"I thought you weren't going to see her anymore— after I told you she was engaged to Jack Beecham."
"The engagement isn't official."
"For heaven's sake!" Alix exploded. "Fleur's not in your league. You'll never get her to break her engagement. All you'll do is store up trouble for yourself."
"You're not very flattering about my manly charms." Peter was obviously not going to be serious. "Don't you think I stand comparison with Beecham?"
"You're miles above him in every way except financially."
"Well, thanks for something! At least you don't believe Fleur's in love with him."
"That's got nothing to do with it."
"It has everything to do with it," he said gently. "You see, Fleur happens to be in love with me."
"Does her mother know?"
He shook his head. "She's laid up in the country with lumbago. Fleur's spending a few weeks with an aunt in Kensington. That's how I've been able to see her."
"Where's it going to get you?"
"I don't know yet, mother dear."
Alix colored. "I know you think I'm an interfering busybody but—"
"I think you're a marvelous busybody," he interposed, "but I'm not going to listen to you. Fleur and I love each other and I'm damned if I'll let her mother sell her off to the highest bidder!"
"Fleur has a mind of her own," Alix reminded him. "She needn't have gone along with her mother."
"She feels responsible for the old girl's welfare—felt it was up to her to retrieve the family fortune."
"And now she doesn't?"
"Not quite as much."
"You're banking on being able to influence her more than her mother?"
"Yes," Peter said flatly. "I am."
As if to prevent further discussion he turned on his heel and left, but left behind a vague disquiet in Alix that grew more pronounced as the day wore on and she gave it further thought. To take Fleur out the way he was doing cost money, far more than he could afford, according to the rundown of his budget he had light- heartedly given her less than a month ago. Yet money no longer seemed in short supply for him, so he must be getting it from somewhere. From Jamie Hunter perhaps? It was a disquieting assumption but she dared not disregard it. From now on she would watch Peter closely.
The next week went by without any undue incidents. The tractor account garnered some interesting articles in various trade magazines, and an important BBC director made noises about doing an in-depth interview with Henri Duval, to coincide with his next collection.
Since the night of the barbecue she had seen little of Dina, but she could not pick up a paper without seeing her friend's face smiling at her. The hint of scandal in the Jamie Hunter article had caused a great deal of interest among fellow reporters, and all the news hawks in London were hot on the actress's steps. She was shadowed from the moment she left the theater until she arrived at her flat in Mayfair, and not an evening went by without her being squired by one or other of the Duval men.
With Paul she attended several big social functions and with Henri she was seen dining intimately tete-a-tete. The situation intrigued the columnists and one of the tabloids boldly enjoined her to "Make Up Your Mind, Dina!"
Following a plan she had discussed in detail with Duval Senior, Alix had decided to soft-pedal on further publicity for the salon until August, when the winter designs would be launched. Consequently she went to the salon only for a few hours each week, and on none of these occasions did she catch more than a glimpse of Paul.
But inevitably they did meet—on a warm June day when she was in Henri's office, talking to him about the date for the BBC interview. Paul came in with a portfolio of sketches—his suggestions for the new Duval line—and seeing Alix, he put the drawings on the table and walked to the door.
Henri rifled through the topmost sketches and then dropped them with an angry exclamation. "We can't use these. They're not suitable at all!"
Paul hovered reluctantly in the doorway. "I'd prefer to discuss it later."
"We'll discuss it now." Henri banged his fist on the desk. "We can't use any of these designs. They're laughable!"
A red stain colored Paul's cheeks. "That word more aptly describes the last Collection you did. "
Henri stared at his son, unable to believe he had heard aright. He took a step forward, then with a superhuman effort, held himself in check.
"How d-dare you't-talk to me like that!" he spluttered. "Mon Dieu, to think my own flesh and blood…"
"It's because I'm your flesh and blood that I am talking to you this way. Someone has to tell you the truth and if you won't listen to me, I'll leave you. I can no longer stand by and—"
Not waiting to hear any more, Alix ran from the room. She was trembling when she reached her car, and she sat behind the wheel for a moment to regain her self- control. Fingers tapped on the window and she looked up and saw Dina.
Alix opened the car door. "Going for a fitting?"
"I'm lunching with Henri."
"You'd better not go in for a while. He and Paul are in the middle of a row."
Dina slid into the front seat. "I suppose they're arguing about the Collection."
"What else?" Alix asked dryly. "Apart from you, of course."
The china-blue eyes were innocent. "Why should they argue about me?"
"Because you're playing one off against the other."
"How disapproving you look," Dina mocked. "Whose heart are you concerned with—Paul's or Henri's?"
"Whose heart are you concerned with?" Alix countered.
Dina hesitated. "Henri's," she said slowly. "But that's for your ears alone."
"Then why make a fool of Paul?"
"Because it isn't safe for me to see Henri every night."
"Do you think it ever will be? Amy Duval will never divorce him, and I don't think he wants a divorce himself. If he did, he'd have got one years ago."
"He hadn't met me years ago."
Alix regarded her friend in amazement, becoming aware, as her focus sharpened, that Dina was wearing unusually heavy makup. But beneath the thick foundation her skin was unnaturally pale and the color outlining her cheeks was obviously false.
"Are you sure you're being wise about this?" she asked gently. "Henri's so much older than you. He's had so many affairs."
"Save your breath," Dina said, and though her voice was careless, her expression was veiled. "Henri's never felt about any other woman the way he feels about me."
"But for how long?"
"For as long as I want him."
"But—"
"No, Alix, I refuse to talk about it anymore." Pushing open the car door, Dina ran lightly across the road and into the salon.
It was a thoughtful Alix who let herself into her apartment, to be greeted by a surprised-looking secretary.
"I thought you were going to be with the great man all afternoon?"
"He was too busy arguing with his son."
"About Dina?"
"About clothes—though Dina may well be at the back of it." Alix sighed. "Paul was threatening to leave his father."
"It would be the best thing for him if he did."
"But he won't—not when it comes to the crunch. He knows it would upset his mother." There was a sound behind her and she swung around to see Peter. "Hello there. I didn't know you were in."
"I've just got back." He marched straight through to the other office and Alix watched him uneasily, wondering how much he had heard of her conversation.
She was to wonder this even more forcibly when she opened the Daily Illustrated two days later and saw that Jamie Hunter was informing his readers of an imminent split in the House of Duval because Henri had turned down his son's designs for the forthcoming Winter Collection.
Alix dropped the paper as if it were going to bite her and reached for the telephone to call Henri. Almost at once she decided against it. There was no reason to invite an argument. She might as well wait for Henri to do the calling; there was even a fai
nt chance he had not seen the Daily Illustrated.
All that morning as she worked on a campaign for a well-known author who had asked her to handle his next book, she mulled over all she had said to Willie when she had returned from the salon. There was no doubt Peter had overheard every word; no doubt that he had immediately relayed it to Jamie, in the same way he had also relayed the story of the jade ring.
Never had she felt so despondent. She knew she must confront Peter with her suspicions and she dreaded the very idea of it. If only there was someone to whom she could turn for advice, some male shoulder on which she could lean. With a sigh she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, feeling the unfamiliar prickle of tears behind her lids. Unbidden, a picture of Paul came into her mind and she sat up sharply again.
Henri's fury at Jamie Hunter's latest comment would be as nothing compared with his son's. What must Paul think of her now? She longed to call him but knew he would never believe she had had nothing to do with it. She could almost see the contempt on his narrow face with its thin, sensitive mouth and determined chin; almost see the fury in the sherry-brown eyes with their blue-white lids—lids that made him look very vulnerable until they lifted and one saw the intensity of the expression they hid.
She sank lower in her chair, her hands pressed against her aching temples, until she became aware of the doorbell ringing. Willie had long since gone to lunch and wearily she went to answer it.
On the doorstep stood a tall, rugged man, his skin tanned a deep mahogany, his close-cropped fair hair bleached fairer by the sun.
"Mark!" she gasped. "I didn't expect… When did you get back?"
"At dawn. There-was a sudden change of plan— that's why I didn't let you know." He took in her strained expression and touched a finger to a cheek still damp with tears. "I thought of stopping off for a week in New York but decided I was missing you too much to enjoy it. From the look of you, I haven't come back a moment too soon."
"You certainly haven't," she gulped, and with a cry flung herself into his arms and burst into tears.
CHAPTER FIVE
Alix had met Mark Watson at a dinner party and they had instantly become friends. Within a couple of weeks he had made it clear he wanted far more from her than this and refused to believe her assertion that she did not love him.
Time and again she decided to say goodbye to him but he would never accept dismissal, and in recent months, she had wondered whether she was being foolish not to marry him. As Mark's wife she would have no more demanding clients to satisfy; no more hard-faced columnists to please or photographers to entice; no more late-night sessions in the office as she worked at publicity handouts that would, in more instances than she cared to admit, end up in the wastepaper basket of someone else's office; no more, in short, of the rat race that was the world of public relations.
Yet despite her increasing dislike of her work, she was honest enough with herself to admit that marriage to Mark would result in boredom. And that meant she did not love him. But where was the love she was looking for and what would happen if she never found it? Though she knew her friends would find it hard to believe, she was too much of a romantic to accept second-best. She wanted to meet a man who would mean so much to her that she would be unable to live without him. And Mark certainly did not come into that category.
Yet as she prepared him a light snack and carried it into the living room, she was happier to see him than at any time she could remember. She firmly reminded herself it was because he had been abroad for several months and had returned when she was at an unexpectedly low ebb.
"This is my idea of heaven!" he said, regarding the fluffy omelet on the plate. "A perfect meal and a perfect woman! How about marrying me right away? I can take a month's vacation and I've a load of money to collect in architect's fees."
"It sounds highly tempting," she said lightly, "but the answer is still no."
"I'll still keep trying."
She shrugged but did not answer, wishing for the umpteenth time that he had the power to arouse her. Even a dispassionate observer would have agreed he was handsome, with his tall, broad-shouldered frame and Nordic coloring.
"What's been happening to you while I've been away?" Mark interrupted her thought. "I'd like to believe it was pleasure that made you burst into tears when you saw me, but I'm honest enough to know it wasn't!"
"I've been overworking."
"You love hard work. It's got to be more than that."
"It's an account I took on a few weeks ago," she mumbled. "It's suddenly become mixed up with people's emotions." She paused, then slowly told him all that had transpired since her first meeting with Henri Duval. "The friction between Henri and Paul is getting worse and so is Paul's dislike of publicity. But I could cope with both these problems if it weren't for Peter."
"What's he done?"
"Fallen for Fleur Brandon and spending too much money on her."
"So what?"
Reluctantly she told him of Jamie Hunter's gossip column and her belief that Peter was supplying him with information.
"Have you told Peter you suspect him?" Mark asked.
"No."
"Then you should. The least you can do is to give him a chance to clear himself. I know Peter as well as you do and I think you're getting steamed up about nothing." He rose and put an arm across her shoulders. "You're tired, Alix. You need some relaxation. How about having dinner with me tonight?"
"I don't know," she sighed. "I've a lot of work to do and—"
"Forget the work," he interrupted. "I'll call for you at eight."
He went to sit down again but she shook her head. "If you want me to go out with you tonight you must let me work now."
Grumbling good-naturedly about bossy women, Mark allowed himself to be ushered to the door. "Don't call me when I get back home to say you can't go out with me after all," he warned. "I'll be here tonight, no matter What."
He was as good as his word and, with unusual firmness, refused to let Alix discuss her business problems throughout the evening. He did not bring her home until after midnight and, as she prepared for bed, she felt more relaxed than for a long while. It was good to lean on another person rather than to rely on oneself. It was at moments like these—with pressure of work high and vitality low—that she missed her parents, who had died three years earlier.
Dear Mark, she thought as she slipped between the sheets. It's lovely to have him back.
Alix slept late the next morning, not waking until her secretary burst into the bedroom, her sallow face pink with indignation. "It's happened again, Miss Smith. Look!"
Alix sat up and pushed back a heavy strand of hair from her forehead. "What are you talking about?"
"Jamie Hunter's column. There's another piece in it on Duval's. Only this time it's about one of their clients."
"What!" Alix snatched the paper from Miss Wilkinson's hand and scanned the paragraph hastily. "Send Peter to me the moment he arrives," she said grimly. "Meantime get Jamie on the phone."
But the columnist was out of town for the day, and muttering angrily, Alix dressed and went into her office. The thought of phoning Mark passed through her mind but she dismissed it; he would try to pacify her and she was in no mood for peace, not when Henri Duval was probably chewing up the carpet. He had surprised her by ignoring the sniping at his own reputation but she thought it unlikely he would countenance any attack upon his clients; after all, it was there that his fortune lay.
Deciding to go and see him before he had a chance to call and ask her to do so, she gulped down a cup of coffee and drove to the elegant Mayfair side street off Berkeley Square.
Walking down the carpeted corridor to the couturier's room she was conscious of her heart pounding, and she had to strain to hear his "Come in" after she had knocked.
"My dear Alix, I was wondering when you were going to pay me a visit." He waved her to a chair. "I take it you want to talk about publicity for the Collection?"
"I ac
tually wanted to talk to you—to apologize—for the article in the Illustrated this morning."
He glanced at her quizzically. "Amusing, wasn't it?"
"I didn't find it so."
"But I did. I must congratulate you."
Alix stared at him. "Are you being sarcastic, Monsieur Duval? I can assure you I had nothing to do with it."
"There's no need to pretend with me, my dear. We are people of the world, you and I, and I admire your business acumen. These gossip writers are always looking for stories, and if you can supply them, then why not? It all brings you goodwill."
Alix sprang to her feet, her violet eyes blazing with temper. "The day I need to go muckraking to maintain my goodwill with reporters is the day I quit the publicity business! I can assure you I had nothing whatever to do with that paragraph about Miss Gardiner."
Henri's look was still quizzical. "You'll be telling me next that you didn't supply Hunter with news about my son's quarrel with me."
"I most definitely didn't," she said, even angrier than before. "But I'm going to find out who did. If it's anyone in my own organization I'll fire 'em."
"Pas necessaire." Henri managed to make his occasional lapses into his native tongue sound theatrical. ''You don't think I care what the Illustrated writes about Duval's? It's when papers have nothing to say about us that I worry!" He saw Alix's look of disbelief and went on, "Paul doesn't agree with me, of course. He is furious and wants me to terminate your contract."
"Having judged me guilty without a hearing," she snapped. "It's a pity your son doesn't take after you."
"A great pity," Henri Duval agreed, "but at least it means I have no competition from my own family."
There was something about the way he was looking at her that told Alix his use of the word competition had nothing to do with his work as a designer of clothes. Only his designs on women, she thought ironically.
"Now how about a glass of champagne?" Henri said. "It's ideal for a midmorning pick-you-up!"
She nodded and watched his deft movements at the drinks tray. He came across to her with a glass, his broad-shouldered body exuding vitality, his gray- streaked hair making him look sun-kissed rather than old.
Rachel Lindsay - Designing Man Page 6