The Rich Shall Inherit (54 page)

There was a mysterious room with black-lacquered walls and satin sheets chosen by a dusky-eyed beauty from Tunisia, who, it was said, had brought with her the ancient secrets of centuries of the harem. Mafelda never smiled, but her large slumberous dark eyes would sweep as hotly over a man as a desert wind, as though she couldn’t wait to explore the secrets of his body. Mafelda had dark hennaed hair and smooth bronze skin and she had a ritual, before making love, of massaging her man with scented oils, smoothly rubbing and squeezing every part of his body, lubricating and retreating, until he burst with desire. And then she would take him like a wild lioness in heat.

Magda was a haughty Hungarian girl with elevated cheekbones, a passionate cruel mouth, and a mane of blond hair, who claimed to be descendeed from royalty and who always wore long white gloves, even when she was making love. She had an opulent white lace and dark blue satin room where she held court, tossing her satin slippers from her perfect slender feet and commanding the man to kiss them, pushing him back arrogantly with her foot when his hand slid eagerly upward from her slender
ankle, to her silken calf, to her warm thigh … She would command him to apologize and then make him prostrate himself at her feet before she would permit even the smallest caress. To make love to Magda was a privilege that few men actually achieved, but those who preferred her methods were satisfied with their particular rewards … that same haughty satin-shod foot on their private parts was enough to fill their cup of ecstasy.

Villette’s room had a small stage lined with mirrors where she could watch herself dance. Villette was a flamboyant exhibitionist, a peasant girl with the body of a Venus who liked nothing more than to display it. Villette wanted to parade for a man—or men, because for her the more the merrier. She would dance for them, removing each chiffon veil from her wonderful alabaster curves and dragging it, still warm and scented from her flesh, across their faces and their bodies, slowly, tauntingly, until at last all was revealed. It could be said that Villette was more in love with herself than any man, but every man adored her “performance.”

And then there was Chloe, who was slightly older and whose ample curves held a motherly charm; and Belkis, whose huge waiflike dark eyes and small-breasted, tight-buttocked body had a gamine appeal; and there were Martina and Floquette, who always liked to work together, and who knew each other’s bodies as intimately as they knew their own, and who loved each other simply as sisters. And the special Véronique, who understood how to find out a man’s secrets, and how to make his fantasies come true. There was someone to suit every taste at Numéro Seize.

And, of course, the woman all the men secretly coveted was the mysterious and beautiful Poppy. She was always there to greet them, always dressed in gray and always with a smile in her alluring bright blue eyes. Poppy was the success of Paris. Who she was and where she came from were the questions on everyone’s lips, but they were questions that went unanswered. Poppy remained a charming enigma, always friendly, always smiling—and always alone.

It was a bitterly cold night in February and fires blazed cheerfully in all the rooms, filling the house with the comforting scent of applewood, while outside the snow and slush piled up on the sidewalks. Few people were out on the stormy streets and the great salon was quiet, just the sound of one of the girls playing
Mozart on the piano, and the muted hum of conversation from the dining room where a few gentlemen were enjoying a meal and talking business, and the click of billiard cues from the library.

Poppy busied herself at her desk, running her pen over long columns of figures, assessing each month’s income against the past and nodding approvingly. She glanced at the little silver clock on her desk. It was eleven-thirty p.m. and she sat back in her chair, yawning and running her hands wearily through her hair. She hadn’t had a day off since Numéro Seize opened two months ago; she was exhausted, and afraid of what she was doing, though she never allowed it to show—except when she was alone, as she was now. If there had been any small glimmer of hope in her heart that maybe someday she might go home again to the Rancho Santa Vittoria and be forgiven, it was gone. She had burned her bridges to her past and her future was as Paris’s smartest—and one day richest—madam. But even though she tried to tell herself that her girls were like Netta and that they would have been selling themselves anyway, reassuring herself about how much better off they were working for her, she knew it wasn’t right. But she told herself wearily that there was no one who cared what she did, or didn’t do, anymore. Only Luchay.

Nevertheless, Numéro Seize was an undoubted success. It would be a while before she recouped the initial investment, but with the deliberately high membership fee that also served to keep the club exclusive, it wouldn’t be nearly as long as she had feared. Of course, her overhead was enormous—but so were her prices, and she’d found out soon enough that the more expensive things were, the happier the customers were to pay. They seemed convinced that anything that cost so much must be good. “And in our case, it is,” she said, yawning again, so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t hear the door.

“Well, and how is my business partner?” a deep masculine voice asked. Her eyes flew open and she stared, shocked, at Franco Malvasi.

“You
look at me as though I’m a ghost,” he laughed, “but I assure you I am real. Here, feel my hand, it’s cold but the pulse still beats, the blood still flows in its veins.”

“I wasn’t expecting you …” Poppy stammered, at a loss for words. Her heart was thudding and she felt both excited and nervous at the same time.

Franco tapped his cigarette against his silver case.
“Permesso?”
he asked, and then, frowning, said, “No, of course not, I remember you don’t allow anyone to smoke in your rooms.”

He was wearing evening clothes and Poppy thought his hair looked grayer, contrasting even more sharply with his still-young face, which was marked deeply with lines of worry and tension. She noticed, fascinated, the fine dark hairs along the back of his hand as he placed the cigarette case on the table and took a seat opposite her.

“Do you like the house?” she asked, rearranging her ruffled hair anxiously. “I’m afraid it cost an awful lot of money, but you said, ‘Think grand.’”

“Never be afraid of spending money on a good investment,” Franco told her coolly, “as I’m sure you know from the ledgers in front of you; the figures are already very good for such a young business.”

“I’m so glad,” she replied, sighing with relief, “you can’t imagine how many nights I’ve lain awake wondering why you never came to see me. I thought you must be angry, or that you’d lost interest.”

Franco closed his eyes for a moment so she wouldn’t read his expression. What other woman would have confessed her thoughts so innocently? In his world, every word that was uttered was fraught with dangerous hidden meanings; nothing was what it seemed. Poppy’s guilelessness filled him with tenderness. He curbed his desire to take her in his arms and tell her that he’d thought about her every single day for months; that he’d paced the floors of his villa in Naples, smoking cigarette after cigarette, wondering what she was doing, and telling himself that he mustn’t go to her, it wasn’t time yet. He wanted to tell her that he’d dreamed of having her in his arms so often, he almost knew how she would feel, how she would respond to his love-making….

With a great flutter of wings Luchay flew from his golden perch and settled on the desk between them, crouching low and glaring balefully at Franco.

“I’m not sure that your parrot likes me,” he said with a smile.

“Of course he does. Luchay is very friendly.” Poppy picked up the bird, stroking his brilliant feathers gently. “He’s probably just hungry, that’s all. I hadn’t realized it was so late.”

“Then is it too late to ask you to have dinner with me?”

She bit her lip, embarrassed. “The fact is I made a rule never to have dinner with any gentleman here. If they see me dining
with you, they’ll think I’ve changed my mind and then they’re sure to get angry when I refuse to have dinner with them.”

Franco recalled the beautiful portrait of her he’d just seen hanging in the library for everyone to admire—and to covet—and he burned with a sudden savage jelousy as he thought of other men dining with her, flirting with her, seeking her favors. He shrugged coldly. “As you wish.”

“Of course, I could ask the chef to prepare something special and serve it in my apartment,” she suggested, blushing. “That is, if you don’t think I’m being forward inviting you there.”

“My dear Poppy,” he laughed, his heart flooding with relief, “you wouldn’t know how to be forward, that’s part of your charm.”

Poppy wasn’t sure whether it was a compliment or not, but feeling ridiculously pleased, she led the way to her suite of rooms. They were on the first floor overlooking a small courtyard garden and well away from the activities of the rest of the house.

Franco was surprised by the simplicity; there was none of the lavish opulence of the rest of the house here, though it was comfortable and pretty. Her only luxury seemed to be the pots of hothouse white gardenias whose subtle, heady scent lingered in his nostrils. A fire burned in the grate and next to the blue brocade sofa was a small table piled with books.

“Books are my escape,” Poppy said, following his glance. She hesitated and then added, “I want you to know that I didn’t spend any of your money on my own rooms. It didn’t seem right to think ‘grand’ in here. After all, no one sees it but me.”

He could have kissed her for those last few words, no one else came here but her. His Poppy was all alone, thank God, oh, thank God …. Picking a gardenia, he put it in his buttonhole.

She summoned a waiter and ordered an expert little dinner, selecting a wine from the list with a frown of concentration. Then she put Luchay onto his stand and gave him a small dish of seeds, turning to Franco guiltily. “I’m such a bad hostess,” she said. “I forgot to ask if you would like a drink.”

“No,” he said, “but I’d like you to come here and sit next to me. Tell me, how are you enjoying Paris? Have you made any friends?”

She sat beside him stiffly. “Friends?” she asked, frowning. “Only one, Simone Lalage. She was so helpful, I don’t know what I’d have done without her.”

He smiled. “Simone Lalage? Isn’t she a famous courtesan? I
wouldn’t have thought she was exactly the kind of person you would have chosen as a friend.”

“I didn’t choose her,” she said, and told him the story of how Simone had arrived unexpectedly on her doorstep just when she was despairing of ever meeting anybody, and how she’d helped her find her girls. “I’m so proud of my girls,” she told him, “they are all so nice, and so happy to be working in these wonderful surroundings. Most of them were on the stage, and when times were hard they’d drifted into … into relationships, or even onto the streets. Like me and Netta, they were living on just a few francs and hope. Through Simone they heard about Numéro Seize, and now here they are. They are so clever, when they dine with cabinet ministers they can discuss the latest political situation fluently, and when they dine with financiers, they can ask the right questions; and they know all the latest plays and books and fashions. So you see,” she said, searching his face for approval, “they are not just … not merely …” She touched her pearls nervously, unwilling to say the word
whores.

Franco tasted the wine, a Chateau Leoville Lascasse, nodding approvingly. “So,” he said, “then are you all set to make your fortune, Poppy? I wonder, how much is
a fortune
, to a girl like you?

“A fortune?” Poppy remembered Jeb’s story of how he’d won a fortune at the gaming tables in Monte Carlo, and how quickly it had disappeared, but she had no idea of how much it was. “A million dollars,” she hazarded.

“A single million? Such modest ambitions, Poppy, I expected better from you than that.”

She blushed angrily, glaring at him as he ate the salmi of pheasant; what did he expect her to answer, then, ten, twelve … twenty million? How could she ever hope to earn that kind of money, even with Numéro Seize a raging success?

“Investments, my dear,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “If you listen carefully, I shall tell you how to become a very rich woman. Not just one million, Poppy, but all the millions you’ve ever wanted. Naturally, it will take time, this is not just some get-rich-quick scheme, but in ten, twenty, thirty years you will be
very
rich.”

The delicious food and wine lay untouched as Poppy listened to what he was saying, leaning forward across the table, her chin propped in her hand, her eyes fixed on his face. Time ticked by, the candle spluttered, and a little maid came in to bank up the
fire, drawing the pale curtains against the snow falling steadily outside the long window.

When Franco had finished, she looked at him with respect. “It’s all so simple, the way you tell it,” she said, awed. “Is that how you made your fortune, then?” She sat back, startled as his smile faded. His face was masklike and suddenly he seemed like a different person.

“It’s getting late,” he said coldly. “It’s time I was going. Just remember my advice, Poppy, and one day you’ll be a very rich woman.”

She glanced nervously at him from beneath her lashes as she followed him to the door; one minute he’d been relaxed and smiling, the next he was cold and indifferent. She wondered what she had said wrong.

“Shall I see you again?” she asked quietly. He stared at her broodingly for a moment. “I hope so, Poppy,” he said. And then he opened the door and strode quickly away along the corridor.

She waited, hoping Franco would turn and wave good-bye, but he didn’t, and she closed the door with a sigh, wondering when she would see him again. She wished she hadn’t asked him such a foolish, personal question. She’d always avoided knowing exactly what it was he did, and despite what Netta had said, she was still convinced it could never be anything bad. Franco Malvasi had helped her when she needed it; why, tonight he’d even shown her a way to invest her money that would ensure her future. He was a kind man, and an interesting one, and she was suddenly afraid she found him very attractive.