Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [130]
India hitched up her skirt and dashed into the waves, laughing as she jumped them.
“I do love you, Paris,” she called. “You’ve made it all seem so simple.”
Paris decided that India should look sophisticated at dinner and nothing India had brought with her would do.
“Do you realize your competition down there?” asked Paris, shifting a complaining Alice from the top of her open suitcase and rummaging through it. “Now, how about this?”
India inspected the little pale gray lace dress. “It’s way too long and, anyway, I look awful in gray.”
“Not when I’ve finished with you.” Paris spread the dress across the bed, checking the seams. “I made this for Naomi to wear, so it’s bigger than my usual things; it’s a more traditional dress, the kind that always sells.”
“You mean to persons like me who aren’t born models?”
Paris laughed. “Exactly. If I unpick this here and cut the neck lower and then chop about six inches from the hem—maybe more, it should be quite short, just touching the knee to get the proportions right … hand me the scissors.”
Paris’s sure hands swathed through the lace.
“You’ll never get it done in time,” India protested.
Paris grinned confidently. “This is nothing,” she said. “I’ll have it ready in one hour. Go take a shower—and don’t bother with your makeup. I’m doing it for you.”
Paris was as good as her word. In forty-five minutes she had expanded the bodice with panels of lace taken from the hem, shortened the skirt by cutting around the scalloped pattern of the lace, and hastily tacked up the silk taffeta underskirt.
She sat India down in front of the dressing table, took out her makeup box, and went to work. In ten minutes she had transformed India from a pretty girl into an exotic one. And when Paris eased the dress over India’s head and zipped her up, tying the gray taffeta sash in a bow at the back, India realized just how clever her sister had been. The dress fitted closely, emphasizing her tiny waist and full breasts, the neckline was low, and the sleeves just a tiny ruffle of lace—it was the perfect dress for the formal dinner planned for that night. And for asking a man if he wanted to marry you!
India was suddenly aware of the passing of time. “Paris, you’ve only got twenty minutes.”
“I’ll be ready in fifteen,” called Paris, heading for the shower.
The Contessa and Aldo were waiting in the grand salon for their guests when they came downstairs. Paris noticed the way Aldo’s face lit up when he saw India, and thought that at least one of the dresses from her collection had been worthwhile.
Marisa, sweeping into the room behind them, eyed them in astonishment. Paris, in a severe white satin dinner jacket and black skirt, was superb—Marisa felt overdressed in the Valentino blue organza with the full skirt, and she’d thought it so charmingly feminine when she’d bought it. Damn. And just look at India! Damn, thought Marisa, damn. She wasn’t used to being upstaged.
The son of Ricardi from the bar in the village, who was being trained as head waiter for the hotel, handed around glasses of champagne. Marisa watched carefully as Fabrizio talked with Paris and India … no, she had been quite wrong, there was nothing going on. His smile was easy, and hers was innocent. It was more of a relief than she had thought.
The children appeared in their nightclothes with their nurse and were pampered with a tiny taste of champagne and a chocolate before being carried off to bed by Aldo and Fabrizio.
Conversation at dinner was light and easy, with none of the odd pauses of lunchtime. Even Marisa seemed to be behaving, and Aldo, seated between India and Renata this time, was being equally attentive to both.
Afterward they had coffee in the salon. The night was warm and still, and the long windows stood open to catch some air. They wandered out onto the lawns, admiring the full moon that spread itself over the calm sea. Renata, sliding her arm through Aldo’s, waited