Satin Dreams Read Online Free

American girl.”  
    Gilles was too distracted to think. What was Rudi saying? The Palliades grandson was interested in Alix? Then he was not—  
    Ah, but he was, Gilles told himself. The Greek millionaire had come to look over his designs, he was sure of it. Whatever else Palliades was doing, such as ogling the model, was merely a diversion.  
    “God, don’t encourage him!” When Rudi glanced back at him, Gilles turned bright red. “I don’t like this sort of thing,” he said lamely.  
    Rudi looked slightly astonished. “What is the matter with you? It’s a tradition for the young tigers to flirt with the mannequins. Alors, Gilles, it is almost un-French not to! Besides,” he pointed out, “it’s not the first time one has asked for Alix.”  
    “She never accepts.” For some reason, Gilles found himself thinking of his wife, Lisianne, who had also been a model. He didn’t conceal his distaste. “This Greek playboy has had every woman in Europe.”  
    Rudi smiled. “Ah, Gilles, for you there has always been only Lisianne. Which is very admirable,” he added quickly at Gilles’s ferocious look. “Besides, it is up to the girl, is it not?” Without waiting for a reply, Rudi gave a definite nod to the man in the back row. “See, I have signaled him that he may ask her out.”  
    Gilles threw down his cigarette. “I’m so sick of this—everything! That damned wedding gown is driving me crazy.” He saw Rudi’s mouth drop open as he rushed on, “I have enough on my mind.” That was true. If he stayed in the salon one moment more, he couldn’t promise to keep his sanity. “I’m going home!”  
    Gilles whirled and plunged between two hanging partitions of smoky glass. A French model wearing the first of the evening gowns, a black silk faille, entered the gold-lighted area of the plastic floor.  
    Rudi watched the model somewhat distractedly as she held out the gathered skirt to show the black-on-black design. Poor Gilles, to be so young, so impetuous. Now he had gone storming off again for some reason Rudi could not fathom.  
    Rudi concentrated on the evening gown being shown. The design was not as innovative as something Gilles would do, but he had come to think of it as his own version of art.  
    Alas, this was no longer the era for high art. People came to Paris not just to buy haute couture clothes, custom-designed, every seam hand-sewn, they came to purchase glamour, excitement, instant status. It was not as it had been once, when merely wearing exquisite clothes made one a veritable work of art, too.  
    Mortessier noted the audience’s lackluster response to the dress he had designed. He wondered, not for the first time, if the House of Mortessier could survive in this day and age without his young protégé, Gilles Vasse.  
    The thought bothered him. Long ago, Rudi had accepted the harsh fact that he had to share his beloved, angry young designer with a woman. That was bad enough. What was worse, Rudi now realized that his salon could not survive without Gilles Vasse’s designs.  
    Behind the salon, the long hall that ended in the mannequins’ changing room was jammed with Mortessier’s staff. Two harried fitters, on their knees, were putting last-minute repairs to a tulle ball gown that had torn during pressing. The African model, Iris, naked except for a pair of scandalously abbreviated “tanga” bikini panties, searched up and down the corridor for the mate to a white silk shoe to be worn in the finale. The seconde, who had come back to warn them that both the assistant couturier and the big boss were watching the collection that afternoon, tried to quiet the models. Unfortunately, the seconde’s warning only generated more turmoil in the already chaotic changing room.  
    “You’re blocking the way,” the seconde snapped. She pushed past the spot where Alix was using the wall-mounted telephone. “What a time to talk! A personal call, yes? From now on take your calls