Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [84]
Olympe took a baton of celery from a dish on the table. Her square white teeth crunched it with a crisp firmness that sent chills down his spine.
“Do you know,” she said, taking a second bite, “there’s just one place in the entire world I’d really like to have dinner tonight.”
“Where is it? Tell me,” demanded Bendor.
“Oh, it’s just a little place.” Olympe took a piece of carrot and dipped it in the aioli sauce. “Nothing grand, but the food … ah, Beny, it’s wonderful.”
“Yes, yes?”
“Of course”—she sighed—“it’s impossible….”
“Merde, Olympe, where is it?” demanded Bendor. “Let’s go.”
Olympe looked at him doubtfully. “It’s called Julie’s, Beny. They serve seafood—lobster with fresh garlic mayonnaise, and crab and swordfish steaks, fresh from the sea. The Caribbean Sea … off Barbados.”
“We’ll go,” said Bendor, gripping her arm tightly, “—you and me, Olympe. We can go now, tonight.”
Olympe burst into laughter. “Oh, Beny, how boring! I knew you would say that. Couldn’t you see I was just teasing you? I’m quite happy here, you know, with the asparagus and the celery—and a strawberry or two.” She drifted along the table, picking a morsel here and a morsel there.
“Olympe, when will you have dinner with me?”
“Didn’t we just have this conversation?” Bendor was very keen, thought Olympe, pleased.
Hugo smiled from across the room and Olympe smiled back, secretly, so that Bendor didn’t see.
Over by the door Henri took Paris’s cold hand in his.
“Do I know you?” he asked, putting up a finger to stop her as Paris began to explain. “No, no, don’t tell me. I’m just glad you came to my party. I’m Henri Santier. And you are?”
“Paris.”
“How appropriately named—a stroke of genius on your mother’s part? Paris who?”
“Paris Haven. I’m a friend of Jules Santini, I’m supposed to meet him here.”
Henri helped her off with her coat, enjoying its softness.
“I haven’t seen Jules yet,” he said, tossing the coat on the big chest in the hall, “but I must tell you I adore your coat.”
“It was my mother’s,” Paris explained automatically, and then wished she hadn’t.
Henri noted the initials embroidered on the lining: “JH.”
“I see.” He smiled. “That Paris. Well, your mother was a genius, my dear.” He put a friendly arm around her shoulders. “Now, come with me. There are some people I’m sure you’d like to meet.”
Paris had meant to avoid Olympe Avallon. She’d spotted her, of course, as soon as she walked in the door. Olympe was so damned gorgeous and flamboyant it was hard not to—no woman had the right to look that good all the time. There were always pictures of Olympe in the European magazines. In Hola and Oggi and Tatler you’d find Olympe, sunbathing in the very minimum thong on some yacht in St. Tropez, with no makeup and her hair pulled back, half naked and quite spectacular; or socializing at the racetrack in a chic little St. Laurent and a perfect hat, discreetly made up and well bejeweled; or at some charity ball at the Savoy in London, outclassing the English in their frills, just by sheer elegance. No wonder Amadeo Vitrazzi had run off to keep his appointment with her after their little “episode.” Olympe was a woman no man would want to lose.
“Paris,” said Henri smoothly, “I’d like you to meet Olympe Avallon and Prince Bendor Grünewald—Beny to you. This is Paris Haven.”
Such an interesting face, thought Olympe as she said hello, fantastic cheekbones and that lovely black hair … a good body, too, taut and slender.
“Are you a model?” she asked. “If not, then you should be.”
“I’m a designer,” said Paris stiffly, “although tomorrow I must admit I am also to be a model.”
“Oh? For whom?” Why was the girl being so stiff with her? wondered Olympe. Had she said something wrong?
“For my own designs. I’m showing my first collection tomorrow.”
“How exciting.” And who, wondered Olympe, was going to go to the girl’s collection when everyone knew that Mitsoko had changed his day at the last minute because his “stars” had not boded well? His show was the