Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [83]
Bendor Grünewald was titled—only a papal title, but a very old one, and it was “Prince”—and he was very, very rich and currently very interested in her, though she was keeping him guessing. Bendor was well known in all the places where the beautiful people gathered and his reputation as a playboy had lasted for almost thirty years, ever since he emerged from under his German family’s thumb as inheritor of the family industrial empire. He was really keen, she could tell. Now he was getting close to fifty and reaching the marriage market. It was time to start a dynasty—every rich man of fifty wants a son.
Then, of course, there was Hugo Reresby, who was just about the sexiest man she’d met in at least a year. You’d never know it to look at him, she thought; Englishmen were so deceptive with their ruddy-cheeked glow of good health and the polite blue eyes of well-brought-up schoolboys. It wasn’t until you got them in bed that you knew where they were really at!
Hugo caught her glance and waved hello from across the room. Olympe debated whether she should go over to him, or make him come to her, as he would, of course, eventually. She scanned the room quickly to check if his wife were here. No, not tonight. Good.
She loved this room; the big square tiles of black-and-white marble scattered with party guests in brilliant colors looked like an exotic chess game for giants.
“Olympe!”
She turned as her name was called. It was Henri, looking amazingly “gay” in a caramel silk shirt and leather pants worn tucked into American cowboy boots.
“You don’t mean to tell me you’re alone?” he asked, kissing her. “Everyone knows there are a dozen men lined up at your door for the pleasure of your company—some of whom I wish would line up at mine!”
Olympe tucked her arm through his, wandering with him across the hall. A rhythmic thudding came from the disco in the cellar below.
“I’m alone,” she agreed, “for a while….”
“Say no more.” Henri smiled. “Just tell me … which one is it, Bendor or Hugo?”
“It all depends on how I feel tonight … what my secret desires are,” she teased.
“Your secret desires are always for steak and strawberries,” replied Henri, leading her toward the dining room and the lavish buffet. “You’re a simple girl at heart, Olympe.”
“Why does no one see that but you, Henri? I am simple, I like nothing more than to eat, to drink wine, to lie in the sun, to dance, and to make love. Behind this exotic façade is a true bourgeoise.”
Bendor had spotted her from across the room and appeared at her side.
“Don’t destroy my illusions, Olympe,” he said. “It’s the other woman I’m after, the exotic one, the beauty who lives on fresh air and rose petals.”
“Take my word for it,” said Henri, “it’s steak and pommes frites. God knows why she doesn’t put on weight. If it were me I’d gain five pounds overnight.”
“Now, that girl,” said Olympe, pointing to Paris, who was poised just inside the door, wrapped in her green Fende mink, “must eat rose petals. Who is she, Henri?”
“I’ve no idea.” Henri assessed Paris rapidly. “But I love that coat!” He drifted off in Paris’s direction.
“Olympe,” said Bendor pleadingly.
“Well?”
“Will you come out to dinner with me—alone?” Bendor put a possessive finger under her chin. “Steak and pommes frites if you like?”
Olympe considered. Her opaque gray eyes met his, speculatively. Bendor leaned closer. She had a mouth that any man would want to kiss, to bite even … and if he ever got her alone he would do just that. And then he’d have her walk for him—up and down the room