Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [12]
His eyes mocked her and to her horror Paris felt herself blush. Merde, she thought angrily, I haven’t blushed in years, why am I now? People have laughed at me before. She turned away moodily.
“Why not?”
Her voice trembled slightly and he could see the delicate curves of her profile. Her full, voluptuous mouth belied the slenderness of her body, giving more than a hint of sexuality to her face. He’d indulge her, he decided, glancing at his watch. He had the time and she was intriguing.
“Why not?” repeated Paris turning to face him. “Where else is there to start?”
This time Amadeo hid the smile. It was obvious that Jenny Haven’s daughter had a lot to learn.
“A good attitude, cara,” he said, slipping his arm around her shoulders and leading her back toward the luxurious sleigh-bed sofa. “Come and sit here and let us discuss it together. Tell me how I can help.”
Paris felt the weight of tension and anxiety lift from her like a cloud dispersed by the wind. He had liked the designs, then, he must have done. Why else would he want to know how he could help? She refilled his glass generously with whiskey and topped up her Campari, straight this time with just a thin green sliver of lime floating in its rosy pinkness. She sipped it slowly, enjoying its slightly bitter taste.
“You see, Amadeo,” she began, “I know I can be a success. I worked for three years in major couture houses. I did everything. I stitched, I did fittings, I learned how to plan out a pattern, I was taught how to cut by a master, I even provided sketches for three of the last collections. My designs sold, Amadeo, they were a success! But of course there was no acknowledgment that they were my designs. I couldn’t bear the rigid attitude of the couture houses any longer. I needed to be on my own, to develop my own style. And now I feel that I have.”
Amadeo took her hand and held it lightly in his. Her skin was soft, the fingers long and slender, and he stroked the hand lightly. Paris’s voice had a passion born of her eagerness. Just watching her mouth as she talked, the cushiony curve of her underlip, stirred his excitement.
“Go on, little one, tell me all,” he murmured, bringing her hand to his lips.
Paris scarcely felt his light kiss. She was carried away by her own words, by her own desires. She had Amadeo Vitrazzi here now and he was listening to her, she must convince him now.
“Youth has its own kind of elegance, Amadeo. It demands clothes with more freedom of expression, pieces that can be flung together and yet look like a whole. That’s the concept I based my collection on, and that’s why it must all be seen together. It can’t be taken from boutique to boutique in a suitcase and shown across a counter. My clothes would look like hell seen like that. They need young, moving bodies inside, they are meant to be lived in. You and I both know that the secrets of good dressmaking are line, fabric, and color. I’ve used the hard-earned apprenticeship where I learned those elements to design these clothes. And I’ve designed them for tactile effect, using contrasts of fabrics. I need buttery-soft suedes, real linen—the sort that creases—coarse cotton knits that feel crunchy against the skin. And silk, Amadeo. The softest, sexiest, most luxurious fabric in the world. The kind that only you produce, Amadeo.”
Amadeo leaned back against the cushions, watching her indulgently. She was so intense, this child, so carried away by her ideas.
“Show me, cara, show me what you mean,” he suggested soothingly.
Paris leapt to her feet. Her smile was radiant now. “Wait,” she called over her shoulder, racing across the room to her desk, “just wait a moment while I get the sketches and samples.”
Her long sweep of black hair swung behind her as she whirled across the room. Its texture looked almost as soft and supple as one of his own silks.
“Here, you see.” She leaned closer to point out a special color, a change of texture, why this one must be in silk, it was the only thing she could possibly use.
Amadeo slid his arm around her shoulders and her hair brushed his face.