The Garden Of Dreams. Sara Craven

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      ‘What would you like to drink?’ Monsieur Denis inquired.

      ‘A dry sherry, please.’ She forced herself into composure as a waiter hurried up in answer to his nod. He ordered her sherry and a whisky for himself, then turned back to her.

      ‘A cigarette?’ He offered her the slenderest of gold cases.

      ‘Thank you.’ Lissa opened her bag and produced her lighter. He took it from her and sent the little flame soaring with a practised flick of his thumb.

      ‘How clever.’ Lissa smiled at him, deliberately overcoming her nervousness. ‘I can never get it to work for me first time.’

      ‘The mechanism is a little stiff, I think.’ He examined the lighter, black brows raised. ‘A pretty toy, très élégant. I compliment you on your taste.’

      ‘I am afraid the credit is due elsewhere, monsieur. It was a present from a friend.’

      ‘Ah,’ he said, and there was a note in that monosyllable that sent hot, indignant colour flooding her face again. At that moment the waiter returned with their drinks, and she was obliged to take hers with a murmur of thanks.

      More people were arriving all the time, through a door in the centre of the gallery which Lissa guessed led to the lifts they had bypassed. She was surprised when each of the newcomers was loudly announced by a master of ceremonies, stationed at the door.

      ‘No one announced us,’ she thought. ‘We came in through a side door. I hope to heaven he’s not a gatecrasher or something frightful like that, but he spoke of Fontaines as if he belonged to it. It must be all right.’

      She turned to look for an ash tray and a tall man, rather bald, with glasses, came hurrying towards them.

      ‘Raoul, my dear fellow! So delighted you could make it. We don’t get together nearly often enough for my liking. Why didn’t you give us more warning? Helen would have laid on a dinner party. She’s just looking for an excuse.’

      ‘Hélas, I must return to Paris very soon.’ Monsieur Denis was actually smiling at last, a genuine smile that lit up his face and made him look younger and incredibly attractive. How old was he? Lissa wondered. Early thirties, surely. He was slim for his height, but he looked wiry and he moved with a kind of whiplash grace.

      There was something about him, just as Jenny had said. Only a resemblance so fleeting that she couldn’t relate it at all. Probably some film star, she thought. Lissa herself rarely visited the cinema, but Jenny and Roger went regularly. In fact Jenny always declared it was Roger’s resemblance to Steve McQueen which had attracted her in the first place. Again, this was a resemblance visible only to Jenny, Lissa thought amusedly.

      ‘Mademoiselle Fairfax, may I present to you Max Prentiss, the managing director of Fontaine-London.’

      As Lissa and Prentiss shook hands, Monsieur Denis continued, ‘This isn’t a full-scale visit, Max. I had one or two items of a personal nature to deal with. In the autumn I shall have time to spare, and to enjoy one of Hélène’s excellent dinners.’

      ‘All is forgiven, then,’ Prentiss said lightly. He smiled at Lissa. ‘What do you think of our latest design?’

      ‘I haven’t seen it,’ Lissa glanced around. ‘Is this what the party is all about?’

      ‘My dear child,’ Prentiss took her arm, ‘you’ve been sadly neglected. What are you thinking of, Raoul? You keep this lovely creature exclusively to yourself, and you don’t even show her the reason for the celebration. Shame on you! Come, my dear.’

      He led Lissa along the gallery, chatting amiably and calling greetings to people as they went. A small dais had been set up halfway along the gallery; and he paused. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Our latest—Bacchante.’

      Lissa breathed, ‘Oh!’ She was looking at a cascade of material like a shimmering waterfall of green and gold, spilling endlessly on to the white carpet of the dais. Vivid splashes of colour like flames glinted here and there.

      She turned to Prentiss. ‘It’s—fabulous. There’s no other word. But surely you don’t just put out one new design a season?’

      ‘Oh, no, we are not as exclusive as that,’ Prentiss smiled. ‘We show the full range privately to certain invited buyers. But one is always selected to show the trend we are following in any particular range of designs.’

      ‘I would love to see the whole range.’ Lissa’s eyes shone.

      ‘I’m sure it could be arranged,’ said Prentiss. ‘I’ll have a word with Raoul …’

      ‘Oh, no, please.’ Lissa flushed. ‘I wouldn’t dream of imposing …’

      ‘Nothing of the sort,’ said Prentiss. ‘She wouldn’t be imposing on anyone, would she, Raoul?’

      Lissa realised he had come silently to stand beside them. She glanced up at him quickly and saw that he was looking amused.

      ‘She may certainly visit the design rooms if she wishes,’ he said. ‘But I hope you are not suggesting Bacchante for her, though, Max. It would kill her colouring.’

      ‘Undoubtedly,’ agreed Prentiss. ‘I was thinking more in terms of Midsummer Night—those deep blues, with silver undertones—against that hair, eh, Raoul?’

      ‘Merveilleux.’ Raoul Denis drew deeply on his cigarette and Lissa was aware that he was watching her intently, and felt a blush creeping into her cheeks.

      ‘Oh, please,’ she said, laughing a little nervously. ‘It’s too tantalising.’

      Prentiss patted her hand. ‘Well, we won’t tantalise you any more, but if you do come—and I hope you will—make sure you see Midsummer Night—and Venetian Glass. Just ask for me, and I’m sure you’ll have no trouble getting in.’

      Lissa looked at Raoul Denis inquiringly as Prentiss turned away. ‘Is security so strict?’

      ‘Of course.’ He glanced around. ‘There are security guards on duty now—to stop unofficial photographs mainly—but no one would guess. There have been times when our designs have been pirated. We take no chances now.’

      Lissa stared at the material on the stand. ‘It’s quite beautiful,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s like the whole spirit of spring—golden and glowing and innocent.’

      ‘But with a touch of savagery underneath,’ her companion agreed a little mockingly. ‘Rather like a woman, wouldn’t you say, ma belle?’

      The brilliant dark eyes flickered over her, lingering on her shoulders and the slender curves revealed by the deeply cut neckline. Lissa had an overpowering urge to pull the edges of her dress together over her breasts. In spite of herself her hand went up, and brushed against the hard unfamiliar shape of Paul’s brooch. It gave her an odd sense of reassurance, and she forced herself to stare back at this disconcerting stranger, who seemed so bent on tormenting her.

      ‘Mr Prentiss is charming,’ she commented, keeping her voice steady. ‘Do you know all the people here?’

      ‘No, СКАЧАТЬ