The Garden Of Dreams. Sara Craven
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‘All is forgiven, then,’ Prentiss said lightly. He smiled at Lissa. ‘What do you think of our latest design?’
‘I haven’t seen it,’ Lissa glanced around. ‘Is this what the party is all about?’
‘My dear child,’ Prentiss took her arm, ‘you’ve been sadly neglected. What are you thinking of, Raoul? You keep this lovely creature exclusively to yourself, and you don’t even show her the reason for the celebration. Shame on you! Come, my dear.’
He led Lissa along the gallery, chatting amiably and calling greetings to people as they went. A small dais had been set up halfway along the gallery; and he paused. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Our latest—Bacchante.’
Lissa breathed, ‘Oh!’ She was looking at a cascade of material like a shimmering waterfall of green and gold, spilling endlessly on to the white carpet of the dais. Vivid splashes of colour like flames glinted here and there.
She turned to Prentiss. ‘It’s—fabulous. There’s no other word. But surely you don’t just put out one new design a season?’
‘Oh, no, we are not as exclusive as that,’ Prentiss smiled. ‘We show the full range privately to certain invited buyers. But one is always selected to show the trend we are following in any particular range of designs.’
‘I would love to see the whole range.’ Lissa’s eyes shone.
‘I’m sure it could be arranged,’ said Prentiss. ‘I’ll have a word with Raoul …’
‘Oh, no, please.’ Lissa flushed. ‘I wouldn’t dream of imposing …’
‘Nothing of the sort,’ said Prentiss. ‘She wouldn’t be imposing on anyone, would she, Raoul?’
Lissa realised he had come silently to stand beside them. She glanced up at him quickly and saw that he was looking amused.
‘She may certainly visit the design rooms if she wishes,’ he said. ‘But I hope you are not suggesting Bacchante for her, though, Max. It would kill her colouring.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ agreed Prentiss. ‘I was thinking more in terms of Midsummer Night—those deep blues, with silver undertones—against that hair, eh, Raoul?’
‘Merveilleux.’ Raoul Denis drew deeply on his cigarette and Lissa was aware that he was watching her intently, and felt a blush creeping into her cheeks.
‘Oh, please,’ she said, laughing a little nervously. ‘It’s too tantalising.’
Prentiss patted her hand. ‘Well, we won’t tantalise you any more, but if you do come—and I hope you will—make sure you see Midsummer Night—and Venetian Glass. Just ask for me, and I’m sure you’ll have no trouble getting in.’
Lissa looked at Raoul Denis inquiringly as Prentiss turned away. ‘Is security so strict?’
‘Of course.’ He glanced around. ‘There are security guards on duty now—to stop unofficial photographs mainly—but no one would guess. There have been times when our designs have been pirated. We take no chances now.’
Lissa stared at the material on the stand. ‘It’s quite beautiful,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s like the whole spirit of spring—golden and glowing and innocent.’
‘But with a touch of savagery underneath,’ her companion agreed a little mockingly. ‘Rather like a woman, wouldn’t you say, ma belle?’
The brilliant dark eyes flickered over her, lingering on her shoulders and the slender curves revealed by the deeply cut neckline. Lissa had an overpowering urge to pull the edges of her dress together over her breasts. In spite of herself her hand went up, and brushed against the hard unfamiliar shape of Paul’s brooch. It gave her an odd sense of reassurance, and she forced herself to stare back at this disconcerting stranger, who seemed so bent on tormenting her.
‘Mr Prentiss is charming,’ she commented, keeping her voice steady. ‘Do you know all the people here?’
‘No, why should I?’
Lissa felt baffled. ‘Well, haven’t you come here to meet anyone in particular?’
‘No, it was a coincidence the design party being on this particular evening when I happened to be in London. I know the London house is being run well, so I need concern myself very little.’
Lissa could not keep sarcasm out of her voice. ‘That must be a great comfort to them. What precisely do you do that makes you of such importance, monsieur?’
‘I do very little,’ he said indifferently. ‘I am managing director of the French house, but that is nothing. It was my grandfather who was the important one. Fontaine was his creation, which is why our family retains the controlling interest.’
Lissa said nothing for a long moment. Then she said quietly, ‘I must apologise, monsieur.’
‘Why? You could have had no way of knowing. Apologies are unnecessary.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I think we have done our duty here. It is time we were leaving for the theatre.’
Lissa would have liked another drink, several drinks in fact to nerve herself for the rest of the ordeal ahead, but instead she murmured, ‘Yes,’ submissively and allowed herself to be steered to the door, where her coat appeared as if by magic. She waited for a moment while Raoul Denis made his farewells, then they walked together towards the stairs.
‘I have arranged for us to take a taxi to the theatre,’ Raoul Denis said.
‘But why aren’t we going in your car?’
‘I prefer not to cope with your English parking problems. I’ve ordered it to meet me at your appartement later tonight,’ he said. ‘We will have dinner after the theatre.’
Lissa’s heart sank. She had intended to plead a headache after the theatre, and leave him to his own devices for the rest of the evening. But it looked as if she was going to be robbed of her early night, after all.
‘Courage, ma belle.’ Was she just imagining that note of malicious amusement in his voice? ‘The night is yet young.’
Eternal would be a better word, Lissa thought, as they walked through the glass doors into the coolness of the early summer evening.
TO Lissa’s amazement, Raoul Denis seemed to undergo a kind of sea-change as the taxi drew away from Fontaines. He did not plague her with any more barbed remarks as they sped through the West End, and when he mentioned the play he had selected for them to see, she was delighted.
‘That’s wonderful!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve been wanting to see that for ages.’
She had tried to persuade Paul to go with her on several occasions, but he claimed that straight theatre bored him, and he preferred the intimate cabarets in the night clubs to which he usually took her.
It was an excellent production and the play itself was stimulating and thought-provoking. During the interval, Lissa found herself in the bar and realised with a start that she and Raoul Denis had been arguing for fully ten minutes about the effectiveness of the confrontation between two of the major characters which had led to the first act curtain. She also realised that during this argument she had totally forgotten how much she disliked him. She faltered with what she was saying and looking up, found he was laughing, and wondered uneasily if he could read her thoughts.
‘Have another drink,’ he said. ‘Yes, we have time. The bell hasn’t gone yet. I think that little one who plays the daughter has a future, don’t you?’
Lissa, sipping her vodka and tonic, agreed.
‘Do you go to the theatre much in Paris, monsieur?’ she asked.