Satin Dreams Read Online Free Page B

voice on the telephone grew louder. “Who is that? What are you doing, Catherine? What are you trying to pull now?”  
    She said softly, “I have to work late. At least another two hours.”  
    Out of the corner of her eye, Alix noticed that the seconde was hovering, but not interfering. So he was someone rich and important. Not some bon chic-bon genre with a wife out of town. Still, his intentions were obvious. That black, speculative look had never wavered.  
    “Is it possible to pick me up here, at the side door?” she asked.  
    He nodded again. “Eight o’clock?”  
    “Yes.” While she watched, he turned and started back toward the salon. “What are you doing, Catherine?” the voice on the phone shouted. “What the hell’s going on over there?”  
    She turned back to the receiver, her lips curving. “I’ve just taken a lover,” she murmured. She was amazed and delighted that she could sound so calm.  
    The immediate results were more than she could have hoped for. The voice on the other end of the transatlantic telephone went silent with shock. If she’d planned her revenge for weeks, it couldn’t have been better.  
    A moment later a series of disbelieving, inarticulate sounds came over the wire. Then there was a hoarse demand that she speak, say something, for God’s sake.  
    Alix stared thoughtfully at the telephone box on the wall.  
    She was going to meet a man at eight o’clock. It was what she wanted, even though she knew that afterward nothing would ever be the same again. A lover. Someone totally unknown. It was a step calculated to thoroughly demoralize, an action so wonderfully random. That was the beauty of it—that it made no sense at all. And it would break their hold on her.  
    Leaning against the wall, her head bent and her eyes closed, she listened to the voice a thousand miles away, now almost hysterical.  
    Unfortunately, she realized too late, the only flaw was that she didn’t even know her intended lover’s name.  
     

 
    Two
     
    The snowfall thickened over Paris, further dimming the waning light of the winter afternoon. By four o’clock it was almost dark. Jackson Storm reached across the scarred surface of a rented desk in a building near the rue de la Paix, and snapped on a battered fluorescent lamp. The pool of grayish white light instantly illuminated the stack of papers he was reading, but his dissatisfied expression did not change.  
    “Why the hell couldn’t we get Lagerfeld?” Before his executive vice-president could answer, he growled, “Karl Lagerfeld brought Chanel out of the basement. The business was down on its knees until he showed up to design for them, right? That’s the kind of talent we need for this place. Christ, with the six million for promotion and advertising we’re offering to set up this thing, plus worldwide Storm King marketing, how can you beat it? These people should be falling over their asses to join up with us!” Jackson Storm hunched his shoulders. “I’ve seen Lagerfeld’s stuff,” he said grudgingly. “He’s good.”  
    Mindy Ferragamo examined her fingernails, trying not to smile. It was a gross understatement to describe Lagerfeld, the genius who had almost single-handedly put Chanel back on top of Paris couture, as “good.” But that was Jack, she thought. He still viewed some things with the same perspective he’d used to open a men’s tie shop on Seventh Avenue.  
    Fortunately, Jackson Storm’s international division hadn’t made Lagerfeld an offer. But only because their brokers hadn’t been able to get Karl to take them seriously enough to return their calls.  
    The small woman in her severe black business suit surveyed her boss surreptitiously from behind her gold-rimmed eyeglasses. Jack was being pushed to the limit, which was unusual. The Storm King of mass-market fashion had retained his famous urbane, unflappable cool through numerous crises. But the pressure of the Paris couture house