Indiscretions (26 page)

“Paris,” said Henri smoothly, “I’d like you to meet Olympe Avallon and Prince Bendor Grünewald—Beny to you. This is Paris Haven.”

Such an interesting face, thought Olympe as she said hello, fantastic cheekbones and that lovely black hair … a good body, too, taut and slender.

“Are you a model?” she asked. “If not, then you should be.”

“I’m a designer,” said Paris stiffly, “although tomorrow I must admit I am also to be a model.”

“Oh? For whom?” Why was the girl being so stiff with her? wondered Olympe. Had she said something wrong?

“For my own designs. I’m showing my first collection tomorrow.”

“How exciting.” And who, wondered Olympe, was going to go to the girl’s collection when everyone knew that Mitsoko had changed his day at the last minute because his “stars” had not boded well? His show was the most
sought after in Paris; even she’d had trouble getting a ticket.

“But you must be Jenny Haven’s daughter,” said Bendor. “I feel I
know
your mother. I grew up with her—on the screen, of course.”

“Careful, darling,” said Henri, “your age is showing. Now, come along with me, Paris. I want you to meet some more people.”

Henri shepherded her through to the dining room where his guests nibbled on the food and gossiped about mutual friends and places. What was that little friction he’d felt between Olympe and Paris? Had they met before? It was intriguing … perhaps he could even stir it up a little.

“Hugo,” he called, “here’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Hugo Reresby shook Paris’s hand firmly. He had a pleasant, straightforward gaze, thought Paris, and smooth ruddy skin that looked as though he spent a great deal of time outdoors.

“You’re Paris Haven,” said Hugo. “I’ve seen your picture in the newspapers.”

Paris smiled at him; for once she didn’t mind the reference to the publicity and her mother.

“Is that a plus or a minus?” she asked.

“Oh, absolutely a plus.” Hugo took her hand. “Will you dance with me, Paris?” He led her down the stairs to the cellar, where the music had changed from the earlier wild boogie to something softer. As Hugo’s arms went around her, Paris knew exactly what it was that she was looking for tonight—and Hugo Reresby was just perfect.

Olympe was annoyed. Bendor was being boring and Hugo had disappeared. She’d drifted from room to room with Bendor trailing behind her, begging her to leave with him and go back to his place. As if she would!
Olympe never entered into casual affairs on that level. Matters were always very well planned, everything carefully thought out and arranged. That was the way she liked it—nice and secure. It wasn’t easy living the life she did on very little money. There was her apartment and her car, clothes were all right, of course, because the designers liked to dress her, but men friends were expected—no,
contracted
—to contribute to her “comfort.” It worked quite well, and over the years—since she was twenty—she had amassed quite a nice little capital, because one day there would surely be old age. Naturally, before then she expected to have had a couple more financially successful marriages behind her, but a girl had to be
careful
about these things. The Hugos of her life were purely for pleasure. It was Bendor she might have to marry—if she could push him into it—though she had the sneaking feeling that in the end he’d marry some strong, healthy eighteen-year-old who’d bear his children, while he kept her as a mistress on the side. No deal.

“Henri, have you seen Hugo?”

“Of course, darling. He’s downstairs, dancing with Paris Haven … where he’s been all night.” Henri’s eyes sparkled wickedly. “Perhaps you should join them,” he suggested.

Olympe took a strawberry from a silver dish and bit into it thoughtfully. “Winter strawberries always seem different,” she commented, “—so tasteless.” So Hugo had found Paris, had he? Or more likely Henri had found Paris for Hugo. Well, maybe he was right, maybe she should just go along downstairs and see. What was that saying? If you can’t beat them, join them? She drifted toward the stairs.

“Beny, I’m going to powder my nose,” she said exasperatedly, “you cannot come with me.”

“Why not?” he murmured, running his hand along her naked arm.

“Bodily functions are meant to be kept private,” snapped Olympe, pulling her arm away. “Now, go and get another drink, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Paris was sitting on the pile of cushions in an alcove at the far end of the cellar. Hugo’s arms were around her and she was kissing him. She’d been kissing him for about an hour—nothing else, he hadn’t touched her, just held her and kissed. And it was heaven; her body, burstingly alive with the day’s adrenaline, was responding without being touched.

Hitching up her skirt Olympe sat cross legged on the cushions in front of them, watching. Candles flickered in the wall sconces that Henri considered exotic lighting for his dungeon disco, and the flickering orange flame highlighted the girl’s long black hair. Hugo must have unfastened it, because she hadn’t noticed it being that long earlier. One of Hugo’s hands was on the girl’s back, the other on the nape of her neck. They were enjoying each other, there was no doubt about that—they hadn’t even noticed she was watching. Or if they had, they didn’t care. It was interesting, thought Olympe, to see Hugo kissing someone else like that … she knew exactly how Paris must feel right now. A throb of excitement rippled through her belly as she leaned closer.

Hugo took his mouth away from Paris’s tender lips.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, “lovely, lovely Paris.” He stroked her face tenderly with just the tips of his fingers and Paris sighed happily.

Hugo turned his head and smiled at Olympe. She was sitting, chin propped on her hand, watching them, and she smiled back. He had known she was there, of course.

“Hugo,” said Olympe, “I saw your wife in the hall. She was looking for you.”

“Really?” Hugo’s reply was lazy, uninterested. His right arm was around Paris and his left hand caressed her hair.

Her
silken
hair, thought Olympe. She stretched out a smooth, suntanned arm toward him. A bunch of silver keys glimmered in the candlelight. “Why don’t you take these?” she smiled. “There’s no one at my apartment. You can take Paris there.”

Paris turned her head and looked at Olympe. She was smiling, friendly … conspiratorial. Paris glanced at Hugo doubtfully and he smiled back at her.

“I think,” said Hugo softly, “that is a very good idea. What do you say, Paris?”

His arm tightened, pulling her fractionally closer. She wanted to kiss him again, she wanted more than kisses.

“Wonderful,” she whispered.

Hugo reached out to take the keys from Olympe and their glances met.

“Say thank you to Olympe, Paris,” he said. “You don’t know how kind she’s being to us.”

“You remember where the drinks are, Hugo.” Olympe uncrossed her legs and stepped back from the cushions. “Give Paris anything she wants.” She was smiling as she went back to join Bendor, still waiting patiently in the hall.

Olympe’s bed was very, very big—American style. After her narrow sleigh bed Paris felt quite lost lying there alone and naked in the middle of it. She wished Hugo would hurry up, he’d gone to get drinks for them. Champagne, he’d said, because this was a celebration. She seemed to be celebrating everything all at once and she’d had so much champagne already today she was floating on the bubbles. It was true, her body felt light as air—probably from the joint she’d shared with Hugo, made from Olympe’s neat little stash of the very best grass. At least, Hugo said it was the best and he seemed to know. He knew a lot about Olympe. He knew where she kept her grass, he knew that there was always a bottle of
champagne in the refrigerator—just in case; he knew that the blanket on the bed was cashmere. But if, as she suspected, Hugo and Olympe were lovers, then why had Olympe lent him her apartment?

Paris turned on her side, pushed the button on the tape deck, and switched the tape over. It was Richie Havens singing “I’m Not in Love.” The melody and his rasping voice seemed to hit some new corner of her soul; she felt wrapped around by the music, absorbed.

There was a clink of glasses as Hugo walked naked into the bedroom carrying a bottle and three crystal champagne flutes. Hugo naked was fantastic, thought Paris dreamily, darker skinned than you would have expected with his fair hair; strong legs; tight, muscular buttocks; and the most delicious “equipment.” She stretched luxuriously and smiled at him. Hugo had known exactly what to do with his equipment, and from the look of him he was ready to do it again.

“Why three champagne glasses?” she asked, running her hand along his thigh as he sat next to her on the bed.

Hugo dropped a kiss on top of her dark head.

“Olympe’s back,” he said casually. “She said she might come in and share a glass with us.”

“Olympe?”

“Well, it
is
her flat, darling,” chided Hugo gently. “Paris, your hands are shaking.”

A few drops of wine fell onto her breast and he bent his head to lick them up.

“Did I tell you,” he whispered, “that you taste wonderful?”

He leaned forward and spilled a little more of the champagne over the dark triangle of hair, smoothing it in with his fingers as Paris sighed with pleasure.

Hugo took a sip of his champagne, still caressing her. “Smooth,” he said, “you’re so smooth, and slippery and tempting.…”

Paris didn’t want the champagne, she wanted Hugo, now, inside her, just the way he’d done it before. He’d found her rhythm perfectly; they could have made love together a hundred times before, that’s how well they’d known each other instinctively.

It was a pretty scene, thought Olympe, standing in the doorway. The soft lights, her big bed with its massive headboard, painted with cherubs and garlands, the soft, urgent music, and the two beautiful people, naked, soft skinned, peach colored under the lamps. She drifted over to the bed and bent to kiss Hugo. Paris lay as if turned to stone, Hugo’s fingers still caressing her as Olympe kissed him.

“Beautiful,” murmured Olympe, “you both look so beautiful. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just felt lonely … a glass of champagne sounded tempting.”

She slipped off her shoes and curled up on the bed at Paris’s feet.

“May I?” she asked, taking the glass from her hand. Her eyes met Paris’s in a secret smile. “Isn’t Hugo the most romantic man you ever met?” she whispered. “He knows just how you feel, just what you want him to do without even telling … he’s such a good lover. And it always feels so good to be well loved.”

Putting down her glass Olympe moved to kiss Hugo on the mouth, lingeringly. Her hands fluttered tentatively across his belly and Paris felt his hand tighten—he was kissing Olympe and caressing her! She watched in fascination as Olympe bent her head over Hugo; she could see her pink tongue busily tasting him. Hugo turned his head and smiled into Paris’s eyes.

“I think Olympe should stay, don’t you?” he said softly.

Excitement blasted through Paris—the wine, the grass, the adrenaline, the erotic scene, gave her a charge she’d
never felt before. She wanted Hugo to do things to her and to Olympe, she wanted to share him with her, to watch what she did, what he did.…

Olympe wriggled out of the white shift and lay down next to Paris, running her hand along the length of her body. Paris shuddered and moaned as Olympe’s soft fingers circled her nipples and then traveled the length of her body to join with Hugo’s, tangling in that triangle of soft, springy black hair. Her eyes were closed in ecstasy and she opened them to look at her new lover. Hugo was on one side of her, Olympe on the other, and she wrapped an arm around each of them as Olympe’s mouth closed on hers in a kiss. A kiss she didn’t want to end.

Olympe cruised the streets of the Marais
quartier
in her tiny Citroën, searching for the Rue de l’Abbaye, thanking God she’d never succumbed to the temptations of the big car. She was the world’s worst driver—a fact acknowledged by the frantic honking of horns as she cut across two lanes of traffic, swooped back around a rotary and then drove maddeningly slowly along the street she’d just traversed. It was three-thirty and she’d been searching for the Hôtel de l’Abbaye for almost an hour—Paris had been right when she had said it was “tucked away behind Les Halles”; it was tucked so far you couldn’t find the damn place.

Olympe tapped an impatient, well-gloved finger on the steering wheel, waiting for the traffic lights to change. A clock in the jeweler’s window on her right showed three-forty and Paris’s show had started at three. If she didn’t find the place soon she’d be too late. Damn, and she’d missed the Mitsoko showing for this. Still, she’d promised and Paris was such a darling. A smile flickered across her face as she remembered the previous night. It had been wonderful, Hugo had brought out the best in them. Oh, God, those idiots were honking at her again.
Sliding the car into first, Olympe maneuvered cautiously through the lights. This damned hotel must be
somewhere
near here, and she’d better find it quick.

At four o’clock she found it. She spent five minutes trying to squeeze the Citroën into a parking space that was just big enough and finally abandoned the car with the back wheels sticking out into the road. Wrapping her full-length Revillon fox around her to keep out the chill, she sped across the road, ignoring the traffic and the whistles of the workmen on the building site opposite. Thank God, she thought, pushing open the engraved plate-glass doors, I’ve made it.

The strains of Roxy’s “Avalon” mingled with the scents of calla lilies and cigarette smoke in the corridor, and she smiled as she pushed open the door—Paris was even playing her song. The hundred little gilt chairs were sparsely filled with people who looked to her like friends. On the front row a half-dozen girls sat with open notebooks, sipping champagne and gossiping together. Olympe knew every buyer and fashion editor from Rome to New York, and she didn’t recognize any of these. She assessed them accurately as assistants to the assistant fashion-editors of magazines and newspapers, maybe even just secretaries enjoying the free show and champagne on tickets passed on to them by indifferent women who had more important things to attend, like Mitsoko’s show and the lavish party he would throw afterward—it was at Versailles this time. Olympe wished she’d gone too. There was no doubt that this was a disaster.