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“Wonderful, I’ll have the snails after.”

Morgan laughed. “Come on, then, finish up your drink.”

The caviar was delicious, the champagne bliss, and the strawberries and cream the ultimate luxury a snowbound winter landscape could provide. Morgan was Morgan, thought Vennie as they danced the night away in a comprehensive tour of every disco in town, and she was Venetia—they were two people who really liked each other, they enjoyed each other’s company. It was probably love. This was how it should feel, it should be fun and laughter, holding hands and slow-dancing. Maybe they were too young for all that high passion stuff. Romance was all you needed, romance and laughter.

Morgan was longing to wrap his arms around her, to tell her that he wanted her, that he loved her, but it was too soon. She was such a kid; look at the way she was enjoying herself. He’d spent evenings like this with many other girls, and by this time they’d been wrapped around him, as ready as he was for what was to come; but with Vennie it couldn’t be like that, he’d cool it, play the gentle lover until she was ready. That was the way to win her, he was sure.

7

The entire floor of the atelier was covered in clean white sheets. Paris, barefooted, in black jeans and sweatshirt, knelt in the center pinning silvery ruffles down the long, steel-colored satin skirt the model was wearing. The girl, who was naked from the waist up, shivered slightly, noticing the goosebumps on her bare arm as she raised it to check her watch.

“Paris, it’s freezing in here,” she complained. “I’m gonna catch pneumonia if you don’t hurry up.”

Her thick Texan twang rang through the room, and Paris sighed. In her opinion all models should keep their mouths firmly shut before they put their very large feet in them. All Finola had to do today was stand there while she pinned the garments on her, and even then she was twitchy as hell.

“I’ll do the jacket next,” she told her. “I’m just waiting for Berthe to finish the lapels.”

Berthe Mercier, the special fine seamstress, sat at a long table in the corner, painstakingly hand-stitching the long curving lapels of a satin jacket. Another, younger, woman sat beside her, hemming a wide linen skirt.

“It’s already half past four,” grumbled Finola, “and I’m supposed to be at … somewhere else by six.”

“Where else?” demanded Paris. “You didn’t get here until three and I thought you had the whole day free.”

“Yes … well, I did. But six is the evening, isn’t it?”

Paris finished pinning the line of ruffles on the thigh-high slit at the back of the skirt. “Okay. What time will you be here tomorrow?” She stood back to examine the effect.

“I’m not sure. I’ll call you and let you know.”

Paris eyed the model speculatively. Something was up, she felt it. Finola was playing some kind of game—but what?

“Look, Finola,” she said, adjusting the ruffle just a touch on the left, “I’ve created all the evening dresses on you. I only need another couple of days and we’ll be finished. Now, what time will you be coming?”

Berthe Mercier brought over the satin jacket. “It’s finished, mademoiselle.”

Paris examined the lapels carefully. “That looks wonderful, Berthe—as usual.”

Berthe Mercier had worked for all the best Paris houses since she was fifteen and she was moonlighting now to help pay her daughter’s fees at ballet school. The training seemed endless and there were so many extra classes, but still, it was worth it—Naomi would be a star one day. As would Paris Haven; she had the confident touch of a master and her cutting was impeccable.

Finola shrugged the jacket over her thin shoulders, fastening it below the waist with the steel lozenge that was its single button. Its fluid lines skimmed her supple body, touching at exactly the right places. The satin fabric and the exaggerated curve of the lapels were a delicious contrast to the masculinity of the color and the cut, as was the surprising flirt of ruffles at the back. Finola