apartment with him. He might have...
She shuddered. She’d come to the conclusion that Nicholas Palliades was a lunatic. A serious mental case protected by his family’s enormous wealth. Millionaires’ unhinged, dissolute heirs were not all that uncommon in Paris.
It was no wonder, Alix thought ruefully, that she’d jumped into the American writer’s car, hysterical, wild-eyed, desperate to get away from him. To his credit, the man had behaved as though everything was perfectly normal. When he left her off in the rue Boulainvilliers, he didn’t ask how she’d happened to be on the posh avenue Foch at that hour, in the snow, obviously running from trouble. He’d given her his business card. His name was Christopher Forbes.
“I tell you, Rudi does not think,” Gilles was saying. “No one likes to deal with these Greek shipping people. They are vulgar, unscrupulous. Like the oil Arabs, they are only tolerated for their money.”
Alix winced. “But Gilles, there must be some who—”
He snorted. “Never! They are all the same. This one’s father was a notorious playboy. He raced expensive cars and airplanes recklessly. He was scandalous with women. The poor wife was beautiful, an heiress in her own right, but became an alcoholic because she couldn’t stand living with him. I have a cousin,” he said with grim relish, “who worked at the Ritz. He tells me once they had such a terrible fight—I mean they were actually hitting each other—so that the police came and she was taken to the hospital in an ambulance.”
Alix stared at him. “Nicholas Palliades?”
“No, no, the father , Stavros, who was killed. The son is the same, only he does the grandfather’s dirty jobs, like a gangster. How could Rudi let such a man take you out?” Gilles swept his hand across the drawing board, scattering his sketches. “Everything is Rudi’s fault! Look, I’m trying to clear up this work that should have been completed weeks ago. If Rudi doesn’t get it done before New Year’s, it’s futile to have a showing. It’s worse than working for my mother in her dressmaking business. I left Tours to get away from chaos. Alors , now I have to go to the Americans to get away from- this !”
Alix didn’t know what to say. “But Gilles, I know Rudi will appreciate what you’re doing. He—”
“—Is in bed,” the designer snarled, “on the telephone, telling everyone in Paris what a filthy dog I am to be leaving him.” He threw his grease crayons after the sketches. “But Rudi will change his mind. When he is tired of telling everyone what a bastard I am, he will start crying and decide I am okay after all.” Gilles imitated Rudi’s high-pitched voice. “That he wishes me great luck with Jackson Storm, that the American is more rich and powerful than he is, poor little Rudi, and that he knows I have made the right decision. Because it will make me famous.”
Alix sat down on the edge of a straight-backed chair filled with toiles. She was tired; she’d endured enough emotional turmoil for one week. “Is Jackson Storm really going to make you famous? Gilles, are there any guarantees?”
Gilles’s hard, young face contracted. “I am not a fool, cherie. I have guarantees, yes. I admire Jackson Storm. When he talks about publicity, the coverage in the media, millions spent on advertising on American television—” He stopped, scowling. “Believe me, Mr. Jackson Storm’s couture house will not be like these French operations that run badly, with a lot of screaming and confusion.”
“But Gilles, Rudi gave you your breath. You design more than half of his collection now!”
“I will design all of them with Jackson Storm,” he shot back. “Besides, Rudi takes credit for classical couture, trousseaus, the stuff for the wife of the premier of France and the ladies of San Francisco, but I am the one who does it.” He lowered his voice. “You know I have to do it.
She shuddered. She’d come to the conclusion that Nicholas Palliades was a lunatic. A serious mental case protected by his family’s enormous wealth. Millionaires’ unhinged, dissolute heirs were not all that uncommon in Paris.
It was no wonder, Alix thought ruefully, that she’d jumped into the American writer’s car, hysterical, wild-eyed, desperate to get away from him. To his credit, the man had behaved as though everything was perfectly normal. When he left her off in the rue Boulainvilliers, he didn’t ask how she’d happened to be on the posh avenue Foch at that hour, in the snow, obviously running from trouble. He’d given her his business card. His name was Christopher Forbes.
“I tell you, Rudi does not think,” Gilles was saying. “No one likes to deal with these Greek shipping people. They are vulgar, unscrupulous. Like the oil Arabs, they are only tolerated for their money.”
Alix winced. “But Gilles, there must be some who—”
He snorted. “Never! They are all the same. This one’s father was a notorious playboy. He raced expensive cars and airplanes recklessly. He was scandalous with women. The poor wife was beautiful, an heiress in her own right, but became an alcoholic because she couldn’t stand living with him. I have a cousin,” he said with grim relish, “who worked at the Ritz. He tells me once they had such a terrible fight—I mean they were actually hitting each other—so that the police came and she was taken to the hospital in an ambulance.”
Alix stared at him. “Nicholas Palliades?”
“No, no, the father , Stavros, who was killed. The son is the same, only he does the grandfather’s dirty jobs, like a gangster. How could Rudi let such a man take you out?” Gilles swept his hand across the drawing board, scattering his sketches. “Everything is Rudi’s fault! Look, I’m trying to clear up this work that should have been completed weeks ago. If Rudi doesn’t get it done before New Year’s, it’s futile to have a showing. It’s worse than working for my mother in her dressmaking business. I left Tours to get away from chaos. Alors , now I have to go to the Americans to get away from- this !”
Alix didn’t know what to say. “But Gilles, I know Rudi will appreciate what you’re doing. He—”
“—Is in bed,” the designer snarled, “on the telephone, telling everyone in Paris what a filthy dog I am to be leaving him.” He threw his grease crayons after the sketches. “But Rudi will change his mind. When he is tired of telling everyone what a bastard I am, he will start crying and decide I am okay after all.” Gilles imitated Rudi’s high-pitched voice. “That he wishes me great luck with Jackson Storm, that the American is more rich and powerful than he is, poor little Rudi, and that he knows I have made the right decision. Because it will make me famous.”
Alix sat down on the edge of a straight-backed chair filled with toiles. She was tired; she’d endured enough emotional turmoil for one week. “Is Jackson Storm really going to make you famous? Gilles, are there any guarantees?”
Gilles’s hard, young face contracted. “I am not a fool, cherie. I have guarantees, yes. I admire Jackson Storm. When he talks about publicity, the coverage in the media, millions spent on advertising on American television—” He stopped, scowling. “Believe me, Mr. Jackson Storm’s couture house will not be like these French operations that run badly, with a lot of screaming and confusion.”
“But Gilles, Rudi gave you your breath. You design more than half of his collection now!”
“I will design all of them with Jackson Storm,” he shot back. “Besides, Rudi takes credit for classical couture, trousseaus, the stuff for the wife of the premier of France and the ladies of San Francisco, but I am the one who does it.” He lowered his voice. “You know I have to do it.
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