Daria turned from side to side, studying her reflection in the mirror as she hunched her shoulders and stretched to check for gaps. “That’s perfect. Are there matching panties? I don’t wear thongs unless I absolutely have to. No wardrobe malfunctions.”
Ryan chuckled, reminding the women of his presence on the sectional behind them. They both turned to look at him. He gave Daria an amused, bad-boy grin, then looked down. Daria turned back to the mirrors, but Simone kept her gaze on Ryan. When he lifted his eyes to hers again there was a very subtle question in them. She gave him her most professional smile.
“Which do you prefer?” Simone said as she showed Daria the bikini underpants and high-waisted version that were her salute to the styles worn by the pinup girls in the fifties. She noted that Daria didn’t turn to Ryan for his approval. Instead she pointed at the high-waisted version and said, “I’ll take those.”
It would be a striking ensemble when Ryan removed the gown. Simone felt her smile falter, and covered it by saying, “I would be happy to take your card and ring you up while you wait here.”
“Bill me,” Ryan said distantly from the opposite side of the workroom. He was studying the bolts of fabric and half-finished pieces waiting on worktables and mannequins.
Daria’s eyebrows rose, but she seemed to take it in stride. She changed back into her simple sundress, and waited while Simone folded her selection into tissue and then into a shopping bag. “Do you have a stylist I could contact when I bring out new collections?” Simone said.
“I should, but I haven’t been somebody long enough to get organized about these appearances. What I do have is a publicist who suggested it might be a good idea to be seen with Ryan Hamilton,” she said, flicking a glance at Ryan, still occupied with fabric at the opposite end of the room. “He seems nice enough. Does he come here often?”
“Not often,” Simone said. It wouldn’t do for Daria to think she was the latest in a long line of conquests Ryan had brought to his favorite lingerie shop. And she wasn’t. She was only the second. But it was typical of the trouble with Ryan, who would bring woman after woman to her atelier.
“You have an admirer,” Daria said, lifting her hand to the petals. “It’s gorgeous. Matches your eyes.”
“Thank you,” Simone said.
The workroom door swung open to admit Lorrie, the cordless phone in her hand. “For you,” she said.
It was unusual for Lorrie to not recognize a priority client. “Take a message, please,” Simone said.
“It’s Stéphane.”
But the call’s timing confirmed her suspicions about who sent the orchid—Stéphane Roussel, a fellow émigré from France’s unfriendly entrepreneurial business environment, her brother’s school friend, her on-again, off-again lover. He’d helped arrange financing for Irresistible, and they were currently off-again as lovers, but always on as friends. “Bonjour,” she said, automatically switching to French.
“Bonjour,” he replied, his voice lazy, amused.
“Thank you very much for the orchid,” she said, still in French. “It’s gorgeous.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, chérie,” he replied.
That was Stéphane to a T, playing the superficial game of love. “Stéphane, may I call you back? I’m a little busy at the moment.”
“Of course. Look at your calendar first. We’re overdue for dinner,” he said. His lazy, rich voice managed to convey dinner and all the after-dinner possibilities they’d enjoyed previously.
“I will. Au revoir,” she said, then disconnected the call and set the phone down. Irritation flashed along her nerves. She was tired of hints and subtlety, at guessing games and secrets and stories. “My apologies,” she said to Daria.
“A friend from home?” The question came not from Daria but from Ryan, whose smile didn’t quite mask the razor-sharp look in his eyes.
“Yes,” she said. Humming under the question was the one he’d asked her the last time they saw each other. What do I have to do to get you to speak French to me? Ryan would have heard the general tone of the conversation, the male voice, the casual familiarity in the language he didn’t speak. But he didn’t need to be fluent in French to hear all the layers in Stéphane’s invitation. Men the world over spoke the same language of possession and intimacy with voices and looks and touches. Stéphane was tactile, loved to touch and stroke and caress. God help her if Ryan saw them together, even when they weren’t on-again.
Daria was watching the two of them in the drawn-out silence. “Ryan, I need to call my agent about an interview tonight. I’ll meet you downstairs?”
“If you’d like you can take the side door leading to the street and avoid the showroom. Please do come back and see me again,” Simone said. In her peripheral vision she watched Ryan stroll towards her, his jaw set.
“I will,” Daria said. “Thanks so much. Say hello to your brother for me.”