by Carrie Duffy
Gently, Alyson traced her lips with her fingers, recalling how Philippe had kissed her earlier. He was so powerful, so assured. He was obviously a man used to getting what he wanted. She couldn’t imagine how anyone could refuse him anything.
Brushing away the bubbles, Alyson looked down at her body. Her limbs were long and lightly tanned. The skin on her stomach was paler, where it hadn’t been exposed to the sun, and her small breasts were the same milky-white. She brushed her fingers over them experimentally; her nipples tightened, two small, hard buds on her childlike chest.
Was it possible that Philippe found her attractive? she wondered curiously, staring at her body. He was obviously a man of the world, clearly experienced. Maybe he’d had his fill of girls like Dionne, with their ripe, curvaceous bodies and their confident, come-hither stares. Maybe he saw something in her that no one else ever had. Something special. Something beautiful …
The water had turned tepid, the bubbles had dissolved into an oily layer on top of the water. Alyson told herself not to be silly and pulled herself out of the bath, wrapping her body in the luxuriously thick cotton robe. She padded through to the bedroom, towelling her hair dry, when there was a knock at the door. She opened it cautiously, conscious of how she looked.
Philippe stood there. He took in her state of undress, the robe wrapped loosely around her body. When he spoke, his voice sounded thick. ‘May I come in? There is something I’d like to discuss with you.’
Alyson nodded breathlessly, standing aside to let him in.
Philippe paced the room anxiously. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he began, his forehead furrowing into a deep rivet. ‘You shouldn’t be working in that bar, Alyson. You’re better than that. You need something that stretches you, that pushes you.’
‘I don’t have a choice,’ Alyson started to protest. But Philippe cut her off.
‘Yes you do. Come and work for me.’
Alyson stared at him, wondering if he was joking. ‘Doing what?’
‘In the offices of Rochefort Champagne. Of course, it would be starting from the bottom. A lot of filing, taking minutes and so on, but we could see how you progress.’
Alyson could hardly breathe. It was perfect! ‘Seriously?’ she burst out.
‘Of course.’
‘That’s … I mean … I won’t let you down,’ she finally finished, her eyes shining with excitement.
‘I’m sure you won’t,’ Philippe smiled. ‘Now, how much notice do you have to give for this … little job?’ His tone was dismissive.
‘I’m not sure. I’ll have to ask …’ Alyson trailed off. She was about to say ‘ask Aidan’, but she didn’t want to think about him now. ‘Is that where you work?’ she changed the subject.
‘No. I will be there from time to time, but I have other business to attend to. The head of the company is a man named Richard Duval. He’s a good man – I’ve known him for a long time. He was a friend of my father’s.’
‘Right …’
‘Besides, I couldn’t be around you all the time. It would be too … distracting,’ Philippe smiled, raising an eyebrow.
Alyson blushed. She knew exactly what he meant. Suddenly she felt very vulnerable in just the cotton robe, her body naked underneath.
As though he’d read her thoughts, Philippe stepped closer, gently brushing her damp hair back over her shoulders. ‘I promised myself I wouldn’t do this,’ he murmured. ‘That I would come up here only to talk to you …’
‘Do what …?’ Alyson stammered. She could hardly get the words out. Her throat felt thick suddenly, her heart hammering so loud she felt certain he could hear it.
‘This.’ Philippe bent down towards her, his mouth crushing down on hers. Alyson moaned and kissed him back, her legs feeling as though they might give way.
He kissed her harder, deeper, his tongue moving roughly round her mouth. Philippe’s hands were roaming over her body, brushing against her breasts, sliding under her robe. She felt the warmth of his skin against the flat of her belly and pulled away nervously.
‘I’m sorry,’ she apologized helplessly. ‘I just haven’t … I mean, I’ve never …’ Alyson looked away in embarrassment.
Philippe’s eyes never left her face. ‘Do you want to?’ he whispered.
Alyson hesitated. Her body was on fire, a burning point of heat between her legs. She longed to know what it felt like to be with a man, to have him inside of her. Philippe was just so special, so perfect. He’d made all her dreams come true. She stared at his face, at those intense dark eyes fringed by thick black lashes, at that sensual, cruel mouth and strong jaw line. There was no use denying it. She’d fallen for him, and fallen hard.
‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘I want to.’
‘Alyson,’ Philippe breathed in delight. He kissed her as gently as though she was made of porcelain, then tugged lightly at the cord of her robe and slipped it off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
Alyson inhaled sharply as his lips softly touched the hollow at the base of her throat. Slowly he moved lower, working down to her breasts as he took the tiny, pale-pink nipples in his mouth and sucked. Alyson heard herself moan but didn’t care, lost in the sensations. She shuddered as Philippe kissed her belly button, the sensitive skin on her stomach, before he knelt down in front of her and moved between her legs, letting his hands slide up her thighs, all the way to that perfectly trimmed blonde bush. It was so refreshing – all the girls he knew were waxed, following the fashionable trend of looking like porn stars. It reminded him of just how innocent Alyson was.
He was on his knees in front of her, eager to bury himself inside of her. Philippe parted her legs gently, lowering his head, his tongue caressing the most intimate parts of her. Above him he heard Alyson moan, and he sighed in satisfaction, marvelling at how responsive she was. She tasted so delicious, so sweet. It gave him a sense of power, knowing that he was going where no man had been before. She was uncharted territory. None of the women he’d had over the years could give him this – this purity, this complete trust.
His tongue was relentless, taking her to the brink. He felt her clutch at his shoulders, his hair, but he didn’t intend to stop. Then Alyson pulled away, her skin mottled, her eyes wide.
‘No,’ she whispered shyly. ‘I want to see you.’
Philippe stood up, his arms flexing powerfully as he pulled his shirt over his head. His skin was tanned, the hair on his chest thick and dark. Alyson watched him as he undressed and stood naked before her, completely confident, completely at ease with himself. His cock was hard and straining. Alyson stared, unable to take her eyes away. He looked so big that she wondered how he would ever fit inside of her. Would she know what to do? Would she bleed? Philippe was obviously so experienced, he would think she was ridiculous.
Alyson tried to push the worries out of her mind. She was sick of being shy and timid. She approached Philippe slowly, running her hands over him experimentally. His body felt different from hers; it was harder, stronger. She let her fingers trail lightly through the thick hair on his chest, heading lower, over his stomach. Finally, with shaking hands, she moved downwards, lightly running her fingers up and down his cock, over his balls. She heard him groan, and wrapped her fingers around his shaft. He felt huge between her hands, long and thick.
‘You can squeeze harder,’ Philippe told her, taking her hands and guiding her. ‘Don’t be afraid – you won’t hurt me.’
Alyson followed his lead, her hands stroking up and down in a firm, steady rhythm. Philippe’s eyes were closed, his breathing coming faster. Alyson watched him, fascinated, the thick shaft moving between her hands as she began to pump faster. Philippe threw back his head, an agonized expression on his face, and reached out to stop her.
‘Did I do something wrong?’ she asked, mortified.
Philippe smiled. ‘No. You’ve done everything right. But I want to wait.’
He led Alyson over to the bed where she lay down, reclining against the pillows w
ith her long, alabaster limbs outstretched. She looked like a pre-Raphaelite painting, thought Philippe, her skin creamy and sensual, long blonde hair spilling over the sheets.
For a moment he simply stared at her, taking in that delicious body. Then he climbed onto the bed, his powerful body towering above her. Alyson looked up at him, her eyes wide as she took in his broad chest so close to her, his body so dominating. She opened her legs a little, nervous but determined.
‘Don’t worry,’ Philippe murmured, seeing her anxiety. ‘I’ll go slow and you’ll be safe, I promise.’
Closing her eyes, Alyson sensed him above her, his hot body bearing down on her. She wrapped her arms around his back, her nails brushing his skin as she parted her legs and felt him pushing against her, gently but insistently. He thrust harder and she cried out, biting down on her lip.
Philippe stopped instantly. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked in concern.
‘I’m fine,’ Alyson reassured him. He bent down to kiss her, his hands sliding over her body. Lost in his embrace, Alyson felt him slide deeper inside her, filling her up, and then he began to move against her. She moved with him, unable to help herself, pushing her hips against him. Her body responded to his movements, every nerve ending tingling as the rhythm got faster. It began to hurt a little, but Alyson ignored the pain, pulling Philippe closer to her until his cries got louder and he called out her name, collapsing against her. He lay heavily on top of her, his breathing slowing, as she caressed his back and kissed his damp skin. She felt him go slack inside of her and pull out, rolling over to lie beside her.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked softly, brushing the stray wisps of hair away from her forehead.
‘Never better,’ Alyson smiled. It was the truth. She let her gaze slide over his handsome face, hardly able to believe how her life had changed in twenty-four hours – from a virginal young girl who’d never even been kissed, to a vibrant, sexual woman. Her boyfriend was the most handsome man she’d ever seen, and he’d just offered her an incredible new job. Life couldn’t get any better.
‘Will you stay with me?’ Alyson asked quietly, snuggling against him. She didn’t want him to go back to his own room. She wanted him there with her in the morning when she woke up.
‘Of course I will.’ Philippe kissed her tenderly, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her close. ‘Now I’ve found you, I won’t ever leave you.’
16
CeCe and Dionne were in Galeries Lafayette, the largest and most glamorous department store in Paris. It boasted ten floors across three different buildings, crammed with designer labels, fabulous clothes and sumptuous food. But the two women weren’t there to shop.
CeCe had a meeting with Danièle Marceau, head buyer for womenswear. It was a prestigious appointment, and one she’d only got through her friend Sasha, a junior buyer who was well respected by her powerful boss.
CeCe was nervous as hell, knowing that a break like this could catapult her to the next level. If a store like Galeries Lafayette agreed to stock Capucine, the rewards would be insane. She would be a serious player with a foot on the ladder. It would be the start she’d been dreaming about for so long.
Nervously, she glanced up at the clock on the wall. They’d only been allocated ten minutes with Danièle. The appointment was for eleven a.m.; it was already eleven fifteen, and they hadn’t even seen her yet. CeCe hoped Danièle wasn’t on some kind of power trip, making them wait around to assert her own authority.
Dionne leaned across, placing a reassuring hand over CeCe’s. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll be amazing.’
‘Thanks,’ CeCe replied gratefully. Dionne was sitting beside her, looking stunning in one of CeCe’s designs. It was the peacock dress, the one she’d created from the material Claude had given her. It was one of the most beautiful yet wearable designs in her collection, perfect for this showcase.
That was exactly the reason she had brought Dionne along to the meeting – partly to act as moral support, but also to showcase the clothes. She hoped that if Danièle Marceau could actually see the work that had gone into them, the craftsmanship and attention to detail, see how they flattered Dionne’s shape, it would have far more of an impact than simply seeing the photos.
Not that François hadn’t done a fabulous job, CeCe reflected as she picked up her white leather-bound lookbook. She flicked through slowly, unable to suppress a feeling of pride at just how fantastic the shots appeared. It looked like a high-fashion editorial. The dilapidated state of the house contrasted perfectly with the luxurious clothes, and Dionne looked stunning in every frame: regal on the staircase like an African queen, as the layers of fabric flowed around her; knowing and sexual as she draped herself over a wingback armchair. Her skin was sleek and supple, her body fierce, and her face killed it every time.
The door opened and CeCe quickly snapped the book shut, jumping to her feet as Danièle Marceau emerged from her office.
‘Thank you so much for seeing me,’ CeCe said, as they shook hands.
‘Not at all.’ Her tone was cool but professional, much like the woman herself. She was in her forties and impeccably dressed, wearing YSL wide-legged trousers in soft fawn, a cream silk pussy-bow blouse and mid-heeled court shoes. She was rail-thin, her brunette hair swept up, her face beautifully made-up in neutral shades.
CeCe had made even more of an effort with her own appearance than usual matching grey, slim-leg trousers with a pinstriped shirt and a military jacket. She wanted to look businesslike, but not lose her individuality.
‘Please, come through to my office,’ Danièle offered.
CeCe and Dionne followed her. The office was neat and classic, clutter-free, with an elegant wooden desk and pale walls that were broken up with the occasional framed photo of Danièle with Carla Bruni, Catherine Deneuve, Karl Lagerfeld. They were on the seventh floor, and the windows looked out over the Parisian rooftops towards the spectacular Opéra Garnier.
‘Take a seat,’ Danièle signalled. There was only one chair, and Dionne continued to stand, aware that she was there to show off the dress and not sit crumpled in the corner.
‘Again, thank you so much for taking the time to see me,’ CeCe began. Danièle didn’t respond; she simply looked at her expectantly, so CeCe continued, ‘I’d like to introduce my new label, Capucine.’
She handed Danièle her lookbook; Danièle began flicking through as CeCe carried on speaking. Her pitch had been written and redrafted to perfection – she was confident that she had it nailed.
‘… I use high-quality fabrics to give a true feeling of luxury,’ CeCe continued effortlessly, ‘working primarily with silk, satin, crêpe de chine and chiffon. And I love to use embellishment – sequins or embroidery – to ensure that each piece has a unique, individual feel, and that the Capucine woman feels truly special, just as she deserves …’
Her delivery was clear and confident as she spoke about her vision for the Capucine woman, her inspiration and her hopes for the brand.
The speech came to a close as Danièle stayed silent, giving no indication of what she was thinking. Her attention remained on the book, the pages held lightly between her thumb and forefinger as though it was a dirty nappy giving off a bad stench.
‘It’s very … bold, isn’t it?’ From the way she said the word, CeCe knew that wasn’t a good thing.
‘Capucine is for the woman who likes to stand out,’ CeCe recovered, remembering her spiel. ‘She’s a confident woman, from the boardroom to the bedroom. She’s in control, and she knows what she wants out of life.’
‘Indeed.’ Danièle pursed her thin lips. ‘Well, she will certainly stand out in these designs.’ She snapped the book shut and looked directly at CeCe. ‘Forgive me, Mademoiselle …’ she checked her notes, ‘… Bouvier, but I am a very busy woman, and I hope you are not wasting my time.’
‘No,’ CeCe exclaimed in horror. ‘Not at all.’
‘Good. It’s simply that all I see before me is a young – very young – woman, w
ith some rather abstract ideas, a dress that she’s run up in her bedroom and a handful of pretty pictures.’
‘But …’ CeCe floundered, ‘this is just the beginning. Yes, the collection is small at the moment, but it will grow. And if Galeries Lafayette were to invest in me, then—’
‘That will not be happening,’ Danièle interjected. Her tone wasn’t cruel, simply matter-of-fact. She scanned over CeCe’s résumé. ‘You didn’t train, did you?’
‘No, Madame, I am self-taught.’
‘Nowadays, in ninety-nine per cent of cases, that is simply not enough. You must learn not only about the design, but also about the business side, what tools you will need, how to present yourself. I am sorry, but I have seen young students, fresh out of university, with better pitches than this.
‘Yes, you are talented,’ she conceded grudgingly. ‘There is the occasional glimpse of flair, and the clothes are well made. But this is simply not a serious proposal to me.’
CeCe swallowed, feeling ridiculous.
‘If I placed an order today, how would you fulfil it, hmm? Do you have pattern cutters, seamstresses, manufacturers at your disposal?’
CeCe flushed. It was all the answer Danièle needed. For CeCe, the situation was Catch 22 – until she had a large, confirmed order of the type that Danièle might place, she couldn’t engage a whole production line to develop a collection that might never be bought. She simply couldn’t afford it.
‘No, but I—’
‘But what?’ Danièle demanded.
CeCe didn’t reply. There was nothing she could say.
Beside her, Dionne had seen enough. She could feel CeCe’s humiliation burning from her and she was furious at Danièle’s condescending attitude. More than anyone, Dionne understood what it felt like to be looked down on, to have your whole self-belief undermined.
‘Do you know how goddamn hard she’s worked on this?’ Dionne burst out, unable to stay quiet any longer. ‘You’re shittin’ yourself at the thought of taking a risk but, lady, you wouldn’t know talent if it jumped up and bit you on the ass.’