Parisian Affair (5 page)

She took a final glance around and caught
sight of a catalogue from Dufour, the auction house in Paris, that
she'd placed atop a stack of magazines and catalogues to go
through.
Magnificent Jewels
, the catalogue was titled. She
picked it up, deciding that she would flip through it while having
a bath. Taking a final glance about the workroom, she was satisfied
that everything was in order. She turned off the lights and went
through the doorway into her living quarters. In the tiny kitchen,
she stopped at the 1950s vintage refrigerator and took a bottle of
Stolichnaya vodka out of the freezer. She poured three fingers into
a glass and took it to the small bedroom with her.

She put the vodka on a bedside table, then
went to the closet, where she began riffling through her dresses,
sliding hanger after hanger back across the rod, slamming one
against the other, hoping that she would see
something—anything—that would be appropriate for tonight and lift
her spirits at the same time.
Black, black, black
, she
thought. My closet is awash in black. Like so many of New York's
most fashionable wardrobes, hers had an elegant, if somewhat
funereal, air about it.

Then she saw it.
The
dress. She'd
forgotten she had it, but it was perfect for tonight. A
long-sleeved, Empire-waisted baby-doll dress by Gucci, with a
see-through panel at the bodice and cut up to
there
. So
right with her long, slender legs. And black.

Oh, well
, she thought
. Nobody's
seen me in it yet, and it's sexy and looks great on me . . . and
with my jewelry
.

She took it out of the closet and hung it on
the door, then reached up to the shelf and took down the box that
held her Christian Louboutin stiletto-heeled shoes in black velvet
with wide satin ribbons that tied in a big bow at the ankle. From
one of the jewelry boxes on her dresser, she took out black diamond
earrings and their matching necklace and bracelet. She'd chosen the
stones herself and designed the pieces; then Jason had made them.
They weren't her favorite stones, by any means, but they were
enjoying popularity right now, and she reasoned that they were a
good advertisement for her work.

She held the necklace against her chest and
looked in the dresser mirror.
Perfect
, she thought. It had a
pear-shaped pendant that she would let rest
behind
, rather
than atop, the sheer panel of her bodice, rendering it mysterious
and hopefully capturing attention. The combination of the stone's
dark glitter and her own ample cleavage should do the trick.

After a hot soak in Kiehl's foaming muscle
relaxant—one of her favorite indulgences—she toweled off, carefully
applied makeup, then brushed out her long hair before dressing and
putting on her jewelry. Twirling in front of the full-length mirror
on the bedroom door, she decided that she looked great in the
outfit, and she felt refreshed after the bath. She had about
fifteen minutes before Todd was due, so she stretched out on the
bed and sipped the vodka.

Glancing around the room, she knew that,
despite the bad news today, she was lucky to have this wonderful,
if eccentric, apartment, with its small high-ceilinged rooms. She'd
furnished it primarily with her somewhat wacky flea market finds
and castoffs from friends, with a few choice pieces Todd found in
buildings he bought. It offered a refuge from the noise and
breakneck pace of New York City and her workroom next door.

The only problem with her cozy retreat was
that there was no one to share it with. Well, actually there was,
she reminded herself, but she still had mixed feelings about
Todd.

If only I knew that he's really ready to
grow up and pass up the constant temptations that are being thrown
at him.

She took another sip of the vodka. She knew
that her problems weren't exclusive to Todd's philandering. Over
the years, both before and after she'd met Todd, there had been
quite a few men in her life. She'd always had a boyfriend; then
when she'd found out about Todd's affairs, she'd extracted her
revenge by rushing headlong into short-lived and sometimes
self-destructive relationships with other men.

Some of them had been more meaningful
relationships than others, and a couple had actually held promise.
There had been Anthony, the charming, unbelievably handsome, and
alcoholic ex-model turned party promoter and club owner. Louis had
succeeded him. He was an ultrahip-looking but misogynist
up-and-coming painter who, like Anthony, was so self-absorbed that
she ultimately decided she was better off alone than being his
neglected chattel. Dickie, the darling, rich, and talented British
cartoonist who dabbled in body piercings and tattoos—and heroin,
she'd discovered to her chagrin—had followed Louis.

When she'd all but given up on the idea of
ever meeting a stable and mature man with whom she thought she
could settle down, she'd met Allen Bancroft, a preppy investment
banker. All pin-striped suits, sedate ties, shiny wing tips, neatly
clipped hair, and impeccably good manners to go with his impeccably
good schools, good family, and good friends, he seemed to be the
answer to her prayers. But she'd soon learned that beneath his
polished veneer, Allen was probably the kinkiest man she'd ever
met. His needs, when revealed, had revolted her.

She groaned aloud and slid off the bed. She
picked up her little black beaded evening bag, wishing now that
Todd were early.
Anything—or anybody!—to take my mind off my
dreary love life
. Then she amended the thought:
Make that
lack of a love life. I'll soon be thirty-three years old, without
any prospects except the unreliable Mr. Todd Hall
.

As if on cue, the intercom buzzed, signaling
that Todd was in the lobby. She started for the hallway to buzz him
in, when the telephone rang. She went over to pick up the receiver,
then thought,
To hell with it. I'll let the machine answer it.
I've had enough of the telephone for one day
.

'What did you find out, Sylvie?' Hilton
Whitehead asked his chestnut-haired assistant as he looked at her
from the doorway. Her office was located on the first floor of his
penthouse triplex on the Upper East Side. Through the glass wall
behind her, he could see the city lights reflecting off the East
River, and beyond the river the gleaming lights of Queens.

Sylvie looked over at him from behind the
highly polished burl amboyna and macassar ebony Ruhlmann desk at
which she worked. 'I got the machine, so I left a message.' Her
English held the merest trace of a French accent. 'But don't
worry,' she added, seeing his look of concern. 'I know Allegra, and
she'll get back to me very soon. She has my cell number and my
number at home, so if she doesn't get me here before I leave,
she'll get me on one of those. Okay?'

'All right,' he said, relieved. Although he
was anxious, he knew there was no reason to fret about this matter,
not if it was in Sylvie's hands. Sylvie Javelle was efficient,
trustworthy, and dependable to a fault, in addition to which she
was hip and chic. All angles, without an ounce of fat, she was not
what most Americans would call a beauty, with her flat chest,
prominent nose, huge eyes, and sharp jaw. But she compensated for
her physical imperfections with superb haircuts and makeup, and a
small but expensive and well-chosen wardrobe. She possessed a
certain élan, Hilton thought, that was unique to Frenchwomen.

'Are you leaving now?' he asked.

'In about two minutes,' she responded. She
looked over at him quizzically as she pulled a desk drawer open and
took out her Hermes Birken handbag, a major investment in French
craftsmanship.

'Why?' she asked in a flat voice. 'Has
something come up that you need me for?' The urge to ask the
question was irresistible, and she had to force herself to contain
the smile she felt. She knew there would be no more business to
take care of today, at least not in the office. Kitty the
Magnificent had swept in earlier on her stiletto heels and was
ensconced in the master suite.

'No,' he said, shaking his head, 'that's it.
I'll see you tomorrow.'

'Good night, Mr. Whitehead,' she said.

'Ciao, Sylvie,' he replied, closing the
office door behind him as he left. He bypassed the private elevator
and headed for the stairs up to his third- floor aerie.

When he was gone, Sylvie spritzed herself
liberally with JAR's Ferme Tes Yeux perfume, then picked up the
telephone and tapped the REDIAL button. One ring. Two. Three. Four.
Allegra's machine kicked in again, so Sylvie hung up.
Merde
,
she cursed silently.
I hope I get hold of her soon. I don't know
if she's going to love me or hate me, but I can't wait to tell her
what's going on
.

'Boring!' Kitty complained aloud. She flipped
the auction catalogue shut and tossed it onto the floor. She
couldn't imagine anybody in the twenty-first century who would be
interested in the ugly, expensive bric-a-brac pictured in the
Sotheby's catalogue.

She lay back against a pile of pillows on
Hilton's big bed, with its heavily padded leather headboard,
waiting for him to finish his business. Clicking her long,
manicured fingernails together, she sighed with impatience. She
reached for the crystal flute of champagne at the bedside and
caught the glint of the recently applied lacquer on her
fingernails. Pausing to admire the Bitter Chocolate polish, she
twisted her hand this way and that. She decided she'd made an
excellent choice. With its matching lipstick, it was not only the
latest shade from Dior, but it looked beautiful and sexy against
her pale honey skin. Satisfied, she took a sip of the champagne. As
she set the flute back down, she noticed another auction catalogue
on the table. This one was from the Galerie Dufour in Paris.
Magnificent Jewels
, it said on the cover.

'Now, that's more like it,' she said. She
picked up the catalogue and began leafing idly through it, scanning
the jewels and their estimates. Most of them, she thought, were
ugly. Grotesque even. Definitely too old- lady for her sensuous
thirty-four-year-old body. She could think of nothing she detested
more than old-fashioned jewelry. The kind that looked like it
belonged on the hideous, powder-faced old dowagers who populated
posh playgrounds for the rich and nearly dead like Monte Carlo. She
was about to toss the catalogue aside when her attention was
suddenly drawn to an emerald ring.

She spread the catalogue out on the bed and
studied the ring closely. 'Oh, my,' she whispered reverently. 'Now,
this is
my
kind of jewelry.'

In the photograph the enormous stone appeared
to be a rich, dark green, and its yellow gold setting looked very
modern, as if it had been created yesterday. It had been designed
not to bring attention to itself, but to show off the stone. And
while the ring itself was more than enough to make her body quiver
with avarice, it was the ring's provenance that made her begin to
hyperventilate with excitement.

Property of Her Royal Highness Princess
Karima
, the catalogue announced.

It need have said no more to whet Kitty's
ravenous appetite. She had followed the extraordinary life of the
princess—had idolized her even— since Kitty had been a child. She
knew that the legendary Arab beauty was the former companion of one
of the richest industrialists in Italy. She knew that the princess
had houses all over the world where she entertained royalty, the
richest international society, and a choice few of the merely
famous in a style so lavish that it was unequaled.

What Kitty hadn't known until this moment was
that the princess had decided to sell her jewelry collection.
According to the catalogue copy, Princess Karima had recently
embarked on a spiritual journey and wanted to devote the rest of
her life to charitable work. Thus, the proceeds of the sale were
going to her favorite charity.

Jesus Christ!
Kitty thought.
Spiritual journey! She must've gone completely over the top on
drugs. That's the only thing that could account for such a crazy
and dramatic change in the woman's life
.

She bit a Bitter Chocolate lip in
concentration as she gazed at the accompanying photograph of
Princess Karima. She still looked very ... attractive, Kitty had to
admit, but it was easy to see that she would no longer capture the
attention of the rich men who could afford her, unless one of them
happened to be fixated on screwing his mother.

Oh, my God. Serious wrinkles and sags, she
thought with disgust as she studied the photograph more closely.
Why doesn't the crazy bitch do something about them? She really has
gone totally nuts.

Kitty had no respect for a woman who didn't
take advantage of every cosmetic and surgical wonder available to
stave off the ravages of time. Didn't she herself already have a
daily regimen devoted to conserving and enhancing the beauty that
God in his generosity had seen fit to give her? Of course she did,
and it occupied a major portion of her time. It was work, but work
for which she was born and which bore a great return.

Her gaze was drawn back to the emerald ring,
a shimmering dark green even in the photograph. The stone was a
step cut, the emerald cut used to minimize loss of material. No
surprise there. And it was not flawless. Nothing remarkable about
that, either, since emeralds were rarely found without some sort of
flaw. What was unusual was that the catalogue mentioned an
'interesting' inclusion. Normally a fault in a stone was minimized
by the seller, and it certainly wasn't trumpeted as was the case
here.

What the hell was that all about? Kitty
wondered. Particularly since the estimated price was enormous. She
guessed that it was simply because Princess Karima owned the piece.
Even though it had a fault, there were a lot of women who would
kill to own a ring that had once graced the long, elegant finger of
the princess. She'd met more than a few rich women who obsessed on
anything that had belonged to Marie Antoinette and would spend
whatever asked—no matter how outrageous—to possess a
jewel-encrusted hair comb.