Read Online Indiscretions by Elizabeth Adler - Free Book Online Page A

He had a daughter this age.
    “I’m leaving tomorrow for New York,
cara
,” he said briskly. “I won’t be back for at least a month. I’ll have my accounts department call you. Of course I myself have nothing to say in the matter of credit. These things are always up to the accountants.” His smile was dazzling as he walked across and kissed her. “Creative people like you and I know nothing of these things, do we,
cara?
But I’m sure if you give them the proper bank references, et cetera, it might possibly be worked out.
Ciao, cara
. It was lovely.” His kiss was light and his step hurried as he strode toward the steel door that Paris had painted black to match the beams. “Ciao, ciao.” A lightwave of the hand and he was gone. Amadeo Vitrazzi
never
mixed business with pleasure.
    Paris was frozen in place, her mouth fixed into the thin smile that she had managed as he had said good-bye to her. He’d
promised
her! He’d loved her designs, he had said she had genius, a gold mine of talent. And in return she had given him herself. Her puzzled eyes shifted to the soft gray silk dress crumpled into a small heap on the floor where she had stepped out of it when Amadeo had undressed her. The mint-green satin knickers lay at her feet. Oh, God, she thought, beginning to cry, what have I done? The tears slid unheeded down her face as she remembered her decision, remembered thinking that it wouldn’t be so bad, that after all he was attractive. And then, goddamn it, she had even
enjoyed
it! She felt cheapened as she fought the despair, and then rage engulfed her. Rage with Amadeo, with herself, with haute couture and silk manufacturers and Jenny who never gave her any money because she maintained that if you were talented you could make it on your own.
    Paris leapt to her feet and ran naked across to the drawing table.
“Merde!”
Her arm swept the table clean of the precious sketches. Another blow sent the lamp on its twisted umbilical cord crashing to the ground. “
Merde
to all that!”
    She jumped up and down on the sketches, screaming out her anger. “Bastards!” she yelled, running to the shelves and flinging the meager bolts of fabric to the floor, and then, because that wasn’t enough to satisfy her rage, she pulled and tugged until the cloth spilled and unraveled in yards of color around her knees. “
Merde
on all fabric manufacturers,” she moaned, dashing across to the gray silk dress. One vicious wrench and it was split from top to bottom. “I hate silk, I hate all goddamn silk.…” She kicked at the remnants of the dress and her anger rose to a pitch. The lacquer tray stood where theyhad left it with the unfinished glasses of whiskey and Campari, and Paris paused for a moment to catch her breath. She took a sip from her glass. It tasted as stale and bitter as she felt, and she flung it to the floor with a grimace of disgust. “Fuck you all,” she yelled, as she trailed across the room toward the bathroom. “Oh, fuck everything.” With a last surge of rage she kicked the bathroom door, remembering too late that she was barefoot. The stinging blow on her big toe brought her to her senses and she sank to the ground clutching her injured foot as the tears flowed anew.
    “Paris Haven, you are a fool. You’re such a fool,” she moaned. She had thought she was so smart, that she was in control. Maybe if she hadn’t let him make love to her he would have given her the credit? The thought struck her with an impact equal to the bathroom door. “Yes,” she added bitterly, “you are a fool.”
    The telephone began to ring and she leaned against the wall watching the black instrument without moving. Whoever it was, she was in no mood to talk. In a few minutes it would stop. She waited and waited. There, that was better.
    She must take a shower; perhaps if she cleaned herself, washed Amadeo Vitrazzi from her, she might feel human. Oh, damn, there was the phone again! Why didn’t they just go away and