“Melina, I must insist you cancel your plans,” Alain had interrupted. “I’m sure you’re really quite upset by your recent loss. I can’t presume at a time like this that you’d have much interest in business matters.”
“But I do,” Melina had insisted. “I’m raring to go. I appreciate your concern, Alain, but I’m fine. As I said before, I’ll be in around…”
“No,” Alain had cut in coldly. “It’s off, Melina. I was hoping to spare you, but now I must speak bluntly.”
“Please do.”
“Jane and I have—” Alain began, but now it was Melina’s turn to interrupt.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake—is that all it is? You’re putting the moves on poor Janie? Christ, what a relief! I thought you meant the project was off. You mean you just don’t want me underfoot while you, uh…?” Melina began to snicker.
“Don’t be crass,” Alain said, and Melina could hear the disdain in his voice through thousands of miles of underseas cable. “How can I expect you to understand? What Jane and I have is … very special.”
The pompous son of a bitch! His tone had been so awfully unctuous, so holier-than-thou. Romance did that to people, Melina had noticed, made them think they were better than the normal, drudging, unloved and unloving masses. Oh, it wasn’t as if Melina really, truly missed him. But, honestly, a girl did have her pride! The only redeeming factor in the situation, Melina told herself, was that in taking up with Janie, Alain was at least sticking close to home. In fact, a small forgiving part of her could even understand what he saw in that naive, romantic idiot. The way that girl doted on Alain! It couldn’t help but turn his head.
The other fact about Alain that kept Melina from being all that hurt by his actions was that she knew his head wouldn’t stay turned for long. Oh, he might think he’d found true love, she told herself, but she knew Alain’s type well enough to know better. Melina had no doubt whatsoever that Alain would be circling his way back to her eventually. That’s just the way he was. Restless. Ambitious. Always eager for a chase. A sportsman to the bone. But once he’d cornered Janie, once he’d won her—and knowing the situation, Melina didn’t think it would take very long—he’d start looking for fresh game. He was, after all, a lot like her. The only ones you really cared about, in the end, were those you could never capture.
Zach, for instance. He was yet another problem that didn’t seem to go away. The bastard had phoned the office the night before and, like a fool, she had felt her pulse quicken as soon as she heard his voice.
“Janie there?”
“No,” Melina replied stiffly, “she’s still in France, scouting locations for our Chanson shoot.”
“But it’s been nearly two weeks, hasn’t it?” Zach replied. “And weren’t you supposed to be with her on this?”
“The plans changed, Zach,” Melina retorted. “I’m sorry nobody informed you. I just didn’t realize you expected updates on our itineraries.”
“But I thought you told me … I mean, I was under the impression that Alain and you…”
“Things change, Zach,” Melina replied. “People change, too. Haven’t you been noticing? Janie, for instance. She’s turned into quite the little stunner. Alain’s absolutely smitten with her.”
“He actually told you that?” Zach demanded.
“Oh, not in those exact words.” Melina sighed. “But I’m smart enough to read between the lines—even when they are transatlantic ones. But it won’t last.”
“You sound pretty damned sure.”
“Oh, most men are as easy to read as the uptown subway map,” Melina replied, laughing. “Alain’s need for uncomplicated adoration is patently clear. He’s looking for a worshipper, not a lover, and I think he’s found her. But you know how deathly dull church can get, Zach. He’ll be bored stiff in no time. The way you must be, come to think of it, with those airbrain stewardesses I hear you hang out with these days.”
“Spare me, Melina.”
“I’m serious,” Melina had purred. “You should think about us again, Zach. I’m a lot smarter than I used to be. You could use someone like me around—and hey, I’d offer you frequent flyer privileges, too. I’m sure you could use the—stimulation.”
“Thanks,” Zach told her, “but Kierkegaard’s a lot more stimulating and a lot less trouble.”
Yes, on just about every front Melina felt she was losing ground. Damn the bank, and Alain. And damn, damn Zach! How she wished she could get him out of her system! But like some low-grade virus, he stayed with her, draining her energies, troubling her sleep. She pushed the chair back and walked over to the window that offered a slivered view of Union Square. She stood there for several minutes staring at the horizon of cluttered rooftops and shifting green leaves without seeing anything. Zach. Alain. Money. What was she going to do?
For months now she had been trying to get new accounts. But it was a difficult period for business in general and a bad time for advertising in particular. Despite all the calls she’d made, all the meetings, all the follow-up letters. Bliss & Penrod still only had three accounts. Two of those—Chanson and Ramona—were still only working with them on a project basis. And City Slickers, the one client they represented fully, was having a hell of a time with their expansion into metro markets outside New York and consequently a hell of a time paying their bills. Only now did Melina remember Zach’s warning that a lot more than a snappy tag line and a creative layout was needed to launch new retail outlets. Why the hell did her thoughts all circle back to that man, anyway? The point was, Melina reminded herself as she turned away from the window, she was going to have to do something to get the bank off her case. And she was going to have to do it fast.
Madame Ramona opened her eyes and stared at Melina Bliss. Her expression was neither one of recognition nor anger, it was rather that of vague irritation. It was as if Madame Ramona, interrupted unexpectedly as she had been from the ministrations of her beauticians, found herself face to face with a small, buzzing insect. She looked as though she would like to shoo Melina away.
Madame was ensconced in her corner office on the executive floor of the Ramona International Building, reclining comfortably against the pillows of her needlepoint-upholstered Louis XV sofa. Her feet rested on a matching ottoman. A manicurist sat to the left of Madame, her head bent above Madame’s fingernails. Her hairdresser stood behind the sofa, taking tiny snips from Madame’s magnificent coiffure. Besides these working reminders, the room itself was a monument to the vast and varied industry of beauty. One entire wall was adorned with glass cases displaying Madame’s prize-winning collection of perfume bottles. On the other walls, which were painted the palest pink with gray-green faux marble trimming, hung original Erté prints and priceless Norman Parkinson photographs. A huge Aubusson carpet provided common ground for Madame’s sofa, three Louis XVI armchairs covered in pink-and-green brocaded stripe, and numerous marble-topped tables overflowing with bouquets of freshly cut roses.
“I’m so sorry to have to bother you like this,” Melina began haltingly.
“No sorrier than I am,” Madame broke in. She blinked rapidly at Melina, closed her eyes again with a deep sigh, and readjusted the herbal eye pack that she had been wearing before Melina burst in. “What in heaven’s name do you want? Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Of course, Madame,” Melina replied carefully. “And I wouldn’t dream of bothering you unless it was urgent business.”
“What could possibly be so important?” Madame demanded imperiously. “The home fragrance ads were accepted long ago. We have no further business, as far as I know.”
“Yes,” Melina replied. “That is, you see, part of the problem. I presented you with a proposal months ago for taking over the entire Ramona account: cosmetics, perfume—all the various lines.”
“I saw it,” Madame replied. “It was adequate, but as I’ve told you before, I’m perfectly satisfied with Dorn & Delaney’s work. I don’t intend to
leave them until I see a good reason to. I do like your creative flare, but that’s simply not enough to sway me. And, may I add, if you continue to harass me in this ridiculous manner, I’ll take the home fragrance line back to Zach and Michael as well. Do I make myself clear?”
“Madame, I simply must ask to speak to you … alone,” Melina replied coolly. Madame’s eyes flashed open, raked Melina up and down, then closed again.
“Impertinent little hustler!” Madame sputtered. “Get out before I throw you out.”
“I’m quite serious,” Melina continued. “I think you’ll thank me for begging you to discuss a certain matter in utmost privacy.”
“I can’t possibly imagine what you have to say to me that’s the least bit intimate,” Madame replied. “I’m about to ring for security, Ms. Bliss, so if you don’t start—”
“Olivia Piedmont,” Melina said.
“What?” Madame sat up so abruptly that the bottle of ruby red fingernail polish resting on the manicurist’s small worktable jiggled and fell. Madame Ramona’s gaze scoured Melina grimly. “Babette, Marguerite, I’d like you to leave now, please. I’ll let you know when to return.”
“Thank you,” Melina said as the two women packed up their things. Madame waited until the door was closed, then she stood up and walked over to the tall plate glass windows. Twenty stories below, Fifth Avenue traffic flowed south between glistening banks of outrageously expensive stores. Trump Tower and Tiffany to her north, Bijan next door, Ramona International rose forty stories straight up from one of the most costly plots of commercial real estate in Manhattan. But, like so much of Madame’s vast empire, she had bought the lease cheap—during the fiscal gloom-and-doom times of the early seventies—and watched it double, then triple in per square foot value over the intervening years. She was a smart, savvy businesswoman in every sense, she knew. Except one, obviously, and for that she could only blame her pride.
“How did you find out?” Madame asked after a few seconds.
“It doesn’t matter how,” Melina replied. She was hardly about to tell Madame that she had discovered the bio in one of the secret drawers of Zach’s impossibly battered desk. It was obviously information that Michael and Zach had had in their possession for many years. Had they used it against Madame? Those upright, aging boy wonders? Somehow, Melina didn’t think so. “What does matter is that I’m the only one who knows,” Melina continued, testing her theory, “at least—for now.”
“And what, may I ask,” Madame said, turning to face Melina, “is that supposed to mean?”
“Merely that there’s no need for anyone else to know,” Melina said, running her finger over the cool edge of a nearby tabletop. “It can be our secret—yours and mine.”
“How cozy,” Madame replied dryly. “Just what is it that you want in exchange for our—little secret? Somehow I’m sure you have something in mind.”
“Oh,” Melina said, her eyes widening in mock surprise. “I thought you’d already guessed. I thought I was being rather obvious.”
“No,” Madame replied, sitting down suddenly in one of her treasured Louis XVI armchairs. Oh, with what pride, what vanity, she had surrounded herself with the masterpieces of French culture! She had founded her entire empire on the secret allure of her exotic past. What scandal, what devastation would ensue if word leaked out now that the imperious Madame Ramona was really just poor, ill-educated Olivia Piedmont from Livingston, Georgia. She felt weak and old … and just plain sad. “What is it that you want?”
“Why, the account of course,” Melina said demurely. “Ramona International. All of it.”
Chapter 32
Alain and Janie had dinner in a cozy room beside a large tile fireplace, catered to by two quiet servants who moved like shadows and finally melted away completely after the coffee was served. As opposed to the elegant civility of the chateau, the interiors of the hunting lodge—Alain had explained to Janie what the quaint building was generally used for—were rustic, functional, and probably as old as the place itself. They sat on gnarled, hand-carved wooden chairs whose arms were formed from deer antlers. The table was a round, intricately carved wooden slab, the trunk of an ancient elm that had stood where it now was when the lodge was built. So thick and sure were its roots that the workers had simply constructed the house around it and whittled the trunk into a dining room table for the new owners.
“I like knowing the roots are still there,” Alain told Janie as he refilled her coffee cup from the cracked blue earthenware pot that the servants had left warming on the tiles beside the fire, “sunk deep into the ground below us. I like that sense of history. My family has lived and worked and loved and died on this property for over four hundred years. That means a great deal to me, Jane. I have a tremendous sense of pride in who I am, where I come from. In many ways, it’s far more important to me than what I do.”
“That’s funny,” Janie mused, staring into the red burning heart of the dying fire, “it’s almost the exact opposite with me. I’ve always wanted to forget where I came from, who my family is. It’s always felt like a crutch to me, a hindrance, and I couldn’t wait to throw the crutches down and walk on my own. And that’s pretty much what I’ve done, I guess, with the help of my job. Which is the other thing: my work is very important to me, Alain. It’s freed me from being dependent on my family, on the past.” She looked across the table and saw him staring at her with a puzzled expression. “I’m afraid it’s all a little hard to explain.”
“Was your family so awful?” Alain asked. “Melina gave me the impression that it was large, perhaps poor … really, you see, I don’t know much about your past, Jane.”
“That’s my fault,” Janie assured him. “I make a point of not talking about it much. It all began years ago, when I first started at Dorn & Delaney. You see, I was so afraid they wouldn’t give me the job … if they knew the truth.”
“What truth?” Alain demanded, his expression darkening. “There is some scandal in your family?”
“Hardly a scandal,” Janie replied, laughing. “Except, perhaps, in my eyes. The New England Penrods are filthy rich, Alain, though they handle it all in a very puritanical way. The point is, they have all this money, but they’re too tasteful to flaunt it. My parents, and all my brothers and sisters for that matter, lead quietly well-off and very proper lives. My father runs a boys’ prep school, for instance, but he needn’t do anything but sit back and watch the dividends roll in. They are proud, too, Alain. Good, strong pillars of society—every one.”
“But?” Alain demanded. “I don’t understand. You have described an absolutely wonderful background. Why on earth should you be ashamed of it?”
“Well,” Jane began, meeting his gaze and holding it, “you see, for many, many years they were all so ashamed of me.”
“Ridiculous, darling!” Alain replied vehemently, reaching across the table and grasping her hands. “You are perfect! Everyone who looks at you can see that.”
“Alain, please, please listen!” Janie cried, slipping from his grasp and standing up. She stood behind her chair, her hands clenched on the gnarled arms. “I didn’t always … I wasn’t … I grew up the ugly duckling in the family. I was the youngest. The unexpected—what’s that delicate phrase?—the afterthought. I was slow … and fat. I had no friends, Alain. I was terribly, terribly lonely. And I was constantly aware of the fact that I was letting my parents down. That I would never, ever be as quick, as light, as smart … as anything as my older brothers and sisters.”
“Jane … please,” Alain cut in abruptly, “I don’t want to hear any more of this ridiculous inferiority complex of yours.” He stood up, came behind her, and pulled her around to face him. “Being the youngest is often hard. You grow up too much alone … and live too much with your own thoughts. But, darling, believe me, if you once imagined yourself to be an ugly duckling—that’s all over now. It’s finished. You stand here in my arms, the most lovely and ravishing wo
man I have ever known. Please…” Alain added when Janie began to shake her head and start to object, “no more talk just now…”
His kiss at first was gentle, persuasive. His arms curled around her waist, rocking her against him. His skin was tinged with the deeply masculine smells of wood smoke and after-shave. She closed her eyes and felt her resistance toward him easing again. How could she not want this? she asked herself. What woman in her right mind would not long to be in this fantastic man’s arms?
His grip tightened around her waist, pulling her against him, and for the first time she could feel the hard definite heat of his arousal. It was too soon … or too fast an awareness … or she had simply not been thinking the thing through all the way. Why, of course, she had been brought here to be made love to! She had known that, hadn’t she? she asked herself. Alain was not the kind of man to be satisfied with a few sweet kisses. He wanted her—urgently. She could feel him pressing into her, rocking against her. She could feel him—hot, needful, not to be denied. And, strangely, all she could think of was … Zach.
Zach kissing her on a very different night in front of a very different fireplace. Zach laughing. Zach smiling. Zach looking into her eyes and touching her hair.
“Darling,” Alain whispered, breaking into her thoughts, “I don’t know how much longer I can take this. Are you ready … to go upstairs?”
“Yes,” Janie said, only half-conscious then of what she was agreeing to. But as Alain led her by the hand upstairs, memories of Zach disappeared, and she was left to face alone the man she had for so long treasured in her dreams. But it wasn’t a dream now. This Alain was very real.
His bedroom was slightly larger than hers, with five tall mullioned windows facing east to the vineyards and chateau. The walls were white, hung with three large fourteenth century tapestries of hunting scenes. Alain went around to both sides of the room’s beautiful centerpiece—a four-poster, hung with striped damask—and lit the rose-shaded lamps that sat on the Empire-style mahogany end tables flanking the bed. He turned back toward the door where Janie hesitated, and held out his arms.
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