Heirs Book Two: American Lady (15 page)

Next was a sporty ski outfit – water, wind
and cold resistant ski pants in sparkling white overlaid with a
huge, sloppy fair-isle sweater that sparkled with gold and silver
thread. This time she thought the outfit was too ordinary and threw
it on the discarded pile with the others.

A turquoise moiré jacket, edged with silver
beading and held together with two oversized silver buttons over a
plain, very tight black silk skirt followed. Not bad, she
conceded.

A body hugging black jersey dress, topped
with a cropped leather jacket in gold and black geometric designs,
and a mailbox blue jacket with strong shoulders, cut almost to
mid-thigh over smoky gray, shaped jersey pants composed the last
two sketches. Both jackets were shaped to emphasize wasp-sized
waists and despite the huge shoulders were strongly feminine. Nikki
liked them both.

Contemplatively she flipped through all the
sketches again, undetermined whether she liked his style or not. It
was certainly different from Giancarlo’s and that meant they were
outfits she wouldn’t wear herself. But women weren’t buying her
style any more. The sketches were definitely aimed at a much
younger demographic. When she imagined Charley wearing the outfits
instead of herself, she conceded grudgingly that they did have
potential. Very well, Paris it was. It would tie in nicely with the
planned trip to Cannes. Right next to Altobello.

Anxiety clenched her neck and shoulder
muscles in an iron fist. Nikki rose from chintz comfort to pace
agitatedly around the room. She paused only to grab her vodka
glass, swilling the liquid meditatively around and around.

Charley’s glowing happiness and constant
chatter about Maixent and his family had grated on Nikki like
fingernails on a board, digging their way into the past. Panic
drove her to lash out at Charley, blaming her for falling in love
and Lorenzo for introducing Maixent into their lives.

At first Charley had accepted Nikki’s
criticism and sniping with puzzled, unhappy eyes. After two days
she had begun tentatively defending her relationship with Maixent
and after three she was retaliating with her own censorious remarks
on Nikki’s life. Afraid that the two of them were cutting their
relationship to ribbons, Nikki had hightailed to Palm Beach. But
she couldn’t hide from Charley forever.

Going to France provided the perfect excuse
to contact Leigh to arrange a heart-to-heart. The situation between
Maixent and Charley had to be discussed and resolved before their
news leaked to the public.

Before she lost her nerve, she picked up the
phone and punched in the number that Charley had left with her to
connect her directly with the Spring Palace switchboard. She was
finally put through to Leigh’s secretary and after a few minutes of
frosty French runaround, Nikki finally snapped: “Tell Her
Illustrious Highness that Dominique Cassidy wishes to speak with
her on a matter of importance.”

Moments later Leigh’s voice came on the
line.

“Hello, Nikki.”

And just like that, the remembered voice
canceled thirty years of her life, leaving her feeling like a naïve
schoolgirl. She expelled a deep breath. No! No! No! I’m a mature,
sophisticated woman running my own business. People around the word
admire what I have achieved!

She gripped the receiver hard. “I’m going to
France next week, so I thought I could meet you in Altobello for
lunch. We have a lot of history to talk about.”

Now there was silence from the other end of
the line. Was she unnerved by her call? Or, having spent two weeks
observing their offspring fall in love had she been expecting it?
Nikki tried to picture the expression on Leigh’s face. She was sure
it would be inscrutable. Leigh was a master at giving nothing
away.

“Not Altobello. Where will you be in
France?”

“I’m going to Paris first then flying to
Cannes for the Festival.”

“Alright then. What if I make a booking for
us at Jamin in Paris? The food is out of this world, and best of
all it’s quiet.”

“Actually, I’d prefer noon next Thursday at
La Framboise,” Nikki insisted, determined not to let Leigh run away
with the upper hand. La Framboise was the famous garden restaurant
at the Ile de Paris Hôtel where they had last met in 1956. It
seemed appropriate for their discussion.

There was a reflective silence at the other
end of the line.

“If you insist,” Leigh snapped abruptly and
hung up.

Nikki put the receiver down with mixed
feelings of terror and relief.

* * *

Nikki met Griffin at the airport. Luckily
Nikki wasn’t fond of the Concorde because Lyric, to save money, had
booked them into coach seats on a Pan Am flight.

“Oh, that miserly little man,” Nikki moaned.
“I can’t sit in coach. I’d feel like a battery chicken.”

She approached the desk staff and upgraded
their seats to First Class. “Lyric can’t complain because these
seats are still cheaper than Concorde.”

“Bonus, even the john’s big enough to fit
into!” Griffin said ecstatically, pushing his seat into full
recline with a satisfied sigh. Nikki laughed at the sight of his
long frame stretched out comfortably, hands behind his head and
cowboy boots crossed on the footrest. “Dayam, we are going to be in
some deep shit when Lyric finds out.”

Once they were up in the air he pulled out
his sketch pad. Nikki had guiltily slipped him a copy of her
wedding gown which she had sneaked out of the American Lady office
without Giancarlo’s knowledge.

“What do you think of the design?” Nikki
asked curiously.

Griffin shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m just
looking it over. Your wedding will get coverage in all the major
American newspapers and probably a host of international press so
your dress is going to have to be a major fashion statement to make
the most of that free publicity. I know Giancarlo always designs
for you, but let’s face it for the last few years Nikki Cassidy has
been his only reliable customer.” Griffin frowned and pulled out
another drawing. Brazenly he handed it to Nikki. “This is my
version of your wedding dress.”

Gingerly she took the cardboard from him.
The dress was pale coffee colored satin and lace. The lace top
narrowed to a V over the opulent Swiss double satin skirt which
fell in soft folds to the floor. It was very tasteful, very
flattering and not at all what she had expected.

While she deliberated over the drawing, he
kept himself busy sketching lines across the page. Now he was
choosing colored pencils to shade in hues.

“I really like that purple jacket,” Nikki
glanced over his shoulder. “I showed your designs to Charley and
she loved them. I hope that’s a good sign.”

Griffin stopped in mid-line and looked up at
Nikki, boldly daring her to say something about his wedding
design.

“I thought you wanted me to make a big
splash at the wedding.”

“I do. But that doesn’t have to mean orange
sequins and bows,” Dillon countered. “The very understatement of
the style emphasizes the elegance of the fabric which translates to
the model.”

Nikki held the sketch out to him. “Okay, I
admit I like it. It has a freshness that I haven’t seen in
Giancarlo’s designs for awhile. But I don’t know how I’m going to
tell him.”

“Just wear one of his designs for the
engagement, that should pacify him.”

Nikki sniffed doubtfully, then pulled out a
sleep mask and a Danielle Steele novel that Charley had lent her
from her overnight bag. She would need something to occupy her mind
for the next few hours so she could stop dwelling on her impending
conversation with Leigh and hopefully fall asleep. Lord knows she
needed the rest.

Looking up from the opening chapter of the
novel she wedged her finger between the pages to save her spot.
“Griffin, Charley tells me your real name is Igor and you renamed
yourself at college. Since then I’ve been dying to know, how did
you end up with the name Igor Capizichi?”

Griffin lifted his attention reluctantly
from his sketch. “By having a Czech mother and an Italian-American
father. A complicated parentage filled with enough fireworks for
the traditional 4
^th
of July. Luckily I survived with
fingers and toes intact.”

The Ile de Paris Hôtel might not be rated the best
hotel in Paris any more, thought Nikki as the circumspectly
uniformed door man greeted her, but it still had an air of old
world elegance and conservative luxury that allowed it to remain a
grand hotel.

As she passed through the iron and gold
metal doors into the lobby where the walls were upholstered in
floral chintz and reminded her of her sofas at home, she felt
herself floating back in time. It was an eerie sensation. She had
not stepped foot in the hotel since that memorable December.

An unexpected view of her reflection jolted
her back to the present. Her pale pink linen suit with its cream
lace blouse flattered her complexion, but nothing could hide the
bags under her eyes big enough to hold her airline carry on
luggage. I look like I haven’t slept for months, thought Nikki.

At La Framboise the maître d’ escorted her
through the garden greenery, past carefully appointed overgrown
trellises which allowed anonymous dining for the white-gloved,
blue-rinsed ladies. The sky was filled with May sunshine. Outside a
fresh breeze chilled the day, but within the protective walled
environment of the restaurant the air was soft as petals against
her skin.

The maître d’ led her to a table with a
large jade and white striped umbrella to shade the diners and a
grille of ivy to protect their privacy. Leigh was already sitting
at the table. She wore an ice-blue silk dress with a softly flared
skirt and a colorful Hermès scarf around her shoulders. She looked
as cool and refined as her reputation painted her – the perfect Ice
Princess.

The perfect ice princess even in a crisis,
bundling up Nikki’s peignoir to stuff over Jean-Luc’s wounded chest
and soak up the blood. As if a movie reel was unfolding before her
eyes scenes from the past flooded her brain.

Shaking with adrenaline and fear, Nikki
stood looking at Jean-Luc’s blanched face. “Is he…is he dead?” she
whispered, not sure whether she was more terrified of a yes or no
answer – and ashamed to admit that her hopes were pinned to the
answer which would save them from the worst consequences.

“We don’t want stains on the carpet,” Leigh
said. “Pull yourself together and get me a towel.”

As always, Leigh was taking charge, giving
orders. Nikki had unfrozen her feet and moved obediently to grab a
towel, blocking out the sight of Jean-Luc’s lifeless form.

“Don’t stand gawping like a country hick.
Sit down,” Leigh snapped quietly, pulling Nikki from her
reverie.

Like a somnambulist, Nikki jerked back to
the present where a patient waiter stood attentively by her
chair.

“Would you like a drink?” The waiter
indicated a bottle of Clos du Bois Pinot Noir on the table.

“Yes, please.” She sipped the wine slowly,
wishing she’d had the nerve to order a vodka soda instead. How did
Leigh keep that frigid composure? Finally she placed the empty
glass on the table, but couldn’t stop fiddling with the crystal
stem.

“I think we should order before we talk. I
don’t want to ruin my appetite,” Leigh said coolly, with a nod to
call over the diligent waiter hovering at a circumspect
distance.

Leigh ordered poussin stuffed with foie
gras. Nikki ordered a seafood salad, hoping she could keep it down
because her stomach felt like it was being tossed around on the
English Channel crossing.

Leigh was studying Nikki from beneath
lowered lids so Nikki tried not to fidget as they waited for their
meals. During the silence she tried to gather her thoughts but
scenes from the past kept flashing before her eyes like developing
polaroids. Her hysterical laughter at the look on Jean-Luc’s face
as he realized he had been shot. The terrible ride through a
moonless night, Leigh driving and Nikki sitting in the back with
Jean-Luc’s head on her lap.

When their meals arrived Leigh took control
of the conversation, chatting easily in French about the
forthcoming Cannes Festival, asking her casually about Lorenzo’s
involvement because she had seen his name on the list of
nominations. And then finally they ordered coffee.

“Well, having prevailed upon me to make the
journey to Paris, do you want to tell me what this is all about?”
Leigh switched to English, holding her bone china coffee cup
between two hands and sipping gracefully.

Nikki felt like she’d been given a shot of
adrenaline, causing her army of high strung nerves to quiver in
anticipation as though they’d been put on high alert for an enemy
invasion. She was about to voice her concerns out loud and she had
no idea how Leigh would react. “Aren’t you the least bit concerned
that your son and my daughter want to get married?”

“You seem to be concerned enough for both of
us,” Leigh was still coolly flippant.

A surge of exasperation and outrage over
Leigh’s outward unconcern swamped Nikki. “Have you done anything to
dissuade your son from marrying my daughter?”

“Why should I stop him marrying your
daughter? Despite the fact that she’s
your
daughter she
seems to be an intelligent and articulate young lady.”

Nikki took a ragged breath to steady her
jangling nerves. Her voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. “Do
you realize that Charley and Maixent were born just twelve days
apart? Can you honestly tell me you’ve forgotten Jean-Luc?” Nikki
stared defiantly at Leigh as she finally stated her fears. “Can you
tell me that you haven’t wondered whether or not Jean-Luc was the
father of your child? And mine?”