Leonie by Elizabeth Adler

the hospitality of people whose parties or dinners he might have attended. And the extraordinary thing was, thought Verronet, waiting outside Voisins, pacing the chill December street trying to keep warm, that no one ever refused his invitations. Like him or not, they came. He wouldn’t like to bet on how many friends were sitting at that big table right now—and there were two dozen people there. That’s power for you. He smiled smugly, secure in his little niche in that power. Nobody can ever say “no” when you’re that powerful.
    Caro had always like Voisins, she loved the restaurant’s overblown intimacy, its deep coral walls and swagged velvet drapes, the heavy tassels and gilded mirrors that reflected the smartest diners in Paris. And, for those who preferred privacy, there were the special booths, each one a tiny secluded rendezvous—candlelight, sofa, and table for two—hidden from curious eyes by velvet curtains heavy enough to muffle whispered words of love and the soft sounds of kisses. She had fond memories of those booths.
    Gilles had taken a private dining room, and, as usual, everything was perfect. The staff at Voisins were used to Monsieur le Duc. He was civil, prompt, and undemanding; he simply expected the best and they were happy to supply it. “And God help us if we don’t,” said the manager feelingly.
    De Courmont greeted his guests, savoring the evening ahead. Anticipation was an enormous pleasure, it always heightened his excitement, whether it was pulling off a coup in business or making love to a woman—the waiting, knowing what was to come, knowing he would win, was at least fifty percent of the game.
    He liked giving these dinner parties; they gave him another opportunity to manipulate people, placing young men next to sophisticated older women, and foreign businessmen next to the most alluring girls, juggling the beautiful people of Paris, sparking off rivalries and love affairs. The results could be fascinating to watch. Tonight he had put Rupert von Hollensmark next to Marla, and he could see it was a good move.
    Marla was flamboyant, arrogant, rich, titled, and forty, notorious for her liking for younger men. As Gilles watched she leaned closer to Rupert, affording him an even better view of her spectacular bosom. Even a man as in love as Rupert couldn’t remain unaware of that body, or of her reputation for never wearing underwear. Marla fired any man’s fantasies. She leaned closer, fingers resting lightly on Rupert’s thigh, asking him some question. Gilles smiled. No young man was safe with Marla. He’d chosen her well.
    Caro was flirting with the American millionaire. Why was it that Americans always wanted you to know how many millions they had? he wondered. This one had made his in oil and railroads—a useful combination. He’d left his yacht at Monte Carlo and was dividing his time between losing his dollars in the casino there and spending them on more earthly delights in Paris. Caro already had him so charmed that he thought he must surely be the most attractive man in the world—she was an expert flirt. She glanced up and caught his eye and he smiled at her.
    There was a buzz of conversation and laughter as the wine flowed; he could almost sense the women relaxing, like flowers in the sun, while the men basked in a glow of well-being and good food. Two dozen people. Could he call any of them friends? The men were mostly business acquaintances, the women, well, some of them he knew more intimately than others. Gilles smiled, enjoying himself. His party was a success. But the best was yet to come.
    “Ladies and gentlemen.” He commanded their attention. “Friends,” he added smoothly, “I have a surprise for you. We are going to a cabaret.”
    “A cabaret? What fun. Where?” they clamored, eager for excitement.
    “There’s a new show opening tonight. I’ve heard it’s quite spectacular—amazing costumes, extraordinary girls, wonderful dancers—I