He trailed his fingers up her thighs in a seductive pattern that left her trembling. When he caressed her mound and played with the pale blond hair covering it, Miranda squirmed and arched her back, pressing against his hand.
Threading his fingers through the soft pubic curls, he began stroking her moist vaginal lips. “Tell me what you want,” he ordered, crazed to hear it. He’d never had an acquisitive streak. But from the first minute he’d seen her, he’d wanted Miranda. During these past five days, he’d discovered he was a greedy man. The more he had, the more he wanted.
“You, dammit,” she complained on a low moan that had nothing to do with surrender. “I want you.”
Zach kissed her deeply, tasting himself on her lips. Then he turned her in his arms, his hands spanning her waist, and with one swift, strong movement, lowered her onto him.
Naked flesh seared naked flesh as Miranda met his challenge; her pelvis ground into his, her white teeth nipped at his neck.
The ripe scent of passion filled the car; their bodies were hot and slick with it. Zach’s fingers dug into her skin, he suckled greedily on her breasts, and she felt a corresponding tightening deep within her.
She rode him relentlessly, up and down, harder and faster, demanding more and more until they crossed the finish line together. Exhausted, she collapsed against him.
They stayed together for a long time, neither having the inclination nor the energy to move. The only sound was their heavy, ragged breathing and the soft patter of rain on the roof of the limousine.
“I believe I’ve made a decision,” Miranda murmured against his chest.
“What’s that?”
She tilted her head back and smiled up at him. “After the Paris shows, I believe I’ll take a holiday in America.”
“How long a holiday?”
“I was thinking a fortnight. That would also give me an opportunity to examine all the new things you and Aunt Eleanor have been doing with the American stores. I’m always on the lookout for new ideas for the London Lord’s.”
Zach had already discovered that underneath Miranda’s patina of steamy sexual appeal lay a quicksilver brain. She’d been a driving force behind Lord’s couture boutiques, and although the deal with Debord had fallen through, she’d been lobbying Eleanor nonstop to give the avant-garde designer yet another chance.
“New ideas are the lifeblood of retailing,” he agreed mildly.
“And then, of course, there’s Auntie’s unfortunate friendship with Mrs. Kowalski. Someone has to help you keep an eye on her.”
Seeing through Miranda’s flimsy excuses, Zach enjoyed the idea that this unbelievably sexy creature was willing to cross an ocean for him—a former bayou brat who hadn’t worn shoes until he’d gone to school.
“I think,” he said, as he felt himself growing hard again, “that’s an excellent idea.”
Chapter Seven
Paris
Debord’s fall show took place late on a cold, rainy evening in July. Instead of the traditional runway, a huge wooden platform had been constructed over the Olympic-size pool at the Ritz Hotel. Seated around the pool, looking like so many judges at a diving competition, the world’s fashion herd had gathered to see if they would be writing the former wunderkind’s obituary. Like locusts, the rich and famous, along with thousands of buyers and thousands of fashion reporters, had winged their way to Paris. By the time the last model had twirled her way down the platform, these arbiters of society chic would either praise or bury the king of fashion.
They were, as always, prepared to do either.
No attempt had been made to protect celebrities from the omnipresent paparazzi. Seated in the front rows as many were, they were obvious targets, forced to put up with the hordes of photographers who ambushed them at point-blank range, camera shutters sounding like rain on a tin roof.
“Over here, Bianca,” they called out to the former Mrs. Jagger, hidden behind a pair of wraparound sunglasses. “Look this way!... Hey, Ivana, how about giving us one of those million-dollar smiles!” This too, was part of the ambience. The razzle-dazzle game of couture.
Also on hand were a trio of Saudi Arabian wives, properly draped in black for the occasion and accompanied by a phalanx of turbaned, grim-faced bodyguards who’d caused a stir when they’d refused to give up their daggers. From time to time the men’s hands would slip inside their dark jackets, ensuring that their automatic pistols were still nestled in their shoulder holsters.
In the pit around the platform the photographers stood on their camera cases for a better view. One enterprising photographer from the Baltimore Sun had brought along her own folding stepladder. When the trophy wife of a Wall Street trader continued to loudly complain that a photographer from a big Texas daily was blocking her view, he merely flashed her a snappy salute with his stubby middle finger and kept snapping away.
In the midst of all this sat Miranda and Eleanor Lord. Although one of the prized gilt chairs had also been reserved for Zach, he preferred to watch the show from the back of the crowd.
Backstage, chaos reigned supreme.
Trying to do ten things at once, Alex thought the hectic scene resembled the worst of Lewis Carroll’s Wonderland. The surrealistic Mad Hatter’s Tea Party, perhaps. Models in various stages of undress raced about like tardy white rabbits, hotly pursued by hairdressers who teased and spritzed, and dressers who tortured them into clothing no normal body could wear even as makeup artists wielded false eyelashes and stubby red pencils and complained that absolutely no one, dear heart, was holding still long enough to draw in a decent lipline!
Debord paced, barked orders and chain-smoked.
“Dammit, Alexandra,” he snapped, “you have put the wrong earrings on Monique! She is to wear the crystal teardrops with that gown. Not the tourmalines!”
He viciously yanked the offensive jewelry from the model’s earlobes, making both Alex and the model glad they were clip-ons. “Merde. Foolish girl! What am I paying you for?”
“Sorry,” she murmured, changing the earrings without pointing out that indeed, Debord himself had specified the green tourmalines. Three times.
On the other side of the curtain, their performances timed with stopwatch precision, sleek, sloe-eyed models glided across the platform beneath the unforgiving glare of arc lights.
“Numéro cinq, number five...Place des Vosges,” a voice announced as a trio of towering mannequins, clad in trousers and smoking jackets, done up in Debord’s signature black and gray, marched past the onlookers.
“Numéro treize, number thirteen...Jardins du Luxembourg.” This season Debord had chosen to name his collection after familiar Paris landmarks.
“Numéro vingt, number twenty...Palais-Royal....”
It was soon apparent to all assembled that this collection was more eclectic than usual. One of the smoking jackets boasted wide gold lapels, and a pair of jet trousers were shown with an eye-catching, beaded tuxedo jacket.
No one knew, of course, that the glittery additions had been Alex’s contribution. Since a couture line bore the name of the designer, assistants’ efforts routinely went unrewarded.
Alex had finally talked Debord into trying her silk dinner suit in some other hue besides black and gray. Although he’d steadfastly refused to make it up in her beloved amethyst, the burst of applause the suit received when shown in the rich ruby made her heart swell with pride.
“Turn for me, baby,” the male photographers called out, whistling flirtatiously as the model spun and twirled.
The familiar ponchos from last season returned, along with