"One often fails to see what is closest to the eye," he murmured. "I have always considered you to be a striking-looking young woman, but now, when you lost your temper, I realized you were beautiful. Anger suits you, Alix!"
His head came nearer and, at such close proximity she saw the fine network of lines around the vivid blue eyes; the tiny, broken red veins on the smooth cheeks; the crinkled skin—barely discernible but nonetheless there—around the sensual mouth and the soft sagging of a neck that not even a tautly held head could completely obliterate. Other women might not find Henri's age a deterrent but Alix was repelled by the desire emanating from him. Passion, when not returned, was an ugly embarrassment. Annoyed to find herself trembling, she put down her glass and made to rise.
But Henri was not to be stopped. He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her close. "You are so different from the stupid women who are always throwing themselves at me. You have an intelligent mind as well as an enticing body."
Before Alix realized his intention, he kissed her on the mouth. Astonishment kept her motionless, and taking this for acquiescence, he kissed her again, his lips soft and moist. It was only as their pressure increased that she could not control her disgust and she put her hands on his chest to push him away. Before she could do so, the door opened and Paul came in.
Without hurry Henri stepped away from Alix and gave his son a look of amusement.
"You should knock before you come in, Paul."
"I didn't know you were busy. I'll come back later."
"There's no need," Alix intervened. "I was on my way out."
Paul's look of contempt needed no words to amplify how he felt and she swiftly said goodbye to Henri and left the salon. Driving back to her office, two emotions warred within her: fury against Henri Duval and chagrin that Paul should have surprised her in such an embarrassing situation. Did he realize his father had kissed her against her will or did he think she was one more addition to his list of conquests?
When she walked into her office Peter was waiting for her and she pushed all personal thoughts aside and concentrated on an equally unpleasant—though less personal—one.
"You've seen Jamie Hunter's article, I suppose?"
"Who didn't?" he smiled.
Deliberately she did not smile back, realizing he had no intention of making it easier for her. Still, if that was the way he wanted to play it, so be it.
"Was it you?" she demanded. "Have you been the one feeding gossip to Jamie Hunter?''
Peter's long thin face seemed to grow longer. "It's a pleasure to know you have such a high opinion of me. Your belief in my integrity is—"
"Stop acting!" she burst out. "This isn't easy for either of us. But I have to know the truth. I don't want to think it's you—and I've tried to find every reason for thinking it isn't—but you've been so odd lately…and there's all the money you've been spending…"
"You think I'd sell you down the river in exchange for a steady cash flow?''
"You might not think you were doing anything so terrible," she said miserably. "Feeding tidbits to a gossip columnist isn't such a—"
"But you think it's terrible, don't you?" he questioned, cutting through the excuse she was trying to make for him. "You think it's terrible," he repeated, "and you also think it was me. Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, Alix, but it wasn't."
Her relief was instantaneous and it showed on her face.
"No doubts?" he asked, looking surprised.
"None."
"You're very trusting all of a sudden. If you'd asked me before where I got the money…"
"I tried but… Surely you knew what was in my mind?"
"It would have been difficult not to have known." He looked more relaxed. "You were pretty obvious about it."
"Then why didn't—"
"Because I hate parading my private affairs. It was a loan," he went on slowly. "From Henri Duval, as a matter of fact." Ignoring Alix's open-mouthed amazement, he continued, "I ran into him one evening when Fleur and I were at the Don Juan. He was there with Dina and they joined us for coffee. When the girls went off to powder their noses he saw me peering into my wallet and offered to lend me as much as I wanted. In fact, he insisted on writing me a check on the spot."
"Oh Peter, you shouldn't have accepted a loan from a client!"
"It seemed like a godsend at the time, though I've often wondered what made him do it. He said something about 'letting a young man have his fling' and asked if Lady Brandon knew I was seeing her daughter. He seemed amused when I told him she didn't. Evidently there's no love lost between them.''
"Henri has a curious sense of humor," Alix said. "He probably loaned you the money purely as nuisance value! You must pay him back at once. I'll lend it to you."
"That won't be necessary. I had already made up my mind to do so. I've actually taken the plunge and put my home up for sale. I'm going to move somewhere smaller."
"But you've spent so much effort doing it up," Alix protested.
"More fool me." His smile was tight. "Fleur and I aren't seeing each other anymore."
"How come?"
"Lady B. turned up unexpectedly at her sister-in-law's house last night. She accused Fleur's aunt of encouraging our affair behind her back and forbade Fleur to see me again."
"And like a dutiful daughter she's obeyed."
He nodded. "I asked her to marry me but she… she turned me down." He paused as if he found it difficult to go on. "She admitted she loved me but… I guess she doesn't want to be a poor man's wife. She'll go ahead and marry that fat builder even if it breaks her heart." With an effort he pulled himself together. "From now on, it's work for me. I haven't been pulling my weight here in the past month and—"
"Only because I generally expect people to overwork," Alix admitted.
"That's just what I need right now. Work and plenty of it."
It was a considerably more relieved Alix who went out with Mark later that evening. She was determined not to talk about the Duvals or anything else connected with her work, but as she took her seat beside him at the theater, a couple of late arrivals caught her attention. She recognized Fleur at once, unusually pretty in white chiffon, though she did not recognize her escort, a bull- necked man with a coarse red face. He was in his late forties and his ungainly figure bulged in a dinner jacket. As he guided Fleur to her seat, his stubby fingers gripped her elbows and from his proprietorial manner she guessed him to be Jack Beecham.
"No wonder Lady Brandon was in such a state," she whispered to Mark. "She must have known Beecham was back from the States."
"He's a tough-looking specimen," Mark said, then shifted his gaze to Fleur. "So that's Peter's beloved? She's not a bad looker."
"It's a pity she" hasn't got the brains to go with it."
Alix said tartly, but had no time to say more, for the house lights dimmed and the curtains swung back.
But when the play was over, the conversation turned inevitably hack to Peter's abortive romance, and Alix admitted that she could not help feeling sorry for him.
"That just shows how illogical we women are. When he was going with Fleur I was furious with him but now that it's over I'd do anything to bring them together again!"
"You stay out of it," Mark replied. "From what you've told me of Lady Brandon, she's not the sort to brook any interference. She could do you a lot of harm with the Duvals. Let Peter fight his own battles. The main thing is that you don't suspect him for the leakages."
"That's true," she conceded, "though I've now got a bigger worry."
"Which is?"
"To find out who is responsible."
"Why bother? You told me yourself Monsieur Duval doesn't mind, and if—"
"He hasn't minded about the information that's been leaked so far," she cut in, "but once this sort of thing starts you never know where it's going to end. Someone knows the Duvals intimately and is trying to create trouble; and I've an awful feeling in my bones that it's going to end in d
isaster."
CHAPTER SIX
During the next month Alix had little occasion to see either of the Duval men. Henri made no mention of his attempt to kiss her or of Paul's interruption of the scene, but Alix could not forget it and wished there was a way of telling Paul she had never encouraged his father's advances.
Because her services were not required until a couple of weeks before the Collection was shown, she was able to concentrate on some new accounts that had come to her: a matinee to arrange for a charity organization and the launching of a new perfume.
Peter had kept his word and had plunged himself into work. His affair with Fleur was a thing of the past and though the girl's name regularly appeared in the newspapers, neither he nor Alix spoke of her.
Life was following a peaceful course when an event occurred that not only shook Duval's to its foundations, but rocketed Alix back into its midst with breathtaking suddenness.
It was a morning in late July and she was sipping her coffee and perusing the daily papers. The woman's page of a popular tabloid was full of fashion sketches, and the words "Betty Villiers' Sensation" caught her eye. Recalling that this dress designer had recently surprised the fashion world by announcing that she was showing her clothes two weeks ahead of everyone else, Alix read on, realizing that the opening had taken place the previous afternoon. And what an opening it had been. Her designs had created a furor and the fashion editor was rapturous in praise of it.
"Betty Villiers' new line will appeal to the siren in every woman," she wrote. "Inspired by ancient Egyptian art, it uses sculptural folds with dramatic effect. I prophesy that this winter we'll all become devotees of the Sphinx."
Alix examined the sketches. There was no doubt they were excellent, as were the little details: the heavy gilt collars on many of the dresses; the predominant colors of terracotta, white and gold and vivid blue.
At once her thoughts raced to Paul and Henri. What did they think of their rival's maneuver? As she pictured the scene in the salon, the telephone rang, and lifting it, she heard Paul's voice.
"Can you come over at once?" he asked.
"Is it about Betty Villiers?"
"Yes."
He hung up without another word and as quickly as she could, Alix repaired to Mayfair. She went straight to Henri's office and found him and his son poring over a portfolio of drawings, while Madame Lelong hovered nearby, her plump face mottled with agitation.
"Thank you for coming so promptly." Henri was unusually gracious as he beckoned her toward the desk. "Our new Collection," he said and pointed.
Alix looked at the sketches and tensed.
"I see you recognize the theme," he continued.
"Naturally. It's Betty Villiers' Sphinx Line."
"Sphinx Line!" Henri spat out the words contemptuously. "It wasn't called that when Paul and I designed it months ago!"
Alix stared at him incredulously and Paul took up the conversation.
"The designs are identical. Here, look at these." He leafed through a bundle of sketches, picking out many the same as those featured in the newspapers.
Alix looked at them and then at the two men watching her. "You think yours were stolen?"
"Unless you expect us to believe that extrasensory perception has now achieved a one hundred percent success rate," Paul said icily.
Alix moistened her lips. She could not believe they suspected her yet she had to make sure. But before she could voice her feelings, Henri spoke.
"My son and I have guarded these sketches as if they were gold bricks—as indeed they are to us! Only a few of our most trusted people have been allowed to work on their making. Even you, my dear Alix, have been kept out of the way."
"Which saves me the necessity of protesting my innocence," she said dryly. "But what happens now? Do you sue Villiers?"
"There's no copyright in ideas," Paul said savagely.
"Then what else can you do?"
"Find out who stole our sketches and get them to confess that Betty Villiers bought them, knowing them to be stolen."
"She'll never admit that," Henri said impatiently. "She can always say she bought the drawings in good faith."
"You mean there's nothing you can do?" Alix asked.
"Nothing."
The two men spoke simultaneously and for the first time she felt them to be linked by a common bond. What a tragedy that it had taken a disaster to get them ranged together.
"What's going to happen to your own Collection?" she said, looking from Henri to Paul.
"We'll have to scrap it," the older man replied, and sat down heavily at his desk. "The designs never left this office except at the weekends, when Paul and I worked on them at home. All my staff—both here and at Crox- ham—have been with me for years. They're like my family. They'd never harm us."
"Well, someone has," Paul grated, his usually soft voice hard with bitterness, "and we've got to decide whether we cancel our Winter Show or try to design a half dozen new outfits."
"Half a dozen?" his father echoed. "I'd rather show nothing than make ourselves look so stupid!"
There was silence in the room and the four people continued to stare at the drawings on the table. A memory stirred in Alix's mind and she could not check her exclamation.
"What is it?" Henri asked. "Have you thought of something?"
"I was just wondering…" She paused, then said coldly, "When I was here some months ago your son showed you some sketches. You didn't like them at the time but…"
Henri looked at his son and Paul nodded.
"They're in my bureau," he said quickly. "I'll fetch them."
A few moments later the ill-starred Sphinx designs had been bundled away and the desk was littered with the sketches Henri had vociferously rejected a few months earlier.
As Henri examined them, Paul wandered around the room, his head lowered, and crossly Alix wished he did not always have such a diffident air when he was forced to come to grips with his father.
"We might do something with these," Henri grunted at last. "They're extremely plain, though."
"That's the beauty of them," Paul stated. "I want the tension and the contrast to come from the use of different fabrics." As he spoke his thin face lightened with enthusiasm. "Take this, for instance. "He held up a sketch of a close-fitting dress topped by a voluminous coat. "The dress is velvet and fits like a second skin but the coat is satin and moves like a river. Do you see what I mean?"
"No," Henri admitted. "This talk about tension is beyond me. You should have been an architect, not a dress designer!"
"A dress designer is an architect," Paul retorted. "Only we express ourselves in fabric instead of bricks and mortar."
"Let's get down to practical details." Irritably Henri picked up a pencil and flexed his muscles. "Though the practical side of the business has never appealed to you.''
Paul flushed at the sneer and Alix saw the effort it cost him to say nothing.
"What are we going to call the new line?" she asked quickly.
"I'll leave that to my son."
"I don't know," Paul muttered. "Call it what you like."
Afraid that unless she could smooth things over, there would be no Collection at all, Alix racked her brains. Suddenly she snapped her fingers. "What about the Phoenix Line? The new Collection rising from the ashes of the old! You know this is going to make a fabulous story."
Henri grunted. "We must be careful what we say. We can't accuse Betty Villiers directly. All we can say is that our designs were stolen and leave people to draw their own conclusions." He turned to Madame Lelong. "We must tell our workroom. See that the entire staff is assembled in the salon in ten minutes. And you, Paul— get through to Garance in France and tell Pierre Dubois what's happened. Say it's imperative he lets us have a complete range of his newest materials. The ones he's hiding for next season! Our Collection may have to be small but it's got to be out of this world!"
Paul and the vendeuse left the room and Alix looked at
Henri admiringly.
"I'm glad you're not going to let this defeat you," she said.
"I do not recognize the word defeat." He held out an open cigarette case but she shook her head, though she gave a murmur of admiration as she noticed the case itself.
"How lovely. Is it French?"
"It's French workmanship," he replied. "It was made in the Seychelles Islands where I was born. They have the finest tortoiseshell in the world."
"I always thought you were born in France."
"It is what I let most people believe. But I was born in the Seychelles and lived there until I was eighteen."
The door opened and Madame Lelong panted in.
"The staff are waiting for you, Monsieur Duval."
Like an actor accepting his cue, Henri straightened his shoulders, pulled his gleaming white cuffs forward and strode out.
The staff of Duval made a strange group in the salon: the vendeuses in their uniforms of black crepe and pearls, the seamstresses and apprentices in gray overalls and the models in white wrappers—all but one girl who was still wearing the geranium evening dress she had been showing when Madame Lelong's summons had reached her.
A hush fell over the assembly as Henri told them of the blow that had befallen them, and the girls muttered as he explained that everything they had toiled so hard to produce must be scrapped and a complete new Collection prepared. It would have to be small, but even to achieve this it would be necessary for everyone to work long and late. Hardly had he finished speaking when everyone declared their readiness to do whatever was necessary, and Henri thanked them warmly.
"I have always looked upon you as my family," he said with his engaging smile, "and I knew you would not let me down."
The staff filed out but Madame Lelong still hovered. "I don't like bothering you at a time like this, Monsieur Duval, but Anna's ill. Her husband telephoned this morning to say she's in the hospital with appendicitis."
"What?" Henri gave a roar of anger. "How can we show our clothes without our leading model? Half of Paul's designs were done with her in mind."
Madame Lelong's face quivered with misery, though it roused no sympathy from her employer who, if anything, became more incensed. "Don't stand there looking at me like a soaking sponge! Find me someone else."
Rachel Lindsay - Designing Man Page 7