by JoAnn Ross
The lunch, a fresh Alaska king crab and shrimp salad topped with raspberry vinaigrette and served by a blue-suited butler, was a superb example of California cuisine. The polite conversation continued over lunch as they discussed the weather, the Lakers and, of course, "Blue Bayou," the plot line of which Alex knew, but could not reveal.
And still Alex had no idea why she'd been invited here today.
The plates were cleared. Finally, after a dessert of pears poached in California champagne, Eleanor said, "I have a proposition for you, Alexandra."
"A proposition?"
"I'd like you to adapt your glamorous television designs for Lord's ready-to-wear market."
The Limoges cup filled with coffee was halfway to her lips. Alex slowly lowered it back to the table. "Like your Lady Lord's line?"
"Not at all," Eleanor corrected quickly. "Actually, I always had my personal doubts about Lady Lord's. The only reason we initiated the line was it seemed like a good idea at the time. After all, everyone else was establishing private-label clothes. But there was a problem we didn't foresee."
"The latest focus-group study revealed customers view private labels as knockoffs," Zach said, entering the conversation. "Which was Eleanor's concern all along," he added, giving credence to his employer's instincts.
"Actually, the report said customers perceive private labels as the kind of frumpy, cheap stuff you'd see on the first floor," Eleanor revealed. "Store brands are, unfortunately, viewed as the bottom of the line. Which is definitely not where we would position your designs.
"We'd insist on exclusivity, of course. But we are willing to pay for that privilege." The figure she suggested was higher than the deal Debord had reportedly cut with the chain. "And, naturally, we would work out a generous commission schedule," Eleanor tacked on matter-of-factly.
Alex was, quite literally, stunned. The idea was intriguing, the money being offered staggering. But the deal also came with a definite downside. And that was that if she agreed, she would undoubtedly be forced into frequent contact with the very man she'd vowed to stay away from.
That brought up another even more unpalatable thought. What if this had been all Zach's idea? What if he was willing to spend Lord's money to force her into an intimate relationship?
Eleanor misunderstood Alex's hesitation. "I realize that couture gets all the headlines. But perhaps you've heard of something Prince Matchabelli once said: 'When customers come to you in Rolls-Royces, you go home on the subway—"
"When customers come to you on the subway, you go home in a Rolls-Royce," Alex filled in the rest of the quote. She shot Zach a sharp look, earning only a bland one in return.
"Exactly." Eleanor smiled her approval. "Besides," she said, "you wouldn't be designing clothing for K Mart, Alexandra. Lord's is decidedly upscale. And as I was telling Zach just the other day, with all the department store chains now carrying the same designers, fashion has grown boring.
"It will give Lord's extra clout to have its own line. You've a remarkable gift, Alexandra, dear. Together we could bring that gift to women all across America."
"How would it be displayed?" Alex asked, intrigued in spite of herself.
"Oh, I'm so glad you asked that question."
Eleanor reached into the leather-bound portfolio on the chair beside her and pulled out a series of sketches, which she handed across the table to Alex. "I took the liberty of commissioning these specifically for this meeting."
Alex stared in wonder at the dazzling artist's renderings of an in-store boutique featuring the Alexandra Lyons Blue Bayou collection. Exclusively at Lord's.
The drawings were incredibly detailed, making Alex wonder if Eleanor always worked at such warp speed. She glanced at Zach, who merely shrugged, revealing his own surprise with the artwork.
"I've always wanted to have my name up in lights," Alex murmured, half in truth, half in jest.
"Blue neon," Eleanor agreed robustly. "And now I think it's time to relinquish the floor to Lord's brilliant president."
Zach pushed himself to his feet, trying, as he had been for the past hour, to keep focused on the conversation at hand. Ever since Alex had arrived, bright and brazen in a red blazer and sinfully short, pleated white skirt that made her look like a nubile cheerleader he'd been fighting a losing battle to keep his mind on work.
"'Blue Bayou' is the number-one show in the world," he said, telling Alex nothing she didn't already know. "Our research shows that an extraordinary number of women want an opportunity to wear your glamorous Hollywood fashions. And men want to buy the intimate apparel for their wives or lovers."
"The studio does receive a lot of mail from fans," Alex agreed. She wondered if Zach's research had also revealed the transvestites and professional female impersonators who'd professed a desire to own the sexy fashions.
He pulled out a stack of colorful computer-generated charts depicting wholesale and retail costs of producing the line, the estimated potential sales, profit, loss, her share, until her head was whirling with numbers, which made it even more difficult to keep her mind on business.
Because try as she might, and as irritated as she was at him, as Alex watched Zach pointing out the various statistics, she kept focusing on his strong dark hands rather than the numbers depicted, remembering with vivid, painful detail how they had been capable of creating such warmth. Such pleasure. Such deep and aching need.
"I'm overwhelmed," she said quietly.
Eleanor would've had to be deaf to miss the hesitation in Alex's tone. "But?" she coaxed.
"I'm not certain my contract allows me to enter into outside agreements."
"Your contract with Friedman Television Production Company gives you sole ownership of your designs," Zach assured her. "There's no conflict."
Alex was not surprised that Zach would know the details of her two-page contract with Sophie. He would not have invited her to this business meeting without knowing.
"I'm sure your producer would enjoy the additional promotion for her program," Eleanor said.
Alex knew she was being offered a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. She wanted the chance so badly she could taste it. But she was worried about her unruly feelings for Zachary, and angry that he'd manipulated her into this uncomfortable situation in the first place.
"I'd like to give you a decision, but my horoscope said I shouldn't enter into any business agreements until Jupiter aligns with Mars."
"When will that be?" Impatience surrounded Eleanor like a shimmering life force.
"I don't know," Alex said, regretting the flippant answer the moment it left her lips. "I'm sorry, I was just kidding. I never read my horoscope." Actually she did. But she only chose to believe the positive messages. "But I would like a few days to think it over."
"How many days?" Eleanor's earlier restraint began to slip.
Zach put a calming hand on the older woman's arm. "Take all the time you need," he told Alex.
After promising Eleanor that she would make her decision within the next few days, Alex left the suite of offices, relieved when Zach allowed her to walk away without a word.
She was in the parking garage, congratulating herself on escaping without incident, when he caught up with her.
"Go away." Alex marched toward her Porsche, her heels clattering on the concrete floor.
"You're angry at me," he diagnosed.
She spun around, her color rising. "You're damn right I am!"
Zach wasn't all that bothered by her flare of temper. An angry woman was not an indifferent one. Although he would have preferred some other response—such as her throwing herself into his arms—at this point he was willing to take whatever he could get.
"I hadn't realized you'd consider the chance to have your name become a household word an insult."
"It's not the offer. It's the way you manipulated things just to throw us together again that I'm furious about."
He rocked back on his heels and regarded her, his eyes shuttered. "I
'm not in the habit of manipulating women into my bed. Nor have I ever paid for a woman's favors. The offer is only for your work, Alex. Not your body."
"Are you saying this wasn't your idea?"
"Actually, I argued against it."
That statement, calmly spoken and so obviously the truth, took some of the wind out of her sails. "Don't you like my work?"
"Why do I get the feeling I'm in a no-win conversation?" Alex could hear the dry humor in his voice.
"Beats me," she retorted, refusing to let him see he'd hurt her feelings. When she turned to walk away, he caught hold of her hand.
"Alex." It was just her name. But uttered with such depth of emotion it had the power to stop her in her tracks.
She shook her head. "I have to go."
"I know." He stroked the back of her hand, leaving an unsettling trail of heat in its path.
Their gazes met and held. And Alex felt a strange little jolt in her heart.
"I'm sorry you thought I was trying to manipulate you."
She shrugged and tried to look away. But she couldn't. "I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions."
"Would it make you feel any better if I told you I'm very impressed with your talent? And that if you were any other designer, any other woman, I would have been beating your door down trying to get your signature on the dotted line?"
They were standing a discreet distance apart, linked by eyes and hands. "It should," she admitted quietly.
"But it doesn't." They were courting disaster. Even knowing that, Zach could not let go of her hand.
"I really ought to leave."
"Not yet." He drew her closer.
"We can't do this," she insisted shakily. It was only a whisper, but easily heard in the cavernous stillness of subterranean garage.
"You know that." He lifted her hand to his lips. "And I know that."
He observed her solemnly, almost sadly, over the top of their linked hands. "So do you want to tell me why the idea feels so right?"
There were reasons. Alex knew there had to be reasons—hundreds of them, thousands, millions of logical, sensible reasons. But heaven help her, with his lips burning her hand and his eyes looking so deeply into hers, as if he could see all the way to her soul, she couldn't think of a single one. "Zach—"
"I love the way you say my name." The thumb of his free hand brushed against her lips, his touch as light as goose down. "Say it again."
"I can't." She pulled her hand away and was appalled to realize she was trembling. Her mind was turning cartwheels; it was a struggle to think straight.
"I have a picture of you. Of us."
"You do?" She had her own pictures, of course. Hundreds of them. Wonderful, romantic, sexy portraits, all in her mind, popping up at the most inopportune times to torment her.
"It's a snapshot taken by one of my brothers-in-law at the wedding. I keep it in my wallet." When she backed away, running up against the driver's door of the red Porsche, Zach moved toward her, closing the distance once more between them.
"We're dancing." He stroked her hair. "There's not a day that goes by that I don't take it out and look at it and think of how right you look, how right you felt, in my arms."
Alex longed for Zach's touch. His kiss. She ached for him. What she craved was wrong, forbidden, and a mortal sin in probably every major religion of the world.
She knew that. But she couldn't help herself.
The need to touch him was overpowering. Just an innocent touch. What could it hurt?
She lifted her hand to his cheek. "I think about you, too. Far too often," she admitted softly. To herself she admitted there was nothing innocent about what was happening here.
"Ah, Alex." He closed his eyes, as if the touch of her fingertips was just the balm he needed. "Do you have any idea—"
"Yes." She pressed her fingertips against his lips, cutting off the words. It was as if once he said the words out loud, once he told her how much he wanted to make love with her, she would be helpless to prevent it. "I do."
She bit her lip and wished her mother had not brought her up to feel responsible for the consequences of her own behavior. "But we can't."
"I know." Zach cursed softly. "And that's what makes this all so damn hard." He took in a deep, shuddering breath. "But I promise not to let my personal feelings stand in the way of your future.
"Eleanor's right. You're extremely talented, and the Blue Bayou collection would be a boon for our bottom line. We need you, Alex. And I think at this point in your career, you could use us, too."
"Of course I could." The opportunity would establish her as a top name in design. Like Cher's sexy television costuming did for Bob Mackie in the seventies. "But do you really think you could keep things on a business level?" she asked doubtfully. If her own feelings were anything to go by, they were sunk.
"I'll do my damnedest."
It was, she allowed, all she could ask for. If she was absolutely honest, she would have to admit it wasn't really what she wanted.
What she wanted, she realized with little surprise, was for Zach to take matters into his own hands. She wanted him to free her of all responsibility. She wanted him to drag her to the floor—all right, perhaps the back seat of the nearest car—and wildly ravish her until neither one of them could move.
But she knew that wasn't going to happen. When and if she decided to make love with Zachary Deveraux, Alex knew, she'd have to be willing to accept the consequences.
"Tell Eleanor I'll seriously consider her offer."
He studied Alex for one final, painful minute. "I will."
He stepped back, giving her room to open the car door. He stood there, silent and watchful as she fastened her seat belt and put the key in the ignition.
And then he watched her drive away.
Alex lectured herself all the way back to the "Blue Bayou" offices. He's married, she reminded herself.
Unhappily married, an argumentative little voice piped up.
That doesn't matter. Unhappily married is still married.
Everyone knows his wife fools around. Since meeting Zach, Alex had developed an almost unhealthy obsession with jet-set gossip. Especially that concerning Miranda Deveraux.
So, if everyone jumped off the roof, she remembered her mother saying, that wouldn't give you permission to jump off, too.
Lord, when had she become so willing to justify bad behavior?
When she'd fallen in love with a married man.
The bottom line was that Zachary Deveraux was married. And that made him off-limits.
Sophie was, unsurprisingly, ecstatic. "This is absolutely fantastic! The high-profile visibility Eleanor Lord is offering will definitely translate into big bucks at syndication time." Watching Sophie's smile, Alex could practically see the dollar signs dancing in her head.
"Not to mention your designs being sold in every major city in the country. My God, girl, do you know what this means?"
"Of course," Alex murmured. Her sketch pad was covered with lopsided stars, proof of her inability to concentrate these days.
Sophie's hands were splayed on her silk-draped hips. "As long as I've known you, I've never seen you as indecisive as you've been these past couple of weeks. First you didn't want to go to Eleanor Lord's party, and now you're hesitating about working with her. What do you have against the woman?"
"Nothing at all," Alex answered honestly, switching to rectangles.
"It's a very good opportunity, Alex."
"It's a terrific opportunity," Alex agreed.
"So what the hell is the problem?"
"I don't know." Not wanting to discuss anything so personal as her feelings for Zach, even with this woman who was both friend and benefactress, Alex laughed off her indecision.
One week later, still worried she was stepping into quicksand, she picked up the telephone.
"I've made a decision."
Her answer shouldn't mean so damn much, Zach told himself. It shouldn't. But it did.
"I'm glad to hear that," he replied mildly.
How was it that even his voice, coming across the wires, could create that now familiar, enervating flood of desire? What was she doing?
She should hang up. Now! Before she found herself in very hot water. Over her head.
She took a deep breath.
"You can draw up the papers."
Chapter Seventeen
The Irish pub, located in, of all places, Pasadena, would definitely not have been Miranda's first choice for an intimate rendezvous. The single thing the out-of-the-way watering hole had going for it, she decided, was that she did not have to worry about running into anyone she knew.
Or more importantly, anyone who knew Zach.
She was on her second martini when the man she'd been waiting for finally showed up.
"You're late."
Mickey O'Rourke shrugged uncaringly as he waved to a pair of uniformed cops seated nearby. From what she'd already determined during her irritating wait, the Hibernian watering hole was a favorite with the police. "Something came up."
She frowned at him over the rim of the iced glass. When he sat down across the table, she caught the unmistakable scent of cheap drugstore cologne. "If you must meet me reeking of other women, I would prefer you find a bedmate with better taste in perfume."
He grinned unrepentantly. "Don't tell me you're jealous."
"Hardly."
The grin widened, a cocky flash of white in his freckled face. He tilted the wooden chair on its back legs and laced his fingers behind his head. The gesture, which she had no doubt was meant to impress, caused his biceps to swell against the sleeves of his navy blue polo shirt.
"You sure about that?" Lines crinkled outward from his boyish blue eyes.
"Absolutely. I was merely pointing out that I am not paying you two hundred dollars a day—"
"Two hundred dollars a day, plus expenses," he reminded her helpfully.
"Plus expenses," she agreed, "to waste time screwing."
"Could have fooled me." He lowered the chair to all four legs again and leaned across the small wooden table toward Miranda. "My balls still ache from our marathon fuckarama in Bungalow Five of the Beverly Hills Hotel last week."
