Satin Dreams (8 page)

Through the glass she saw they had gone east on the rue de Rivoli to where the street became the rue de Fauborg, near the “little Bohemia” around the Bastille. Although the area was becoming more fashionable, it certainly was not in the same class as that of the Tour d’Argent, or Maxim’s, where Rudi Mortessier had assumed they would go.
 

“Shall I refill your glass?” Nicholas Palliades held the bottle of champagne out to her.
 

At that moment the Daimler slowed to a stop in front of a flashing blue and magenta neon sign that said LA VEILLE RUSSE. They seemed to be on a side street. Not a place one would look for photographers, the
bon chic-bon genre, tout Paris,
or anyone interested in high fashion.
 

“Never mind,” he said, putting the bottle back in its bucket at the bar. “We’re here.”
 

The name of the nightclub was La Veille Russe. That alone should have been a clue. The head waiter greeted them in a white, wolfskin hat and cossack uniform that matched the club’s decor of neon tube lighting, white plastic, and tufted magenta satin.
 

The head waiter—he could hardly be graced with the title of maitre d’—seemed to know Nicholas Palliades well. He guided them quickly to a table just off the dance floor. Alix looked around skeptically. La Veille Russe hardly resembled Old Russia, and it was a far cry from Paris’s authentic White Russian bistros like Dominique in the rue Brea, or the Pavilion Russe in Francois Premier. But to judge from the expensively dressed, mostly Middle European tourists loudly enjoying themselves, no one cared.
 

A magnum of champagne waited for them in a huge silver bucket, along with an enormous opened tin of Beluga caviar on a bed of crushed ice that was unaccountably tinted pink to match the tablecloth. From the way they were gathered around Nicholas’s table, it was obvious the staff of La Veille Russe was following a familiar routine. Alix suddenly knew why Nicholas hadn’t taken her to Maxim’s or any other fashionable place where they might be seen.
 

A balalaika band wearing the uniforms of the czar’s guard scurried over. The band members lifted their instruments, bowing and smiling as they launched into a Russian love song.
 

Alix stared at the pink ice and caviar centerpiece. La Veille Russe was obviously the place to go when you didn’t want to be seen by your circle of friends. When you were with a questionable date.
 

She wasn’t angry. But she wasn’t all that amused, either.
Caught in my own plot,
she thought. It was a strange feeling.
 

The cossack-costumed waiter yanked the Moet & Chandon Imperial Brut out of its ice bucket to open it. A large group of Swedish tourists in evening dress arrived at the next table carrying balloons for a birthday party. And a line of waiters paraded toward Nicholas’s table, ceremoniously bearing the first course of dinner: silver and crystal bowls of borscht.
 

Nicholas Palliades picked up his spoon. “It’s too bad couture-house models work so hard,” he said. His expression was impassive, slightly bored. “And make so little money.”
 

Alix glared at him. Nicholas Palliades’s sympathy for underpaid couture-house models tore at her heart. He probably thought a night out in a sleazy nightclub near the Bastille was going to fulfill all her dreams. She stared at the tattoo on his hand as he picked up his glass.
 

Unexpectedly, a vivid picture jumped into her head of a naked, lean, virile body. Alix was astounded. She had no idea why her imagination would pull such a trick. She took a large gulp of fizzy wine.
 

Something hard bumped against her lips, then rattled against the sides of the glass. She looked down into the crystal champagne flute.
 

There had been moments in her life when events had come into sudden, extraordinarily clear focus. Over the Atlantic, on her way to Paris, she’d looked down to see the unending gray ocean that led to France and it was almost as if her whole existence had come together in a burst of wonder; it was the end of everything old, all she was running from, and the beginning of everything new. There, at thirty-thousand feet in the sky, she’d known she would remember that moment all of her life.
 

Now, as she probed the champagne glass with her finger and pulled out a piece of diamond-studded platinum, she was feeling the same exhilarating sense of focus, but for different reasons.
 

Alix laid the earring on the pink satin tablecloth beside her plate. She wasn’t surprised; gifts like the one she’d just fished out of her glass went perfectly with the tawdry nightclub, the tin of Beluga caviar, and the rivers of champagne Nicholas Palliades had been trying to pour into her all night.
 

She knew she was supposed to squeal with delight.
 

Very slowly, she scooped the mate to the earring out of her champagne glass with her fork, not able to bring herself to raise her eyes to the man across the table who was watching her so intently.
 

The waiter had served her a glass of Moet & Chandon Imperial Brut with a pair of diamond earrings inside. Just the sort of ostentatious gesture you would expect of someone like Nicholas Palliades. She wondered suddenly if he would bundle her off in a taxi without the earrings if she turned him down.
 

She wasn’t going to turn him down, that was the whole point. The whole, ridiculous situation made her want to laugh. But she knew if she gave into the giggles welling up inside her, she’d ruin everything.
 

The earrings were pear-shaped, platinum pendants with small stones studded around a yellowish diamond of about two carats in each. A perfect gift for a date with a nightclub singer, or a struggling young actress. Or a poorly paid couture-house mannequin. If she had to guess, she’d estimate the earrings were worth several thousand dollars. Certainly not as much as the dress she was wearing.
 

“Perhaps I should have selected amethysts.” He was watching her closely; to her surprise, he actually sounded hesitant. “To match your eyes. They are an extraordinary color, you know.”
 

Alix knew she was expected to say something. Even the cossack waiter was standing by expectantly. “They’re...” Alix searched for the word. “They’re very nice.”
 

“
Nice?
” His black brows came down in a scowl. “They’re more than ‘nice.’ I chose them myself.”
 

She couldn’t look at him; her lips were quivering treacherously. “I—I don’t know what you want me to say.”
 

“Say the truth.” He was catching on now, and he didn’t like it. “We both know men are interested in sex,” he said between his teeth, “and women in money. Perhaps you would like something else also? A bracelet? A ring?”
 

Good Lord, but he was awful, she marveled. He was the sort of man who thought of fine wines, expensive cars, and beautiful women as equal pleasures. Bought and paid for, all of them. She knew the type.
 

Alix stared down at the bowl of beet soup that had been put in front of her. Nicholas Palliades was not only totally unacceptable, he was also exactly what she was running from. He was in the same league as the threatening men on the telephone, men who wanted to trap and imprison her. Men who spared nothing to get what they wanted.
 

“The earrings are fine.” She knew now it was stupid to argue. He, too, was the enemy. “For their purpose.”
 

“For their
purpose
?” His mouth flattened, displeased. “They are very nice earrings. The diamonds are real. I remembered that your ears were not pierced, so I selected clips.”
 

The cossack waiter took away Alix’s untouched borscht. Other waiters now advanced toward them bearing shashlik: bits of skewered lamb, onions, potatoes, and tomatoes doused with brandy set afire and impaled, incredibly enough, on real cavalry swords. They stood in a circle around the table with their fiery offerings while the balalaika players played and sang the Red Army song “Meadowland.”
 

“A gift wasn’t necessary.” She had to raise her voice to be heard. “Besides, they’re too—expensive.”
 

He ignored the elaborately flaming display going on around them. “I don’t expect a woman to go to bed with me and get nothing in return.” When she stared, he went on grimly, “And I am very rich, as you undoubtedly know.” He lifted a finger to point. “Put them on. I want to see how they look.”
 

Alix slowly dried the earrings on her napkin.
 

It wasn’t funny anymore. It was war, and he seized every advantage.
Bang!
“I don’t expect a woman to go to bed with me and get nothing in return.”
Bang!
“Men want sex and women want money.” Her redheaded temper simmered. Was this his personal philosophy? Or had he just read it somewhere?
 

Alix clipped the diamonds to her ears.
 

He studied her, surveying the effect of the jewels against her hair, her creamy white skin, and the glittering green dress. “Don’t sell them,” he said curtly. “If at any time you need the money, I will buy them back from you.”
 

The waiters had put out the fires and were busy emptying sizzling meat and charred vegetables onto their plates. “You don’t have to buy them back,” Alix said faintly. Russian food was not one of her favorites. “I won’t sell them.”
 

The black wings of his eyebrows arched again. “On the contrary. I know how these things go with you girls at the couture houses.”
 

Alix put down her fork and counted to three. “Rudi Mortessier has been very good to me,” she said evenly. This man really was impossible. “I really don’t need expensive presents.” She couldn’t afford to have any complaints filtering back to Mortessier’s. “And Rudi’s generous. He lent me this dress to wear tonight.”
 

“Rudi can afford to be generous.” He smiled sardonically. “It’s good publicity.”
 

Alix gave up. Palliades wanted Mortessier’s best model, the lovely dress, the evening out with all that it implied, but he wouldn’t grant the couturier a simple publicity break. As she watched him cut his shashlik into small pieces, quickly and economically, she felt a rush of emotion that surprised her. He
was
the enemy. Their chances for getting through the evening were probably marginal.
 

He didn’t lift his head as he asked, “Are you happy working there?”
 

She hardly heard him, seething with very satisfying thoughts about what it would be like to bring this bad-tempered, spoiled Greek playboy to his knees.
 

“And the designer,” he added, “Gilles Vasse. He is happy working for Rudi, too?”
 

With an effort, Alix brought her mind back from thoughts of murder and torture. “What does Gilles have to do with it?”
 

“How does the designer Gilles Vasse feel about Rudi Mortessier?” He looked impatient. “Is there a bond there? Strong enough to keep Vasse with Mortessier? Are they lovers?”
 

She’d never heard that before. Alix managed a slightly reproving look. “Actually, I think Rudi gets on Gilles’s nerves. Gilles is young and talented and very ambitious. And Rudi—”
 

She stopped, suddenly wondering if Nicholas Palliades had hidden motives for taking her to dinner. Every designer in Paris had spies. And couture houses guarded their secrets jealously.
 

He waved away the overly attentive waiter. “You haven’t touched your dinner,” he observed.
 

Alix looked down at her plate. “I wasn’t hungry.”
 

Abruptly, Nicholas Palliades threw his napkin down on the table. “Then we will go.”
 

He stood up and tossed a thick bundle of franc notes on the table. The lavish gesture, not even calling for the bill, was a signal for the head waiter to rush up with Alix’s green satin coat. A squadron of cossack waiters crowded around as the band followed them, serenading them out of the restaurant and, unexpectedly, all the way into the street.
 

The chauffeur was waiting. He jumped out of the limousine and into the ankle-deep snow to open the rear door. The balalaikas launched into “Dark Eyes,” as Alix slid into the back seat.
 

The chauffeur closed the door and plodded through the snow to the driver’s side. Nicholas Palliades picked up the silver telephone. “Avenue Foch,” he ordered.
 

Alix turned in her seat to look back as the Daimler slowly and smoothly pulled away from La Veille Russe. The musicians stood on the sidewalk, their fur hats and shoulders thickly sprinkled with snowflakes, playing animatedly in spite of the weather. Nicholas Palliades had undoubtedly paid them well.
 

As the car picked up speed, Alix had a feeling that this was all so well-rehearsed that the balalaika band had probably stood like that, playing their romantic Russian tunes for Nicholas Palliades and his beautiful dinner partners, many, many times before.
 

Even though her methods were untried, her role unrehearsed, she was playing a game, too.