Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [13]
Paris looked up from her sketches. “Well, Amadeo, what do you think?”
“Splendid, cara, wonderful designs and wonderful colors. You are a gold mine of new ideas.”
Paris threw her arms around his neck and hugged him enthusiastically. “Of course I am, Amadeo, it merely took someone of your genius to recognize it! I’m going to make a fortune before too long, Amadeo Vitrazzi.” She leaned back a little, her hands resting on his shoulders. “But I need your help.”
“My help?” His glance was quizzical as he slid both arms around her. “What can I do to help you, Paris?”
Paris wriggled uncomfortably, realizing her position. His hands were stroking her back and his face was close to hers. Too close. She leaned back farther. “I need credit, Amadeo.” She wriggled free and rummaged through the sketches littered on the floor at her feet until she came up with an itemized list. “I need your fabrics, but I also need six months’ credit, just until I get started. And I need a good price. Only your fabrics will do. They are the best, I can’t possibly use anything else.”
Amadeo knew his fabrics were the best. He also knew that they were very expensive. He’d be a fool to give her credit; only the major houses were permitted to operate on that, and then never six months. And why should Jenny Haven’s daughter need credit anyway? Surely the mother would endorse her own child?
“Surely you must have made a few samples,” he stalled, “something to show a buyer? Is there nothing I could see?”
Paris hesitated. “They’re not in your fabrics,” she agreed finally, “so you mustn’t judge them on that basis. Just a minute.” She uncurled herself from the sofa and he let go of her hand reluctantly, eyeing her body as she ran to the velvet curtain and pulled it to one side.
“Here, there’s this, and this. And this one is my favorite.”
The garments she held up for his inspection looked formless and yet complicated. They meant nothing to him, and Paris caught the baffled expression on Amadeo’s face behind the polite acknowledgment.
“Oh, I told you,” she said desperately, “that they should only be seen on.”
“Then, my dear Paris, please put one on.”
Unhesitatingly, Paris slid behind the curtain. Her skirt, top, and boots were off in a flash and she stood for an instant clad only in a pair of mint-green satin French knickers. She felt almost breathless with excitement. He was going to look at her clothes. Amadeo was her first audience and she desperately wanted his approval. Sliding the dress over her shoulders she pushed her feet into a pair of high-heeled shoes. A final smoothing of her skirt, a shake of her head to loosen her hair, and she was ready.
Amadeo stared at her as she posed in front of the silvery sheen of the old apricot velvet curtain. The gray silk slashed in one uncompromising straight line across the widened shoulders, skimming the waist to a narrow zigzagged hem that ended two inches above Paris’s elegant knees. Bands and diamonds of soft suede angled the skirt diagonally. Paris swung around slowly for him to see the back, where the silk swooped in a low, Housed V almost to her waist. She was right. It was a wonderful dress. But the admiration in Amadeo’s eyes was for the girl. He’d been wrong in thinking she was too lean; there were curves all right, in fact all the curves were in the right places. He rose and walked toward her. He needed to touch her, to feel what she was like. Her nipples jutted beneath the gray silk and her parted lips smiled at him tentatively.
“It’s wonderful, cara, wonderful,” he murmured, taking her hand and drawing her toward him. “You were right, you have the touch.”
“Really, Amadeo, you really like it?”
Amadeo leaned forward and kissed her gently on the lips. “I love it, cara, and on you it looks beautiful.”
Paris gazed into his eyes so close to hers. A tingle of excitement ran through her body. He loved