by JoAnn Ross
Undeterred by the strident criticism, Sophie laughed all the way to the bank.
"Blue Bayou" quickly became not only America's number-one television show, but was also watched by citizens of seventy other countries, including Iceland, Japan and Bangladesh.
And, as Sophie had predicted, Alex's designs made her a rising star in Tinseltown. Even critics who hated the program couldn't resist a positive mention of the dazzling wardrobe.
Her imaginative costuming expressed the basic conflict around which the steamy nighttime drama revolved. Typically the wicked ex-wife would strike a blow with a black crepe cocktail dress trimmed with rhinestones along a plunging neckline, while the saintly current wife would counter with a pink peplum jacket accented by thin silver piping.
Across town the exotic dancer/mistress would go shopping in a sequined blue baseball jacket over a ribbed red silk tank top and tight white shorts.
And every week, without fail, the studio mail room was flooded with letters from fans wanting to know where they could buy those ultraglamorous Hollywood fashions for themselves.
To Sophie's delight and Alex's surprise, Alex was nominated for a coveted Emmy for television costuming. As she dressed for the awards program, Alex said a silent prayer of thanks to whatever fickle fates or gods had led Sophie to Debord's salon that long-ago day.
Television might not be couture. But from the cold dead ashes of that lost dream, like a legendary phoenix, another had risen. One Alex had already determined was a lot more fun.
* * *
While Alex sat with her nerves in a tangle amid so many of Tinseltown's glitterati—albeit in the back of the auditorium with the rest of the technical nominees—Eleanor Lord was in the den of her Santa Barbara home, watching the live television broadcast with Clara Kowalski.
Although Clara had yet to contact the nanny, or anyone else on the other side for that matter, Eleanor enjoyed her company and refused to give up hope that someday they would learn the truth about her granddaughter's disappearance.
But tonight Eleanor's mind was not focused on Anna. It was centered, as was so often the case, on business. She never missed an Emmy or Oscar presentation; inevitably, knockoffs of the actresses' evening dresses would begin appearing in the stores almost as soon as the broadcast was over. And Eleanor knew from past experience that customers from Seattle to Miami would expect to find them in their local Lord's.
"Damn," she muttered as Jane Curtin received the Emmy for lead actress in a comedy.
"I like 'Kate and Allie,'" Clara offered.
"It's a nice enough program. And the woman's a fine actress," Eleanor agreed. "But she isn't exactly a fashion celebrity. This isn't going to help sales at all."
Her irritation increased as the awards show progressed. This was definitely turning out not to be a year for glamour, she thought dejectedly, when Tyne Daly won an award for her role as detective in the popular "Cagney and Lacey."
It was during the costume category that Eleanor perked up. On a personal level, she and Clara never missed an episode of "Blue Bayou"; as a retailing executive, she was hoping the dazzling costuming worn on the show would encourage designers to instill more glamour into their distressingly predictable ready-to-wear lines. Anything to bring more women into the stores.
"Clara!" Eleanor pressed her hand against her heart, which had trebled its beat as she watched the young woman going up on stage to accept her award. "Look!"
"Isn't that the most gorgeous dress you've ever seen!" Clara agreed enthusiastically, taking in the gown that was even more special and exciting than the evening's festivities. The fire-engine red silk mousseline, adorned with several trompe l'oeil necklaces of glittering Austrian crystal beads, fell in a long fluid column to the floor.
"Not the dress!" Eleanor snapped, earning a surprised and injured look from her friend. "The girl, dammit! Look at that girl!"
"She's lovely. And slender enough to get away with such a figure-revealing dress. I wonder if she's wearing anything underneath it," Clara mused. "I can't see any panty lines."
"The hell with panty lines," Eleanor said impatiently. "It's her, Clara. It's my Anna!"
"It can't be!"
"Look at the portrait," Eleanor insisted. "Alexandra Lyons could be me at her age." Clara's gaze went from Eleanor to the television, to the portrait above the fireplace of Eleanor, painted as a young bride, then back to Eleanor. "Perhaps there's a resemblance," she conceded. "But—"
"It's Anna! I know it is." Eleanor picked up the desk phone and dialed the familiar Los Angeles number.
"Do you have the television on?" she demanded, dispensing with any polite greeting when the male voice answered.
"Not at the moment," Zach said. "Miranda's in town, and she's throwing a dinner party for a bunch of Los Angeles anglophiles and expatriated British nobility who claim to be 'languishing away' in lotusland. Why?"
"Because I've seen Anna."
He sighed. "On TV?" Zach half expected to hear Eleanor claim that her missing granddaughter had just popped up as a guest star on "St. Elsewhere."
"On the Emmy broadcast. She just won an award. She's going by the name Alexandra Lyons."
The name rang an instantaneous and painful bell. Hardly a day went by that Zach didn't find himself thinking about Alex with regret. "You're kidding."
"You know I would never kid about a thing like this." Anna's image had faded from the screen, replaced by a car commercial. "It's her, Zachary!"
"Eleanor," Zach said patiently, "that's impossible. I met Alexandra Lyons in New Orleans."
"You never told me that."
"There was nothing to tell." That wasn't true, but his feelings for Alex were no one's business but his own.
"It's her, Zachary," Eleanor repeated stubbornly.
"I'll tell you what," he suggested, "if you promise to calm down, I'll look into it first thing in the morning."
"I want you to check it out now."
"Short of going downtown and crashing the awards ceremony, which will be over by the time I arrive, there isn't a helluva lot I can do tonight," he pointed out reasonably. "But I promise to call the studio as soon as the switchboard opens in the morning. All right?"
"No, it's not all right. But I suppose it'll have to do," Eleanor grumbled.
After reassuring her yet again, Zach hung up, wondering as he did so if Eleanor's obsession would ever fade. After placing a call to Averill and asking the doctor to run by the house and check on the elderly woman, Zach returned to the gilt-trimmed and mirrored dining room, wishing for a party featuring a steaming pot of spicy crayfish, some equally spicy zydeco music and a sweet-smelling, sexy strawberry blonde to hold in his arms.
All night long.
* * *
Two weeks later, Zach was in Santa Barbara, sipping a Scotch as Eleanor read the portfolio the private detective had compiled.
"Alex Lyons was born in Raleigh, North Carolina," he revealed. "Her mother's name was Irene Lyons. Her father was listed as 'unknown' on her birth certificate. It was, by the way, a double birth. She had a fraternal twin brother. David Lyons died in his teens. A drunk driver hit his car late one night."
"How tragic."
"Isn't it?" Zach remembered the pain on Alex's face when she'd told him about her twin's death. "The brother is the key. Even if Irene Lyons was in on Anna's kidnapping, she couldn't have pulled a boy child the same age out of the air."
Eleanor waved his words away. "Perhaps she already had a son of her own. Perhaps she always wanted a daughter, so she took my Anna."
Zach bit back his frustration and struggled for patience. "The birth certificates for both children list them as twins."
"Birth certificates can be forged."
Zach's jaw tightened as he recalled the debacle with the blackjack dealer. It was happening all over again. "True. But there's no reason to believe these were. Or that she's Anna."
"There's one way to find out for sure."
"You're not going to tell h
er what you suspect?"
"No. Believe it or not, Zachary, even this old dog can learn a few new tricks. I'm not going to tip my hand. At least not yet."
Zach's relief was short-lived.
"You know," Eleanor mused aloud, "it's been a long time since I had a party."
"I suppose Alexandra Lyons's name is at the top of the invitation list."
Eleanor smiled for the first time since Zach had arrived with the dossier. "Of course."
As he left the estate, though he knew it was wrong, Zach found himself looking forward to seeing Alexandra Lyons again. Oh, there was no way he believed she would ultimately prove to be Anna Lord. But perhaps, he told himself during the drive back to L.A., now that fate was about to throw them together again, he'd discover that his usually faultless memory had merely exaggerated Alexandra's charms.
Perhaps she was nothing more than a romantic, moonlit bayou fantasy.
The hell she was.
* * *
"I don't understand you," Sophie complained. "Eleanor Lord is one of the most influential people in the state. Hell, probably the entire country. To be invited to one of her soirees is a coup."
"I know that," Alex mumbled, running her fingernail along the gilt edge of the invitation.
"And it's for a good cause."
"I know that, too." But couldn't she just skip the fund-raising party and write out a generous check to the Save the Beaches Foundation?
"So what's the problem?"
Even as Alex continued to vacillate over the next two days, she knew that the real reason for her indecision could be spelled out in two words: Zachary Deveraux. She wanted to see him again, if for no other reason than to prove to herself that the chemistry she remembered was nothing more than the product of a dazzling, crazy Mardi Gras night and a steamy, mystical bayou day.
But another part of her was afraid of what would happen if she did attend the party and discovered that the emotional bond they shared during those long hours together turned out to be real.
It had taken her a long time to expunge Zach from her mind; sometimes entire days went by when she managed not to think of him, yet all she'd have to do was drive past a Lord's store and all those bittersweet memories would come flooding back.
As for the long, lonely nighttime hours, although she'd throw herself off the top of the "Blue Bayou" billboard towering over Sunset Strip before admitting it, the truth was that Zachary Deveraux continued to play a starring role in far too many of her erotic dreams.
Reminding herself that her mother had brought her up to take risks, after several sleepless nights and anxiety-filled days, during which Sophie nagged incessantly, Alex finally decided to accept Eleanor Lord's invitation.
Uncharacteristically, she dithered over her dress for days, trying on and discarding everything in her closet before moving on to the show's wardrobe department. Claiming it heightened the program's visibility, Sophie enouraged the "Blue Bayou" cast to borrow clothing for personal appearances. She'd made the same offer to Alex, who'd never seriously considered doing so until now.
But even these glamorous gowns weren't quite right. Because Alex wanted something new. Something that was all hers. Something that would knock Zachary Deveraux's socks off.
She stayed up for three nights, draping and stitching, ripping and restitching. The night of the party, as she ran her bath, she tossed in colorful crystals and scented oil from Victoria's Secret into the hot water with the careless abandonment of a teenager preparing for the senior prom.
Which was exactly how she felt, Alex admitted, as she soaked in the perfumed water, sipping a glass of preparty champagne to soothe her tangled nerves.
Chapter Fifteen
Rather than make her guests drive up the coast to her Santa Barbara estate, Eleanor had booked the swank Rex Il Ristorante for the evening. The building, which had once housed the city's most elegant haberdasher, clothier to the Duke of Windsor and the Shah of Iran, among others, had been turned into a lushly romantic place—a tribute to Hollywood in its heyday.
Swathed in soft hues of peach, plum and mauve, the main dining room resembled the grand salon of a luxury liner. Art Deco chairs and cozy love seats were not merely furniture, but curvaceous, sensual pink shells and calla lilies; glass tables appeared to float on crystal bases.
Despite the lingering nervousness she felt from the moment she walked through the etched Lalique doors, Alex was absolutely enchanted.
She'd no sooner entered the room when she was greeted by her hostess. "My dear," Eleanor Lord said, taking both Alex's hands in her beringed ones, "don't you look absolutely stunning!" Her gaze swept approvingly over the short scarlet sarong. Alex had spent hours sewing glittering gold beads onto the strapless bodice. "I assume this marvelous gown is your own design."
"It is," Alex said with a smile.
"With such talent, it's no wonder you won an Emmy. You've no idea how pleased I am you could make our little party."
Although the elderly woman's smile was warm and inviting, there was something about the way Eleanor was looking at her—deep and hard—that made Alex vaguely uneasy.
"I'm honored to be invited."
"It's we who should be honored," Eleanor corrected absently. Her gaze was riveted on Alex's face. "It's not often we're in the company of artistic genius."
Alex laughed at that and managed to relax. Just a little. "That's definitely an exaggeration, but I was taught at a very early age that a proper guest never argues with her hostess."
"That's absolutely right," Eleanor agreed. Something indiscernible flashed in her eyes, something that came and went so quickly Alex nearly missed it. "It sounds as if your mother paid more attention to Emily Post than Dr. Spock." Her voice went up a little on the end, turning the observation into a question, but before Alex could respond, a tall, distinguished, silver-haired man in black tie approached.
"Eleanor, don't tell me you're going to keep this lovely creature to yourself all evening," he complained. "Not when everyone's dying to meet Hollywood's newest celebrity."
The moment for private conversation had passed. Alex was introduced to a dizzying number of people, most of whom she'd watched on television and movie screens for years.
All the time she remained devastatingly aware of Zach, looking resplendent and too handsome for comfort in black tie. Having practiced her polite, casual greeting all afternoon, she waited for him to approach. An hour later, she was still waiting.
Finally, feeling a need for solitude, Alex climbed the stairway to the circular mezzanine promenade, where intimately arranged conversation areas allowed for private tête-à-têtes.
Settling into a comfortable, mauve-and-pink suede seashell, she watched the dancers glide across the black marble floor and found herself picturing a billowy, white tulle dance dress, shimmering with crystal beadwork, the type of dress Ginger Rogers might have worn. The type of dress that would be perfect for the oil man's wife to wear in the season's end cliff-hanger charity ball scene.
"Makes you wish you'd been around for the days of the Coconut Grove and the Copacabana, doesn't it?" an all too familiar voice murmured. Lost in her creative muse, Alex hadn't heard Zach come up beside her.
The deep sound strummed a hundred, a thousand, hidden chords in Alex. Feeling the color rise in her cheeks, she looked up into the ruggedly handsome face she'd tried so hard to forget.
She had to force herself to remember how to breathe. Inhale. "I half expect to see Rita Hayworth dancing cheek to cheek with the Ali Khan," she admitted. Exhale.
Oh, God. It was happening all over again. What made her think she could ever forget this man? And the dizzy, terrifying, wonderful way he could make her feel.
"While he whispers sweet nothings in her shell pink ear," Zach said, reminding them both of a time when he'd held her in his arms and told her again and again how beautiful she was. How sweet. How exquisitely unique. He casually flicked a finger at her dangling gold earring. "Hello."
"Hi." Sto
p that! Alex instructed her lips, which had curved into a foolish, adoring teenager's smile. Inhale.
"Congratulations on your Emmy."
"Thank you." Exhale.
"I'm no expert on women's fashions, but according to my mother, who never misses an episode of 'Blue Bayou,' you were a shoo-in to win."
At the mention of Eve, Alex's smile turned warm and genuine. "How is she?"
"Wonderful." He sat down across from her, close enough that their knees were almost touching. "I visited last month, and she's still glowing like a new bride. I think it must be love."
Alex's soft answering laugh made Zach realize exactly how long it had been since he'd heard that rich, vibrating sound. And how much he'd mourned its absence. "That's sweet," she said.
"I think so, too. She's wild about that dress you made for her, by the way. It was a very nice thing to do."
"I had such a marvelous time at her wedding, I wanted to find some way to repay her." Alex couldn't believe she'd actually brought up that magic, romantic night. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
Zach had spent the past hour nursing a single drink while he made polite small talk. Sipping and smiling and chatting, all the time watching Alex. And now, as she crossed her legs, clad in shimmering stockings that reminded him of stardust, he had an urge to whisk her out of there and take her for a midnight stroll on the beach. Just the two of them. Alone, with only the full, benevolent moon and sparkling stars to keep them company.
"It was a good time, wasn't it?"
Not wanting to lie, but unwilling to admit it had been the best time of her life, Alex lowered her gaze so he wouldn't see the dangerous yearnings that had leapt into her heart.
She was wearing her hair the same way she'd worn it for the Emmy broadcast, piled high atop her head in wild, sexy disarray and looking as if it might tumble down over her bare shoulders with the slightest provocation. She'd precariously secured the bright concoction with a trio of jeweled combs. Zach had a perverse urge to pluck those combs loose so he could watch the gilt waves cascade free.
