These Thin Lines, page 13
“I’m going to the ball!” She yelled as she passed Zizou who was quietly smoking on his corner and just shrugged, extinguishing his cigarette before motioning for her to wait. He went inside and returned a few minutes later with a small basket that resembled the traditional picnic variety. Indeed, a corner of a baguette was sticking out of it, and a checkered red and white cloth covered the rest.
“Leftovers. No olives. Now run along,” he grouched at her after practically shoving the basket in her hands.
“Zou…”
“Monsieur Zizou to you.” He tsked and lit another cigarette, waving her away. “And make sure Madame Conti eats something. She’s wasting away.”
Ah, Vi almost smiled. Almost. But who’d understand Zizou, who had the most obvious case of pining for Madame Conti, better than she did? The fact that he flat-out refused to call her anything other than “Madame Conti” warmed Vi’s heart.
Take that, Frankie!
And she would make sure his request, worded more like an order, would be fulfilled. Madame Conti would eat tonight, because despite her always taking care of others, she never looked after herself. Must be all the herding-of-dragons skills she mentioned. Vi smiled at that. Only Chiara could make something challenging endearing.
Which was a travesty, really, Vi thought as Chiara unpacked the basket and her eyes danced with merriment and delight. Someone should imprint those emotions on this beautiful face, because Chiara, above all, deserved to be happy. It suited her so well.
Binoche made herself a nuisance around their ankles, despite her bowl being full to the brim with wet food. Vi gave her a meaningful look, but the cat studiously ignored her by loudly demanding her due from her mistress. Chiara, in turn, chose not to pay attention to the little chocolate ball in favor of discovering the treasures Zizou had bestowed upon them.
“He’s a good man, Zizou. Surly, but good. And for whatever else, he is an amazing cook.” Chiara took out several carefully wrapped items. Vi preferred to look at the beautiful hands rather than at the food. Then what Chiara said caught up with her.
“Whatever else?”
Chiara stopped halfway into inventorying the basket, but the smile that followed didn’t reach her eyes.
“He’s a man of mystery and a Jack of many trades, Ms. Courtenay. Just… don’t cross him.”
That previous sense of foreboding returned, and Vi made herself appear busy unwrapping the sandwiches while her heart hammered.
Returning her gaze to her host who, with an indulgent smile, watched the cat saunter out of the kitchen with a prized piece of salami in her mouth, Vi racked her brain to try to recall the train of thought their conversation, so rudely interrupted by whatever cryptic warning Chiara had imparted on her earlier, had been on.
When the topic came back to her, Vi wanted to mention that, lately, she’d had no way to appreciate Zizou’s great cooking, since her lunches always tended to disappear, but remembering how the last incident had gone, she chose to let it go and lighten the mood instead.
“He is surly, all right. And he’s aware you haven't been eating. Which isn’t surprising, I guess. Maybe he isn’t just a chef but also a spy and that’s why you don’t tell me more. Doesn’t matter, I don’t want to know anyway. La-la-la.”
Chiara’s smile brightened, and this time it reached her eyes as she bit into a large pear, juice coating her lips. Vi’s hands twitched, wanting to reach out, to touch, to lean in and taste those lips that were undoubtedly sweet, even without the fruit making them look more luscious and delicious.
She swallowed hard. God, ‘hopeless’ wasn’t even close to how bad she had it. The dictionary didn’t have the words to describe how deeply and terribly Vi was gone for this woman. A woman who was now lifting fruit-stained fingers to her mouth, savoring the taste, making those absolutely illegal sounds of contentment, of satiation. If these sounds emanating from Chiara weren’t outlawed yet, they damn sure better be, and soon.
“Whatever else he is, Zizou has been on his corner in his bistro for quite some time. He saw us move Lilien Haus from the other part of town to Saint-Honoré a few years ago. And I appreciate his friendship. He has been very good to us from the beginning, feeding us, catering our events, and doing all those other super-secret things that you don’t want to know about. No, don’t look like that. The man caters like an angel.”
Vi faked a grin, happy for the banter and the distraction from all the nefariousness that may or may not be happening, and was about to launch into another litany of ‘la-la-las’, when Chiara reached across and covered Vi’s insolent mouth with her hand.
And suddenly both of them stopped, standing very still, skin on skin, their eyes full of each other. Vi’s, she knew, were all longing, and Chiara’s held something she couldn’t discern. Something hot was burning in those amber depths.
Chiara had touched her before. She’d had to, since she’d pretty much transformed Vi into her personal mannequin, and she had once silenced her in exactly the same fashion. But this was different.
As Vi inhaled the scent of the remnants of the pear, her lips moved ever so slightly over the warm, soft skin of Chiara’s palm. She felt like she would never sate this hunger, this need to feel, to taste, like she could do this forever…
Except the moment Vi’s lips moved, Chiara gasped, still unable to look away. And now Vi saw the regret and the gossamer apology staring unblinkingly back at her. So she was the one to turn her face, slowly dragging her mouth across the silky skin before breaking contact altogether, already missing the warmth and the connection.
Say something.
For once, Vi’s thoughts arranged themselves into somewhat coherent, if faltering, words.
“I’m… uh… I’m kind of sad that we won’t get to experience his catering at the Blackthorne Ball then…” She sounded foreign to herself, her voice infused with so much fake cheerfulness. Still, it seemed to work, since Chiara finally snapped out of whatever stupor had come over her when she’d touched Vi.
She moved away to examine the gown in the garment bag, and Vi wanted to weep, to shake her hands at whomever was up there in the clouds for putting her in this situation, where she was so hopelessly, helplessly attracted to someone who froze the moment she touched her skin. God, what must Chiara think of her?
“I don’t think you will miss Zizou and his, granted, excellent cooking. Neve Blackthorne is known for her hospitality.” Chiara seemed to have moved on from their awkward moment.
She unzipped the garment bag and was carefully extracting the chiffon and gauze. It hadn’t occurred to Vi that she herself hadn’t even peeked at the dress Gwyneth had handed her. The gown was less important than rushing over to see Chiara, to be with her, to bask in the time they spent together.
Now, seeing the material spilling out, Vi chewed her lip. Silver wasn’t really her color. It clashed with her auburn curls and put even more focus on her much detested freckles. She bit her lip harder to avoid saying something that would sound like she was ungrateful or complaining.
Silver it was.
She was going to the ball, where she would enjoy herself and take the best pictures of the Lilien collection she possibly could and do it all in an ill-suited gown. Nobody cared about the photographer anyway. She wasn’t in the foreground.
Moving on, then.
“I would have never put Neve Blackthorne and hospitality in the same sentence. She always seems so… I want to say ‘aloof,’ but it’s probably more like ‘majestic’. She’s just so… everything. A touch scary, I guess.” Vi shivered a little, and Chiara smiled.
“Neve is an interesting individual. And power can be scary. But it can also be sexy…” Chiara looked directly at Vi then, and Vi almost gulped, because now there was a mystery lurking behind those eyes, alight with a sort of mischief that Vi was entirely powerless to face. Aoife had been right. She was a rather useless baby gay.
“Yes, it can. But she is also very imposing. I mean, people say she rules over the whole of Hollywood.” Vi’s thoughts were scrambling in her head, jumping from one realization to the next, to the next, and she had no time to catalog them all.
And with Chiara’s gaze on her, one eyebrow raised in the kind of expression one has when they read a book that is both amusing and puzzling, all Vi could hope for was that some of her pages would remain off limits, or that Chiara would get bored before she got to the salient parts, the ones that held all those secrets. Secrets that all, bar one, weren’t even hers.
And despite Vi’s fear that Chiara would be able to read her and unravel everything, the fact that she was falling for this woman was the secret Vi held closest. Tightest. Safest.
Oh, please, don’t look!
Still, Chiara seemed content to stick to the surface and not examine things too deeply.
“You’ll meet her and then you’ll draw your own conclusions. I’ve stopped listening to what people say, Ms. Courtenay. They’re cruel. Sometimes just for sport. And sometimes, they can’t help themselves.”
Chiara’s tone was tinged with sadness again as she finally pulled all of the shimmering silver gown out of the garment bag. Yep, still silver. Still not Vi’s color. “Will you put this on for me?”
The melancholy eyes narrowed as long fingers ran over the material of the gown.
“Um..” Vi’s whole body froze at the way the words ‘for me’ caressed her skin like velvet. “I mean… Ah… It fits, I’m sure… Gwyneth gave it to me…”
“Gwyneth is your stepmother?” At Vi’s nod, Chiara sucked on her lower lip thoughtfully. “This is from her personal wardrobe, I take it?” Something in the way Chiara spoke the word ‘personal’, the tone of it, had Vi shrinking into herself.
“Yes, again, I’m sorry if this is not fancy enough for the ball—” At the intense stare, Vi closed her mouth with a snap, and her hands automatically reached for the top button of her shirt. Chiara’s lips pursed, and she just shook her head and handed Vi the gown. She could feel herself turn crimson. God, please, just once, could she stop falling over herself in front of this woman?
She hurried towards the small alcove where the divider would keep her modesty intact, only to stumble on her way, foot catching on absolutely nothing.
With her hands full of silver chiffon and as good as tied, the smooth floorboards loomed closer, and Vi closed her eyes in anticipation of a very nasty collision with the hard surface. The thought that a bruised black-and-blue face might match the accursed silver gown better than freckles and auburn flitted across her mind.
But before she hit the ground, a strong hand clenched around her upper arm, moments later the second one joined and despite her feet still being tangled around themselves hopelessly, Vi felt suspended for a second before Chiara’s strength gave out, and both of them tumbled to the floor in a heap of limbs and chiffon.
Instead of hard wood, Vi found herself face down in the warm skin and soft silk of Chiara’s shoulder. The subtleness of verbena, along with that unique glorious scent that was all Chiara, enveloped her. She took a gulp, filling her lungs with it, praying she’d never forget how it felt, and then the shoulder underneath her started to shake.
Vi lifted her head immediately, scrambling for purchase, to sit up, to lift herself off a prone Chiara who must be hurt, who must be having some kind of… fit of giggles?
Chiara was lying on the floor, surrounded by silver, and laughing, one shoulder exposed where her silk blouse had slipped down, and her hair now gloriously loose.
The sound of it filled the room with unabashed happiness. Vi’s breath caught. She felt as if the world tilted, and the muted tones of the hot and sweltering Paris suddenly burst with color and vivacity. Chiara’s laughter turned into a warm smile, and Vi’s weak, already tender heart rolled in her chest. Laughter made Chiara come alive, and that smile made her shine with a different light. One that spoke of intimacy, of promises Vi had no business wanting to hear.
But want them she did. All of them. Even if, in that moment, Vi wondered—and not for the first time—what secrets this woman kept, because her eyes were filled with truth and honesty, with such openness it was painful to behold. Especially for Vi, who held so many.
She smiled, then hiccuped, trying to reign in her own reaction, which only made Chiara laugh harder. When Vi, in an attempt to hide her embarrassment, turned away and tugged her sneaker back on, Chiara sat up and placed a cool hand on Vi’s cheek.
“Never ever change, Cinderella. Never. God, you’re adorable.” She let out another peel of laughter, watching Vi hastily tie the errant shoe.
After a while, Chiara’s face settled into an indulgent smile. “I really want to see how the dress fits, since it’s not yours. You’re going to the ball, Ms. Courtenay. We can’t have it look like you’re wearing your stepmother’s hand-me-down. Generous as it seems.”
“You like the dress?” Vi carefully held out her hand, but Chiara was already standing up in one swift, graceful movement that Vi was certain shouldn’t be possible for any regular human and was probably taught by yoga masters. It involved no hands and Chiara made it appear like the easiest thing in the world.
“I am not a fan of that brand, darling.” Chiara wrinkled her nose, and the cuteness of it had Vi shaking her head. Mostly at herself. Because this infatuation was getting ridiculous. Who was she kidding? It was ridiculous.
“Why?”
“My, you’d think I would be used to your questions by now, Ms. Courtenay. I don’t make a habit of badmouthing fellow professionals, and many great designers worked for this particular fashion house, but I’ve never walked for them, nor did I accept their ambassadorship when they offered.”
Vi’s eyes watched avidly as Chiara tugged on the cottontails of her blouse and popped the collar to give her that wonderful debonair appearance. She opened her mouth to ask for more, for details, but Chiara’s raised hand stopped her in her tracks.
“Before you ask, Ms. Courtenay, I’ve never made any political statements in my life. Models, ‘super’ or otherwise, aren’t hired for their intellect or to take a social stand, but I’ve always felt that we glossed over the fact that the founder of this brand openly associated with Nazis right here in the heart of Paris for most of the Second World War rather quickly.”
Vi instinctively glanced at the small, classy, very recognizable tag among the many frills of the gown in her hands and gulped.
“Don’t worry, Ms. Courtenay, the actual designer of this piece was a darling of a man, and as someone who knew him personally for many years, I can confirm he had a lot of love for that particular gown you’ll be wearing. I remember the year it was shown in London. He was very proud. I was simply surprised that your stepmother is the one who owns it now.”
The sense of dread, of impending doom returned a hundredfold, hitting Vi square in the chest. Had her father given Gwyneth this gown?
Meanwhile Chiara went on, her voice devoid of any emotion, in such contrast to the disquietude wrecking Vi.
“I’m not one to keep track of these things, you might have guessed I don’t keep track of much to begin with…” Her smile of self-deprecation was more a grimace of practiced nonchalance. “But I seem to remember that whole collection meeting a rather strange fate and mostly disappearing from the public eye after a series of, shall we say, mishaps? Now run along and change, provided you’re still willing to model it for me.”
It took Vi every single last ounce of control not to gulp again, or blink, or say something undoubtedly foolish.
Mishaps. Right.
Why were there always ‘mishaps’ when it came to the Courtenays? She felt herself going pale and hoped against hope that her freckles and the diffuse evening light would not let Chiara see it.
But Chiara did see it, Vi was certain of it, because she still read Vi like an open book, and instead of skimming the surface, this time the amber eyes were delving in all the way.
And so Vi took off in the direction of the small alcove again, her outer thigh smarting with whatever bruise was forming from the fall and providing a welcome distraction from all the potential pain she didn’t want to think about.
When she emerged, the night was settling heavily outside the windows and the suspended lights of the studio came on. In a familiar pose, Chiara was bent over the workstation, the line of her neck and shoulders open to the cool air. Vi realized she must have lost a shirt button or two in their collision. It was transfixing, light and shadow playing on those chiseled collarbones, over the smooth blades of bone and sinew under translucent skin.
Chiara raised her eyes to Vi, lips wrapped around a pencil, and suddenly it didn’t matter that the gown was absolutely wrong for her, and that despite fitting perfectly, the color still washed her out.
It was the wrong gown, the wrong ball, the absolute wrong time. But this was the right woman. The only woman, and Vi looked away, if only to not allow the tears that were burning her eyes to fall. Love hurt.
10
ONCE UPON AN UNWELCOME REVELATION
Genevieve Courtenay usually could control her reactions very well. Especially on the day of a major event, such as the Blackthorne Ball on Lake Como. And especially when one was raised by Charles Courtenay, whose temper was explosive and often resulted in being grounded or dismissed from his attention for weeks, for those who dared to show any kind of emotion he disapproved of. So Vi knew how to school her features.
Thanks, Dad.
However, even years of humiliating remarks from her father did not prepare her for acting like a Sphinx when certain things were on display right in front of her. Like a half-naked model in an ivory gown Vi herself had worn many times—since she’d been the original mannequin—that was practically sewn on and who was splayed on Neve Blackthorne’s Louis XIV dining room table, with three of Frankie Lilienfeld’s fingers knuckle-deep, pumping inside of her.
Vi dropped her clutch and was eternally grateful the precious camera was hanging off her neck, because surely she’d have smashed the lens. Her stomach dropped, as usually happened to her in situations of heightened tension.
