The Cinderella Moment (16 page)

Vidal and the Comtesse exchanged glances.

“Go on,” said the Comtesse.

Ignoring her over-rapid pulse, Angel hung up the dress, returned to the main rack and took down a beaded silver gown. Returning to Kitty she tried to speak more slowly.

“This is a great style and color for Kitty, but there’s a little too much beading for her height and the skirt is stiffer than I’d like for her.”

Angel hung the dress and walked slowly along the main rack until she reached an ice-blue satin gown. She lifted it down and held it against Kitty.

“This is what I’d choose for you. It’s the perfect cut for your figure and the fabric moves beautifully. The cinched-in waist will be flattering and the color is gorgeous. Although,” Angel hesitated. “Perhaps a shade darker?”

Vidal stared at her, but before anyone could speak, the door burst open and the summer season group poured into the room.

In a moment Angel found herself on the edge of a cluster of girls all vying for Vidal’s and the Comtesse’s attention. And the boys were just as vocal, pointing out the dresses they admired and arguing about which gown was best.

Kitty called several girls over to show them the three dresses Angel had selected, before joining the group around the Comtesse. Angel stood back as the girls drew the Comtesse across to the rack of ball gowns and plied her with questions.

Vidal had been commandeered by the redhead and her cronies and Angel watched them pointing to the dresses and talking eagerly to him in French.

She considered the noisy, swirling mass of people for a moment and then slipped quietly away.

Walking quickly down the hall she reached the Teen Couture room. She tried the door but it was locked. There had to be a way in. Angel peered into the room next door. It was a large, empty workroom. She went in and closed the door behind her.

Angel thought of the films where the hero gets from room to room by crawling through the ceiling ducts. She looked up. There were vents, just like in the movies, and in the corner was one of those hatch things. Angel had a sudden vision of herself dressed in black, her face darkened, slithering commando-style through the ducts.

It was a ridiculous picture.

She picked her way between the workbenches to the wall separating her from the Teen Couture room. Numerous rolls of cloth had been placed against the wall and, incredibly, half-hidden behind them was a door.

Angel ran over and was moving the first roll when she heard voices in the hall. Quickly, she darted across the room and pressed herself into the space behind the door. To her relief, the voices grew softer, a door closed and there was silence.

Perspiration trickled down her back. What was she going to do? She didn’t have a proper plan. Opening the door, she peeked out. No one was in sight. She stepped into the hall, ran back to the Teen Couture room and tried the door handle just in case. It was still locked.

Angel pressed her forehead against the glass and sighed. This wasn’t going to be easy.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder and Angel shrieked. She spun round. Nick Halliday smiled down at her.

“Looking for something?”

Angel tried to breathe. “You gave me such a fright!”

“There speaks a guilty conscience.” He nodded at the locked room. “Trying to work out the winner? You could always ask me.”

She gazed at him doubtfully. “Do you know?”

“That depends.” He leaned closer.

Angel found herself at eye level with the point where Nick’s shirt opened to reveal a triangle of chest. She could see his skin, smooth and tanned, and smell the tantalizing scent of his aftershave. Her heart drummed and she was aware that it was no longer fright that made it beat so fast.

She tried to focus. “Depends on what?” she asked carelessly.

“On whether you’ll let me be your escort.”

“My escort?” she asked, bewildered.

“For the summer season. It’s your first. Who better than me to help you through it?”

“What about Yvette?”

“Who?”

Typical
, thought Angel.
Why do guys always pretend they’ve forgotten all about their girlfriend?

“Yvette Saint-Gilbert,” said Angel silkily. “You know, at the airport, your girlfriend.”

“Oh, she’s not my girlfriend,” replied Nick easily. “She’s a friend. We’re in the same class at school and she’s dating one of my chums.” His eyes twinkled. “I don’t have a girlfriend at the moment, but it’s nice to know you’re interested.”

“I’m not!” Angel glared at him and pushed away the vision of sitting beside Nick at a fashion show or walking hand in hand with him along the Seine.
He thinks you’re Lily
, she reminded herself firmly—
granddaughter of a comtesse
—
someone from his own world
. Angel was an imposter and she couldn’t let Nick escort an imposter around Paris. It wouldn’t be fair. She stepped away. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be fine on my own.”

Nick looked at her in mock horror. “Paris on your own—that’s practically blasphemy. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a law against it.”

Angel couldn’t help smiling.

Nick took her hand. “Let me show you the city of light. I know places in Paris the tourists never go.”

She gently withdrew her hand. “Thanks, but I’d rather fly solo.”

“Think of the fun we’d have,” he said. “It’d be like old times, only without the tiara.”

Angel shook her head. She was turning him down for his sake as well as her own. She couldn’t risk getting close to Nick Halliday.

“There you are, Lily,” the Comtesse’s voice floated down the corridor. “You disappeared and we need to
…
Ah, Nicky.”

She stopped in front of him and held out her hand. He took it and bowed. The old-fashioned gesture brought an affectionate twinkle to her eye.

Nick straightened and the Comtesse shook a reproving finger at him, “I trust you are not leading my granddaughter into mischief, Nicky?”

“Darling Godmother, how can you think such a thing?” He glanced at Angel. “I’m merely trying to convince Lily to let me be her escort for the summer season. Please tell her I’d be the ideal partner, Godmother. I know you can persuade her.”

The Comtesse looked at him and then Angel, who was astonished to see her mouth lift into a wicked little smile.

“An excellent idea, Nicky,” said the Comtesse, holding up her hand to silence Angel’s protests. “My dear, you will enjoy seeing Paris with Nicky. He knows the city well and he will, how do you say it in America? Guarantee your inclusion in the group.”

Angel gazed at her. It was an impossible situation but only she knew that. The fact was that she needed them to think she was Lily and, so far, they did. She looked from the Comtesse to Nick and made a decision. For good or ill, for the next two weeks, she’d be Lily—only she’d be the
Angel
version of Lily. She’d play out the masquerade just as she’d promised, but she wouldn’t try to
be
Lily anymore, she’d just be herself and if Nick wanted to reminisce about the past, she’d just have to find a way to distract him
…

“All right,” she said.

“
Bon
,” said the Comtesse. “That is settled. Nicky will be your escort, Lily. He will show you Paris and guide you through the summer season.”

“Starting tonight,” said Nick.

“Tonight?” cried Angel.

“Not tonight, Nicky,” interjected the Comtesse. “Lily is in urgent need of a new wardrobe. We have a great deal of shopping to do before we go to
Casa Fortuna
tomorrow afternoon. Tomorrow night will be soon enough.”

“I’ll pick you up at eight then,” said Nick.

“Perfect,” said the Comtesse. “Now, Lily, we must not keep Antoine waiting any longer.
Au revoir
, Nicky.”

She held out her hand. Angel hesitated, then slowly reached out and took it. As they walked back to the salon, she glanced over her shoulder.

Nick was still standing there, watching her go.
 

Chapter Eighteen

It was evening when the Bentley pulled up outside the villa. Angel had thought she would still feel anxious and exhausted; instead she felt like she’d been given wings and taught how to fly.

When she and the Comtesse had returned to the salon, Vidal had been waiting for them. He’d immediately asked Angel which gown she wished to wear.

She’d stared at him blankly until the Comtesse had said crisply, “Don’t be shy, Lily. Monsieur Vidal only wants to know your choice of gown for the Versailles Ball.”

“Gown?”

“Certainly,” replied the Comtesse. “We must choose your ball gown today in order to allow time for your fittings.”

“Fittings?”

Vidal nodded. “But
naturellement
, Mademoiselle Lily. You will need several fittings between now and the ball.”

The Comtesse looked at Vidal. “I believe the first is on Wednesday?”

“
Oui
.”

“Do not worry, my dear,” said the Comtesse. “The fittings will not interfere with the season. They do not take long and Henri will bring you if I have another engagement.”

The Comtesse had completely misread Angel’s expression. She wasn’t thinking about the summer season, but about her designs. Regular fittings meant she needn’t try to get into the locked room today. The cull didn’t begin until Thursday and she’d be back here on Wednesday.

So that meant, for now at least, she could push all thought of the Teen Couture from her mind and give Antoine Vidal her complete attention.

To her amazement he'd stayed with them for nearly an hour discussing ball gowns. Angel had quickly discovered that he and the Comtesse had definite opinions about what she should wear to the Versailles Ball. Before long, she’d found herself in the middle of a strange kind of haute couture tug-of-war.

The three of them had been looking at the ball gowns when the Comtesse had lifted down a beautiful amethyst organza dress with a skirt like whipped meringue. She’d held it against Angel, nodded in a pleased kind of way and called out to Vidal, “
Regardes Antoine, c’est parfaite.
”

To Angel’s astonishment, instead of agreeing it was perfect, Vidal had rolled his eyes, slapped his fist into his palm and cried aloud, “
Non! Non! Certainement pas!
”

He’d then paced along the row of dresses, taken down a stunning chocolate-brown dress made of silk tulle and lace with a high, sheer neckline, and thrust it towards the Comtesse who had sniffed and turned her face away in disgust.

After that it had become a sort of contest as they lifted down dress after dress, holding them against Angel and extolling their virtues only to have the other pronounce it the wrong style, the wrong color or the wrong fabric.

Angel drank in every word.

The Comtesse had been holding a magnificent bronze shantung gown while Vidal argued the case for a delicately beaded pink satin dress with an embroidered train, when Angel had suddenly seen the gleam in his eye and the Comtesse’s wicked little smile and realized they were enjoying themselves!

She’d suppressed a sudden urge to laugh. Who’d have guessed that beneath the Comtesse’s cool exterior lay such passion and humor? What had Nick said about his godmother’s restraint? Well, she might maintain it with most people, but not with Antoine Vidal.

And he was just as bad.

But the amazing thing was that they were both right.

When Angel thought about the dresses they’d chosen and the things they’d said she realized that she was in the presence of two people with impeccable fashion sense and the visual equivalent of perfect pitch when it came to clothes.

But she still couldn’t let them pick her dress for her.

If being Lily de Tourney meant she got to wear an Antoine Vidal ball gown, then Angel was determined to choose it herself.

She turned to them. “Would it be all right, do you think
… ”

They’d both looked at her and she’d managed to ask, “May I show you what I like?”

Vidal had smiled at the Comtesse and said, “Well, Elena, what do you think?”

And the Comtesse had smiled back at him. “An excellent idea, Antoine.”

Then they’d hung up the bronze gown and the pink dress and sat down and waited.

Angel had moved slowly along the rack of ball gowns, before turning to Vidal and the Comtesse. “Although every gown is beautiful, I know only a few would look good on me because ultimately it’s all about line, cut and color.” She saw them glance at each other and added seriously, “You can’t be a slave to fashions. You have to find your own style.”

Vidal nodded.

“I want a gown I will always remember and I think this is it.”

She lifted down a dress with a full skirt of deep crimson duchesse satin. The long-sleeved bodice was made from clinging black wool crepe and designed to wrap sinuously around the torso, leaving the shoulders exposed. The black fabric met the crimson satin at the waist where it was encircled by a heavy black satin sash. Two long black satin ribbons fell like shards of ebony against the ruby sheen of the skirt.