Rachel Lindsay - Designing Man Read online

  Rachel Lindsay - Designing Man

  They were fighting for fame, fortune and love

  Hired as a publicist for the Duval salon, Alix Smith was caught up in the rivalry between aging couturier Henri Duval and his son, Paul, a brilliant new designer.

  Alix was strangely disturbed when the father-son rivalry extended beyond business to the courting of a beautiful actress. Then she realized she had fallen in love with Paul herself.

  The situation spelled trouble for everyone. And when events reached their terrifying climax, Alix knew that she would have to risk her life for the sake of her love.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Alix Smith put down the receiver and sat for a moment staring at it. Then she jumped up and ran to the glass- paneled door that led to the outer office. Flinging it open, she called out excitedly to her secretary.

  "From this day on, Willie, you're never to tell me that miracles don't happen! Do you realize who just called me?"

  Miss Wilkinson tossed her neatly waved gray head. "I'm not a fashion plate but even I've heard of Henri Duval. I was astonished when he gave me his name."

  "So was I," Alix admitted and leaned against the door lintel.

  Her mischievous smile was at variance with her appearance, which was dark and dramatic. Raven-black hair was swept from a center parting to fall in a glossy wing alongside either cheek. She was pale-skinned without looking anemic and had almond-shaped eyes of an unusual blue violet, either color of which could be emphasized by her clothes. Today the violet predominated, the irises echoing the violet in the elegant tweed suit.

  "The great Henri Duval," she murmured. "Prince of couturiers and couturier to princesses! It's amazing to think how many years he's been at the top. He was dressing royalty and film stars when today's pop stars weren't even born.'"

  "And now he wants to dress the pop stars, too," Miss Wilkinson added, collecting a handful of letters from her "In" tray and beginning to open them.

  "Maybe he's young at heart."

  "Not only heart," the secretary sniffed. "You know what Frenchmen are like."

  "Actually I don't," Alix said, straight-faced, "but I'd love to find out!" Even white teeth nibbled at her delicately shaped mouth. "He still has a heavy accent, you know, even though he's been living here for years."

  "He probably listens to French tapes! It's all part of maintaining the Gallic charm."

  "I'll let you know how strong the charm is once I've seen him. He's asked me to go to his salon this afternoon."

  "Did he, indeed?" Miss Wilkinson permitted herself a smile. "Let's hope he wants some proper publicity."

  "As opposed to improper publicity?" Alix teased.

  "As opposed to those gimmicky music clients of yours. A few more big accounts on our books and we could get rid of Hot Lips Charlie."

  "At the moment it's Hot Lips who's paying our wages," Alix said firmly, "and even if I had ten big clients I wouldn't get rid of him. He's my mascot."

  "I'd rather have Mr. Duval for a mascot."

  "You're old-fashioned, Willie." Taking hold of the letters her secretary was holding out to her, Alix returned to her own office.

  Seated at her desk, she pondered on her forthcoming meeting with the great couturier and wondered what he would say if she told him that until a couple of years ago she, too, had been a designer. Not of clothes, it was true, but of stage scenery. But some quirk in her temperament had made her dissatisfied with a career that—the more successful it became—meant more concentration at the drawing board and less involvement with people. She had been at a crossroads in her life when Dina Lloyd—a young actress whom she had met while working as scenic designer on the play the girl was in—had unexpectedly supplied the signpost.

  She and Dina had gone out as part of a foursome, and

  Alix, imbued with the confidence that came from an excellent Burgundy, had humorously invented a highly improbable romance between Dina and a current rich young playboy. Alix's escort—a young man with a nose for news that would make money—had passed it on to a gossip columnist who had printed it the following morning.

  The playboy—delighted at being linked with so pretty an actress, albeit an unknown one—had immediately invited Dina to spend a weekend at his country home. A large burglary there—fortuitously occurring at the same time—once more put Dina in the headlines.

  A week later Dina's play had folded, but the actress herself was offered an excellent part in a comedy.

  "The director said it was because he saw pictures of me in the papers," Dina had told Alix. "Otherwise he'd never have known who I was."

  "Then I'll expect two free tickets to the first night," Alix had joked. "It's the least you can do."

  "The very least," Dina had agreed. "But I'll happily do more if you'll handle my publicity."

  "I know nothing about publicity."

  "If what you did for me came through ignorance," Dina had chuckled, "I can't wait to see what you'll do when you've had some experience. Give it a try, Alix. You've got nothing to Lose."

  Because this was true, Alix had taken Dina as her first client, though she had refused to take any fee until she was sure she could repeat her first publicity coup. Success had followed swiftly. Dina sang Alix's praises wherever she went and Alix soon had sufficient theatrical clients to put away her drawing board for good.

  "Daydreaming, Alix? That's not a bit like you. Or were you thinking of your loved one?"

  With a start Alix looked up to see her assistant, Peter North, standing in front of her. A tall, loose-limbed young man, he affected dandified clothes and a lackadaisical manner that was at variance with his watchful blue eyes and thin, cynical mouth. Alix still did not know if the cynicism was real and frequently wondered what lay behind his mask of studied indifference. Peter had studied history at Oxford and, after a brief spell in the city, had left the world of learning for the more lucrative one of marketing.

  "My loved one's too far away for me to enjoy thinking of him," she retorted with a smile. "In his last letter he said he was going into the Brazilian jungle."

  "What a topsy-turvy world we live in," Peter muttered. "Explorers give lectures sitting in a television studio and studious architects hack their way through the jungle to bring semidetacheds to the natives!"

  Alix's laughter was wry, for Peter's description of Mark Watson was all too true; an architect whose ability could procure him any number of jobs in England, he nonetheless preferred to work in the most uncomfortable parts of the world.

  "I'll tell Mark what you've said when I next write to him," she promised. "But I wish you'd show the same sort of humor when you write your press handouts. They're so dull, Peter!"

  "How can one be funny about a combine harvester? I wish you'd put me back on stage clients."

  "I can't. This is the best account I've got, so far, and it definitely needs a man's touch."

  "Prejudice," he said with pseudo bitterness. "I'll report you for sexual discrimination." He rummaged on the desk. "I can't find the photographs I took last week. The ones with ye olde farmstead in the background and ye olde harvester in the front."

  "Maybe Willie has them."

  "She says they're on your desk." He ferreted about among the papers and with an "Aha" of triumph, extracted a large manilla envelope. "Care to come to the Exhibition?" he asked. "There are tractors on every stand and our little darling has a stage to itself!"

  "I'll come and see it another time," she promised. "I've an important appointment this afternoon."

  "Business or pleasure?"

  "Business, of course. And if it goes the way I hope, it'll make all the difference in the world to us."

  Shortly before half-past three
Alix parked her red Fiesta outside a Regency house near Berkeley Square and went up a short flight of steps into a mirror-lined hall.

  A white and gold staircase, carpeted in red, swept in a wide curve to the second floor and a massive ormolu chandelier hung from the ceiling, its lights ablaze even though the sunshine was still strong. Almost directly below it sat a slim redhead at a desk, an appointment book open in front of her.

  "Monsieur Duval is expecting me," Alix said and gave her name.

  The girl nodded and gracefully preceded her up the stairs and down a corridor, at the end of which an enormous window looked out over a small garden ablaze with flowers.

  White and gold doors led off the corridor and the redhead stopped at the second one and, with the air of a high priestess, ushered Alix into a large room. It was furnished in the same ornate manner as the rest of the house, with gilded chairs, thick, wall-to-wall carpet and a plethora of small tables covered with silver-framed photographs of some of the most famous celebrities of the sixties. In front of the window stood an enormous ormolu-decorated table, its top covered with fashion sketches, and behind them sat a man who, rising to greet her, was tall and heavily built. He reminded Alix of an aging rugger player.

  She winced at his powerful grip and accepted a chair. His coloring was unusual for a Frenchman: thick blond hair with a sprinkling of gray and vivid blue eyes in a fresh, almost florid, complexion.

  "I am delighted to meet you at last, Miss Smith," Henri Duval smiled. "I have heard glowing reports of your work from my theatrical friends and hope you will be able to do as well for the name of Duval."

  "Building up a name is a slow process—unless you employ gimmicks—which I don't like using anymore. However," she added, "your name is already well known, and that's a great help."

  "It is known," Henri Duval said gravely, "but not in the way that I wish."

  Alix allowed her expression to show surprise and he leaned forward.

  "Let me explain myself, Miss Smith. A good fashion house takes on the character of its designer. This betrays itself in many ways: the kinds of material it favors; the cutting of the suits and coats; even the way a zip is placed! At Yuki, flowing lines are its signature; at Zandra Rhodes it's the unusual embroideries, while at Duval's…" Well-shaped hands made a circle in the air. "My signature tune was always to make a beautiful woman more desirable. As the years passed my aim changed and I tried to hide from the unkind world the fact that she was not as desirable as she once was." He paused dramatically. "I have been all too successful in my aim. The beauties I dressed in my youth and in theirs are still faithful clients, but in the process, alas, Henri Duval has become known as the couturier of aging women! An old ladies' dressmaker!" he added bitterly, his charm forgotten. "It is more than I can bear."

  Alix nodded. The reason for Henri Duval's telephone call was now clearer. "You want to acquire a younger clientele?"

  "Sans doubt! We must let the world know Henri Duval is not finished. That there is life in the old dog yet!" Blue eyes began to twinkle. "He can offer the young woman as much as he can offer the lady of a certain age. I want you to put that across for me. Do you think you can do it?"

  "I don't see why not."

  "How would you begin?"

  "With you." Alix always found it advantageous to incorporate her clients in some part of her scheme. It made them feel important and also gave them the chance of finding out what hard work publicity was. "When people hear the name Duval they immediately think of you. So it will be necessary for you to change your image. I'd like you to be seen with well-known young women—the new actresses and T.V. stars, the young socialites and writers."

  "That sounds splendid," Henri Duval said, his expression so enthusiastic that Alix realized it was not only his reputation as a couturier he felt to be at stake, but his reputation as a man. It was not only the fear of losing his place in the world that had made him seek her out, but a more personal attempt to keep the years at bay.

  "I take it you're prepared to accept the assignment?" he questioned.

  "I'd be delighted."

  "Good. You will work from here, of course?"

  "I couldn't do that. I employ other people and I have other accounts. I'd work from my own office."

  "That is out of the question. I would lose face if it were known I was employing a publicity agent!"

  "But most couturiers do."

  "The top ones have their own. And it must be the same with me. Besides, if you were here, I could say you were public-relations adviser for all the Duval interests, not only the fashion."

  "You're playing with words," Alix said swiftly. "No one will be fooled by the deception."

  "All life is a deception," came the smooth answer.

  "And the more successful you are, the greater the need to deceive."

  Lithely he walked around the room, exuding an animal magnetism that Alix had never encountered before. No wonder he had such a reputation as a lady-killer! But under the charm she sensed steely resolution and knew that unless she gave in to his request she would lose the account. But she did not want to lose it; it could lead her to so many more.

  "I have half a dozen other accounts," she said carefully. "Even if I wanted to give them up, it might be six months before I was free to come here."

  "It might be better to wait six months then."

  She bit back a sigh. "I'd be terribly expensive. Even now I'm the highest paid."

  "You're the best," he said.

  She decided to take a chance. "That's why I won't only work for one client. You will have to compromise, Monsieur Duval. I am prepared to have an office here and spend some time in it each day. But not full time and not to the exclusion of my other clients."

  For a long moment he was silent. "Very well, Miss Smith. It shall be as you say. I will arrange for you to have a room on the first floor, near the salon. You will be able to talk to me when you wish and you'll be close at hand to see all our important clients."

  Hiding her jubilance at. having called his bluff, for bluff she believed it to have been, she said, "When do you wish me to start?''

  "As soon as you can.''

  "Next week then."

  "Excellent."

  He was on the point of continuing when a door leading to the next room burst open as if caught by a sudden gust of wind, and a young man came in. Over his arm he carried a jacket of some light material, which he thrust into Henri Duval's face with an exclamation of anger.

  "Look at this!" he cried. "The color is hopeless." He flung the offending garment onto the desk and only then noticed Alix seated beside it. "I'm sorry," he muttered to the older man, "I didn't realize you had a visitor."

  "Never mind." Henri Duval turned to Alix. "This graceless young man is my son, Paul, and my chief assistant. Paul, I wish to present you to Miss Alix Smith. You remember my speaking to you about her?"

  "Indeed I do." The man gave a slight bow and surveyed her with a faintly cynical look.

  She returned it coolly, struck by the contrast with his father. Where Henri Duval was a powerful six-footer, his son was slight in build and only a few inches taller than herself; where the father was blond, with a florid complexion and firm voice, the son was pale and brown- haired, with a quiet voice and the faintest suggestion of a stammer.

  "Miss Smith has agreed to be our publicist," Henri Duval was speaking again. "She understands our position and is confident of being able to help us."

  "We don't need any help," the younger man said decisively.

  "We do. We have rested for too long on our laurels. That's why the young have passed us by. We must learn to move with the times."

  "It isn't enough to move with the times," his son retorted. "A designer must be ahead of his time. Frankly, I don't see how Miss Smith can help us. All we need are the right clothes. They'll bring us all the publicity we need without our having to stoop to vulgar methods."

  With an effort Alix controlled her temper. "There is no question of my vulg
arizing the name Duval. My job will simply be to keep it in the public eye."

  "When you're not doing a similar service for the latest brand of deodorant! " Paul Duval said. "I tell you our clothes don't need false praise." He picked up the cream-colored jacket from the desk and tossed it onto her lap. "There!" he said, pointing to the inside of the collar, where the name Duval was sprawled in bold purple across the silken label. "That's all the publicity we need. Not trumped-up stories that everyone knows are lies!"

  "Be quiet, Paul!" his father ordered and turned swiftly to Alix. "Please forgive my son for his rudeness. But he is an artist and has no understanding of what a business requires. Even his dresses are designed for wraithlike beings of his imagination, rather than women of flesh and blood. If only he—"

  "I'm sure Miss Smith isn't interested in your opinion of my work," the younger man cut in angrily. "And I don't want to hear it anymore, either. Sometimes I think I'm crazy to go on staying here."

  "Forgive me." This time Henri Duval made the apology to his son. "You misunderstand me. I was making a joke and it was wrong of me. You have talent and I would be the last to deny it. But you are not a businessman and you must realize it. I'm trying to restore our name for your sake, Paul, not for mine. This business will be yours when I die."

  "I don't like you to talk about dying," Paul said stiffly. "Nor do I like the idea of your engaging a publicist."

  "You must learn to like it," Henri bellowed, his anger returning. "Kindly stop interfering in matters you don't understand."

  The little color that was in the younger man's face drained away completely, though his voice remained steady. "You must do as you want, father. But don't ever involve me in any discussions in the future." Turning on his heel he walked out swiftly, closing the door with a gentleness born of violence dangerously controlled.

  For a moment Henri Duval was silent, but watching him, Alix saw his hands were clenched. At last he forced a smile to his lips and spoke.

  "It is useless to argue with my son. When he gets an idea in his head he is as obstinate as a mule. If he had his way, the salon would look like a clinic, with white walls and polished wooden floors!"