Dominique focused on the posters. Exotic locales often provided effective themes for events, she knew. One poster was a splashy drawing of extravagantly costumed dancers. The caption underneath, in bright red lettering, read, “Rio de Janeiro.” The second poster was a surrealistic photograph of a beautiful blonde sitting at a poolside table with a much older man. They both wore bathing suits and sunglasses, but over the blonde’s shoulders was draped an ermine. A surfeit of diamonds glittered at her throat, wrists, ears, and fingers. “Hollywood,” read the caption. Dominique almost laughed out loud. She’d never really noticed it before. The next poster depicted an outdoor café overlooking a yacht-filled harbor. On the table in the foreground was a bottle of wine and a vase of daisies. The caption read “Côte d’Azur.”
Dominique sighed, struck with a sudden pang of homesickness for the place she had visited every year of her life—until that year. It was a shame New York didn’t have more sidewalk cafés. She turned away from the poster and picked up her coffee cup. But just as she was about to drink from it, she stopped. Her head swiveled back to the Riviera poster. It was as if a light bulb had come on. That was it! What could be more atmospheric—and more inclusive—than a sidewalk café on a fashionable street? She wouldn’t just hold her event in Orman’s, she would hold it outside of Orman’s. She would throw open the doors to the store and line the surrounding sidewalks with cute little tables and chairs. People would be able to order French food and wines. She would hire street entertainers like she saw in Paris—acrobats and jugglers and fortune tellers. Musicians would play café music. And while the people were sitting at the little tables enjoying the atmosphere, she would parade Jean-Claude Berri’s latest fashions before them.
Then another brainstorm seized her. This wouldn’t be an invitation-only event! They would advertise it, publicize it, and draw in the general public. But was a French café on a city street enough to draw in large numbers of shoppers? To attract significant press coverage? There had to be a way to enhance the idea. Dominique thought again of the cafés in Europe. Their festival atmosphere came from the people who crowded around them. Europe had broad sidewalks and plazas just made for people watching. New York sidewalks were narrower, and traffic would distract from Dominique’s show. Unless… She thought of Europe’s most exciting streets and plazas. Many were closed to traffic. Suppose she were able to obtain a permit to block off the streets near Orman’s? That would be the perfect solution, she thought excitedly. She had seen such an event in San Francisco once. It had been called a block party.
Dominique imagined the streets around Orman’s lined with crepe stands and ice-cream vendors. She envisioned a section devoted to artists with their easels, just as in Paris’ Montmarte. She saw little booths resembling the flea market, except that Berri products would be sold. It would be unlike anything that had ever been done before!
Dominique was filled with elation. She pulled a small notepad from her purse and began to scribble. She intended to present Bruce Fisher with a coherent, defensible plan. He would bring up potential problems. She would need answers. As long as she anticipated all the problems that might arise, things would go smoothly. And that wasn’t so difficult, was it?
CHAPTER 9
TIME was whizzing by too quickly, Dominique thought, as she riffled through a pile of papers on her desk. With only four days until her debut event, she had begun to virtually live at Orman’s, going home only to shower, change clothes, and snatch a few hours of sleep. Despite that, there remained a plethora of last minute things to be done.
Dominique finally located her checklist with a sigh of relief. She scanned it, a frown on her face. Then a movement in the corner of her eye made her look up.
“Lucinda, thank God, you’re back. We need to—”
Lucinda interrupted her. “Dominique?” She was pale, hesitant.
Dominique’s stomach knotted. “What’s wrong?”
“Berri’s evening dresses weren’t in the shipment!” Lucinda blurted.
Now it was Dominique’s turn to go pale. “What do you mean? His office promised they would be in this one. We have the wire right here!” Dominique pulled a yellow piece of paper from her desk and waved it in front of her.
Lucinda looked pained. “I’ve been through every crate. I don’t know what to do.”
Dominique tried to still the panic that was rising in her. Everything was going wrong. She wanted to rush in a thousand different directions. Things she couldn’t possibly have foreseen were eating up valuable time. And the clock was ticking! She tried to think of what to do next. “Call Berri’s people. Find out exactly who the shipper is and when they picked it up!”
“Right.” Lucinda nodded nervously and scurried away.
A man in a blue uniform appeared at the door wheeling a dolly piled high with boxes. “Where d’ya want these?” he asked between puffs of his cigar.
The smell assailed Dominique’s nostrils and made her head ache all the more. “What are those?” she asked, approaching the dolly.
The man looked at the clipboard in his hand. “All it says here is ‘Samples.’”
“Oh, the gift baskets.” To be given away with purchases, they included samples of Berri perfume and cosmetics. Their arrival was the first good news Dominique had received all morning. “Put them in there, please.” She gestured toward Hank’s office.
The man wheeled in his load and left. A few moments later, a strong smell began to fill the office.
Dominique raised her head and sniffed. Slowly, she stood up and looked around. Perfume. Strong perfume. She jerked open her desk drawer and pulled out her pocket book. The perfume inside was intact. Then she remembered the boxes in Hank’s office. “Oh, no!” she cried. She pushed herself away from her desk and ran to the little room near the reception area. The bottom half of one of the cardboard boxes was soaked. Dominique could see the wet spot rising higher as more perfume was absorbed into the thirsty cardboard. “Oh, no!” she repeated. She sank to her knees and pulled the box open. Sure enough, several bottles of perfume lay in shards amidst the stuffing.
“Stay calm,” she whispered to herself. “This is not a serious problem.”
“What happened?” Hank stood in the doorway, his expression perturbed.
“Don’t ask,” Dominique replied wearily. “And don’t say anything. Just don’t.”
“But that smell. It’s… it’s suffocating.” Hank protested.
Dominique gave him a crooked smile. “Don’t let the press hear you say that. I’ll call the janitor and have it cleaned up.”
Hank studied Dominique for a moment, then said, “Look, I’ll call the janitor. You just go ahead with your work.”
“Thanks,” Dominique said gratefully.
“It’s okay.” He paused. “Say, is everything going all right?”
Dominique gave him a droll look. “Oh, yes, smooth as silk.”
The night of the party, Dominique saw success unfurl before her like a red carpet. From the moment the first curious passersby entered the French café, Dominique knew the evening would be a hit. The café was filled in less than half an hour. By sunset, the blocked-off street in front of Orman’s was choked with people. The store was open and sales booming. It was a festival, a fantasyland, the place for all Manhattan to be that night. The lights from Orman’s made Fifty-seventh Street as bright as day.
Smart young career women came, lured by a Berri dress or a bottle of perfume. And, just as Dominique intended, dwellers of the fashionable neighborhood that surrounded the store were drawn by the noise from the street party.
The store’s gold-charge customers were invited to a private cocktail party with Berri himself that preceded the block party. Chic Manhattanites in little black dresses and society doyennes in Chanel suits crowded around the designer and his models, eager to be his first clients in America. Their daughters came, too: chattering debutantes, for once in agreement with their mothers that Berri was absolutely the last word. Dominique h
ad expected the rarefied types to leave once the block party began, but only a few did. Instead, the exclusive gathering, well lubricated by French wine, spilled into the street festival when it began an hour later.
Jean-Claude Berri and his beautiful wife were delighted. Photographers dogged their footsteps, blinding them with their flashes. Reporters pounded them with questions. Dominique was stunned to see a crew from a network news show just outside the store’s main entrance. And she was even more shocked when Hank and Bruce pushed her forward and introduced her as the creator of the event. Larry Orman personally congratulated her.
“What’s your name again?” he yelled over the noise from the crowd.
“Dominique Avallon,” she said into his ear.
He pumped her hand and repeated the name, as though committing it to memory. Then he was swallowed by yet another throng of photographers.
“Did I hear correctly? Dominique Avallon?”
Dominique turned in the direction of the man’s voice—a voice as deep and smooth as vintage cognac—and found herself looking into a pair of mesmerizing blue eyes. Bedroom eyes, she immediately thought—to her embarrassment.
The man gave her a rakish grin and held out his hand. “Clay Parker.”
Why was the name familiar? Dominique extended her hand and watched it disappear into his. A surge of warmth flared between them at the contact. The man was tall, his presence so dominating that Dominique was suddenly heedless of the crowd surrounding them. God, he was handsome! Movie star handsome, with luxuriant chestnut hair and the kind of tanned, chiseled face—almost beautiful in its perfection—that would look breathtaking in film close-ups.
Dominique had almost forgotten what it was like to feel this kind of attraction. It hit her like a lightning bolt, taking her unaware. Her body came alive with energy. It radiated from her, magnetic and utterly compelling.
Clay Parker’s eyes gleamed appreciatively. “I would have never guessed that the person responsible for all this”—he made a gesture that took in the entire street scene—“could possibly be so young and—” He didn’t falter; rather he stopped deliberately, suggestively. His blue eyes narrowed, focusing tightly on Dominique’s face.
Against her will, she blushed. “I headed the project, but a lot of other people were involved, too.”
For a moment, Parker’s flirtatious demeanor was replaced with one of respect. “Congratulations on a superb job,” he said. “I think the Berri line will be a huge success.”
Dominique’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “You’re familiar with it?”
Clay laughed. “My company delivered it here. And I personally escorted the evening gowns that your office was so worried about.”
Parker Shipping, Dominique thought. Very impressive.
She put her hands on her hips in mock anger. “You drove us crazy!” she declared.
Clay bowed, a graceful, courtly movement. “My apologies.” Upright again, he gave Dominique a sheepish look. “One of our barges ran aground and there was a delay. When I found out how soon you needed the goods, I decided to bring them personally. Larry Orman invited me to the party anyhow, so I just came a couple of days early.”
Dominique forgave him instantly. It would have been impossible not to.
Clay responded to the softening of her features with a devilish grin.
He knows how seductive he is, Dominique thought, as his eyes swept over her. A thrilling little frisson pranced up Dominique’s spine.
“Your accent,” Clay said in a low voice, “drives me crazy.”
Dominique laughed, glad she was having the same effect on him that he was on her. For an instant, Stephen flashed in her mind. It had been so different with him. The attraction had evolved over several weeks, and at its base had been mutual respect. With this man, there was instant electricity. Desire, pure and simple.
He gestured toward one of the outdoor cafés. “Listen, why don’t you take a break and have a drink with me?”
“Thank you,” Dominique smiled. She imagined that it was very difficult to say no to a man with a voice and manner so charming. Where was he from, she wondered? He himself had a mellifluous accent that captivated her.
As soon as they were seated, a waiter materialized at their side.
“Drink?” Clay asked.
Dominique laughed again, with a lovely flash of her dimples. He was making her light-headed. But she had to keep her balance. She had responsibilities. “Just coffee. I need to stay alert.”
Clay looked disappointed. “You still have to work?”
Dominique was flattered by his dismay. “Of course. Things can still go wrong.”
Clay looked up at the waiter. “Tanqueray martini for me. Up. Olives,” he said.
He looked like a martini sort of man, Dominique thought. Languorous, sophisticated, hedonistic. His outrageous good looks were set off by a tan silk suit. A fine shirt of pale blue cotton made his eyes appear even bluer. A striped silk tie completed a look that was tasteful and discreet. And yet, the startling perfection of his features made him appear almost flamboyant, as though he were the hero of a spy movie.
Dominique couldn’t suppress her curiosity about him. “You’re not originally from New York, are you?”
He shook his head slowly, still keeping his eyes fixed on her. “No, ma’am,” he drawled, “New Orleans.” He pronounced it “N’awlins.”
So that explained the accent, less extreme than other southerners, but softer than northerners. Dominique dropped her eyes, feeling the need to escape the intensity of his gaze. “That’s your headquarters, then. I’ve seen your company’s bills, of course, but they say you have offices in New York, Philadelphia, New Orleans, and Miami.”
A look of pride came over Clay’s features. “We’re pretty big, I suppose. Stay busy.”
One of the biggest shipping companies in America, Dominique knew, amused by his understatement.
The waiter brought their drinks and Clay raised his glass to Dominique. “You deserve a toast for putting together such an incredible party. And…” he added with a self-mocking smile, “I’m an expert on parties.”
“Oh?” Dominique leaned forward and gazed up at him. She couldn’t keep a flirtatious note of interest from her voice. “And why is that?”
“Don’t you know that New Orleans is the greatest party city in the entire United States? Our motto is ‘Laissez les bons temps rouler.’”
Dominique smiled. “Let the good times roll…. Sounds inviting!”
His voice dropped a register. “I’d like to show it to you sometime.”
It sounded like an offhand remark. “That would be nice.” Dominique smiled.
He sat up straighter in his chair. “No, I mean really.”
Dominique was taken aback. She gave him a questioning look.
“How about tomorrow?” Clay asked.
“Tomorrow!” Dominique gasped and let out a burst of incredulous laughter.
“My company plane’s here. We can go down for dinner.” He leaned forward, enthusiastic.
Dominique stiffened. Undoubtedly, he was used to girls swooning at the offer of such a glamorous evening. “I don’t think so,” she said, her voice cool.
Unabashed, Clay went on. “It’s perfectly respectable! We’ll be in public the entire time. The plane even has two stewards.”
Dominique couldn’t remain offended, his manner was so guileless. At the same time, she had no intention of getting on a private plane with a stranger, no matter how intriguing he was. She finished the last sip of her coffee and put the cup down with an air of finality. “I’m sorry, I really can’t,” she said firmly.
He regarded her with an air of mock exasperation. “All right! You win!” He threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “How about dinner tomorrow night? Here.”
Dominique gave him a severe look. Feeling contrary, she lied, “I’m busy tomorrow night.” If he was really interested he’d —
“What about next Saturday?” He po
unced on the challenge. There was no doubt he was intrigued by her resistance. “I’ll fly up ’specially.”
How could Dominique say no?
Dating Clay was like being back in the halcyon days of Egypt. On Saturday, he took her to dinner at “21,” then dancing at the Copacabana.
Since Dominique couldn’t justify the extravagance of a new evening gown, she was relieved that Anton had finally sent the clothes she had left in San Francisco. At first, he had refused, but as soon as he had filed for divorce, he had evidently lost all interest in her. Dominique suspected that his eagerness to sever their ties was the result of a new woman in his life. Well, she was welcome to him. Dominique only wished she could warn the poor thing.
For her first date with Clay, Dominique wore a strapless gown of black silk, regretting that she had no real jewelry to set it off. If it wouldn’t have meant endless questions, she would have borrowed something from Solange. Still, when Dominique was dressed and ready to go, with her curls gathered up in a frothy hairdo and the sheer black scarf floating over her shoulders, she decided that she looked very good. More than good, she admitted to herself. Her shoulders were glossy and smooth, begging to be caressed. Her cleavage teased invitingly without revealing too much. And her eyes, carefully made up to emphasize their exotic slant and color, illuminated her entire face.
Once at “21,” Clay and Dominique were whisked past the crowd at the door to a table in the prestigious front room. As the captain, busboy, and maitre d’hotel hovered attentively around their table, ensuring that everything was to Mr. Parker’s liking, the sommelier brought a bottle of Krug 1947 vintage champagne in an ice bucket. Clearly, Clay was a regular patron, and a valued one.
Dominique looked happily around the room. It had been over a year since she’d been in such a rarefied setting. Despite the fact that the restaurant was located in a cozy brownstone with beamed ceilings and varnished wood, it was as unmistakably exclusive as the marble palaces that housed clubs in Egypt or Monte Carlo. At the bar, she recognized several famous faces.
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