Reap the Wind

  “It sounds wonderful.”

  “It is.” Caitlin’s eyes opened and she smiled reminiscently. “My father used to take me there every birthday when I was little.” How strange she had forgotten those magic times and remembered only the bitterness after he had left.

  “I’ll call Pauley and have him send someone down to check it out.” As the car began to glide down the street, Chelsea turned to Caitlin. “Marisa likes you. Every time I’ve talked to her on the phone she mentions you.”

  “And I like Marisa,” Caitlin said. “She’s a lovely child.”

  “She’s not a child.” Chelsea’s gloved hands clenched her handbag. “She’s never been a child since that bastard—” She broke off, and when she spoke again her voice was even. “She loved her father and he deliberately hurt her. Do you know what that can do to a child?”

  “Yes.”

  Chelsea’s gaze lifted to search Caitlin’s face. “I think you do. Maybe that’s why the two of you became friends so quickly. Two of a—why are you looking at me like that?”

  “It just occurred to me to wonder why you let her come to Vasaro.”

  “I liked you.”

  “But you knew I’d probably be spending a good deal of time here in Paris.” Caitlin studied her thoughtfully. “And you’re obviously very protective of Marisa. I don’t think you’d send her to a stranger’s home just because you liked them.”

  Chelsea made a face. “You’re not dumb.” She looked a little sheepish. “I had you all checked out.”

  “What?”

  “I had you investigated. Oh, I told them to be very discreet. I didn’t want your neighbors suspecting you were an ax murderer or anything. They all like and respect your family, by the way.”

  Caitlin smothered a smile. “That’s nice.”

  Chelsea glanced at her warily. “You’re not mad at me?”

  Caitlin chuckled. “No, I think it’s funny.”

  Chelsea breathed a sigh of relief. “Great.” She looked away from Caitlin and the next words were halting. “I’d like to say thank you for being kind to my daughter and making her feel at home. That wasn’t in our deal.”

  “I’m glad we could help. Did that reporter cause the trouble you thought he would?”

  Chelsea shook her head. “Tyndale never mentioned our backgrounds and we got the cover.” She frowned. “How the hell do you figure someone like that?”

  “Your daughter said she didn’t believe he was as bad as you thought.”

  “It’s better to prepare for the worst, and she’s enjoyed her stay at Vasaro.” The limousine stopped in front of a shop on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré and Chelsea grinned as the chauffeur came around to open the door. “Come on, let’s choose some working clothes.”

  “I’m not going to be much help to you. My mother thinks my taste is abysmal, boring.”

  “She’s right. I knew the first time I saw you that you were just like Marisa. She thinks clothes are meant only to cover the body and provide warmth.”

  “And what do you think they are?”

  “Tools to set a mood. Costumes to make a statement.” She gestured to the brown dress she was wearing. “What do you think of me when you see this outfit?”

  “Chic, bold, eye-catching.”

  “We’ll have to get something more subdued for you. Elegance instead of pizzazz.”

  “Me?” Caitlin looked at her blankly. “I thought we were going shopping for you.”

  Chelsea shook her head. “I called and ordered my gown for the party from Lagerfeld at Chanel’s when I went back to the States from Iceland and all I have to have is a fitting. This trip is for you.”

  “Then we’re shopping in the wrong neighborhood.”

  “Nonsense.” Chelsea moved toward the entrance. “You’re selling a perfume for two hundred dollars an ounce. The public should perceive you as a woman who would wear her own perfume—ergo, you have to dress the part. Working clothes.”

  “I can’t afford the—”

  “I can,” Chelsea interrupted gruffly. “You were kind to Marisa, and I pay my debts.”

  “Chelsea, I spent only two days with her. My mother has been caring for her. I can’t let you do this.”

  “So we’ll buy some things for your mother too.”

  “I don’t even need—”

  “My God, will you just shut up?” Chelsea sailed past the liveried footman holding open the door. “I charged you almost three million dollars for this gig. Relax and take me for a little of it.”

  Caitlin hesitated before hurrying after her into the store. She supposed she would need presentable clothes for the next few days, and she had never felt more dull or wraithlike than in Chelsea’s vivid presence. “Only what I need. My usual lifestyle doesn’t call for—”

  Chelsea wasn’t listening. “Jewel colors, I think.” She studied Caitlin. “Burgundies, emeralds, and, of course, blacks. You’d look stunning in black with that hair. Draped bodices and a flowing Grecian look. Large breasts aren’t fashionable and hell to dress.” She frowned. “It’s hard for me to tell what would suit you. I’m a peacock and you’re a swan.”

  “A swan?” Caitlin laughed. “I’m no ugly duckling, but I’m definitely not a swan.”

  “Wait and see.” An elegantly dressed saleswoman was fixing Caitlin with a supercilious stare as she glided across the deep silver-gray carpet toward them. Chelsea moved a protective step closer to Caitlin. “It’s that god-awful dress. Don’t let her scare you,” she whispered. “These dragons get a bonus for every client they intimidate. It’s part of the show. Simply look aloof and above it all and I’ll do the rest.”

  Caitlin tried to look appropriately disdainful, but it was difficult with the saleswoman staring at her with such contempt.

  Chelsea stepped aggressively forward, like a warrior going into battle, and when she spoke, her enunciation had lost any trace of Hollywoodese and became pure Royal Shakespearean theater. “Bonjour, Madame. This is Mademoiselle Caitlin Vasaro. You’ve heard of her, of course.” Chelsea looked astonished as the woman shook her head. “No? How can that be? The president is to award her the Croix de Guerre next week for her selfless service in the Congo.” She gazed at the woman pityingly. “Perhaps we should have gone to Dior after all, Caitlin. I realize you wished to try these new people, but there’s something to be said for the old guard.” She paused, locked glances with the dragon, and threw out the one irresistible challenge to a couture house. “Now, tell me, madame, what can Lacroix do for my friend that Dior cannot?”

  9

  “We bought too much.” Caitlin leaned back in the limousine with a sigh of relief. After only three hours in that rarefied atmosphere of haute couture she felt more tired than if she’d worked a full twenty-four hours in the fields of Vasaro. “I’m glad we found those three dresses for my mother, but I didn’t need—”

  “Of course you did,” Chelsea said. “Three evening gowns, two day dresses, one suit, two cocktail dresses. We didn’t even buy you any shoes.” She frowned. “I think you should wear the black velvet gown for the party. It’s wonderful with your skin.”

  “And it shows so much of it,” Caitlin said dryly. “You didn’t buy anything for yourself.”

  “I needed only the two gowns I ordered for the party and the launch.” She leaned forward in the limousine. “Take us to number fourteen Saint-Germain, George.”

  “We’re not going back to the hotel?” Caitlin firmly shook her head. “No more shopping. I can’t take it.”

  “Relax. We’re not going shopping.” Chelsea leaned back and grinned. “We’re going to tea with a nice old man and his wife.”

  “I’d rather go back to the hotel and put my feet up.”

  “Later,” Chelsea said. “You have to meet Monsieur Perdot first. Don’t worry, you’ll have a good time. They’re two of the most charming people in Paris.”

  To her surprise, Caitlin found Chelsea was right and she did enjoy the next two hours enormously. Jean P
erdot and his wife, Mignon, lived in a tiny town house that was probably almost as old as the Andreas house. The moment Caitlin walked into the parlor she became aware of a comfortable Victorian ambience that soothed her frayed nerves as much as the chamomile tea Madame Perdot served them from Sevres cups of almost transparent delicacy. The serpentine-backed couch was cushioned in crimson velvet, and a small fire burned in the grate of the white marble fireplace. The pattern of green vines and white roses in the Aubusson carpet covering the oak floor was echoed by several lush potted palms set about in strategic nooks and corners. By the tall arched window across the room a fine Venetian lace cloth covered a small table on which a cozy cluttering of framed photographs, silver and ivory snuffboxes, and an exquisite black ostrich fan rested.

  The Perdots matched their surroundings in both warmth and elegance. Mignon was tiny, white-haired, and wore a superbly cut dress in a soft shade of blue that reminded Caitlin of robins’ eggs and dawn skies. Her husband was tall, spare, with a leonine shock of gray-white hair and keen blue eyes. The couple was witty, well mannered, unabashedly affectionate with each other and with Chelsea, and displayed a warm interest in Caitlin.

  When Chelsea finally rose to leave, Caitlin felt a definite twinge of disappointment.

  Jean Perdot accompanied them to the door and kissed Chelsea’s cheek. “That outfit is atrocious, you know,” he murmured genially. “We all know you have a fine body without your flaunting it. That dress is not you at all.”

  Caitlin’s eyes widened in surprise at the rudeness from a man who before had previously displayed only old-world courtliness.

  “I hoped you’d feel like that.” Chelsea gazed at him limpidly. “That’s why I wore it, Jean.”

  Jean Perdot’s eyes crinkled as he chuckled. “Bon Dieu, you’re a wise child.”

  “I try.” Chelsea gestured to Caitlin. “A swan?”

  The old man shook his head. “A tall rose of deepest crimson, straight, strongly rooted.” He studied Caitlin. “With thorns.”

  “Thorns?” Chelsea frowned. “I don’t think so.”

  “Because you’ve never seen them?” Jean Perdot smiled faintly. “She may not even know she has them, but they’re there.” He lifted Caitlin’s hand to his lips. “It was delightful meeting you, my child. Come back and see us.”

  “Thank you for having me, Monsieur Perdot.”

  He stood in the doorway and watched until they were ensconced in the limousine.

  “He likes you,” Chelsea said with satisfaction as the limousine pulled away from the curb. “I was hoping he might.”

  “For a moment back there I felt as if I were a bug beneath a microscope.”

  “It was a compliment. If you hadn’t interested him, he would have told me he could see nothing in you.”

  “See? What is he? Some kind of psychic?”

  “He’s the greatest dress designer in the world.”

  Caitlin looked at her blankly. “But I’ve never heard of him.”

  “That’s because he’s also the best-kept secret in the world. Every one of his clients has to promise she won’t divulge the designer of any dress he does for her.”

  “What?”

  “He belongs to the Perdot banking family and has never needed money. He’s been in business for over forty years but he’s never wanted to have the bother of an haute couture house because he says it would get in the way of his artistry. He designs to fit his client’s personality and Madame does the sewing.”

  “Incredible.”

  “I thought so too. He refuses more clients than he takes.” She grinned. “For example, the Duchess of Windsor’s on his reject list. He tells me he may select only a few new clients in a decade.”

  “And you’re one of them?”

  “I got lucky. I was introduced by one of his oldest clients five years ago and he found me a challenge.”

  Caitlin could see how he would.

  “He doesn’t take orders; he creates a gown and then sends word that he’s deigned to favor you. I wore one of his gowns to accept my Oscar.”

  “I didn’t see the news of the awards. Sorry.”

  “I was a smash.” Chelsea grinned. “When we get back to the hotel I’ll show you what he had waiting for me when I arrived in Paris this time.”

  Caitlin thought she wouldn’t want to see another gown as long as she lived after those hours at that high-fashion silken cocoon on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, but she was suddenly curious how the designer saw Chelsea Benedict. “I’d like that.”

  Chelsea cast a casual glance out the back window of the limousine. “He’s really very good.”

  “Monsieur Perdot?”

  Chelsea shook her head. “Your shadow.”

  Caitlin stiffened. “What?”

  “The man driving the dark gray Renault.”

  When Caitlin continued to look at her blankly, Chelsea said, “The detective Alex hired to follow you around to protect you while you were transporting all those rented art objects back and forth to Versailles.” Chelsea looked at her in puzzlement. “Didn’t Alex tell you he told me about him? He didn’t want me to think someone was about to kidnap me and knew I’d probably spot him myself.” She grimaced. “God knows, the studios have hired enough people to tail me to protect their investment during filmings.”

  “No, he didn’t tell me he had told you.” He hadn’t bothered to tell Caitlin about the detective either. Since she had returned to Paris she had purposely kept herself so busy, she fell into bed each night in a state of exhaustion that almost enabled her to forget Ledford, but the knowledge that Alex had not forgotten brought the threat rushing back to her.

  “You okay?” Chelsea was studying her expression with concern.

  She forced a smile. “Just tired.”

  When they arrived back at the hotel, Chelsea moved through the lobby acquiring bellboys like a general recruiting his troops, and in moments she had her small army depositing their multitude of boxes on the eighteenth-century brocade couch in the paneled sitting room of the suite. Chelsea distributed charming smiles and generous tips to the dazzled porters before waving them from the room. She walked quickly toward the bedroom, every movement graceful, coordinated, and full of vitality. “Come along. Jean’s treasure is in the armoire in the bedroom.”

  “I’m coming.” Caitlin kicked off her high heels. “As fast as I can limp along. How do you survive marathons like this?”

  “All you need is a hot shower and you’ll be fine.”

  Alex’s intent eyes gazing at her through the haze of mist in the tub.

  The memory came out of nowhere with painful suddenness. She would not think of Alex, Caitlin told herself desperately. He had used her and he had used Vasaro. The hurt would go away soon. It was the first time she had thought of him all day, and that must mean she was already healing.

  Chelsea opened the armoire and reached into its dark depths. “I do like this. Isn’t Jean a genuis?”

  Caitlin saw what she meant as Chelsea pulled out the silver evening gown. No, it wasn’t a gown, but a dress. A short dress with a high neckline and long sleeves. The lines were simple and would hang loose, barely skimming Chelsea’s curves. It was the fabric that caught and held the eye. The silver sequins of which the dress was composed were patterned to resemble shimmering chain mail, and in it Chelsea would look like a young medieval knight—but fabulously sexy, feminine. It was clear Jean Perdot did not see Chelsea Benedict as the peacock she had called herself but as a warrior knight, an Amazon queen. As Caitlin recalled how Chelsea had turned ferociously on the reporter at the docks in defense of Marisa, and the protective step she had taken toward Caitlin when the saleswoman had given her that patronizing glance, she nodded slowly. “You’re right. The man’s a genius. Are you going to wear it for the party?”

  Chelsea shook her head as she gently touched the glittering sequins. “Too ostentatious. A good spokesperson should show off the product, not herself. Besides, there’s no way I can eclipse
that bloody statue, so I might as well accept my fate with dignity.” She hung the gown back in the armoire. “I’ll save it for something special.”

  “Another Academy Award?”

  “Maybe.” Chelsea closed the door of the armoire. “You’d better get into the shower while I call room service. I thought we’d eat in the suite and relax tonight. We’ve got a news conference tomorrow morning and then tomorrow afternoon we need to buy shoes.”

  “News conference?” Caitlin forgot about the threat of another bout of shopping at this new threat. “Why do I have to be there?”

  “Because you created the perfume, silly.” Chelsea smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll try to take the heat off you. Dealing with the press is part of my job.”

  “It will have to be almost entirely your job. I’ll have to be at Versailles for most of the next two days.”

  Chelsea nodded. “Alex told me about your coup. He’s very proud of you.”

  “Is he?” Caitlin’s tone was reserved. “How nice. Actually, it wasn’t too difficult to persuade them it was only fitting that the palace be used to welcome the Wind Dancer back to its former home.”

  Chelsea wrinkled her nose. “Forget about welcoming Chelsea Benedict.”

  “I’m sure more people will be looking at you than at the statue.”

  “You’re very kind, but that’s probably not true. At any rate, everyone wants to be on the A list for an invitation to a party at Versailles.” She stared at Caitlin speculatively. “Do you know, I think you’ve changed since I first met you.”

  “Have I? In what way?”

  “I’m not sure. Perhaps less easy to intimidate?”

  “That woman at Lacroix managed to intimidate me.”

  Chelsea chuckled. “But then, the whole female population of the world trembles before Lacroix.” Her smile faded. “Your partnership with Karazov has produced quite a powerhouse combo. As they say in your language, you and your Alex are très formidable.”

  “He’s not my Alex and I’m hardly a powerhouse.” Caitlin moved toward the door. “But, at least, you have the term right for him. Très formidable.”