“I wouldn’t pay too much attention to it,” Marlon said. “She did ask you to do the collection. No one else.”
“Another thing,” Philippe said. “They told me that all the materials would be available in large quantities,” Philippe said. “We’re haute couture, not prêt á porter.”
Marlon was silent for a moment. “Maybe there is something to the talk we’ve been hearing about her and Bidermann.”
“Not Bidermann,” Philippe said quickly. “It’s the American, Carroll. You know Schwebel owns that company and he has an interest in this one. It would only be natural for him to want to put the two of them together.”
“I still don’t see anything to worry about,” Marlon said.
“I’m not Karl Lagerfeld,” Philippe said. “I’m not interested in being another Chloé or Céline.”
“Janette’s a long way from being there,” Marlon said. “Why don’t you just take it easy and do your thing? Just design the things so that they won’t be easy to reproduce on a mass basis, so that they will be too expensive to manufacture.”
“Easy for you to say,” Philippe said darkly. “You don’t know how good those people are at knocking things off. And for a price.”
“If you’re fucked, you’re fucked,” Marlon said philosophically. “You have only two choices. You either do the collection or you quit.”
“I can’t quit now,” Philippe said. “If I do, I’m finished in the business.”
“Then you have no choice,” Marlon said.
Philippe glowered. “That’s right.”
Marlon lit a cigarette and puffed on it silently.
Philippe got out of his chair. “I have a half a mind to call up and tell her I’m too busy to go to her stupid dinner party tonight.”
Marlon shook his head. “That would be the wrong thing to do. You have to go along letting her think that you’re cooperating. If she gets the feeling that you’re sloughing off, she’ll really lay it on you.”
“The bitch!” Philippe swore. “The conniving lesbian bitch!”
The telephone rang just as Janette entered her room. She picked it up. A familiar British voice echoed in her ear. “What are you doing for dinner tonight?”
“Patrick!” she exclaimed. “I thought you were on safari in Africa. When did you get back?”
“Yesterday,” Lord Patrick Reardon said in his rolling voice. “I thought we’d have dinner and I would show you my prize trophy.”
“You got your lion?”
“Hell, no,” he laughed. “My new houseboy. A black African whose cock hangs ten inches below his breechcloth. The minute I saw him I knew I had to get him for you.”
“You’re crazy,” she said.
“Am I?” he asked, chuckling. “You can’t say I don’t know what turns you on, love. The only way a man can compete with you girls is if he has a king-size banger. And you’ll never find one to beat this boy. It takes him four orgasms just to get soft again.”
“Patrick, Patrick,” she said. “What am I going to do with you? You’re so sick.”
“Aren’t we all, love? Come to dinner then. Just let me watch.”
“Can’t do it,” she said. “I’m giving a dinner party tonight.” She had an idea. “Why don’t you join us? If you like I can send the car to pick you up.”
“I’m in London,” he said.
“Then how did you expect me to come for dinner?”
“I was going to send my plane to pick you up,” he answered.
“Then you can come here the same way,” she said. “I’ll have René at Le Bourget waiting for you.”
“What time is this dinner of yours?”
“We’re having cocktails at eight thirty. We won’t be sitting down to dinner until nine thirty, ten o’clock. It’s just going on seven now. You can make it.”
“I don’t know,” he said hesitantly. “I know your town dinners. Usually very dull.”
“This one might be a little better,” she said. “My younger sister just got here from California. We haven’t seen each other for ten years. Sort of a reunion.”
“Is she anything like you?” he asked.
“Nothing at all. She’s your type. Tanned, blond and beautiful, just like all those Scandinavian girls you’re always running around with. And she’s only seventeen.”
“Now you’ve made me curious,” he said. “Since you won’t marry me, maybe she will.”
“Then you’ll come?”
“Have René at the airport at nine o’clock,” he said.
Lord Patrick Reardon, heir to the title and to one of the richest fortunes in Great Britain, had absolutely no interest in anything except the pursuit of his almost religious form of hedonism. She had often heard him say that he had no motivation for working and adding to the fortune that had been left him when he could not possibly live long enough to spend all that had already been accumulated, no matter how many ways he could find to disburse his wealth. And he had no opposition from the executors of the estate when he had gone into the first board of directors meeting after his father’s death and told them so. They couldn’t ask for anything more than to be left in charge, and they happily made all the financial arrangements that were needed to keep him happy and them in control of the business.
Still, if she married him, and he allowed her to remain in her business, she would not have to make deals such as the one she was being thrust into with Carroll. Patrick could carry her business for a year with a check that amounted to a little more than one week’s income to him. But that was not what he wanted. He wanted her available 100 percent of her time, without any distraction, so that they could devote themselves to nothing but what he called their whims, fancies and fantasies.
She turned on the water in her tub and added the scented musk oil especially made for her at the parfumerie in Grasse. Quickly she got into the tub and leaned back, letting the water flow over her body. She loved the scent and the feel of the way the tiny bit of oil clung to her skin, making it soft and smooth, like silk. Soie. The thought came through her mind. Someday she had to put it on the market. All the couturiers had gone into their own perfumes. Dior, St. Laurent, Givenchy and on down the list. It was a tremendous market. But she would have to do it soon—if she waited too long it might be too late. Soie. Silk. There was no other material, either manmade or natural, that had the same sensuous feel against the body. Soie. Someday soon she would do it. Maybe once this collection was over she would have time to devote herself to it.
The telephone rang again just as she came out of the bath. This time it was Stéphane. “I wanted to know what you were wearing tonight,” her girlfriend asked.
“I’m wearing my smoking,” Janette replied.
“Good. Then I’ll wear mine.”
“No,” Janette said quickly. “It would be too much. My sister also wants to wear a smoking. You wear that beautiful yellow gown I gave you last week.”
Stéphane was silent for a moment. “Okay,” she said finally.
Janette detected the hesitation. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m jealous,” Stéphane confessed. “Before it was always you and I who wore the smokings.”
Janette laughed. “Don’t be silly. There’s nothing to be jealous about. After all, she’s my sister.”
“That has nothing to do with it,” Stéphane said. “My first affair was with my older sister. We were in love for years.”
“Now you’re being stupid,” Janette said.
“Can I stay the night?” Stéphane asked. “I want to make love to you.”
Janette began to get angry. “No,” she said shortly. “I told you that before she came. While she is here we play it straight.”
“But she’s going to be here all summer,” Stéphane said. “What are we going to do?”
“We’ll work something out,” Janette said. “She hasn’t even spent one night here.”
“Is she beautiful?” Stéphane asked.
“Yes,” Janette said. �
�But she’s still just a kid.”
“So was I when I began with my sister.”
“If you’re going to continue acting like an idiot,” Janette snapped, “you don’t have to come to dinner.”
“I love you,” Stéphane said. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be with you.”
“Then relax. Everything will work out,” Janette said. She had a thought. “I’m going to seat you next to Charles Carroll. Be extra nice to him. I’m trying to work something important out with him.”
“Do you want me to fuck with him?” Stéphane asked.
“If he wants to. Yes.”
“I’ll do it. But only for you,” Stéphane said. “Just to prove how much I love you.”
“That’s better,” Janette said. “You’re still my girl.”
“I’ll always be your girl,” Stéphane said.
Lauren was standing in front of the mirror trying to smooth the shirt front down over her breasts so that it did not keep rising out of the trousers, when Janette came into the room, still in her robe. “I thought I’d see if you needed any help.”
Lauren looked at her, smiling ruefully. “I don’t think it will work. My breasts are too big.”
“What you need is a brassiere to hold you in,” Janette said.
“I don’t have any,” Lauren answered. “I never wore one.”
“Maybe one of mine will help,” Janette said. “Come.”
Lauren followed her back to her room. Janette went into the closet and opened one of the drawers. Quickly she rummaged through several brassieres, finally coming up with the one she sought. She turned to her sister. “Take off your shirt and try this.”
Quickly Lauren slipped off the shirt. Janette held the brassiere cups against Lauren’s breasts. “It might work. Put it on.”
Laurent put her arms through the straps and fastened the brassiere. She looked in the mirror. “I can hardly breathe.”
“It really looks sensational on you,” Janette said.
“Really think so?” Laurent asked doubtfully.
Janette laughed. “Wear it. We’ll make a hell of a team.”
Lauren looked at herself again for a moment and then smiled. “Okay, but do we still have enough time for a smoke?”
“It will be a half hour before anyone gets here,” Janette answered.
“Let’s go then,” Lauren said, starting back to her room.
“Why don’t you bring the joint back in here,” Janette said. “That way, we can enjoy it while I’m making up.”
By the time Lauren rolled the joint and came back to the room, Janette was seated before the makeup table, her robe falling on the chair around her, carefully applying mascara to her lashes. Lauren took a small chair and sat near her and lit the joint. She puffed at it gently, then passed it to Janette. “Take tiny puffs. This is not the kind of dope you do big tokes with.”
Janette did as she was instructed. After a few puffs she handed it back to Lauren. “I don’t feel anything yet.”
“Give it time.” Lauren smiled, smoking again. “It takes a few minutes for it to work.”
“How do you know it’s working?” Janette asked.
Lauren giggled. “I can always tell by my nipples. They pop out and get hard like if someone is touching them, or you step into an ice-cold shower.” She laughed again, looking at Janette. “It’s beginning to work on you. I can see it already.”
Janette glanced down at herself, then at Lauren. “But I still don’t feel anything. Is it working on you?”
Lauren nodded, opening her robe. “See for yourself.” The nipples of her breasts were already rising from the pale-pink areolae around them. She passed the cigarette back to Janette. “Soon you’ll get a buzz on that you can feel in your head. Then that will go away and you’ll just feel good. Real good.”
Janette puffed slowly on the cigarette. She glanced down at herself. Her dark nipples were already jutting from her breasts. She looked at Lauren and laughed. “I guess it is working.”
Lauren looked at her. “It sure is,” she said. “God, you got great nipples. Mine are like nothing compared to them.”
“Yours are pretty,” Janette said. She laughed, beginning to feel the buzz in her head. “I prefer your kind to mine. They’re more esthetic.”
“But yours are sexier,” Lauren said, taking the joint back from Janette. “Harvey thinks you have one of the great bodies of all time.”
“Your boyfriend?” Janette laughed. “How would he know?”
“He’s seen pictures of you,” Lauren said. “I think that’s why he wanted to come over.”
“He’ll be disappointed if he does come,” Janette said. “The photographs make me look better than I really do.”
“I don’t think so,” Lauren said. “I don’t think they do you justice.” She passed the joint back to Janette and got to her feet. “I feel good.”
Janette puffed on the joint. “I do too. It’s very nice.”
Lauren laughed. “Nice? It’s great. I’m all set now. I can just fly over everything.”
Janette laughed. “Just don’t fly over the table at dinner. I’d have a hard job explaining to everybody what you’re doing up there.”
“I’ll go back to my room and dress,” Lauren said. “Call me when you’re ready and we’ll have a quick toot before we go downstairs.”
Maurice was early. He made it a point to explain as he entered the library where they were waiting. “I thought it only proper that I have a moment with mes enfants, before the others got here.”
Janette smiled. “Of course. And what do you think of the little girl now?”
Maurice turned to Lauren, a careful, observant look on his face. “She’s not such a little girl now, is she? She’s quite grown up. And beautiful.”
Lauren laughed. “Merci, Monsieur le Marquis.”
“Really,” Maurice said. “I’m quite pleased to see you. And if there is anything I can do for you, I want you to call me.”
“If there is anything, I will,” Lauren said.
Maurice shook his head. “I still think of you as a little girl. But you have changed.”
Lauren laughed again. “You haven’t changed. You look exactly as I remembered. Not one day older.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Maurice asked.
She nodded. “Fantastic. Everyone got older except you.”
“I grew older too,” he said. “But at my age the changes are neither as drastic or visible. And your foster parents? They are well?”
“Very well, thank you,” Lauren said.
Maurice turned to Janette. “I have heard that you’re going to do your whole collection over, that you’ve changed the date until later.”
Janette nodded. “You must have spies in the woodwork. We just decided this afternoon. We have a fantastic idea and thought this would be the right time for it rather than wait until next year.”
“It will be expensive,” he said. “I have some extra money lying about if you should need it.”
“I think we’ll manage,” Janette said. “But I’ll bear it in mind just in case. Thank you.”
Maurice smiled. “Don’t thank me. After all it’s family. And that’s what families are for.”
The faint sound of the doorbell came into the library. The other guests began to arrive, and by the time Patrick Reardon came from the airport, they were ready for dinner.
The dinner was perfect for a hot July night. The cold vichyssoise with a hint of cucumber, the delicate roast veal with the light-brown sauce tasting of Provence herbs and finely cut haricots verts with tiny roast potatoes, followed by a chilled lettuce salad and a perfectly ripened Brie. Still, Janette rose with a feeling of relief that it was over and led everyone back into the library for coffee and liqueurs. The table had been charged with too many tensions and nuances as all the guests seemed intent on playing games of their own. Everyone except Lauren. She had been bright and smiling, and none of the things that Janette had felt seemed to
touch her.
Stéphane dropped behind to catch Janette in a moment alone. “Your sister is very beautiful. Everyone is very taken with her.”
“I’m glad,” Janette answered.
“I think you are too,” Stéphane said.
Janette looked at her. “You are an idiot.”
Stéphane touched her arm. “Can’t we go upstairs for a moment? No one will miss us.”
Janette looked at her without answering, then abruptly walked away to join Maurice and Jacques, who were talking with Jacques’ date, Martine, a pretty mannequin who worked at Givenchy.
Stéphane joined Carroll, who was listening along with Philippe and Marlon to Patrick telling of his adventures on his latest African safari. She glanced around the room thinking that Lauren would be with Janette but Lauren was nowhere to be seen.
The butler served the coffee and the liqueurs, and still Lauren had not reappeared. It was not until more than ten minutes later that she came into the room, and by that time Patrick had captured everyone’s attention with the story of his lion hunt.
“There I was out in the bush sitting in the Land Rover when I felt this tap on my shoulder and the white hunter sticks the big elephant rifle in my hands and points.
“‘Line the beast up in your sights and squeeze the trigger,’ he says.
“The lion and I stared at each other for what seemed like ages.
“‘Shoot the fucking beast!’ the white hunter shouts. ‘Before the fucker comes after us!’
“I try to squeeze the trigger. But my finger can’t move. It’s paralyzed, and then my arm begins to shake and I can’t even keep the bugger in the sights. It was right at that moment the bloody animal decided to make a run for us.”
Patrick paused and held out his glass to be refilled with champagne. “Then what did you do?” Lauren asked in a breathless voice.
Patrick fixed her with a haughty glare. “What any sensible Englishman would do in a moment of danger. I ducked down between the seat and the dash and hollered to the nigger to get the fucking car out of there. Just as he started the car, the beast leaped at us. At that moment my finger caught in the trigger and the gun went off. I heard a terrible roar and stuck my head up. There was the lion rolling around on the ground, then he got up and ran off into the bush, blood dripping from the tail between his legs.” He paused for a moment and sipped from his champagne. “‘You shot his bloody balls off,’ the white hunter said. Right now, somewhere in Africa, there’s a bloody lion, wondering what the hell happened to his sex life and wandering around the jungle trying to figure out why he would rather lie sleeping in the sun than be out hunting or fucking.”
Harold Robbins Thriller Collection Page 73