Harold Robbins Thriller Collection

by Harold Robbins

  It was nearly three o’clock, and just a few people remained of the many that had crowded into the small office backstage after the presentation. Philippe was seated on the couch engaged in rapid conversation with two reporters. Marlon hovering protectively over the back of the chair.

  Empty champagne bottles and glasses littered the desk behind which Janette, Jacques and Carroll were engaged in deep discussion. “I think we made it,” Jacques said. “Both Goodman and Neiman-Marcus want to come in tomorrow to review the line. Saks, Marshall Field and I. Magnin’s have expressed interest.”

  “Looking doesn’t cost anything,” Carroll said. “Buying is something else.”

  “They’ll buy,” Jacques said confidently. “We smell like a winner.”

  Their conversation came to a halt as several reporters and photographers, having completed all the photos of mannequins and costumes, came into the office wanting the last few words with Philippe and Janette.

  Jacques rose to his feet. “Where’s Lauren? Charles wants me to talk to her about scheduling a few photo sessions. Every photographer in town wants to do her.”

  “She was here a moment ago,” Janette answered. “I think she went outside with Patrick.” He started out but she halted him. “You might as well stay here until the interviews are over. We’ll pick them up on our way out.”

  In the alleyway just outside the stage door, Lauren leaned against the building, drawing deep tokes from the thin joint she held in her fingers. “That helps,” she said, passing it to Patrick.

  He took a toke, then looked at her. “Very good,” he said. “You didn’t get that here?”

  She shook her head. “It’s American. Harvey number six.”

  He drew on the joint again and passed it back to her. “You looked bored in there. That’s why I asked you to come out.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “It’s really a crock.”

  “Crock?” he questioned.

  “You know. Phony, bullshit, cheek kissing, wonderfuls and darlings. Why do they do it? Nobody really means it. I bet if they said what they really thought, nobody would talk to anybody else.”

  Patrick laughed. “You don’t go much for that kind of life.”

  “It’s not my scene,” she said. “I get enough of that at home. My parents are really into these business things too.” “A thought came to her. “You know, I never really thought that Janette was like that. Somehow I thought she would be different. The pictures I saw and the stories I read about her. She seemed to be having a good time like she never cared about anything else.”

  “I wish that were true,” Patrick said ruefully. “But she really loves her work.”

  “I don’t know what she has to prove,” Lauren said. “She doesn’t need the money.”

  “That’s what I told her,” Patrick said. “But she says that I don’t understand.”

  “Well, I guess I don’t understand either,” Lauren said, passing the joint back to him. “But maybe it’ll be better. She said we’d be going down to her villa in Saint-Tropez after the collections.”

  “Great,” Patrick said. “I can fly you down. My yacht is in port there now. We’ll have some fun.” He took another toke. “Ouch!” he said, dropping the tiny joint. He looked down at the ground. “Burned my bloody finger. Sorry.”

  “That’s all right,” she said. “What do you say we go back into the zoo and see how the inmates are doing?”

  The press had all gone by the time they got back to Janette’s room backstage. Janette was behind the desk, Carroll and Jacques on chairs in front of her, while Philippe and Marlon were on the couch.

  Carroll got to his feet and kissed Lauren on the cheek. “You were beautiful sweetie,” he said enthusiastically. “We’ve got big things planned for you.”

  Lauren was puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

  He laughed. “You’re a star, baby. The hit of the show. Every photographer in town wants to shoot you. I told Jacques that we do nothing but the best of them.”

  Lauren turned and looked down at Janette behind the desk. “You never said anything about that to me.”

  “I didn’t know anything about it before the show,” Janette answered.

  “That’s right, “Carroll said. “Nobody could have figured it. But there you are. Like it or not, you were the hit of the showing.”

  “I thought we were going to Saint-Tropez after the collection,” Lauren said, looking at Janette. “I told Harvey to meet us there on the weekend.”

  Before Janette could answer, Carroll spoke. “You can always go to Saint-Tro. The important thing to do now is to strike while the iron is hot.”

  Lauren was silent for a moment. “I only did the collection for kicks. If I had known there was anything more, I wouldn’t have done it.”

  “But you did do it,” Carroll said. “Now you have to stick with it.”

  Lauren turned back to Janette. “Do I have to? Patrick said he would take us down there on his plane tomorrow. His yacht is already in port.”

  Janette looked up at her. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, chérie.”

  Carroll’s voice rose angrily. “What the hell do you mean?” he shouted at Janette. “She has to do it. My PR people are already planning to make her the thrust of our promotion plans in the States. I’ve already called and told them to go to work on it.”

  Janette met his angry look. “Then tell them to find another angle. Lauren didn’t come here to work. She came here to visit me.”

  “I don’t give a damn why she came here!” Carroll yelled. “I’m not blowing two million dollars on this deal to let a stupid kid decide what she should do or shouldn’t. You make her do it!”

  Janette’s voice was deceptively soft. “And if I don’t?”

  “Then the deal’s off!” Carroll snapped. “You might as well learn right now that you don’t make decisions alone anymore and that I’m the man in charge.”

  Janette stared up at him for a moment, then turned to Lauren. “You make plans to go down to Saint-Tropez with Patrick tomorrow.”

  Carroll stared down at her balefully. “You better think that over. You’re into me for one hundred and seventy thousand dollars right now and before you make any decisions you’d better have the money to come up with.”

  Lauren looked at her sister. “If it’s that important, Janette—” she began hesitantly.

  Janette stopped her gently. She spoke in French. “Don’t worry about it, chérie. Sooner or later this pig will have to learn that there are some things his money won’t buy.” She turned to Carroll and continued in English, “I suggest you think about it. My decision is already made.”

  “Johann won’t like it,” Carroll threatened.

  “Johann won’t like the idea of your using his ward to promote yourself either,” Janette said.

  “We have a deal,” Carroll snapped.

  “The deal was with me, not my sister,” Janette replied. “And besides, nothing has been signed as yet. So there is no deal really.”

  “You still have one hundred and seventy thousand dollars of mine,” he said.

  “Come to the office tomorrow and you’ll have it back,” Janette said.

  “You haven’t got the money,” Carroll said sarcastically. “I ran a check on your company balances.”

  “That’s none of your business,” Janette said. “You come to the office tomorrow and you’ll have your money.”

  He stared down at her. “You can’t make a deal with Bidermann or anyone else until I get my money back.”

  “I know that,” she said calmly.

  “I’ll be at your office nine o’clock tomorrow morning for your check,” Carroll said.

  “It will be ready,” Janette said. “You can pick it up at the treasurer’s office.”

  “It better be a good one,” he said nastily, “because I’m taking it right to the bank.”

  Silently Janette got to her feet and walked around the desk. She stopped in front of Carroll, st
aring into his eyes. “You pig!” she said in a contempt-filled voice, her open palm moving almost too fast to follow, the sting of her hand echoing in the room as she slapped his cheek. He drew back, the white imprint of her five fingers showing clearly on his ruddy face. “You’d better get out of here before I have you thrown out!”

  She was back behind the desk before he had a chance to reply. His hand touched his own cheek. He stared at her. “You’re crazy!”

  “Get out!” she screamed suddenly. “Or I’ll kill you!”

  Abruptly he turned and went to the door, then looked back. “Philippe, Marlon,” he said. “Let’s go!”

  Awkwardly the designer and his friend got to their feet. Silently they moved toward the door, neither of them meeting Janette’s eyes.

  Carroll smiled back at her. “You’ve really blown it. Philippe has already signed a contract with me starting next year. I thought you might try to screw me so I took no chances.”

  Without a word, Janette watched the door close behind them, then looked up at Lauren. “Do you mind if Patrick takes you home?” she asked in a calm voice. “Jacques and I have some business to finish off tonight.”

  “I can wait,” Lauren said.

  “No,” Janette answered. “It would be better if you left. We might be the rest of the night. “And you can use some sleep before Patrick takes you down to Saint-Tropez.”

  Lauren came around the desk and bent to kiss Janette’s cheek. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about chérie. None of it is your fault.”

  “If it will help, I can talk to Daddy,” Lauren said.

  Janette managed a smile. “Thanks, chérie, but that won’t be necessary. I can take care of that worm on my own. Now, you go and get some rest.” She looked up at Patrick. “You see that she goes right home to bed.”

  Patrick smiled. “Yes, Mother.”

  Janette laughed. “That’s a good boy. That’s the right way to talk.” She turned and kissed Lauren again. “Good night, chérie. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Another quick kiss on the cheek and they were gone. Janette turned to look at Jacques. “Well, here we are again. Nothing’s changed. Just the two of us.”

  Jacques hit the open palm of his left hand with his right fist. “The slimy little bastards! They never said a word to us. I’ll ruin the little creep. Wait until I get the word out that the collection was your idea, not his. They’ll all jump on it. They already know that you rejected his original presentation.”

  “Philippe is the least of my concerns,” Janette said. “We can always take care of him. Right now I have to get the money for Carroll.”

  “Maybe he’ll change his mind,” Jacques said hopefully.

  “Even if he does, I don’t want him. If nothing else, this collection proves that we can make it. Once I pay him off, I’m sure there’s a better deal somewhere.”

  “It’s three o’clock in the morning,” Jacques said. “Where are you going to find a million francs in six hours?”

  “A million francs,” Janette said thoughtfully. She looked at him. “Isn’t that the figure Maurice mentioned that he had to invest?”

  Jacques nodded.

  Janette got to her feet. “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go to the Ile Saint-Louis, wake him up and see if he meant what he said.”

  “You know Maurice,” Jacques said. “He’s not an easy man to deal with. You’ll have to pay for that money. One way or the other.”

  “Do you have any other ideas?”

  “What about your friend Patrick? His family company just bought Kensington Mills in the States. I’ve heard rumors that they may go into retail. They’ll know a good deal when they see it.”

  “Patrick has nothing to do with the family business. He goes his own way and they go theirs. Neither of them wants to have anything to do with the other. Patrick is out. It has to be Maurice.”

  She started for the door, then suddenly stopped and looked at him. “Where did we go wrong, Jacques?”

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “I can’t figure it out. Did we win—or did we lose?”

  It was only a ten-minute drive from the Lido on the Champs-Elysées to the house and it wasn’t until they were almost there that Patrick spoke. “Do you have to go to bed?” he asked. “I’m wired. I can’t sleep.”

  “I’m beat,” Lauren said. “Besides, you heard my sister.”

  “Yes.” There was an admiring sound in Patrick’s voice. “Did you ever see anything like that? The way she slapped Carroll’s face? I thought she would knock his head off.”

  Lauren laughed. “I wish she had. My sister’s got a lot of guts.”

  Patrick nodded. “She’s a very tough lady. I wouldn’t like to get on her wrong side. She could really kill a man.”

  Lauren laughed as the car pulled to the curb in front of the house. “I don’t think she would go that far.”

  The chauffeur jumped out of the car and opened the door of Patrick’s big silver Rolls. Lauren leaned over and kissed Patrick’s cheek. “See you tomorrow.”

  Patrick looked at her. “How about letting me touch your quim for just a second? Then I can lick my fingers all the way home and I’ll be happy.”

  Lauren giggled. “Don’t be silly,” she said, getting out of the car.

  Patrick followed her up to the door and waited as she rang the bell. “I wonder what Jacques and Janette are doing right now?”

  “She said they still had work to do,” Lauren replied.

  “I wonder if he has a big prick,” Patrick said.

  “I don’t know. And I don’t really care,” Lauren said. The door swung open. Quickly she kissed his cheek again. “Good night. See you tomorrow.”

  “Wait a minute,” Patrick said as she started through the door. “What time?”

  She turned and looked back at him. “Noon, okay?”

  “Noon will be fine,” he said. “I’ll have the car here to pick you up.”

  She closed the door behind her and started up the staircase. She turned as the butler called after her.

  “Did everything go all right, Mademoiselle Lauren?”

  “Beautiful,” Lauren answered. “It was the most beautiful evening ever.”

  Harvey rolled from his mattress out of the blazing August sun into the shade of the umbrella. “Son of a bitch!” he said.

  Lauren turned her head toward him. “Now, what?”

  “Thirty francs for a mattress and an umbrella,” he said. “That’s robbery.”

  Lauren laughed. “That’s French.”

  “What if you just wanted to lay on the sand? Without anything?”

  “Where?” she asked, gesturing to the crowded beach completely covered by people on mattresses.

  “I saw a beach further down. People brought their own mats and umbrellas.”

  “You can do that if you want to. That’s the public beach,” she said.

  “Why don’t we do it?” he asked. “At least, we won’t feel we’re being clipped.”

  “We can try it tomorrow,” she said.

  “It’s the same sun, the same sand, the same water.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Tomorrow.”

  He looked at her. “Your tits are getting fried.”

  She sat up, reaching for a sun lotion in her beach bag. “I’ll put some more gook on.”

  He stared at her. “I guess I’m still not used to it. I never saw so many tits in my life. Jesus, I wonder what they do with all the bathing-suit tops they never use.”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Maybe someone ought to go around buying them up.” He grinned suddenly. “Think of it. I can get a corner on the bikini-top market.”

  She laughed. “What would you do with them?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I have to think of something.” He looked at the can of sun spray she took out. “Wait a minute. I have something better you can use.” He f
ished in his carry bag and came out with a clay jar. He took the cork top from it and held it toward her. “Here, try some of this. But put some water on yourself first.”

  “What is it?” she asked, looking at the jar.

  “Humboldt clay, mixed with some jojoba oil. The Indians use it to heal their skins. It also makes you tan quicker and you won’t burn.”

  She sniffed at the open jar. “Smells funny.”

  “It’s natural,” he said. “All that crap you buy has perfume in it.”

  “Where’d you get it?” she asked.

  “It’s all over the place up at the farm. Johnny’s mother mixes it up herself. They use it for everything. Cuts, insect bites, you name it.”

  “Does it really work?” she asked skeptically.

  “I use it,” he said. “And I’ve only been here two days and I’m darker than you are.”

  “Okay,” she said, getting to her feet. “I’ll jump into the water for a minute, then I’ll be back and put it on.”

  He leaned on one elbow and watched her walk down to the water. She seemed different here somehow. It was strange hearing her rattle away in French. In California, the fact that she was French had never even entered his mind. She was just like all the other girls there. But so many things about her had changed in just the month she had been gone.

  She even walked differently. Sort of straighter, more of a swing to her hips. Before she would stride, now she walked as if her hips were attached to her legs instead of her waist.

  And she was thinner, her rib cage more clearly defined, her pelvic bones thrust forward so that the curve under her belly seemed to flow between her legs in a mound that seemed to rise from her thighs. Suddenly it dawned on him. He knew what it was. She was sexier. In California she had been a girl. Here she was a girl-woman.

  Automatically he began fishing in his carry bag for a joint. Then he remembered. This was France. You couldn’t smoke joints on the beach. Not only was the law rough but the people were too uptight. Nobody said a word if you drank yourself insensible or fucked your head off, and neither did they care. Neither did they give a damn whether you were gay or not. But if you were going to dope, you stayed in the closet to do it.