by JoAnn Ross
"Go right ahead."
"Fine." He gave her a warning look. "My point is, Lord's contributions assist a great many needy people. What moral victory would be achieved if the company went bankrupt and that money stopped flowing into charitable coffers?"
"Lord, talk about false justification," Alex muttered. "If you truly believe that, Zachary, I'm amazed you get any sleep at night. But since you seem to only understand the bottom line, Mr. President, let me spell things out for you in black and white. In case you've forgotten, my contract with Lord's gives me manufacturing approval."
"I recall that clause." All too well. He'd argued against it, but Eleanor, damn her, had been immovable.
"Fine. Then I'm only going to say this once. Any clothing line with my name on it will not be manufactured in South Korea. Or Taiwan, or Indonesia or Mexico. The clothing will be made here, in the United States, by American workers."
"You sound like a campaign speech," he muttered.
"And you sound like an apologist for Big Business. That's my bottom line, Zach. Take it or leave it. But let me warn you, if you don't agree, I'll take my designs and go home."
"Oh, we wouldn't want you to do that," Eleanor insisted quickly, finally entering into the argument. "Surely we can come up with some compromise."
"There's a garment factory in Brooklyn," Alex said, reaching into her portfolio and taking out a business card, which she held out to Zach. "I've done business with them before. They're efficient, relatively inexpensive, and they don't treat their workers like indentured servants."
There was no point in arguing any longer, Zach decided. He'd investigate Alex's damn factory, and if it wasn't competitive, he was just going to have to make her see the light.
After all, she wasn't designing clothes for her dolls any longer. Or her mother. This was business. Pure and simple.
He plucked the card from her fingers. "I'll check it out."
She gave him a sweet smile that was only slightly tinged with sarcasm. "Thank you. I'd appreciate that."
"So, have you decided where you're going to debut the collection?" Zach asked Eleanor.
Eleanor frowned. She'd been worrying about that exact question for weeks. "I suppose the Rodeo Drive store would be the most obvious."
"But you've never been one to settle for the obvious," Zach said with a slow, intimate smile that, although focused on Eleanor, managed to warm Alex, who was seated across the small round table from him, to the core.
She dug her nails into her palms, denying the need to reach across that space and touch her hand to his cheek.
"That's what keeps Lord's on top," Eleanor agreed. "There's always Manhattan. We'd ensure a great deal of fashion press that way." Her lack of enthusiasm showed in her flat tone.
"May I make a suggestion?" Zach asked.
"Of course."
"How about Chicago?"
"Chicago?"
"We're opening a new store there next quarter," he reminded her unnecessarily. "It wouldn't be a bad place to showcase the Alexandra Lyons collection."
"Like we did with Debord in New Orleans."
"Like New Orleans," Zach echoed, his words directed toward Eleanor, but his dark eyes on Alex.
Eleanor, caught up in the logistics of Zach's suggestion, failed to notice that her two favorite people had become snared in the silvery strands of an emotionally sticky web.
Zach watched the shared memories shimmer in Alex's remarkable amber eyes. He saw her full lips part ever so slightly, as if she were remembering that night of desperate kisses.
"That's an excellent idea, Zachary." Eleanor's voice shattered the thick tension strung between Zach and Alex. "Women in Los Angeles and Manhattan have grown horribly blasé. What we need is the excitement a wildly enthusiastic Chicago audience can bring to Alex's marvelous clothing."
Alex shook off her lingering desire, as well as the guilt she always experienced when she found herself wishing for a life with Zach, and allowed herself to be swept up by Eleanor's enthusiasm.
"I have another idea," she suggested, as if the thought had just occurred to her. "Along with the professional models, what would you say to having the actual actresses from 'Blue Bayou' take part in the show?"
Eleanor's eyes lighted up like a child getting her first glimpse of a Christmas tree. "That would certainly add Hollywood pizzazz to an already glamorous collection. But do you think Sophie Friedman would agree?"
"In a minute." Alex laughed, thinking of how Sophie's calculator brain had begun clicking away the dollars of free publicity when she'd suggested the idea to the producer over Cobb salads at the Bistro Garden yesterday.
Alex's clear laughter reminded Zach of summer sunshine on an Alpine lake. Desire stirred in him, as unwelcome as distant rumbles signaling a thunderstorm and just as impossible to fend off.
Chapter Nineteen
Moonlight streamed into the room. Candlelight glowed, creating flickering shadows on the wall. A bed, draped in a canopy of gauze netting, dominated the room. A couple lay atop satin sheets, arms and legs entangled. The woman was clad in a clinging white slip. The man was wearing a pair of jeans. His muscled chest was bare.
"You are so beautiful." There was reverent awe in his tone as his hand moved up her thigh, slipping beneath the hem of the slip. "I've been going crazy thinking about you. About us."
The woman smiled, pleased with her feminine power. "Ah've been thinkin' about you, too, sugah." She rolled over on top of him, fitting her lush curves to his hard male angles.
His hands cupped her buttocks, holding her hard against him. "Even while you're making love to you husband?"
"Especially while Ah'm makin' love to my husband," she promised on a silvery laugh.
"Cut!" The director's voice shattered the sensual moment. "Dammit, Mary Beth, I'm still seeing panty lines."
"I am not taking off my underwear," the actress countered. "That's the kind of stuff that gets into the Enquirer."
"I doubt Tiffany would even wear panties," Stone Michaels suggested helpfully.
Mary Beth Olson turned on him. "You're just trying to figure out a way to get me naked."
"Not me!" The handsome actor held up his hands and glanced toward the control booth, where his bride of six weeks sat following the action on the script she'd fine-tuned just the night before. Since beginning his relationship with Brenda, the show's head writer, Stone's part had, as Alex had predicted, grown considerably.
But he hadn't needed to marry to ensure fame. Not when the show's female audience found him the ultimate hunk. People magazine had recently voted him the sexiest man alive, and Helen Gurley Brown was talking to his agent about a Cosmopolitan centerfold.
"Why don't we put Mary Beth in a teddy?" Alex, who was standing on the sidelines, suggested.
"It has to be white," the director warned. "White works best with moonlight and candles."
"How about ivory?"
He rubbed his chin. "I suppose that'll do."
"I've got just the thing. I'll be right back."
"Okay, boys and girls! Lunch!" the director shouted.
"Lunch," the assistant director echoed.
Alex turned to leave the soundstage when she suddenly came face-to-face with Zach's wife. "Mrs. Deveraux?"
Miranda nodded. "Ms. Lyons."
"This is a surprise."
Miranda's sharp gaze didn't miss Alex's discomfort. "Not a pleasant one, I take it."
Alex straightened. "I'm sorry if I sounded rude. It's just that this isn't one of my better days." Although the writers stayed the same, directors changed on a regular, sometimes weekly basis.
The one they had now seemed determined to make things difficult. He'd changed the clothing cues innumerable times, keeping her running a marathon back and forth between the soundstage and the costuming department. She wasn't the only one being worn to a frazzle. Alex had heard the hairdresser threaten to do something painful and probably anatomically impossible with her curling iron after he'd had her r
estyle Olivia's hair three times.
"I can see you're busy," Miranda said agreeably. "So, I'll be brief and to the point." She leaned forward, placing a manicured hand on Alex's arm. Her diamond wedding band glittered. "It's about my husband."
"What about him?"
"I want you to stay away from him."
She was now so close her breath fanned Alex's cheek. Her green eyes had turned flat and cold. Alex felt a chill race up her spine. "Your husband and I work together, Mrs. Deveraux. That's all."
"Don't try to lie to me, because I know what you're up to." Animosity etched vertical furrows next to Miranda's perfectly drawn lips. "First you insinuate yourself into Eleanor's life just like all the others—"
"All the others? What—"
Miranda cut her off with a furious wave of the hand. "You've wormed your way into my aunt's life. And now you're after my husband."
Her voice was low and controlled, but Alex would have been no more shaken if Miranda had suddenly begun to rant and rave. The fury she saw on Zach's wife's face and in her eyes was more frightening than any display of temper.
Miranda's fingers tightened on Alex's arm. Her nails dug deep into Alex's flesh. "You must understand, I can make things very difficult for you. And for Zach."
Alex knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Miranda was telling the absolute truth. "I'm not having an affair with your husband, Mrs. Deveraux," she insisted.
"See that you don't." Miranda's deadly smile reminded Alex of a shark. "Unless you wish to suffer the consequences. And believe me, dear," she said with silky menace, "the consequences of crossing me are not at all pretty."
Outraged that Miranda dared to show up at her work-place and threaten her, and concerned that the woman just might resort to physical violence, Alex was turned momentarily speechless.
Tension hummed between them, a living, breathing, thing.
"Alex? Is anything wrong?"
Alex could have kissed Sophie for interrupting.
"Nothing at all," she managed through lips that had gone as dry as dust. "Mrs. Deveraux is just leaving."
"That's right," Miranda agreed with the trademark public smile that had graced the glossy pages of Town and Country and Tattler on numerous occasions. "I'm already late for a luncheon date with my husband. And you know, Ms. Lyons, how Zachary hates to be kept waiting."
She loosened her death grip on Alex's arm. "I enjoyed our little chat, dear. We must do it again sometime soon."
"What the hell was that all about?" Sophie demanded, hands on her hips, as they watched Miranda Deveraux walk away.
Alex fought a shiver and wiped the dampness from her hands onto her poppy suede skirt. "She thinks I'm sleeping with her husband."
Sophie lifted a brow. "Did she actually threaten you?"
Alex shrugged and tried to tell herself she'd only imagined the fatal threat in Miranda's green eyes. That's what came from hanging around a soap opera all day, she decided. Life started looking like some stormy television drama.
"Not in so many words."
"Then why are you as white as new snow?" Sophie's expression was one of concern. "Perhaps you ought to talk to Zach about setting her straight."
"No." Alex released a deep breath. "I haven't done anything for her to be jealous about. And since I have no intention of having an affair with Zach everything will be okay."
But as she headed off again to retrieve the ivory satin teddy, Alex couldn't quite shake a lingering feeling of unease.
Six hours later, the taping finally completed to the satisfaction of the unrelenting, obsessive-compulsive director, Alex left the nearly deserted studio.
When she reached the Porsche, parked in her reserved spot—the spot with her name clearly stenciled on the concrete curb in bright white lettering—she found all four tires flat.
Alex was admittedly relieved when, as the weeks passed, there were no further incidents.
Immersed in the Blue Bayou collection, along with designing for the show, she worked even harder. After a run on the beach every morning, she'd settle down with a pot of coffee and her sketch pad. Lunch, when she remembered to stop and eat, was more coffee and a sandwich. Dinner often went ignored completely.
She slept little and ate less. Pounds drifted away unnoticed.
"What the hell are you doing to yourself?" Zach asked one rainy afternoon when she arrived at his office for a budget meeting.
He'd been away on a lengthy inspection tour of potential new building sites. She'd been both relieved and disappointed when nearly three weeks passed without seeing him. But now that they were finally alone Alex realized she needn't have worried about Zach trying to seduce her.
On the contrary, he was looking at her with something uncomfortably akin to horror.
"I have no idea what you're talking about." Exhaustion made her tone sharper than usual. A lingering cold she'd not been able to shake made her cough.
"When was the last time you looked in a mirror? You look like shit." Her peaches-and-cream complexion had the unhealthy pallor of paste, her unpainted lips were chalky pale, and her usually remarkable eyes were red-rimmed. Her cashmere cardigan sweater hung on her too-thin frame.
"Gee," she said in a saccharine tone, "thanks a lot. Anyone ever tell you that you're wonderful for a woman's ego?"
She ran a trembling hand over her red wool slacks. She'd worn the trousers with a matching sweater, hoping the vivid color would not only brighten the dreary day but add some color to her cheeks, as well. From Zach's disapproving words and harshly critical look, she guessed her ploy had failed.
"Didn't anyone ever tell you that the pale, consumptive look went out with Camille?"
"Wow, you are complimentary," she muttered. "Where's Eleanor?"
"In Santa Barbara. This lousy weather has her arthritis acting up. Averill thought she ought to stay in."
"Oh. So it's just going to be the two of us?"
"Got a problem with that?" he challenged softly.
"None at all," she lied. She thought about suggesting that his wife might, but didn't. "Let's get down to business."
As she struggled to keep her attention focused on the multitude of figures Zach kept flashing at her, Alex considered that there were times when her mind seemed every bit as foggy as the slate gray day outside the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows.
On more than one occasion lately, she'd walk into a room and forget why she was there. Or she'd dial the phone to ask Zach a question or share with him her latest idea, only to have the thought erased from her mind when his rich, deep, voice came on the line.
They'd be discussing the pricing of the Blue Bayou clothing, when her gaze would suddenly be captured by the sight of his fingers holding the sheet of lettuce-green ledger paper and all the figures would flee her mind, like dry leaves blown away by gale-force autumn winds.
But the past. Ah, Alex considered, as she found herself drowning in the glittering black depths of Zach's gaze, the past was an entirely different story! The past, most specifically her time in Louisiana with Zach, was crystal clear, sparkling with the brilliance of an alpine mountain stream.
She'd hoped time would have dulled her memories. She'd prayed she would forget how his touch made her knees weak, how his arms wrapped around her waist had felt so very right.
But despite her hopes, her prayers, her best intentions, everything about that distant, all too brief and frustratingly unconsummated romance remained etched on her rebellious mind in the same perfect detail as the facets on the Waterford crystal in the Lord's corporate dining room.
Alex's mind was spinning treacherously out of control. As she did too often these days, she found herself thinking terrible, uncharitable thoughts. She hoped for irreconcilable differences in their marriage; she wished that Miranda would run away with one of her many rumored lovers.
Sometimes, late at night, lying in her lonely bed, staring up at the ceiling, though she knew it was unforgivable, she imagined turning on the television news to
hear that the Concorde had crashed over the Alps, and although the crew had survived, the sole passenger—socialite and department store heiress Miranda Lord Baptista Smythe Deveraux—had tragically died.
She pictured herself rushing to Zach's side, offering her heartfelt solace. It was then that he'd tell her what she'd longed to hear—that he'd never loved Miranda, that the only woman he'd ever loved, would ever love, was her. And then finally, blissfully, he'd draw her into his arms.
Sometimes she'd picture them making love on the beach beneath a full white moon, or in a deep marble tub filled to overflowing with frothy white bubbles. Other times she'd imagine him undressing her slowly, reverently, beside a white-draped canopy bed strewn with snowy rose petals.
Yet another fantasy had them making love in a warm Polynesian lagoon behind a thundering waterfall, while the tropical setting sun turned the water a dazzling, blinding gold. The location changed, but the words and the exhilarating feelings were always the same. Alex knew her fantasies were horribly wrong. Even sinful. But she couldn't help herself.
"Alex? Are you all right?"
Zach's deep, concerned voice made her realize that her mind had been drifting again. "I'm fine. Can we just forget about me and get back to work?"
He frowned, but having already discovered that Alex's tenacity rivaled even Eleanor's, he decided there was no point in wasting either time or her obviously depleted energy by arguing.
"I've decided to use the Brooklyn factory for production."
Such news should have made her ecstatic. All she could manage was a nod, which she regretted when the movement sent rocks tumbling around inside her head. "I'm glad," she said quietly. Too quietly, Zach thought.
"That's about all I have for today," he lied. Actually, he'd wanted to question her about going over budget again on trim for the lingerie line, but looking at her pale face, he decided any discussions about whether or not she'd really needed all those ostrich feathers could wait.
"Well, that didn't take long."
Alex didn't bother to hide her relief; she'd half expected to receive a reprimand about the gorgeous feathers she'd bought for Tiffany's negligee set. Eager to escape the office before he mentioned her little extravagance, she stood up too fast.
