Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [64]
Paris slumped onto the old sleigh-bed and began to cry. “Oh, it’s too much, Didi, it’s just too much. What can I do?”
Didi perched next to her, feeling helpless. For once in his life he didn’t know what to do.
“It’ll be all right, Paris, it’ll all work out, you’ll see. Finola’s not indispensable.”
“She is, you know she is—for these two weeks, anyway.”
Didi knew she was right.
“I’ll get you some coffee,” he suggested, “or a brandy?”
Paris turned her head into the cushions and sobbed.
Berthe could stand it no longer. Putting down the delicate garment she had been sewing she walked toward them. “Excuse me, mademoiselle, m’sieur …”
Didier stood up. He was unfailingly polite to the workpeople. “Yes, Berthe.”
“I heard what happened with that American model, m’sieur, and I must tell you I’m not surprised. I’m very sorry, m’sieur, mademoiselle.”
“Thank you, Berthe, that’s very kind of you.”
“If you’ll permit, m’sieur, a suggestion. I’ve worked in salons since I was a girl—almost forty years. I have experience, I’ve seen hundreds of shows—good ones and bad ones—and I’ve seen all the battles that led up to them. I have an idea, m’sieur. I think we could save your show.”
Paris’s skeptical glance met Didi’s and they both turned to stare at Berthe.
“Sit down, Berthe.” Didier took her arm and steered her into a chair. “Now. Tell us. What is this idea?”
8
The red Ferrari was parked prominently outside Paroli’s showrooms, its wet paintwork gleaming in the light from the windows. Two young men leaned casually against the masterpiece of luxurious machinery, oblivious to the chilling rain drifting along the slick cobbled street, waiting, cameras tucked protectively beneath battered trenchcoats, for Fabrizio Paroli to emerge. Rumor had it that he was more than a little involved with the Haven daughter and twice they’d caught them leaving the showrooms together, and each time he’d driven her to her apartment and each time he’d merely dropped her off there. However, the rumor was a good story and the paparazzi were eager hounds on the scent of illicit romance, ready to do all they could to fan its flames. It wouldn’t take much—two people caught in the glare of an unexpected flashbulb could look startled, and startled could be interpreted as “guilty”—if the caption held the right innuendo.
Fabrizio turned up his coat collar protectively as he emerged from Paroli’s staff entrance in the alley at the back of the showrooms and mingled inconspicuously with his home-going employees. Head down, he hurried through the alley, cutting along a darkened back street to where the taxi waited on the corner.
India pushed open the door and he stepped inside, shaking the rain from his hair. His cold lips met hers as the taxi set off into the anonymous night.
It was odd, thought India, as Fabrizio’s kiss of greeting became more passionate and his hands slid under her fox jacket, how the sudden interest of the paparazzi since Jenny’s death had stimulated Fabrizio’s romantic interest in her. He seemed to want her all the time, wherever they were, in the office, in the car—even here in the taxi he couldn’t wait. His hands were beneath her shirt, caressing her breasts, and India sighed with pleasure. Fabrizio lifted his mouth from hers. His eyes gleamed in the darkness as he took her hand and placed it on his erection. She could feel the heat of his body through the fine tweed of his pants as she caressed him automatically.
“Stop, stop, carina,” he murmured, grasping her arm again.
India stole a glance at the taxi driver, whose attention, thankfully, was on the dark rain-wet road in front of him as they made their way out of Rome into the countryside. Fabrizio buried his head inside the soft fox jacket, taking her nipple in his mouth with tiny bites until she cried out.
“Sshh,” murmured Fabrizio.
India suddenly remembered the story of Jenny making love to her Englishman in the gondola