was still holding her hand as she picked up the phone to answer, and Vennie turned her head to smile at him.
“Miss Venetia Haven, please.”
“Yes, this is Venetia.”
“Hold the line please, Miss Haven, Los Angeles is calling you.”
PARIS
Paris’s head rested in the crook of his left arm. Amadeo squinted at the thin gold watch that he wore with the dial turned inward on his left wrist. It was a present from his wife, not entirely to his taste, but he was happy to make the concession of wearing it and pretending his pleasure to please her. Nine forty-five. He was already late. He glanced at the crown of Paris’s head where the thick dark hair parted softly in a bluish line. She was a lovely girl. It was refreshing to make love to one like this with such youthful energy and drive, not to say single-minded ambition.As soon as they had finished she had asked him again if he really knew how fabulous his fabrics would look in her designs. Of course he knew. A sack would look elegant in Vitrazzi silk. He could swear that she’d been turned on sexually by her excitement with her designs, her clothes, the fabric. He remembered her nipples beneath the gray silk and ran his hand once again across the perfect curve of her breast. Damn it, it was too late. There was no time for a repeat performance, though he was tempted. Removing his arm from her shoulders Amadeo swung his legs over the side of the sleigh bed.
Paris leaned on her elbow watching him with a puzzled frown as he walked across the room to where his clothes lay neatly folded over a chair. He was getting dressed. Of course, it was almost ten o’clock, he must be hungry. Come to think of it, she was starving herself.
“Caro,”
she called, using his own word of endearment, “there’s a marvelous little bistro around the corner on the Rue de Buci, it’s dark and it’s full of lovers and the food is sublime.…”
Full of lovers! Amadeo zipped up his pants firmly and thrust his feet into the glove-soft loafers made specially for him in London. What was all this talk of romantic restaurants and lovers? Didn’t she understand it was a thing of the moment, a small pleasure in his busy life? A girl like this could be dangerous to a man’s marriage if she were allowed to get too close. She was too intelligent, too clever.
“Sorry,
cara
, but I’m already late. I should have been at Olympe Avallon’s an hour ago. Of course I wouldn’t have arranged it had I known …” His smile was apologetic, but his eyes avoided hers.
Paris stared at him. Olympe Avallon was an ex-Dior model who had struck fame and success some years ago with her dancing, flirting strut on the catwalk, that had put more sex into clothes than was ever seen naked onthe stage of the Folies Bergère. She’d parlayed it into three consecutive rich husbands and had only recently divorced her third. Olympe was a legend among Paris models—she was still, at thirty-five, ravishingly beautiful and looked at least ten years younger than her age. Thanks to the generosity of the settlements of her ex-husbands she was also fabulously wealthy, and she was renowned for her amours. Of course, Paris remembered now. There were those pictures in the magazines of Olympe dressed in St. Laurent—or was it Lagerfeld?—on Amadeo’s arm at various social functions. Paris felt suddenly very second rate. She’d been the hors d’oeuvre to Olympe’s main course, the
amuse-gueule
for Amadeo Vitrazzi’s appetite. Pushing back her hair she dragged the velvet bedspread around her to cover her nakedness. At least she’d got her six months’ credit. It had been worth it, it must have been.
“Of course, Amadeo,” she agreed desperately, “it was silly of me to expect you to be free at such short notice. Perhaps later in the week we could discuss our business arrangements.”
Amadeo glanced impatiently at his watch once again. Didn’t this girl know anything? His eyes met hers and he felt suddenly depressed.
“Miss Venetia Haven, please.”
“Yes, this is Venetia.”
“Hold the line please, Miss Haven, Los Angeles is calling you.”
PARIS
Paris’s head rested in the crook of his left arm. Amadeo squinted at the thin gold watch that he wore with the dial turned inward on his left wrist. It was a present from his wife, not entirely to his taste, but he was happy to make the concession of wearing it and pretending his pleasure to please her. Nine forty-five. He was already late. He glanced at the crown of Paris’s head where the thick dark hair parted softly in a bluish line. She was a lovely girl. It was refreshing to make love to one like this with such youthful energy and drive, not to say single-minded ambition.As soon as they had finished she had asked him again if he really knew how fabulous his fabrics would look in her designs. Of course he knew. A sack would look elegant in Vitrazzi silk. He could swear that she’d been turned on sexually by her excitement with her designs, her clothes, the fabric. He remembered her nipples beneath the gray silk and ran his hand once again across the perfect curve of her breast. Damn it, it was too late. There was no time for a repeat performance, though he was tempted. Removing his arm from her shoulders Amadeo swung his legs over the side of the sleigh bed.
Paris leaned on her elbow watching him with a puzzled frown as he walked across the room to where his clothes lay neatly folded over a chair. He was getting dressed. Of course, it was almost ten o’clock, he must be hungry. Come to think of it, she was starving herself.
“Caro,”
she called, using his own word of endearment, “there’s a marvelous little bistro around the corner on the Rue de Buci, it’s dark and it’s full of lovers and the food is sublime.…”
Full of lovers! Amadeo zipped up his pants firmly and thrust his feet into the glove-soft loafers made specially for him in London. What was all this talk of romantic restaurants and lovers? Didn’t she understand it was a thing of the moment, a small pleasure in his busy life? A girl like this could be dangerous to a man’s marriage if she were allowed to get too close. She was too intelligent, too clever.
“Sorry,
cara
, but I’m already late. I should have been at Olympe Avallon’s an hour ago. Of course I wouldn’t have arranged it had I known …” His smile was apologetic, but his eyes avoided hers.
Paris stared at him. Olympe Avallon was an ex-Dior model who had struck fame and success some years ago with her dancing, flirting strut on the catwalk, that had put more sex into clothes than was ever seen naked onthe stage of the Folies Bergère. She’d parlayed it into three consecutive rich husbands and had only recently divorced her third. Olympe was a legend among Paris models—she was still, at thirty-five, ravishingly beautiful and looked at least ten years younger than her age. Thanks to the generosity of the settlements of her ex-husbands she was also fabulously wealthy, and she was renowned for her amours. Of course, Paris remembered now. There were those pictures in the magazines of Olympe dressed in St. Laurent—or was it Lagerfeld?—on Amadeo’s arm at various social functions. Paris felt suddenly very second rate. She’d been the hors d’oeuvre to Olympe’s main course, the
amuse-gueule
for Amadeo Vitrazzi’s appetite. Pushing back her hair she dragged the velvet bedspread around her to cover her nakedness. At least she’d got her six months’ credit. It had been worth it, it must have been.
“Of course, Amadeo,” she agreed desperately, “it was silly of me to expect you to be free at such short notice. Perhaps later in the week we could discuss our business arrangements.”
Amadeo glanced impatiently at his watch once again. Didn’t this girl know anything? His eyes met hers and he felt suddenly depressed.
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