Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [85]
“But you must be Jenny Haven’s daughter,” said Bendor. “I feel I know your mother. I grew up with her—on the screen, of course.”
“Careful, darling,” said Henri, “your age is showing. Now, come along with me, Paris. I want you to meet some more people.”
Henri shepherded her through to the dining room where his guests nibbled on the food and gossiped about mutual friends and places. What was that little friction he’d felt between Olympe and Paris? Had they met before? It was intriguing … perhaps he could even stir it up a little.
“Hugo,” he called, “here’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
Hugo Reresby shook Paris’s hand firmly. He had a pleasant, straightforward gaze, thought Paris, and smooth ruddy skin that looked as though he spent a great deal of time outdoors.
“You’re Paris Haven,” said Hugo. “I’ve seen your picture in the newspapers.”
Paris smiled at him; for once she didn’t mind the reference to the publicity and her mother.
“Is that a plus or a minus?” she asked.
“Oh, absolutely a plus.” Hugo took her hand. “Will you dance with me, Paris?” He led her down the stairs to the cellar, where the music had changed from the earlier wild boogie to something softer. As Hugo’s arms went around her, Paris knew exactly what it was that she was looking for tonight—and Hugo Reresby was just perfect.
Olympe was annoyed. Bendor was being boring and Hugo had disappeared. She’d drifted from room to room with Bendor trailing behind her, begging her to leave with him and go back to his place. As if she would! Olympe never entered into casual affairs on that level. Matters were always very well planned, everything carefully thought out and arranged. That was the way she liked it—nice and secure. It wasn’t easy living the life she did on very little money. There was her apartment and her car, clothes were all right, of course, because the designers liked to dress her, but men friends were expected—no, contracted—to contribute to her “comfort.” It worked quite well, and over the years—since she was twenty—she had amassed quite a nice little capital, because one day there would surely be old age. Naturally, before then she expected to have had a couple more financially successful marriages behind her, but a girl had to be careful about these things. The Hugos of her life were purely for pleasure. It was Bendor she might have to marry—if she could push him into it—though she had the sneaking feeling that in the end he’d marry some strong, healthy eighteen-year-old who’d bear his children, while he kept her as a mistress on the side. No deal.
“Henri, have you seen Hugo?”
“Of course, darling. He’s downstairs, dancing with Paris Haven … where he’s been all night.” Henri’s eyes sparkled wickedly. “Perhaps you should join them,” he suggested.
Olympe took a strawberry from a silver dish and bit into it thoughtfully. “Winter strawberries always seem different,” she commented, “—so tasteless.” So Hugo had found Paris, had he? Or more likely Henri had found Paris for Hugo. Well, maybe he was right, maybe she should just go along downstairs and see. What was that saying? If you can’t beat them, join them? She drifted toward the stairs.
“Beny, I’m going to powder my nose,” she said exasperatedly, “you cannot come with me.”
“Why not?” he murmured, running his hand along her naked arm.
“Bodily functions are meant to be kept private,” snapped Olympe, pulling her arm away. “Now, go and get another drink, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Paris was sitting on the pile of cushions in an alcove at the far end of the cellar. Hugo’s arms were around her and she was kissing him. She’d been kissing him for about an hour—nothing else, he hadn’t touched her, just held her and kissed. And it was heaven; her body, burstingly alive with the day’s adrenaline, was responding without being touched.
Hitching up her skirt Olympe sat cross legged on the cushions in front of them, watching. Candles flickered in the wall sconces that Henri considered exotic lighting for his dungeon disco, and