Authors: Maggie; Davis
He left her breathless, Sam was thinking. He was charming, fantastic-looking, and had a crazy sense of humor. At any other time, in any other year of her life, she supposed she would have wondered if something would come of it. You couldn’t miss that look in his eyes. You couldn’t miss the way she was responding to him, either. “Yes, well, thanks, for the card,” she said, looking away.
He reached across the stone figure to take her hand. “Say you will have dinner with me,” he murmured. “Please don’t say no. Let me show you what a very good guide I am. Let me show you Paris—the Eiffel Tower, the Champs Élysées, a quick drive in my car down to the Île de la Cité to see Notre Dame. The complete tour, with dinner after.”
Sam had drawn her hand back automatically. She knew she had no business making a date with someone like Alain des Baux when she was in love with Jack Storm. “I have a lot of work to do. I don’t think I can.” She held up his card. By the light of the yellow bulb that hung over them, she could only make out the larger print, altacomp, Inc., Computers, and an address in the French city of Nîmes.
She looked across the crypt to where Chip was lounging against the wall by the stairs, arms folded across his chest. The light from one bulb hit his black, curly hair and his face harshly. He looked like he was contemplating a burglary job.
Alain had followed her look. “He can’t hear us,” he assured her in a low voice. “Does he bother you?”
“He doesn’t exactly charm me to death. Just what does he do around here?” she whispered. “Does he stay here at night?”
He gave her an odd look. “Not that I know of. He is Solange Doumer’s good friend. You will say yes,” he said hurriedly at the sound of footsteps on the stairs, “that you will let me take you to dinner?”
Sam hesitated. The Cockney Englishman was Solange Doumer’s friend? As in
S. Doumer, directrice, Maison Louvel?
“He’s the
what
?” she said.
Alain des Baux shrugged. “He is the good friend of the director, Solange Doumer. As to whether he is here at night, I don’t think so. Solange lives in Passy.”
Sam stared at him, wanting to make sure she knew what he was saying—if “good friend” meant the same thing on this side of the Atlantic as it did in New York.
She didn’t have time to ask. The footsteps descending the stairs into the crypt were louder. Alain took his arms from the stone sarcophagus and straightened up, bumping his head against the low arch of the ceiling as he did so.
The footsteps stopped. High heels, legs and the hem of a beige dress could be seen under electric lights as a woman paused on the stairs. Chip straightened up and moved away from the wall.
“
Mais, que faites-vous là en bas?
” a clear, high-pitched female voice wanted to know.
“If I’m not mistaken,” Alain des Baux said, wincing and rubbing the back of his head, “here she is now.”
Le Plan
The Design
Chapter Five
Sam woke up on Sunday morning knowing she had to call New York.
She couldn’t call Jack, not on Sunday, because Jack spent his weekends at his house in Connecticut with Marianna and their daughters. Being involved with a married man was something she condemned in others; it was even worse when you faced it first thing in the morning, Sam told herself, rolling over in bed to look at her wristwatch on the night table.
It was nine o’clock in Paris, which meant it was much too early to call New York. But she needed to talk to Mindy Ferragamo, to touch base with somebody before she met with the
directrice
of the Maison Louvel Monday morning. Reporting back to Jackson Storm headquarters on what she’d found in Paris wasn’t going to be as simple as they’d first thought. Well, she’d have to wait a few hours to call, but in the meantime she could at least think of what she wanted to say.
Sam rolled over on her back and closed her eyes, trying to ignore the slightly musty smell of the bed covered in unbelievable black satin sheets while she organized her thoughts. She wasn’t particularly good at the executive skill of verbal reports, and she was still a little groggy with jet lag, but she wanted to do this job right. A frantic call from Paris wouldn’t enhance her position with Jackson Storm, Inc.; she wanted to be sure of what she intended to say.
Okay, what did she want to say? she thought with a sigh.
How about: “The Maison Louvel is in an old building in the rue des Bénédictines not far from the rue de la Paix. There’s a lot of unused workspace, especially on the office floor, and a diminished personnel force in the atelier, with one of the seamstresses doubling as the fitter.” Not good, but at least she was reporting it.
Funeral clothes seem to be the current work project? Better leave that out until you can look into it. A crypt with knights’ tombs in the cellar? Inwardly she groaned. A
directrice,
Madame Solange Doumer, who says she doesn’t speak English and whose daughter is the house model?
At least the mystery of why gorgeous Sophie was still a model at a house like the old Maison Louvel had been solved the moment Madame Doumer had appeared. Sam hadn’t needed Alain des Baux’s whispered explanation that Solange Doumer was Sophie’s mother. The resemblance was there in the willowy, high-breasted figure in the tailored beige silk dress, the whipped-cream complexion and the mahogany-colored hair. Madame Doumer had not been exactly overwhelmed with enthusiasm at the sight of one rather rumpled Sam Laredo in tank top, boots and jeans from Jackson Storm in New York.
With Alain des Baux translating, Madame Doumer regretted that Mademoiselle Laredo had arrived at such an inconvenient time, on a weekend. Then as the directrice turned abruptly to go back up the steps, she had said that she would see the Jackson Storm representative first thing in her office on Monday morning.
Not friendly, not cooperative, Sam decided. Obviously the news of the sale had taken the Maison Louvel management as much by surprise as it had Jackson Storm in New York. But before the Monday morning meeting with the directrice took place, Sam knew she had to talk to Mindy Ferragamo. She needed some guidelines. There were just too many questions that were going unanswered.
From what she’d seen of the Maison Louvel, the house was not exactly operating in what one would describe as the mainstream of Paris fashion. And taking everything into account, from the museumlike building in an obscure dead-end street to the half-empty offices and workrooms, right down to that distinctly hostile lady, Madame Doumer, it probably wasn’t stretching things to call Louvel’s a backwater oddity.
Then there were the strange customers. The sample she’d seen—Alain des Baux, his sister, and the shopping-bag lady Italians—had raised even more questions. How could the old lady and her granddaughter order a lot of custom-made clothes when even the model admitted they were too poor to pay their bills? The only way you could find out about such things was to go over the Maison Louvel’s books. Sam bit her lip, frowning. But that was Dennis Wolchek’s job, wasn’t it?
In the late afternoon, she reached for the gold and ivory telephone on its stand on her bedside table. Mindy Ferragamo often spent Sundays in her apartment on Manhattan’s West Side touching base, via long distance, with Jackson Storm manufacturing plants in Brazil and Mexico and with the Far Eastern group, Jimmy Eng in Hong Kong, Daishek Kim in Seoul and C.J. Lee in Taiwan, where the workrooms ran twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week in rush season. Sam could just let her know she’d arrived in Paris, and take it from there.
The call took longer than Sam had expected. Telephone calls from New York to most places in Europe were direct-dial and usually not very complicated, but France to New York that particular Sunday seemed to be full of delays. When Mindy’s voice finally came on the line, it sounded far away and full of static.
Sam kept her voice upbeat. “It’s Sammy, in Paris, Mindy. I just thought you’d like to know I got here all right.”
“Yeah, kid.” The voice in New York was not only indistinct but rather preoccupied. “I’ve got another call waiting, Sammy. What’s up?”
Mindy had the wrong tone, Sam knew immediately. She should have waited until Monday and talked to Jack. “Mindy, I can wait and talk to Jack tomorrow.” She tried not to sound too apologetic. “Sorry I bothered you if you’re busy right now.”
“Look, Sammy, I’ve got a couple of calls waiting, I told you. It’s hell to try to get Charlie Lee in Taiwan and I’ve got him on hold.” It
was
the wrong tone, Sam realized; it was not only hurried but impatient.
Don
’
t take up my time.
“And Jack’s out of town, Sammy. Can you call me sometime the end of next week?”
The end of next week? The nameless fears, the sense of being a thousand miles and more away from what was happening suddenly attacked her. Worse, Jack was out of town and he hadn’t told her. How had that happened? “Hey, Mindy, I thought I was supposed to be back in New York by the end of next week.” She added very carefully, “Will Jack be away long?”
“Sammy, listen.” Mindy’s voice was abrupt. “Under the new arrangement Junior Lone Star will take your calls from Paris. Just talk to Genie Kleinberg next week, will you? Junior Lone Star’s taken over Sam Laredo Western wear while you’re gone.”
“What?” Sam felt as though the breath had been knocked out of her. This was the treacherous rag trade, where anything could happen. Was it happening now? “Mindy, where’s Jack? What’s the matter with Sam Laredo jeans? Why is Junior Lone Star handling my line? I want to talk to Jack.” She held on to the telephone receiver tightly. The trip to Paris was important, wasn’t it? Then why was all this going on in New York when she wasn’t there? “Give me Jack’s number, Mindy, wherever he is. I have to talk to him!”
There was a pause. “Sammy, Jack’s not expecting you to hurry the Paris thing. Think of it as a little vacation, why don’t you? Hell, Sammy. It’s the chance of a lifetime, being in Paris. I wish I were there with you, kid.”
Sam felt a cold rush of panic. “Where is he?” she cried. She didn’t care now whether she was losing her corporate image by yelling on the long-distance telephone. Only Jack could explain all this. She had to get through to him. “Mindy, where’s Jack gone?”
“Sammy, I’ve got calls waiting for me.” The voice on the other end of the line was suddenly cold. “Jack’s on a tour of the Far Eastern plants, he’s going to be gone for a couple of weeks. I told you, talk to Genie Kleinberg.”
No, she wouldn’t talk to Genie Kleinberg, she thought wildly. All this had happened and she didn’t even know about it?
It
’
s Jack,
a small voice inside her head said. Not Mindy or anybody else, but Jack. He’s done this to you. “Listen, I’m coming back to New York. I’ll bring a report on the Maison—”
Mindy’s voice interrupted her. “Stay in Paris, Sammy. Are you listening? Take your time with your thing over there. Everybody’s busy as hell here through the fall showings in July, so just stay put, kid, and enjoy Paris while you’ve got a chance. Make up your reports and send them in. Genie Kleinberg or I will look over them, but Sammy—
stay in Paris
.”
“I’ll bring my report back with me,” Samantha said desperately, “but I’ve got to talk to Jack first, now,
today,
Mindy! You have to give me the telephone number where I can reach him!”
Mindy’s voice dropped, brusque and final. “Don’t do anything stupid, Sammy. Jack’s on a swing of Hong Kong and Taiwan. There’s no way you can call him.” There was a pause and then she said meaningfully, “Marianna and the girls are on the trip with him.”
Sam sat on the edge of the bed, hearing the words on the long-distance line but not believing them. This was the way Jack ended it, she’d always known from the office gossip that made sure she found it out the first week she was on the job in New York. When it was over with Jackson Storm “discoveries,” it was over with quick. And Mindy Ferragamo was always Jack’s hatchet woman.
“Sammy?” the voice was saying in her ear, “are you listening to me? Take your time with what you’re doing. Your paychecks are cut until the last week in July, and all your expenses are covered by deposits in the Bank of Paris just like Dennis’s office arranged. And Sammy—
stay in Paris.
”
It had finally happened.
Jack Storm stretched on the reclining lounger of the tower patio of his hotel suite, holding a tumbler of ice, Evian water and a slice of lime precariously as he settled himself and closed his eyes. He was trying to forget how much he hated Hawaii. Especially the noisy, frenetic, tourist-filled Kahala Hilton, where Marianna and the girls loved to stay.