A Deceptive Attraction: The Wilsons, Book 3 (2 page)

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While the morning passed, Violet ran her portable steamer over the clothing on the racks to keep them fresh, made change, and chatted with customers while Troyesha sewed. By noon she realized that she had all but forgotten her breakup with Tim. It was turning out to be less painful than she expected.

She had opened Daylily three years ago as a vintage clothing boutique to cater to the artist crowd that clustered around the SoHo district. Unlike her siblings, who looked at making money as a goal in itself, Violet was artistically inclined and didn’t care whether the shop earned a profit as long as she lived comfortably. Her sister Amelia, a Forex trader, had helped Violet invest her share of the family fortune wisely, so she was set for life with the interest earnings as long as she didn’t go overboard with any wild spending sprees.

Although Violet’s profit motive for Daylily was weak, she cared deeply about the shop and wanted people to come in and look at her wares. The streets of SoHo were elbow-to-elbow with pedestrians during the day, but when she’d first opened shop, walk-in traffic hadn’t brought her the exposure she wanted. She had tried advertising, with dismal results, and finally consulted Max, her oldest brother, who was CEO of Zetta and a marketing genius, among other things.

“You need a tailoring and repair service,” Max had told her decisively as soon as she described her wishes to him. “There isn’t a single person in Manhattan outside of the tailor shops who knows how to sew on a button, let alone hem a pair of trousers. You’re right on Broadway, so take advantage of it. Run an ad with a coupon special, promise twenty-four hour turnaround, and let word of mouth do the rest. It’s like getting paid to advertise.”

Violet was delighted with the idea, but she needed someone who could sew, and sew fast. In one of those lucky twists of fate that she had come to value and cultivate in her life, she had spoken with one of Max’s sales managers at Zetta’s corporate headquarters, and he had set her up with Troyesha, his niece.

Violet had purchased the sewing machines for the shop as a tax write-off and let her seamstress run her own operation, paying Violet only a nominal monthly rental fee for the space and keeping the rest of the tailoring and repair income for herself. It was a fair deal for both of them, as Troyesha’s work brought in far more traffic than Violet’s clothing inventory did. Troyesha’s gregarious personality naturally attracted repeat customers, while Violet freely admitted that with her reserved nature, she wasn’t cut out for sales work.

The tailoring operation left Violet free to express her creativity, which had been her goal in opening Daylily. She constantly scoured estate sales, buying up vintage and distressed clothing. Some items went on Daylily’s racks without alterations, while Violet worked with Troyesha on the rest, repairing them to make them new again, often with Violet’s handmade additions and flourishes.

She created one-of-a-kind hats and bows, and she ordered beadwork from artisans whom she had selected carefully and revealed to no one – not even to Troyesha, who could squeeze a secret out of a stone. She created fringed shawls and cowls with pleasing drape effects. She bought overstock shoes at an outlet store upstate and had them dyed to match her outfits.

Gradually, word was getting around Lower Manhattan that if you wanted a really stunning outfit for a party or a wedding, something to turn heads and make people buzz about you, Daylily might have what you were looking for.

While she ran her shop, Violet was slowly building up a client base for her couture clothing. Some of her designs were vintage-inspired, but gradually she was branching out into her own style. She kept a sketchbook that went wherever she went, and she sketched constantly. Troyesha was a capable seamstress and delighted in bringing Violet’s designs to reality.

In the past three years she had designed outfits for several wealthy New York socialites, who reported making a splash whenever they wore them. Like many New Yorkers, her clients were publicity hounds who were only too happy to sign a release allowing Violet to display photographs of them wearing her designs. Word of mouth had led to one of her dresses being featured at a spring New York Fashion Week show earlier that year.

At her brother Max’s urging, Violet had poster-size prints made of every outfit she had created, framed them, and hung them on all the available wall space at Daylily. To Violet, it gave the shop an art gallery ambience. To Max, it was free advertising.

The door signal beeped, and a tall, middle-aged woman with black hair came into the shop. She was wearing a white dress blouse, a calf-length straight skirt that Violet recognized from a recent issue of Vogue, and tall black boots. Her makeup was expertly applied, and she wore her shade of red lipstick as if she had been born with it.

“Good morning,” she said with a strong foreign accent. “Pardon me, are you the proprietress?” Her manner was friendly but reserved.

“I am,” Violet said, coming out from behind the counter and offering her hand. “I’m Violet Wilson.”

The woman shook it firmly. “I am Colette Girard.”

“It’s a pleasure, Mademoiselle Girard,” Violet said, opting for the more youthful form of address as less likely to ruffle feathers than Madame.

She had placed the woman’s accent as French even before she gave her name and immediately adopted her most formal manners. Growing up in the Wilson family had taught her a thing or two about doing business with the French.

“May I assist you?” Violet inquired. “Or would you like a chance to look around?”

“Please, if you’re not too busy, could you show me your best items? I received a surprise invitation to a gallery opening here in SoHo tonight and was referred to your shop. I’d like to wear something unique.”

“That we have,” Violet said, and the woman smiled.

Troyesha’s sewing machine chattered in the background. Violet knew that Troyesha had perfected the art of sewing and looking around at the same time, and that the visitor’s entrance had been noted.

Mademoiselle Girard took in Daylily’s inventory with appreciation, occasionally murmuring to herself in French. When Violet showed her a plain sheath dress in chocolate brown from the 1950s, the woman exclaimed, “
C’est la perfection!” and asked to try it on.

The dress would need some small alterations and delivery to the customer’s hotel that afternoon, but it was very close to a perfect fit. As she rang up the sale, she saw Mademoiselle Girard intently studying the prints of Violet’s original designs that hung on the walls.

“They are beautiful,” the woman said, looking up. “Who is the designer?”

“I am,” Violet said.

Mademoiselle Girard approvingly looked around the shop at the racks of vintage clothing, the prints on the walls, and Troyesha at her sewing machine. “Forgive me, I know I’m being presumptuous,” she said, “but I love beautiful clothing, and I know others who do as well. Do you want the world to see your work?”

Violet maintained her poise even though her heart was beating fast. “I certainly do, Mademoiselle,” she said. “I know Daylily is only a small shop, but we cater to the individual customer here. I would love to design an outfit for you or for someone you recommend.”

“Ah, tres bon. May I have a few of your cards?”

After completing the sale, the woman started to leave, then returned to the counter.

“I almost forgot,” she said. “I would like to ask a favor of you. My brother is in New York City this week. He has been here before, but he keeps it strictly business. He has never even seen the Statue of Liberty.” She laughed. “It certainly is ironic, considering it was a gift to the Americans from the French. At any rate, would you consider showing him around your city? His account will cover any expenses you deem appropriate.”

Inwardly, Violet could feel her impatience welling up. There was always a catch when it came to strangers doing you favors, she thought.

Outwardly, she mustered a pleasant smile and said, “Of course I would be glad to show Monsieur around.”

“Bon, bon. I will give him one of your cards.”

Violet nodded her assent, privately vowing to keep the tour as brief as possible.

“His name is Leon,” Mademoiselle Girard said as she turned to leave. “Please be patient with him. He is the baby of the family.”

Chapter 3

As the lunchtime traffic came in and receded, Violet reflected that her life was in a state of inertia. Actually, inertia was a weasel word.

Violet was bored.

Until her breakup with Tim, she had been contented enough. Her life consisted of long days at the shop, with a weekly trip to an estate sale, and Sunday brunch with family at her parents’ house upstate when she could get away. After closing up the shop, she would work out at the Zumba studio nearby, then walk the nine blocks to Tim’s apartment. Sometimes she would meet a friend or sibling for dinner. If not, she would spend hours doing fashion sketches while Tim stayed out late or didn’t come home at all.

There was a down side to having financial security, she realized. It discouraged her from taking risks, or even making any changes at all, unless change was forced on her.

“So when will he be here?” Troyesha asked Violet from behind her sewing machine.

“Who?” Violet said in mock ignorance as she sorted through a new batch of clothes she had picked up at an estate sale last week.

“The French guy,” Troyesha said indignantly. “The one that customer fixed you up on a date with this morning.”

“Oh, him,” Violet said. “It’s not a date. I’m just going to show him around. Anyway, he’s not coming to the shop, so you won’t get to check him out.”

“Too bad,” Troyesha shrugged, like she didn’t believe what Violet was telling her. “I think you should invite him here. We could set up a little wine and cheese reception, introduce him to the customers, have him meet some real New Yorkers.”

“Nope,” Violet said firmly. “He might not even call me, but if he does, I’ll take him on one of those double-decker tour bus rides.”

“Oh gawd, not a bus ride,” Troyesha said. “Those are for the tourists.”

“Well, that’s what he is. A tourist.”

Troyesha was about to reply when the door signal beeped. Violet turned around just in time to see a tall, dark-haired man walk through it. She gasped involuntarily as she realized it was the same man who had offered her a ride to the shop in his cab early that morning.

The man glanced carelessly at her and looked away, then looked back at her boldly, his eyes lingering on her face and briefly scanning her body. It was an exaggerated double take that she was certain he intended for her to notice.

“Good afternoon,” the man said. His voice was low and pleasing, with the same trace of a foreign accent she had noticed that morning. “I believe we have met before, haven’t we?”

He smiled, waiting for her to acknowledge their meeting outside Tim’s apartment that morning.

The stranger was intoxicatingly handsome, but Violet set her jaw firmly and resolved not to be taken in by his charm.

“Possibly,” she replied, forcing a note of impatience into her voice. “New York is a busy place. Now, how may I help you?”

Cheerfully ignoring the coldness of her response, he said, “I am Leon Girard. My sister Colette referred me to your shop.”

Violet gasped a second time. She had been so taken aback after she recognized him from their early morning encounter that she had completely forgotten about Mademoiselle Girard’s request.

Pulling herself together, she extended her hand. “Violet Wilson,” she said, “and this is my assistant, Troyesha Harris.”

Leon took her hand, but instead of shaking it, he raised it to his lips, kissed it lightly, then gently lowered and released it. Violet felt a current of desire travel up her arm, down through her spine, and into her belly. It felt good, much too good. She fought off the urge to jerk her hand away.

Behind her, Troyesha had stopped sewing for the duration of the kiss, then started again as soon as Leon released her hand. Despite her earthy persona, the seamstress’s manners were impeccable. If she had stopped sewing to stare at Leon, then she was as startled by their French visitor as Violet was.

“Can I get you anything, Mr. Girard?” Violet heard herself say, catching her breath. “We have coffee and soda in the break room.”

“Please, call me Leon,” he said pleasantly. “I don’t need anything to drink at the moment, but I wanted to catch you before you closed up for the day and ask if you would join me for dinner this evening.”

The way he phrased it sounded more like a statement than a question to Violet. It made her feel defensive, as if she wasn’t quite in control of the situation. At the same time, she had to admit it was more flattering than Tim’s dinner invitations, where the implied message was, “I’m going out to dinner and you can tag along if you aren’t doing anything.”

“Mademoiselle Wilson?” Leon asked, startling Violet out of her unpleasant flashback to her life with Tim.

Violet remembered Mademoiselle Girard’s offer to share her fashion designs in Paris and knew what she had to do.

“Please, call me Violet,” she said crisply. “I would be happy to join you for dinner, Leon. Do you have a particular place in mind?”

Leon bowed slightly. “I’m afraid I don’t know your city very well. If you’ll forgive me, could you suggest something?”