She heard the shutter of the camera and every click made her hotter.
“Turn your head and look at me.” She did and thought she’d never known a more exciting man. The breeze teased her where she was so hot, almost like a caress, too fleeting to bring relief, instead it just intensified her arousal.
By the time he was done she could barely hold still.
“You’re a natural,” he murmured in her ear as they kept walking.
At the Arc de Triomphe, he posed her against the lamppost that said Rue Charles de Gaulle, across from the famous arch, carefully slipping one breast out of her bra and placing her hands above her head.
“What are you doing?” she moaned.
“Shh,” he said. “It’s art.”
There was traffic, even at this hour, and she felt exposed and yet so hot she couldn’t imagine resisting.
Once more the camera chattered to her as he took his images. Once more, heat filled her.
“Touch yourself,” he ordered softly. “Offer me your breast.”
She moaned softly as she complied, staring at him as though she could will him to come to her and give her what she needed. The camera became like a lover, putting Holden at a distance, behind the lens, so he was like a stranger, watching.
Without direction, she released her other breast, upthrust by the underwire of the bra she still wore. Once more she wrapped up, leaving herself exposed beneath the shawl. She knew he was as aroused as she. It was obvious. But he didn’t so much as touch her. Not yet.
Since she was giving the tour, she led him to Place Vendôme, where the shopping was high-end. Rolex, Cartier, and it was also near her hotel. Of course, the gates were down on the Cartier store and here he posed her, under the arched doorway. She thought this might be heaven for her, sex and high-end shopping all in one.
He might have read her mind. “You’re waiting for the store to open. You’ll wait all night if you have to. I want you to sit on the ground, right there.” She started to lower herself.
“But first, give me your panties.”
She was going to refuse, this was ridiculous. But she knew he expected her to, so she slipped her hands under her skirt from behind, leaned over and drew them slowly down her legs. She walked forward and tucked them into his shirt pocket, with a little lace showing at the top like a handkerchief.
Then she stepped back, and, making sure it was her skirt under her and not the bare ground, she sat down. He didn’t need to tell her what he wanted, she understood.
She eased her legs apart, but not too far. Let him work for his shot. She eased her skirt up a bit, but not too much, she always thought subtle suggestion was more sexy than blatant pornography. And then she leaned back, wrapped tight in her pashmina, and imagined sitting here until the store opened.
She could see the column Napoleon had erected. The bronze plates decorating it were made from canon seized after the battle of Austerlitz, and way at the top, Napoleon himself stood, watching them.
THEY HEADED BACK along Rue de Rivoli. “Nice-looking park,” Holden said.
“Jardin des Tuileries, I’ve never been in here at night,” she whispered.
“Come on.”
They walked in and she felt the magic of the place. No doubt there were others here, but if so they were being very discreet. Surrounded by the Louvre on one side, the Seine and Place de la Concorde, it was a lovely, ancient park full of trees, statues, a lake and, in the day, crepe and sandwich vendors.
They walked down the tree-lined avenue, hand in hand this time. He found a statue of a female nude, and pressing Kimi up against it, kissed her with all the heat he’d been bottling up.
She moaned, low in her throat, and clutched at him, pulling him against her. She could feel his erection through the thin silk of her skirt, feel the heat of his body against hers. He loosened the shawl, pulled it down her arms and hooked it over her wrists then stepped back. He shot a few pictures, then set up the camera on one of the benches.
“Wish I had a tripod,” he muttered, but he was a resourceful man as she’d discovered, and he soon found a tree branch the right height for his purpose, which, she discovered, was to enter the photo himself.
He must have had a remote, for he came forward and kissed her again. Her arms went around him, the black pashmina hanging from her arms enfolding him like bat’s wings. She heard the click of the shutter.
And then she lost track of the photos as he began stroking her, loving her. He turned to look behind him once or twice, as though to check the angle and stability of the camera, and then went back to her.
His hand came under her skirt, slipped up her thigh and touched her, just there. He toyed with her, rubbing her with her own wetness until she felt herself shatter, her body hot and shuddering against the cool stone statue.
His urgency was too great to hold off any longer. She could feel it. He unzipped, let his jeans down, hiked up one of her legs and draped it over his crooked arm, and then he was pushing inside her and she thought she’d never welcomed anything more.
The slow seduction by photograph was over, and she felt him driving into her with a passion that verged on desperation. She came again almost immediately, pushing up against him, and then he drove her relentlessly up again until this time, they both went over the top.
13
KIMI WAS DRAGGED OUT of sleep—the deep kind that had been way too short—by the ringing of her cell phone. Annoyed with herself that she’d forgotten to turn the thing off last night—no, this morning sometime—after Holden left her, saying he had an early meeting and she should sleep.
And she would be still enjoying the deep sleep of the sexually satiated and exhausted if her damn cell phone wasn’t jangling. She squinted at the call display and then experienced a jolt of panic. Her mother?
Her mother never called her when she was away on business unless it was an emergency.
She answered her phone with, “Mom? Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine. But something rather odd happened that I wanted to ask you about.”
Kimi pulled herself up to sitting and stuffed a pillow behind her, resting back so she could chat to her mother in comfort. “Sure. What is it?”
“Were you sleeping? I thought for sure you’d be up. It’s seven-thirty in Paris. I timed the call so I’d catch you before you got too busy.”
“I was up really late last night. I had a deadline.” In fact, a quick calculation told her she’d had three hours of sleep. As soon as she got off the phone, she’d turn the thing off and try for another couple of hours.
“A man with the strangest name phoned me yesterday. From Paris.”
All vestiges of sleepiness blasted out of Kimi’s mind. “What was his name?” she asked, alarm skittering through her nervous system.
“Something Peacock. Oh, wait, I wrote it down. Brewster Peacock.”
“What did he want?” She had an awful feeling she already knew.
“First of all he said he was a friend of yours and what a talented writer you are, to which I agreed of course. He said he was writing a profile about you for his column and simply wanted some background. He implied that you had given him my phone number, which surprised me because you hadn’t mentioned he’d be calling, but he said you’ve been crazy busy with the shows and naturally I understood that.”
Her throat felt too clogged to speak.
“He said how nice it was to finally meet your father.”
She groaned as her worst fears were confirmed. “What did you say, Mom?”
“What do you think I said? I’m not a fool, Kimi.”
“Of course you’re not.” Too restless to remain in bed, she stood up, holding the phone to her ear as she paced to the other room. Every rotten epithet she could think of she lobbed at Brewster.
“I said that I never discuss family business with strangers.”
“Good one, Mom.”
“Well, it’s true. I don’t. But Kimi, what’s going on
? Who is this man and why is he suggesting he’s met your father?”
She grabbed a robe off the back of the bathroom door and wrapped it around herself.
“That man is a conniving little weasel who destroys people’s careers and lives for fun. Everybody in the fashion world reads his column. Everybody.” She perched on the edge of the bathtub then got up and started pacing again.
“And, Mom? He has met my father.” She halted at the window and looked out at Paris at dawn. On the street below, a corner grocery was opening up. She watched the proprietors carry out boxes of fruit and tubs of fresh flowers. An old woman walked her dog, a tiny ball of fur who insisted on stopping every couple of feet or so to sniff. The woman wore an old Chanel suit and sensible shoes that Kimi bet she hated with a passion.
“Your father’s in Paris?”
“Yep. With my half sister. His oldest. Claudia is her name.”
“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. Did you speak to him? Did he recognize you? And how did this awful Peacock person learn of your connection?”
“Peacock’s got spies everywhere. He’s got doormen, drivers and maids giving him tips, gossip for payment. Somebody could have seen me and Giovanni Ferrarro together.” She turned away from the window and paced once more.
“But you’d think the rumor would have been that you were having an affair, not that Giovanni is your father.”
“It’s Claudia. The daughter. She looks a lot like me. I guess he saw the three of us and started putting it all together.”
There was a pause as Kimi pictured her mother digesting this news.
“You’ve spoken to your father?”
“Yes. He practically killed himself trying to stop me from revealing my identity to Claudia and then he came over yesterday and we had breakfast in my hotel. He was nice enough, but he made it clear he doesn’t want me complicating his life.”
“I’m so sorry, baby.”
Evelyn Renton had never been the most touchy-feely mom, but she knew her daughter and she had to know this wasn’t easy.
“I’ve got to talk to Brewster. If he puts this stuff in his column—God, what if my father thinks I planted it deliberately.”
“First of all, no one who is acquainted with you for five minutes would believe you capable of that kind of behavior and second, unless he’s changed a great deal, Giovanni’s an intelligent man. Honey, do you want a piece of advice?”
“Yes.”
“Talk to your father. He’s got clout, connections and a team of lawyers. If anyone can stop this nasty man’s troublemaking, it’s him.”
“That’s good advice. Thanks, Mom.”
“I’ll see you soon.”
Kimi ended the call and immediately booted up her computer and logged on to the online version of Brewster’s column, “My Secret Closet.”
Brewster Peacock brings you a delicious combination of top fashion and dirty laundry. Two fashions that never go out of style and always mix and match.
Then, under the dateline:
Pardon my French, but you would not believe the merde at this couture week in Paris. One hardly knows whether to laugh, gasp or faint at the sheer lack of imagination displayed at this year’s couture week, with the exception of the ever-talented Daniel LeSerge who brought a bevy of caged beauties down the runway—and I mean tweeties, not models. Yes, each millinery concoction contained a single bird. One was miffed there was no peacock, but perhaps none of the model’s heads were big enough.
However, two darling birds that did catch Brewster’s eye were Kimberley Renton and Claudia Ferrarro.
“Oh, no,” Kimi whispered.
There was a loud banging at her door, but she ignored it. The banging started up again. She stomped to the door. “I thought you had a meeting?” she said as she opened the door. Holden was standing there looking grim and unshaven. His eyes were heavy from lack of sleep and stormy with anger.
“Have you seen it?” he demanded.
“Peacock? I’m reading it now.”
He folded her into his arms. There was nothing sexual in the gesture, it was pure comfort. She sank into his embrace.
Then she pulled away. “It’s not so bad for me, but poor Claudia.” She gasped. “And Giovanni’s wife.” She started back toward her computer. “Order some coffee, will you? I need to finish reading this.”
She heard him on the phone as she returned to reading the piece. She scrolled down and there was a photo of her and Claudia. They were in the foreground, chatting pleasantly. The photo had been snapped last night. Vladimir was beside Claudia but he’d turned away so his face wasn’t visible. Behind them was her father. She hadn’t known he was there, but his face registered something close to horror as he saw his daughters chatting to each other. If a picture could tell a thousand words, this one told a million.
The photo gave her pause, and she turned to look at Holden.
“How did you find out about this? I don’t think you got home from our adventure and decided to check out Brewster’s column out of the blue.”
“He called me,” Holden said shortly.
“Who?”
“Brewster Peacock. The little bastard called me on my cell—and I would love to know how he got the number—to tell me I’d find his column interesting this morning.”
“But why would he—”
Holden looked at her steadily.
And then she nodded, getting it. “He knew you’d tell me. Much more diabolical than telling me himself, of course.”
She gripped the sides of the fancy desk where her computer perched. “And he’s going to make damn sure Claudia and Giovanni find out.”
“So, what do we do now?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do we go to them or do we wait for them to come to us?” He was in full man-of-action mode. There was a situation and he wanted to fix it.
“Let me finish this and get ready. I can’t think right now.”
The article continued:
Two birds of a feather is exactly what I thought when I saw the oh so lovely Claudia Ferrarro arrive in the City of Lights with her father. Rumor has it that the young lady is a bride-to-be, and where better to buy one’s finery than in Paris where ApplePie have spent many a happy hour preparing for their upcoming nuptials.
When your humble scribe saw the fair Claudia standing in conversation with fellow fashion pen-meister Kimberley Renton, he had the strangest feeling that he was seeing double. Claudia’s papa, the eminent Giovanni Ferrarro, seemed very anxious to part the two new friends. I smelled a mystery.
While none of the principals in this little family drama are talking, I offer you the following morsels to enjoy with your morning coffee.
The globe-trotting young Giovanni spent four of his carefree bachelor years in the late 1970s at Yale. A young coed named Evelyn Renton was often seen in his company, say my sources.
The lovely Evelyn gave birth to baby Kimberley on February 23, 1979. Meanwhile, Giovanni returned home to Italy where he soon married his sweet Italian bride and produced three angelic girls. It must be lovely for him to catch up with the daughter of his chère amie Evelyn, and to be able to introduce his daughter to her. But wait, when I look at the picture, methinks I don’t see paternal delight. What a mystery!
And speaking of mysteries, what could ubermo-del Natasha Hennington have been thinking? Word has it the former waif has been on a carbohydrate bender from here to the North Sea….
The coffee arrived and after downing a piping-hot cup and a croissant, she showered and got ready for the day. Holden remained, saying he had a few calls to make. She bet he did. His low-key cover, as her photographer while investigating a couture theft ring was now about as low-key as ApplePie’s upcoming nuptials.
She came out feeling marginally calmer. The simple rituals of grooming and dressing always helped. Perhaps her life was going down in flames, but damn it, she’d look good on the way down.
She came out of the bathroom dressed for the day, a
nd stalled. Holden was sitting on the couch looking as stern as she’d ever seen him. Across from him sat Claudia, her eyes red from weeping. Giovanni rose to his feet as she entered the room as though even in the direst crisis his manners would never desert him.
“Oh, goody,” she said. “A family reunion.”
14
“DID YOU KNOW?” Claudia asked in a choking voice, her eyes beseeching Kimi’s.
Kimi’s heart went out to her.
“Yes. I’ve always known.”
“But I—” She sniffled and took out a tissue. “I don’t understand. How could you speak to me and act as though you didn’t know—”
“Holden, would you call down for more coffee?”
He gazed at her blankly and only then did she realize they’d been speaking Italian. She walked to the phone and ordered coffee. Then she sat down.
“Let’s speak English, so Holden can understand.”
“I am very sorry,” her father said. He looked as though he’d aged ten years in a day. “I never thought I would cause so many people pain.”
“Have you spoken to your wife?”
He closed his eyes briefly and nodded. “She requests that we return immediately, but I will not act like a coward. No. We must find a way to cope with this with what dignity we can muster.”
“I’m all for dignity. What do you suggest?”
Silence.
“Are you planning to acknowledge Kimberley?” Holden asked, speaking for the first time.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She felt a wave of relief sweep over her. At least the lying would be over. “We could have a press conference,” she said slowly. “Take the wind out of Brewster’s sails.”
Her father looked disdainful.
“I know it’s very American and probably vulgar, but we’re going to have to deal with the press eventually. You’re an important man—an important family. Silence only gives Brewster more leeway to make fools of us all.”
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