toward the fitting rooms off the corridor behind the salon. They squeezed into a room just large enough for the three of them, Sylvie and Chip watching from the doorway.
The little fitting room had the same ugly worn green carpeting, the same chipped cream-colored woodwork, and three sides were lined with full-length mirrors. It was plainly a place to get down to the serious business of alterations.
Nannette dropped to her knees in front of Sam and whipped off the tape measure, pantomiming what she would do if she were fitting a customer. Before Sam could pull away, the fitter had grabbed the inseam of her jeans with strong fingers and pinched together a quarter inch down the length of one leg.
Sam looked down at the woman on her knees. The Sam Laredo jeans were so tight there wasn’t much to grab. She met Alain des Baux’s amused look in the battery of mirrors. Nannette’s demonstration was all for his benefit, she was sure. It said a lot about the des Baux family’s importance as customers.
“What’s she saying?” she wanted to know. Nannette was keeping up a rapid-fire flow of French, but there was more to it, Sam suspected, than just an explanation of how to take up a seam. “What doesn’t she like? The jeans, or me?”
He laughed, showing beautiful white teeth. “It is not you. They were expecting some type of New York businessman, and you come as a surprise, that is all. She says you are very young to be so important.” He shrugged. “She also says they know nothing here of how to make cowboy clothes. Nannette hopes your company isn’t going to turn Louvel’s into a factory for American jeans.”
“Ouch,” Sam muttered. Nannette’s fingers weren’t finding much to grab over the curve of her bottom. “Look, can you tell her Jackson Storm isn’t going to make jeans here? They’re mass-produced, actually, in Hong Kong.” She winced again. “The demonstration’s been great. But please tell her to quit.”
Alain des Baux obligingly said something to the fitter and she got to her feet. Sam gave her a small, tentative smile but Nannette ignored her as they filed out of the fitting room. As Sam squeezed by Chip in the doorway, he grabbed her arm. “What happened to Sophie?” he growled in her ear. “What did des Baux say to her?”
Samantha stared back. She’d made a big mistake when she’d told this one she didn’t have the authority to fire anybody. “How should I know?” she hissed at him, yanking her arm away.
Alain des Baux was standing in the middle of the salon, waiting for her. “This is an old house by American standards; in your country it would probably be a historical site. It is supposed to have been built for one of the many mistresses of Louis the Fourteenth. Up here in the rue des Bénédictines it would not be all that far from the Palais Royal, so we can imagine the Sun King taking a coach and perhaps a company of household cavalry as escort to parade up here in the evenings for a little amorous visit.”
Sam was looking around the main salon with new eyes. “A big place like this, just for one of the king’s mistresses? Were there a lot?”
“Oh yes, a lot,” he smiled. “Louis was quite handsome, especially for a Bourbon king—the Bourbons were usually quite ugly. A congenital defect of the jaw was only one of their bad features.”
Sam lifted her eyes to him. “Is this the end of the tour?”
“Usually, yes.” He hesitated. “Could I—would I presume too much to show you something interesting, even unique? Also, it’s not a bad idea for me to show it to you,” he said quickly, “in case you would ever want to go there alone. Which, I want to tell you, you should never do. It’s not very safe.”
She stared at him. “Good lord, what is it?”
He gave her his teasing grin again. “You will see,” he told her, taking her hand.
He pulled her out onto the salon floor landing and then, before she
The little fitting room had the same ugly worn green carpeting, the same chipped cream-colored woodwork, and three sides were lined with full-length mirrors. It was plainly a place to get down to the serious business of alterations.
Nannette dropped to her knees in front of Sam and whipped off the tape measure, pantomiming what she would do if she were fitting a customer. Before Sam could pull away, the fitter had grabbed the inseam of her jeans with strong fingers and pinched together a quarter inch down the length of one leg.
Sam looked down at the woman on her knees. The Sam Laredo jeans were so tight there wasn’t much to grab. She met Alain des Baux’s amused look in the battery of mirrors. Nannette’s demonstration was all for his benefit, she was sure. It said a lot about the des Baux family’s importance as customers.
“What’s she saying?” she wanted to know. Nannette was keeping up a rapid-fire flow of French, but there was more to it, Sam suspected, than just an explanation of how to take up a seam. “What doesn’t she like? The jeans, or me?”
He laughed, showing beautiful white teeth. “It is not you. They were expecting some type of New York businessman, and you come as a surprise, that is all. She says you are very young to be so important.” He shrugged. “She also says they know nothing here of how to make cowboy clothes. Nannette hopes your company isn’t going to turn Louvel’s into a factory for American jeans.”
“Ouch,” Sam muttered. Nannette’s fingers weren’t finding much to grab over the curve of her bottom. “Look, can you tell her Jackson Storm isn’t going to make jeans here? They’re mass-produced, actually, in Hong Kong.” She winced again. “The demonstration’s been great. But please tell her to quit.”
Alain des Baux obligingly said something to the fitter and she got to her feet. Sam gave her a small, tentative smile but Nannette ignored her as they filed out of the fitting room. As Sam squeezed by Chip in the doorway, he grabbed her arm. “What happened to Sophie?” he growled in her ear. “What did des Baux say to her?”
Samantha stared back. She’d made a big mistake when she’d told this one she didn’t have the authority to fire anybody. “How should I know?” she hissed at him, yanking her arm away.
Alain des Baux was standing in the middle of the salon, waiting for her. “This is an old house by American standards; in your country it would probably be a historical site. It is supposed to have been built for one of the many mistresses of Louis the Fourteenth. Up here in the rue des Bénédictines it would not be all that far from the Palais Royal, so we can imagine the Sun King taking a coach and perhaps a company of household cavalry as escort to parade up here in the evenings for a little amorous visit.”
Sam was looking around the main salon with new eyes. “A big place like this, just for one of the king’s mistresses? Were there a lot?”
“Oh yes, a lot,” he smiled. “Louis was quite handsome, especially for a Bourbon king—the Bourbons were usually quite ugly. A congenital defect of the jaw was only one of their bad features.”
Sam lifted her eyes to him. “Is this the end of the tour?”
“Usually, yes.” He hesitated. “Could I—would I presume too much to show you something interesting, even unique? Also, it’s not a bad idea for me to show it to you,” he said quickly, “in case you would ever want to go there alone. Which, I want to tell you, you should never do. It’s not very safe.”
She stared at him. “Good lord, what is it?”
He gave her his teasing grin again. “You will see,” he told her, taking her hand.
He pulled her out onto the salon floor landing and then, before she
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