“Good girl.” He squeezed her hand lightly, felt her squeeze back. “I can’t believe he wants to keep you a secret.”
“In a truly twisted way I understood.” He heard the rustling of her clothes as she shifted against the leather seat of the limo. “He’s got this very stable position, he’s a business and social leader with a lot of influence in politics. He’s never told his wife or his children about me. I think he wants to protect them from the shock.”
“He wants to protect his own ass. What about you? What about what you want?”
She put her head against his shoulder for a minute. “Holden, you’re a good man to have on my side.”
“Is he going home?”
“No. And I’ve told him I’m staying in Paris.”
“Well, this should be fun.”
“Screw it. I am not letting him ruin my favorite workweek of the year. And speaking of work, I can’t wait to see what Daniel’s created. His shows are always outrageous.”
“I thought it was hats tonight.”
“Yes. But these are hats like you’ve never seen before. According to the promo stuff from his PR agency, he says he was inspired by the venue.”
“What does that mean? He’s going to re-create Impressionist paintings in millinery?”
“Could be. I pity the poor model who gets stuck with Monet’s haystacks on her head.”
“This I have to see.”
“And I’m looking forward to seeing this event through your eyes. Promise me you’ll give me all your reactions. Uncensored.”
“Honey, you get all of me uncensored.”
Her eyes lit with answering excitement and he could feel the heat on her skin as he slipped his hand beneath the heavy fall of her hair to cup the back of her neck. He kissed her softly, dipping in for a quick teasing taste of her mouth before letting her go.
“I am crazy about this place,” she said as they pulled up. Before exiting the limo, she whipped out a lip gloss from her bag and refreshed her lips so they were back to perfection and no one would ever know she’d been necking in the back of the car. He reached over and pulled out the travel pack of tissues he could see in the tiny bag, which he recognized to his own bemusement as Hermès, and used one to wipe the corresponding evidence off his mouth.
“Oh,” she said in irritation. “My fingernail snagged on my dress. Just a second.” And she pulled out a tiny compact that opened out into a full nail kit in miniature. Teensy file, scissors and a buffer. In a minute she had the nail fixed to her satisfaction.
“I’ve never seen anything like that before.”
She grinned at him. “I know. I got it as a gift in Japan. It’s the coolest thing ever. I carry it with me everywhere.”
When they walked into the crowded art museum, as luck would have it, almost the first people they saw were her father, her half sister and a blond, stocky dude who he would have placed as one of the plainclothes security guys if the man hadn’t had his hand linked with that of Claudia, Kimi’s sister.
He had a tough-looking face, nose broken at some point, muscles bulging beneath an Armani suit. Boring shirt that Kimi would never allow Holden to wear, and a burgundy tie. His pale eyes scanned the crowd and he had that watchful look that often marks ex-military and law-enforcement people.
At that moment, perhaps feeling Holden’s scrutiny, he glanced up, looked him over with indifferent gray eyes, then his gaze moved to Kimi. Holden saw his gaze sharpen. His reaction was barely noticeable. He looked at the woman by his side and then back at Kimi. For some instinctive reason, Holden moved closer to Kimi and slipped an arm around her shoulders. He guessed it was his means of signaling that this twin was his.
The guy said something to Claudia and then she glanced up. With a friendly smile and a wave, she pulled her fiancé’s hand and approached. Holden felt Kimi stiffen beside him and automatically glance to her father, but what was she supposed to do about her sister coming toward her?
“Hello,” said the woman who looked so much like Kimi.
“Hi.”
“This is my fiancé, Vladimir.” Then she paused, and giggled. “I am so sorry. I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Kimberley Renton.”
“Yes, of course, Kimberley.”
He almost felt the tension drain out of her body as she gave in to the inevitable. “My friends call me Kimi.” She shook hands with Vladimir, and then Holden found himself being introduced and shaking hands all around. In the surreal moments of his life this was right up there.
Vladimir was obviously thinking the same but he wasn’t going to say anything.
They were just heading toward an awkward pause when there was a collective gasp from all around and all eyes turned.
Kimi started to laugh.
Then he saw what had inspired the gasps and the laughter. A model was strolling through the crowd. She wore an unremarkable jumpsuit in black so her body was simply a frame, or a base, for the headdress that dominated her appearance. Her makeup was pale, lips whited out, but her eyes were done in wild colors, like stage makeup. The hair was a nest of tangles, and above the hair was the most monstrous headpiece Holden had ever seen. Basically, it was a birdcage. Black, wrought-iron and shaped in a bizarre oval that sat across the model’s head like—suddenly, Holden was smiling too. Like a train. Of course, the Musée d’Orsay was a former train station. Daniel had taken his inspiration from the art deco station itself, with its opaque glass ceilings, the black iron and glass. Inside the ridiculous hat—that must weigh a ton—fluttered a canary.
He’d be willing to bet that Tweety Bird had been asleep, a cover over its cage, and as they put the hat on the model, the cover had been lifted, because the little bird was flitting all over the cage, singing its heart out.
Applause began softly and as more and more models emerged, all with cages on their heads, decorated with feathers, flowers, fabric; one even boasted a clock face. Each cage contained a different bird, and soon birdsong built along with the applause.
It was insane. It was magical. Holden hoisted his camera and began doing what he did best. Capturing the elusive images with his camera.
He got the zing in his gut that told him he’d aced a shot when he snapped a sumptuously well-dressed woman feeding a bright blue parakeet a bit of bread through the cage, while the model obligingly tilted her head down to make the feeding easier.
He had that feeling, the sense of weightlessness he occasionally experienced when he knew he’d nailed a photo.
He turned and almost bashed into Brewster Peacock, who looked at him with a calculating expression. “Good shot.”
“Thanks.”
“I’d love to have something like that to go with my column.”
Holden had been propositioned for photos before. It happened. In the same way journalists sometimes scooped their own paper to make a bigger deal, so had photographers been known to sell a money shot to an outfit other than the one they presumably owed loyalty to.
Holden had never had any respect for those guys, or for the people who bought their stuff.
“Thanks. You’ll have to talk to Kimi about my photos.” He gave a mock salute and went to find Kimi.
She was in a corner, scrawling notes. “Can you believe this?” Her face was shining with excitement. “I want to file a story tonight for the online edition.”
“I’ve got some photos that you should see.”
“Let’s go.”
As they headed out to the limo, he briefly told her that Brewster Peacock had tried to steal his photos. She thought that was almost as funny as a hat designer sending a bunch of models out with birdcages on their heads.
They were almost at the limo, when a voice hailed Kimi. It was Brewster.
“Kimi, darling. Leaving so soon? I want to talk to you.”
She waved him away. “Call me tomorrow.”
“But it’s important.”
“I’ve got a story to file.”
“So do I,” he called b
ack. Something about the way he said it made Holden turn and glance at him sharply, but the man in burgundy silk was already turning away.
As they piled into the back of the limo, she said, “But his story won’t have the greatest photos in the history of fashion.”
She leaned forward and kissed him passionately. “Your pictures are going to be fabulous. We’ll save the best for the magazine, but we can put a couple of not-so-fab ones with my online piece.”
“You haven’t even seen the proofs yet.”
She kissed him again. “If Brewster wanted to steal your stuff, honey, you nailed it.” Not, perhaps, the greatest accolade he’d ever had, but he’d take it.
Perhaps she realized she’d been less than complimentary, for she kissed him again, longer and deeper this time. His head was swimming when she drew away. “Tell you what, after we file our stuff, we can do anything you want.”
As incentive, that was irresistible. “Anything?”
She wrinkled her nose, staring at him. “Anything, except that I have veto power.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Has anybody ever told you that you are a control freak?”
“More than one.”
This time, he kissed her, letting her know that control was a two way street.
“SOME MIGHT CALL Paris milliner Daniel LeSerge bird-brained,” she began, trying to evoke the atmosphere of tonight’s show at the same time she described the outlandish creations. Couture week was often more about costume and drama than wearable clothes, and no one embraced the notion of fashion as spectacle better than Daniel, she thought as she typed frantically, one eye on the clock. If she could get her story and Holden’s pictures filed by midnight they’d be among the first in the world to get the story out. Even though writing for the magazine was the biggest part of her job, keeping an online presence was growing in importance. Besides, she loved the immediacy of those pieces.
It was silent in her suite but for the clack of her fingers on the keyboard and the rustling of pages as she checked the notes scrawled in her notebook.
By eleven she was finished.
She read her work over, tweaked it a little and then she was done.
Five minutes later, Holden knocked on her door. “Well?” she asked as she opened it.
A big smile and an even bigger kiss greeted her. “I printed off a couple of my favorites for you.”
She took a quick look and her body went to liquid. “Do you have any idea how horny I am right now?”
“No, but you could show me….”
She looked at the proofs and her arms came out in goose bumps. Maybe he thought fashion was a stupid waste of time but he hadn’t let his prejudice affect his photography. The photos were incredible. In the one he’d marked, indicating it was his choice to be sent on, he’d chosen a photo that made her laugh. A woman feeding one of the birds through the cage. He’d managed to make the image humorous but he’d also captured the sense of whimsy in the birdcage hats. “I’ll keep that one for the magazine. I like this one here, with the feathers waving as she walks, and the Picasso in the background.”
He presented it to her.
In five minutes, the pictures and text were on their way to New York.
“Okay,” she said, stretching. “I’m yours.”
“Good,” he answered. “Because I have ideas.”
“What ideas?”
“Trust me.”
There was a pause. A silent tug-of-war took place. “Okay.”
He grinned hugely. “Grab a sweater and come on.”
“A sweater?”
He shrugged. “Something for the night air.” He looked at her more carefully and she thought he was having ideas she couldn’t fathom. “Sweater, jacket, blanket. Whatever.”
“Why?”
“Because Paris, nighttime and you together give a man like me ideas.”
“Why are you bringing your camera?”
He was probably the most exciting man she’d ever been with—no, he was definitely the most exciting, and the most unpredictable. His eyes were full of lust when he looked at her. “I’m a photographer. I might see something I want to take pictures of.” His words licked at her skin so she felt like she might ignite, light up like Paris on Bastille Day when it exploded in fireworks.
12
WITH A STRONG SUSPICION she was going to enjoy herself, Kimi walked to her bedroom, threw a black cashmere pashmina into a straw carryall and swapped her heels for a pair of ballet flats.
She felt the bubbling excitement of a woman who after turning in a great article, complete with first-class photos, was now taking a couple of hours off.
Of course, there were parties all over town she could attend if she wanted to stay up all night, but she had a feeling she was going to have much more fun at the private party Holden was arranging.
“Let’s go.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Do you want me to call the car?”
He shook his head. “No car.”
“Okay.”
They took the elevator downstairs. She noticed he had nothing with him but his camera case.
“Any hints where we’re going?”
“I’ve never seen Paris by night. I thought you could show me.”
“Paris by night? You want your own private tour?”
“That’s right.”
“I think we should start by strolling along the banks of the Seine. So American in Paris. There’s a moon, so it will be romantic.”
“But—”
“No buts. You asked for my help. If you want to see Paris by night, you start on the water.” She took him by the hand and they walked along the Seine, where the tourist boats and bateaux mouches were docked.
She imagined all the lovers who’d walked this stretch of river arm in arm. Some destined for a lifetime together, some to end in tears or tragedy.
The night was glorious. The skies were clear, the air crisp but not cold and the Seine glided by like a skater, silent and smooth. They approached a bridge.
“Wait,” he said as she started to walk along the pathway that would lead her underneath the stone passageway. She glanced up to see him shrugging his camera bag off his shoulder and opening it.
“I’m not a model.”
“Tonight you are. You are my personal muse. My inspiration.”
“I’ve never been anybody’s inspiration before,” she sighed. “What do you want me to do?”
“Stand by the bridge.” He indicated where the solid stone foot of the bridge rested. “There.”
She walked over. There wasn’t a soul around. The walkway was lit, but dimly, so she still felt the effect of the moon and stars.
She stood leaning against the post and faced him.
He fiddled with the camera then huffed. “No, no, no. I’m not looking for a cheesy tourist shot. Stow the ‘here I am in Paris, having a wonderful time, wish you were here’ grin.”
“Tell me what you want,” she said in frustration.
“I want Paris. I want the mood. This is supposed to be the city of love. Give me love. Give me romance. At least give me sex!”
“You want sex?” She snapped. “Fine, I’ll give you sex.”
She opened her blouse, not very far, but far enough that she knew the mounds of her breasts would show. She pushed her hips forward and hiked up her skirt. She tried to imagine she had something to sell and he was a stranger, walking along the banks of the Seine looking for it.
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “That’s it. That’s great.”
He came closer. She heard the click of the shutter, the snap of photo after photo. She was annoyed enough that she knew her disdainful expression would come through. It kind of worked with the idea she had, and his enthusiastic clicking of the camera was a bit of a turn-on.
“Now, slowly, undo one more button. And look at me when you’re doing it. Slowly, remember.”
She glanced up at him from under her lashes, felt the heaviness in her
breasts and knew her nipples were blossoming under his gaze and the soft breeze. She brought her hands to her chest, and slowly, slowly, slipped another button free.
“Holden?”
“Yeah,” he answered, his voice husky.
“Aren’t you supposed to take my picture?”
A moment passed and a look of stunned disbelief crossed his face. “I forgot.”
“Then I’d better do it again,” she said softly, and slipped another button free. This time he was ready with the camera, coming closer, moving around her.
“Oh, you’re good. You’re gorgeous,” he said as he snapped.
She almost expected him to name a price, but instead he gave her a huge grin. “Okay. Where to next?”
“This is Paris. Let’s go up the next set of stairs and see where we end up.”
“Fantastic.”
She knew exactly where they were, of course, but it was fun to keep him guessing. She started to do up her buttons, but he stopped her. “Put on your sweater.”
Without a word, she withdrew her pashmina and wrapped it around her torso. The cashmere was soft against her overheated skin.
Climbing up from the riverbank to street level, they were greeted by the Eiffel Tower, glowing ahead of them. “Wait,” he said as she headed closer, across the bridge. “I like the view from here.”
“All right.”
“Lean forward and contemplate the tower,” he instructed her.
She glanced at him over her shoulder, then did as he suggested. “Nice. Don’t move.” He came up behind her and she felt the shifting of her skirt.
“What are you—”
“Shh.”
She felt the fabric shift against the bare skin of her thighs, rising, rising. He didn’t touch her, but left her open to the elements, the sky, the soft breeze, the murmur of the river below them. His warm hands ran down her thighs and gently parted them. It was all she could do not to moan.
Anyone could come by at any moment. There was traffic, people looking out of windows.
He stepped away. She could only imagine how she looked, fully dressed, but with her skirt flipped over her hips, her legs parted to show her lacy underpants. Pale-blue lace threaded with ribbons of silk. Her body felt heavy against them, already urgent with desire.
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