“We have come to dress you,” the tiny woman states imperiously, shooing me farther into the room. “Vite!”
It turns out Whit has no plans to give up his air of mystery this evening as he lounges in the armchair with a crystal flute of champagne dangling from between his fingers. I have a glass, too, but I’ve barely managed a mouthful of it thanks toMadame—no other name given—having the command of a drill sergeant.
“I like this one,” Whit says as Madame instructs her assistant to straighten the hem on the third dress I’ve tried on this evening. It’s cuts across my arms and chest, Bardot style, the fabric pink and diaphanous.And the label Chanel. There’s no price tag, and for that I’m grateful because I also love this dress, and I really don’t want to take it off.
I also really don’t want to try another on.
“You have a good eye, Monsieur.” Madame’s tone is approving. “This dress complements Mademoiselle’s skin tone perfectly.”
“It’s so pretty,” I say, glancing at myself in the full-length rococo-style mirror, swishing it this way and that.
“Made all the more pretty by you.”
Madame beams at Whit’s approval, and the two younger women with her cluck like little hens.
“Yes, this one,” he affirms, rising gracefully from the armchair. He’s so good at appearing impassive, I realize. It’s a wonder to me that no one else in the room seems to realize the heat in those tiger eyes of his.
“And the shoes?” she asks, her eyes appreciative as he draws closer.
“I’ll leave that to you, darling,” he says, pressing a kiss to my temple. “I’m going to hop into the shower.” Madame’s assistants giggle, but he pays them no heed as he saunters off in the direction of the bedroom.
I choose a pair of Valentino heels before it becomes apparent that the assistants aren’t here to stroke Madame’s ego when one of them produces a long roll of makeup brushes like a magician and the other, who’s arms are covered in a sleeve of tattoos, begins to lift curling wands and straightening irons out of a Mary Poppin’s style bag. I’m hurried to take a seat at the dressing table where the duo proceed to primp, paint, poke, and preen me, all three women conversing in a flurry of French. The spare the occasional word for me, but mostly communicate with each other. While I love this dress, this experience isn’t exactly relaxing and not nearly as much fun, I contemplate, as being Whit’s Sunday afternoon boutique Barbie Doll…
I jolt back to myself as the door to the bathroom opens, and in the mirror, Whit steps out.Dressed only in a towel.The girl with the tattoos blushes and ducks her head, intent on tidying a loose stand of my hair. The other woman is much bolder in her appraisal, no that it matters as he has eyes only for me as the fall of light plays across the muscles of his shoulders and chest, the crest of his hip bones rendered a smudge of shadow. He strolls to the ornate armoire and pulls out a leather washbag I’ve seen in his bathroom at him.Home.The word causes me a tiny pang of longing, though I’m distracted by the sound of the armoire closing. Whit turns and shoots me a wink before he saunters back the way he came, though I’m surprised he can move through the thick estrogen cloud. The bathroom door closes once again.
“Beau cul.” In the mirror, I note how the makeup artist purses her lips appreciatively.
I feel myself frowning.Beaucoup? Like merci beaucoup?Is she thanking him for the show?
“She says you are a very lucky woman.” The old woman catches my eye, her words diplomatic.
“Yeah,” I reply doubtfully.
“He has, how do you say?” She frowns a little as though grasping for the words. “A backside like two boiled eyes in a handkerchief.”
Words from the same school of thought as Aunt Doreen, apparently.
38
WHIT
The stylistand her team leave, the door to the suite closing with a solidthunk.
“Got any more surprises up you sleeve, master of mystery?” Mimi takes a step closer, a vision of loveliness. She’s always so beautiful, but there’s something about this Paris version of her. It must be the air, I think to myself.
“I might have.” My reply sounds husky as she comes to a stop in front of me and runs her hand up the satin lapel of my evening suit.
“So what are we all dressed up for?” Her hand lifts to cup my smoothly shaven cheek, purring appreciatively.
“I’ve decided that’s up to you.” It’s all up to you, darling.
“Oh?” Her response sounds like the lift of a brow.
“But first, I have something for you.”
Her peel of laughter is low and suggestive. “I can’t wait.”
I make a sound with my teeth and tongue—atskof disappointment, which she doesn’t fall for. Not one bit.
