Jake towered above her in jeans and a zippered sweatshirt that he’d thrown on over his bare chest. His hair was shaggy, his jaw unshaven, and his eyes had an empty, haunted look. “What’s wrong with you? Why didn’t you answer the door?”
Fleur grabbed the pillow out of his hands and hit him in the stomach. “It’s six-thirty in the morning!”
“You run at six o’clock! Where were you?”
“In bed!”
He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked sulky. “How was I supposed to know you were sleeping? When I didn’t see you from my window, I thought something was wrong.”
She couldn’t postpone this day any longer, and she kicked away the covers. He didn’t even pretend not to notice that her gown was bunched around her thighs. She stretched out to switch on the bedside light and deliberately rearranged her legs like a girl in a mattress ad, with her toes pointed and her arches delicately curved. Considering all the problems lying ahead of her today, it wasn’t the greatest reflection on her character that she needed to make sure Jake Koranda got a great view of her legs.
“I’ll make breakfast,” he said abruptly.
She took a quick shower, then slipped into jeans and an old ski sweater. Jake glanced up at her from the eggs he was cracking into a skillet. Standing over her stove, he looked taller than ever, with his shoulders straining the seams of his sweatshirt in a way that was aggressively and indisputably male. It took a moment for her head to semi-clear. “How did you get in? I double-checked the doors before I went to bed last night.”
“You want your eggs scrambled or fried?”
“Jake…”
“I can’t chitchat and make breakfast at the same time. You could help, you know, instead of standing there like the Queen of England. Although you’re a lot better-looking.”
A typically male evasive action, but she let him get away with it because she was hungry. She pitched in with toast and orange juice, then poured the coffee. Once they settled at the table, however, she attacked. “You got to my office manager again. Riata made you a duplicate of her key.”
He loaded up his fork.
“Admit it,” she said. “There’s no other way you could have gotten in.”
“How come you put more butter on your toast than mine?”
“Riata has a key. I have a key. Michel has a key. That’s it. If I fire her, it’ll be on your conscience.”
“You’re not firing her.” He traded his toast for hers. “Your brother gave me a duplicate key a few nights after the dinner party. He told me what your father’s been up to. Michel is worried about you, and I can’t say I’m exactly happy knowing that bastard has you in his crosshairs. When you didn’t go out to run this morning, I was afraid he’d gotten to you.”
She was touched, so she glared at him. “Alexi won’t hurt me physically. Michel should know that. He wants me alive and suffering. Don’t you have enough of your own problems right now?”
“I don’t like what he’s doing.”
She retrieved her toast. “I’m not exactly crazy about it myself.”
They ate in silence for a while. Jake took a sip of coffee. “You don’t usually wear jeans and sneakers to work. What’s up?”
“I’m riding with the dress racks over to the hotel. The men aren’t due here for an hour, and it’s going to be a long day.” She regarded him pointedly. “That’s why I wanted to sleep in this morning. Besides, I couldn’t leave while all this was in the house.” She made a vague gesture toward her living room.
Jake had already spotted the rows of metal racks bearing garments draped in black plastic. “Do you want to tell me about it or should I guess?”
“You know Michel’s showing his collection today.”
“And those are the pieces?”
She nodded and told him about the factory in Astoria and the phone call she’d received at four that morning. “The security people aren’t exactly sure how the sprinkler system was set off, but all the dresses hanging on the racks in the workroom were waterlogged.”
He lifted an inquisitive eyebrow.
“Everything in the workroom was thrift shop stuff,” she said. “Kissy, Simon, Charlie, and I made the switch last night after Michel and all the seamstresses went home.” She tried to feel some sense of satisfaction for having outwitted Alexi, but she’d only have to start worrying again as soon as this was over. She rose and walked toward the phone. “I have to call Michel so he doesn’t have a heart attack if he stops at the factory this morning.”
He came up out of his chair. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me Michel doesn’t know you moved his dresses over here?”
“It’s not his problem. I’m the one who chopped up the Bugatti, and I’m the one Alexi’s after. Michel has enough to worry about.”
Jake shot out from behind the table. “Suppose Alexi sent one of his thugs here? What would you have done then?”
“The factory was crawling with guards. Alexi had no reason to suspect the samples were here.”
“You know what your problem is? You don’t think!” As he came toward her, the pocket of his sweatshirt hit the edge of the counter, and she heard a loud thunk. For the first time she noticed that one side of the garment hung down farther than the other. He immediately shoved his hand in the pocket.
She set the receiver back on its hook. “What do you have?”
“What do you mean?”
Something prickled at the base of her spine. “In your pocket. What is it?”
“Pocket? My keys.”
“What else?”
He shrugged. “A twenty-two automatic.”
She looked at him blankly. “A what?”
“A gun.”
“Are you crazy?” She charged toward him. “You brought a gun in here! In my house? Do you think this is one of your movies?”
His gaze was steady and unrepentant. “No apologies. I didn’t know what I’d find when I walked in.”
Out of nowhere, she found herself thinking about a little girl with yellow ducks on her shirt and a massacre. A creeping fear she absolutely did not want to let in pummeled at the door of her consciousness.
“Stay here while I throw on some clothes,” he said as he left the kitchen.
Every instinct she possessed told her that Jake could never have taken part in an atrocity, not even in the middle of a war. But her brain wasn’t as easily persuaded. She wished she’d never let him back into her life. Even with everything she knew about him, she was once again letting him burrow under her defenses.
By the time he reappeared, the white roses had arrived.
His face set in grim lines. “That son of a bitch.”
“The good news is that he doesn’t seem to have figured out his plans went awry.”
“Let’s keep it that way.” He picked up the phone and dialed a number from memory. “Michel, it’s Jake. I’m heading for the hotel with Wonder Woman and your collection. I’ll tell you the whole story when I see you.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she said when he hung up. “I can handle this.”
“Humor me.”
The men arrived, and Jake did everything but frisk them before he let them in the house. He kept guard as they loaded up the racks, then rode in the back of the truck with her to the hotel. When they got there, he stood off to the side, but he never let her out of his sight, and once she saw his hand creep into the pocket of his parka. Although he tried to look inconspicuous, it wasn’t long before one of the hotel workers recognized him, and he was soon surrounded by autograph seekers shoving everything from packing slips to parking tickets in front of him to sign. She knew how much he hated this kind of public attention, but he stayed where he was until all the racks were set up.
After that, she didn’t see him for a while, but each time she decided he’d finally gone home, she’d catch a glimpse of him lounging in the shadows by a stairwell or a service entrance, a ball cap pulled low on his head. His presence comforted her, and she d
idn’t like that. Once this was over, she needed to have a long, hard talk with herself.
In the midst of all the backstage chaos, she made herself exude a confidence she didn’t feel. So much depended on what happened during the next few hours. There had been an overwhelming demand for invitations, so they were showing the collection twice, both early and mid-afternoon. Each model had a separate dress rack with all her pieces arranged in order, along with the proper accessories. Customarily the racks were set up the day before, but since Fleur wouldn’t let the dresses out of her safekeeping until that morning, everything had to be organized in very little time. There were last-minute hunts for missing accessories and a nearly disastrous mix-up with shoes, all of it accompanied by dark glances in her direction. In the meantime, a camera crew set up to videotape the collection for boutiques and department stores.
An hour before the first show, Fleur changed into the dress she’d brought along. It was one of the first pieces Michel had designed for her—a lacquer-red sheath with a center slit that ran from her neck to breasts, and another that descended from above the knee to the mid-calf hem. Beaded jet butterflies perched on one shoulder, and miniature versions sat on the toes of her red satin heels.
Kissy appeared at her side backstage, looking pale and tense. “This was the worst idea you ever had. It’ll never work. I think I’m running a temperature. I bet I’ve got the flu. I know I do.”
“You have butterflies. Take a deep breath. You’ll be fine.”
“Butterflies! These are not butterflies, Fleur Savagar. These are giant turkey buzzards.”
Fleur hugged her, then went out to mingle with the crowd filling the ballroom. By the time she’d finished talking to fashion editors and posing for photographers, the ends of her fingers had gone numb from nerves. She took the small gilt chair that had been reserved for her near the front of the runway and squeezed Charlie Kincannon’s hand.
He leaned over and whispered, “I’ve been eavesdropping, and I’m getting worried. People think Michel’s designs will be froufrou, whatever that means.”
“It means he makes women look like women, and the fashion press doesn’t know how to deal with that, but they’ll come around.” She wished she felt as confident as she sounded, but the truth was that any new designer who thumbed his nose at current fashion trends was in danger of being slaughtered by the powerful fashion arbiters. Michel was the new kid on the block in a tough, territorial neighborhood. The Women’s Wear Daily reporter looked hostile, and Fleur understood exactly what Kissy meant about turkey buzzards.
The house lights dimmed, and sad, bluesy music began to play. Fleur dug her fingernails into her palms. Complicated theatrics at couture showings had gone out of style right along with ruffles and lace. The trend was simplicity—the runway, the models, and the clothes. Once again, they were bucking the tide, and it was all because of her. She was the one who’d talked Michel into this stupid idea.
The chatter in the ballroom began to die. The music grew louder, and the lights on the stage behind the runway came up on a moody tableau vivant set behind a filmy gauze curtain that made the scene dreamlike. Silhouettes of scenery—a wrought-iron railing, a lamppost, the shadow of palm fronds and broken shutters—suggested a shabby New Orleans courtyard on a steamy summer night.
Gradually the figures of the models became visible. They draped the set in their filmy dresses—their breasts, elbows, and knees jutting out in exaggerated angles like the figures in a Thomas Hart Benton painting. Some held palmetto fans frozen in midair. One bent forward, her hair trailing toward the floor like the branches of a willow, a hairbrush poised in her hand. Fleur heard whispers coming from the audience, sidelong glances to gauge the reaction of others, but no one seemed anxious to commit until they knew which way the tide was turning.
Suddenly one figure moved away from the others, growing visibly upset as she stepped into a pool of blue light. She looked at the audience for a moment, then blinked her eyes as if she were trying to make up her mind whether or not to confide in them. Finally she began to talk. She told them about Belle Reve, the plantation she’d lost, and about Stanley Kowalski, the subhuman her dear sister Stella had married. Her voice was agitated, her face weary and tortured. Finally she fell silent and lifted her hand toward them, wordlessly begging for understanding. The bluesy music began again. Defeated, she faded back into the shadows.
There was a moment of stunned silence and then the audience began to applaud, slowly at first, but gradually growing stronger. Kissy’s extraordinary monologue as Blanche DuBois in A Streetcar Named Desire had stunned them. Fleur felt Charlie sag with relief. “They love her, don’t they?”
She nodded, then held her breath, hoping they loved Michel’s designs as much. No matter how inspiring Kissy’s performance had been, the afternoon was ultimately about fashion.
The tempo of the music picked up and one by one the models broke their poses and moved out from behind the gauze curtain to walk down the runway. They wore filmy summer dresses that called up memories of scented flowers, hot Southern nights, and a streetcar named Desire. The lines were soft and feminine without being fussy, delicately fashioned for women who were tired of looking like men. New York hadn’t seen anything like it in years.
Fleur listened to the murmurs around her and heard the scratch of pens on notepads. The applause was polite for the first few dresses, but as one followed another and the members of the audience slowly began to absorb the beauty of Michel’s designs, the applause built until the sound engulfed the great ballroom.
As the final dress cleared the runway, Charlie let out his breath in a long, tortured exhalation. “I feel like I’ve lived a lifetime in the last fifteen minutes.”
Her fingers cramped, and she realized she’d been digging them into his knee. “Only one?”
Two more tableaux followed, each greeted more enthusiastically than the last. A steamy Night of the Iguana rain forest showcased Kissy in a second monologue and also served as a background for informal wear in wildly colorful jungle blossom prints. Finally Kissy performed her dazzling Maggie the Cat against the shadowy outline of a huge brass bed as an introduction to an exotic collection of evening gowns that evoked images of delicious decadence and brought the house to its feet.
When the show was over, Fleur watched Michel and Kissy take their bows. Life would never be the same for either one of them. She couldn’t have found a better way to thank Kissy for her unwavering friendship and Michel for all those years of misplaced hatred than by making sure they each received the public recognition they deserved. As she hugged Charlie, she realized the success of her two clients would impact her own career, too. This afternoon had given her a giant shot of credibility.
The audience began to swarm around her, and she caught sight of Jake at the very back of the ballroom. Just before he slipped away, he gave her a silent thumbs-up.
The next week passed in a whirlwind of telephone calls and interviews. Women’s Wear Daily did a cover story on Michel’s collection, calling it the “New Femininity,” and fashion editors lined up for news about his future plans. Michel sailed through the press conference Fleur scheduled for him and afterward took her to dinner. They grinned at each other over their menus.
“The Savagar brats haven’t done too badly for themselves, have they, Big Sis?”
“Not badly at all, Little Bro.” She touched the poplin sleeve of the safari jacket he wore over a burgundy silk shirt, French commando sweater, and Swiss Army necktie. “I love you, Michel. Big heaps. I should tell you more often.”
“Me, too. Even bigger heaps.” He was quiet for a moment, then he cocked his head so that his hair brushed his shoulder. “Does it bother you that I’m gay?”
She propped her hand on her chin. “I’d rather see you live happily ever after with someone who’d give me a tribe of nieces and nephews, but since I’m not going to have that, I want to see you in a stable relationship with a man who’s worthy of you.”
?
??Someone like Simon Kale?”
“Now that you mention it…”
He set down his menu and looked at her with sad eyes. “It’s not going to work, Fleur. I know you’ve been counting on it, but it’s not going to happen.”
She was embarrassed. “I’ve stepped over the line, haven’t I?”
“Yes.” He smiled. “And do you know how much it means to me that somebody cares whether I’m happy?”
“I’m going to take that as a free license to interfere in your life.”
“Don’t.” He took a sip from his wineglass. “Simon is a special person, and we’ve developed a solid friendship, but that’s all it’ll ever be. Simon is strong and self-sufficient. He doesn’t really need anybody.”
“That’s important to you, isn’t it? Being needed?”
He nodded. “I know you don’t like Damon. And you’re right. He can be selfish, and he’s not the most intellectual person I’ve met. But he loves me, Fleur, and he needs me.”
Fleur swallowed her disappointment. “I never said Damon didn’t have good taste.”
She thought about Jake. His erotic pull on her grew stronger every time she saw him. She didn’t trust him, but she wanted him. And why couldn’t she have him? She turned the idea over in her mind. No emotional commitment. Just good, dirty sex. That’s all her attraction to him had ever been about. And wasn’t that the essence of real liberation? Women didn’t have to play games. They shouldn’t play games. She should look Jake straight in the eye and tell him she wanted to—
To what? “Go to bed” was too wishy-washy, “make love” had implications, “screw” was tacky, and “fuck” was just plain awful.
Was she going to buckle under just because of a language barrier? How would a man do it? How would Jake do it?
Why wouldn’t Jake do it?
Right then she knew she could never be the sexual aggressor, no matter how much she wanted him. Whether her reluctance was rooted in cultural conditioning or biological instinct made no difference because women’s liberation got all tangled up when it hit the bedroom door.