Marisa, which naturally had considerably eased that success.

“Oh, but it’s truly all because of
you
,” she’d breathed admiringly. “Mother always said that money doesn’t bring success unless you have the talent.”

“And how did your mother get to be so wise?” he’d asked with a wry smile.

“She’s Jenny Haven,” India had said simply.

“India.”

“Fabrizio.” Her kisses were warm on his smoothly shaven cheeks.

He smelled of Eau Sauvage and Disque Bleu cigarettes.

“It’s a success,” she said happily.

Fabrizio shrugged. “I suppose so. You look wonderful in scarlet. Did Jenny give you a break and send money?”

India grinned. “Does it look expensive?”

“It certainly does. You’d better remind me on Monday to give you a raise. Someone’s got to keep you in the style to which you obviously would like to be accustomed, and if not your mother, I’d better do what I can to help.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Fabrizio. But what about this carpet—just look at it.”

Her eyes, rounded with dismay, made him laugh. “I have a second one ready to be laid tomorrow. I knew this would be ruined tonight—that’s the way it is at parties. I’ll tell you what,” he said with sudden inspiration. “There may be a few cigarette burns, but the stains should come out with cleaning. It’ll be useless for the showroom. Why don’t you take it for your apartment?” He knew India’s apartment and its crumbling cold marble floors could surely use the luxury of his thick pastel woollen carpet, cigarette burns and all.