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section7mfuDoes double-duty as a Short Challenge. Prompts: nibble/crimson
Chapter 1 here. Chapter 2 here. Chapter 3 here. Chapter 4 here.
Section II: "I did not know high fashion was that competitive."
Chapter 5
"She likes her evenings elegant and dignified."
Napoleon sipped his Martini, his gaze sweeping the elegant Manhattan penthouse. Elegant, he repeated to himself. It was a good word to describe everything about this evening. The quality seemed to emanate from the woman at his side, permeating the apartment and all its inhabitants. Aggressive elegance, Napoleon thought whimsically.
Madeline Colbourne, delicious in Chanel, kept up a continuous flow of data on everyone present. Napoleon's brain was feeling full. He had lost track of the names after the twelfth person she pointed out, and even the faces were beginning to blend together. Occasionally he would dutifully jot in his notebook as Madeline relayed a fact with particular emphasis.
The main room spanned two stories. On his left, floor-to-ceiling windows reflected the guests, the men suave in tuxedos, the women glittering in gowns and jewels. Conversation hummed low against the strains of a quartet, someone's pet-project, playing in a corner. There was an undercurrent in the room, however. Expectation, Napoleon determined, feeling it resonate within him.
"What's all the excitement about?" he asked.
"Oh, a friend is bringing a new couturier and his little model. Apparently his designs are très magnifique." Her voice was casual, but her eyes sparkled with curiosity.
To Napoleon’s right, a staircase curved up to a second-floor landing and the penthouse’s main entrance. A hush fell over the room as above them a servant announced the newest arrivals. "Mr. Leary. Vanya. Miss Leigh."
Leary, Illya, and Faustina came through the doorway and onto the landing. Leary seemed a familiar face to the guests and attracted little attention. The focus of the women was drawn to Illya, the mysterious newcomer in a Nehru jacket, whose blue eyes gazed intensely over those assembled below. However, as she stepped forward a pace to remove her crimson wrap, all eyes turned to Faustina.
Seemingly oblivious to the attention, Faustina raised slim hands to her throat and gradually unfastened her wrap. As the final clasp gave way, she drew the panels apart, revealing an ivory satin lining. Then, with an upward sweep of her arms, she threw back the wrap. It flew up and over her shoulders, hovering like two massive wings, before falling in a pool behind her. A collective gasp arose.
She was a Grecian statue in the flesh, a Louvre marble imbued with life. Delicate layers of blond, ivory, and white draped and cascaded around her body. Faustina turned in a circle, then slowly descended the stairs. With each step, the dress came alive, twisting, gathering, and straining, as if buffeted by the winds of Olympus. A goddess walked among them. Nike had descended her podium and graced the Show and Tell.
One person began to clap, and a wave of applause swept across the room. The silent spell was broken. The guests pressed forward to greet the newcomers and to rave over the breathtaking dress.
Napoleon was speechless. Somewhere from the depths of that cerebral, enigmatic Russian mind sprang the most captivating gown Napoleon had ever seen on a woman. An impish smile curved his lips. If Illya thought his partner wouldn't dine out on this, he knew nothing about Napoleon Solo.
Illya bit an hors d'oeuvre, nodded politely, and sought an avenue of escape. He had never seen so much fawning in his life. And most of it not directed at him. Illya suppressed his annoyance. In the last hours, nearly every woman and many of the men had approached him and the ever-present Michael Leary to pay compliments and ask questions. The compliments Leary accepted graciously and the questions he answered politely. Illya was playing the brooding artist, but this was ridiculous. Nevertheless, Leary expected compliance, and a fit of artistic temperament was not going to get him any closer to this man's plans.
Leary was engrossed in conversation with a platinum blond about how he 'discovered' Vanya. Both had forgotten Illya's existence minutes ago, so he seized the opportunity and backed away. His retreat did not go unnoticed. In a corner near the bar, a tall, lanky man with a shock of light brown hair smiled in commiseration. He was dressed in a tuxedo, but its velvet trim and green ascot set him apart from the others. Intrigued, Illya crossed the room.
"So Vanya, how do you like the Show and Tell?" the stranger asked, his accent Parisian.
Illya's expression must have given him away. Before he could say a word, the stranger laughed heartily and gave Illya a friendly clap on the back. "Talent and taste. Ah, mon ami, you'll go far." He gave a slight bow. "Etienne Dubreton.”
Dubreton moved behind the bar and gestured for Illya to sit. “Come, I will mix you a drink.” He began selecting bottles from under the counter, beginning with vodka. Illya had observed guests approach him throughout the night to request cocktails, so he apparently had a reputation as a mixologist.
The Frenchman considered Illya for a moment, nodded to himself and set to work. "You and your model are by far the most interesting Show and Tell tonight. Not that the quartet, one modestly talented chanteuse, and an emotionally unstable poet were much competition. That dress, however, is the liveliest thing I've ever seen at one of Madeline's affairs. I thought I was back in Paris for a moment."
"You mean not all Show and Tells are like this?" Illya asked, as Dubreton muddled something green into a glass.
"Pas du tout! Only Madeline's. She likes her evenings elegant and dignified.” He snorted. "She would be ennui personified, if it was not for her fascinating hobby of collecting men. That magazine writer appears to be her latest acquisition. But I was telling you about Paris. The last Show and Tell we had, the police were called in twice. Someone had brought a rock band psychédélique, and another a fan dancer. And then a rally driver decided to give us a demonstration in the champagne delivery van.” He chuckled, then presented Illya's glass with a flourish. “Et voilà.”
Illya sipped the drink tentatively. It was smooth and well-balanced, with just the right herbal notes. “It's good. What is it?”
“I will call it ‘Winged Victory,’” he said, and Illya raised his glass at the compliment. “Your model, does she like cocktails?”
Illya rotated on the stool to follow Dubreton’s gaze. Faustina was on the dance floor, subtly but skillfully thwarting her inebriated partner’s attempts to nibble her ear. The gentleman he once was longed to lay the man flat, but that would not aid the mission. Across the room, Napoleon was also watching with a resigned frown. They had seen her overcome far worse. “Probably, but she's not to drink on duty. I can't risk her spoiling a dress.” He turned to Dubreton. “What would you mix for her?”
Dubreton stared at Faustina for many moments, seeming arrested and a little bewildered. Illya thought he might be smitten. “Rose water,” he murmured finally, then looked back at Illya with a dazed smile. “I would have to talk with her to decide the rest.”
"Who is your protégé, Monsieur Dubreton?”
"Ah, Lina. She is a very talented girl. She’s sung opera, ridden with gauchos, climbed the Himalayas...she even walked tightrope in the circus for a time. But always she is restless for change. So when she tosses her black hair, flashes her stormy eyes, and pouts up at me, I stretch my imagination for something new for her to try."
Illya decided he liked this Frenchman. "You must need quite an imagination."
"Well, I’ll tell you a secret—Lina is part memory, part fantasy. Most know I invent my stories about her, but as long as they are amused, no one complains." He mixed himself a drink.
"Pardon me, but you do not sound as if you like these people very much? Why then do you do it?"
Dubreton offered a Gallic shrug. "It is just who we are—the young and far-too-wealthy, dedicated to the search for life's greatest pleasures.” He raised his glass to Illya. "Now you are here, with your foot on a golden ladder. The Show and Tell, where the jeunesse dorée come to convince themselves they are contributing something to the human experience." Dubreton spread his arms to indicate the penthouse, the ice tinkling as it jostled in his glass. "To introduce your fashions here, this was smart." He tapped a finger to the side of his nose. "But to involve yourself with Michael Leary, this was not smart."
"Is there something I should know about him?"
"On the surface he is charming. Personally that gallows smile freezes me to the marrow, but women think his pale eyes fascinating. Scratch his surface, however, and what do you find?"
"THRUSH?" Illya murmured.
Dubreton laughed. "Is that a Russian proverb? I myself would have said raven." He grew serious. "Michael Leary is a dangerous man. Outside these walls, you can hear whispers about him—thieving, smuggling...murder."
"What would such a man want with a humble couturier?"
"I do not know, mon ami. I can say I doubt his intentions were philanthropique. Look around you. He controls you, so he controls what everyone now wants. Every woman in the room lies at his feet. And where the women go, the men follow."
Illya drained his glass. Finally he was getting somewhere. "If you had to guess, what would be the most he could gain from this evening?"
Dubreton gazed across the room thoughtfully, and a wan smile curved his lips. "I would say he has already gained it."
Illya turned to see Leary smiling genuinely at the platinum blond. "Who is she?" He had forgotten.
"Eleanor Creighton. If there is anything more elite than the Show and Tell, it is one of Eleanor's house parties. And it looks as if Leary has just accomplished the social coup of the year by receiving an invitation."
"How does one earn such an honor?"
"Oh, it is not earned. It is all on the whim of Eleanor's erratic little brain. If you have something to offer or amuse her, you might get invited. Me, I amuse. And now Michael Leary has something to offer. It seems I will be suffering his presence at Eleanor's this weekend."
The Show and Tell was ending. The few remaining guests chatted on the landing, while the hired help collected glasses and emptied ashtrays. Napoleon watched it all in the mirror while straightening his bowtie. Madeline joined him, flushed and triumphant.
"Well, Napoleon, didn't I promise you a marvelous story? Just think, Beau Monde will have an exclusive on New York's latest Show and Tell."
"Ah, yes. There are just a few details I need to pin down and my notes will be complete." He pulled out his pad and flipped past several blank pages. "Here we are. Now, whose penthouse is this?"
"It belongs to Frederick B. Hayden III. He is...indisposed at the moment."
Napoleon remembered the man, Faustina's intoxicated partner, who had been discreetly carried from the room an hour earlier. From the lack of interest of the other guests, he guessed it was not an infrequent occurrence.
"Very good." He doodled in his pad. "Ah, there was something else. Oh, yes. What about these rumors of your being engaged?"
Madeline's face drained of color. She swallowed noticeably and, glancing around for eavesdroppers, drew Napoleon further from the servants. "Where did you hear that?"
"Here and there this evening. I wanted to confirm it with you before including it in my story."
"No!" she squeaked. Taking a deep breath, she repeated more calmly, "No. Please do not include that in your story. While it is true I have been asked, I have not yet decided whether I am going to accept." She had the good grace to blush.
"Can I know the name of my competition?" His kingdom for a name.
"Oh, you wouldn't know him. He's Austrian and somewhat older that I am. In fact, no one here knows him. I cannot imagine how the story got out." Napoleon saw her glance flash to where Michael Leary stood. Alarum, Napoleon thought, feeling his opportunity slipping away.
"Now, I do not believe you've spoken to Vanya's model this evening. I want your article to specifically state that she debuted his design at my Show and Tell." She herded him toward Faustina.
“Exuent,” he whispered.
Faustina lingered in the powder room, basking in the solitude. It had been an exhausting night in many ways. She was sure she’d danced with most of the men there. Was it because she was supposed to be a designer’s mannequin that they felt free to grope and paw? It was not easy to maintain the persona of the vacuous Miss Leigh, while attempting to preserve some of her dignity. Finally, she'd retreated to the powder room, certain if one more man put a hand on her backside, he'd draw back four broken fingers and a dislocated thumb.
The women were no better behaved. They ambushed her in groups, pulling her aside to exclaim over the dress and the honor it must be to work for such a talented man. Above their smiles, their eyes glinted hungrily, willing her to reveal whether Vanya and his model were more than artist and employee.
Worse than these, she'd learned nothing. Leary was up to something tonight. The width of his smile, the restlessness of his pale eyes—she’d read all the signs on him when they arrived. But she'd been constantly surrounded, unable to observe Leary’s interactions consistently.
And through all this, two brown eyes relentlessly followed her, questioning, disbelieving, examining every move and expression for signs of familiarity. Had she been convincing as Miss Leigh? Or had a single, unconscious gesture given her away? She'd told Mr. Waverly she wasn't afraid of ghosts. But here she was, hiding in the powder room.
She sighed. Assuming her mask of mindless simplicity, she returned to the main room. She found it almost empty. The hired help were heading out. Illya and Leary conversed in the corner. Up on the landing, a few guests finished cigarettes and discussed where to go for a nightcap. The tallest of them fastened his eyes on her. She risked a casual glance in his direction. She could tell by his look that he was waiting to talk with her. Dammit. They couldn't have a scene, not in front of Leary.
Napoleon approached her, Madeline Colbourne in his wake. "Miss Leigh, my name is Napoleon Solo. I work for Beau Monde magazine, and I'd like to ask you a few questions."
The smile she returned was genuine. Curfew shall not ring tonight. “Oh, Mr. Solo, I'd be honored,” she gushed. “Could we step out on the terrace? I would love some fresh air.”
At that moment, Leary interrupted them. "Miss Leigh, it's time for us to leave."
On the landing, the tall man was hailed by his departing friends, demanding to know whether he was joining them or not.
Illya came to her side. "Mr. Leary has been invited to a house party this weekend. He wants to go to the studio and see you model more of my designs, so he can promote them to the other guests."
"We will have to see what we can do about getting you a better showroom,” Leary said, making disapproving noises. “Such an unsafe neighborhood."
Above them, the tall man patted his pockets as if he had forgotten something. If she met him on that landing, their mission might be over right there. She needed to stay with Napoleon until Leary was safely away. Illya would make her pay for what she was about to do. But desperate times, and all that. And turnabout was fair play.
Faustina stepped toe to toe with Illya. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. She pressed herself firmly against his chest, forcing him to wrap his arms around her or be knocked off balance.
"But Vanya,” she pouted, “Mr. Solo was going to interview me for his magazine. I've never had my name in print before." She played with the top button of his jacket. "Please," she coaxed, biting her lip and fluttering her lashes shamelessly.
"It will only take a few minutes,” Napoleon offered helpfully. “By the time you know which dresses you want to see, I'll have Miss Leigh safely escorted to your door.”
"If we're going to be famous, I'll need to learn how to talk to reporters.” Faustina ran a fingertip across Illya’s chin, skirting his lower lip. “It will be like—basic training.”
Faustina looked deeply into Illya’s eyes, willing him to agree. His nod was so slight, she sensed it more than saw it. Then he sighed loudly like a man helpless to resist. "I never could say no to you.”
She leaned forward and pressed a kiss on the tip of his nose. “You're cute.” Then turning to a wide-eyed Napoleon, she tucked her arm in his and led him away with a brilliant smile.
Chapter 1 here. Chapter 2 here. Chapter 3 here. Chapter 4 here.
Section II: "I did not know high fashion was that competitive."
Chapter 5
"She likes her evenings elegant and dignified."
Napoleon sipped his Martini, his gaze sweeping the elegant Manhattan penthouse. Elegant, he repeated to himself. It was a good word to describe everything about this evening. The quality seemed to emanate from the woman at his side, permeating the apartment and all its inhabitants. Aggressive elegance, Napoleon thought whimsically.
Madeline Colbourne, delicious in Chanel, kept up a continuous flow of data on everyone present. Napoleon's brain was feeling full. He had lost track of the names after the twelfth person she pointed out, and even the faces were beginning to blend together. Occasionally he would dutifully jot in his notebook as Madeline relayed a fact with particular emphasis.
The main room spanned two stories. On his left, floor-to-ceiling windows reflected the guests, the men suave in tuxedos, the women glittering in gowns and jewels. Conversation hummed low against the strains of a quartet, someone's pet-project, playing in a corner. There was an undercurrent in the room, however. Expectation, Napoleon determined, feeling it resonate within him.
"What's all the excitement about?" he asked.
"Oh, a friend is bringing a new couturier and his little model. Apparently his designs are très magnifique." Her voice was casual, but her eyes sparkled with curiosity.
To Napoleon’s right, a staircase curved up to a second-floor landing and the penthouse’s main entrance. A hush fell over the room as above them a servant announced the newest arrivals. "Mr. Leary. Vanya. Miss Leigh."
Leary, Illya, and Faustina came through the doorway and onto the landing. Leary seemed a familiar face to the guests and attracted little attention. The focus of the women was drawn to Illya, the mysterious newcomer in a Nehru jacket, whose blue eyes gazed intensely over those assembled below. However, as she stepped forward a pace to remove her crimson wrap, all eyes turned to Faustina.
Seemingly oblivious to the attention, Faustina raised slim hands to her throat and gradually unfastened her wrap. As the final clasp gave way, she drew the panels apart, revealing an ivory satin lining. Then, with an upward sweep of her arms, she threw back the wrap. It flew up and over her shoulders, hovering like two massive wings, before falling in a pool behind her. A collective gasp arose.
She was a Grecian statue in the flesh, a Louvre marble imbued with life. Delicate layers of blond, ivory, and white draped and cascaded around her body. Faustina turned in a circle, then slowly descended the stairs. With each step, the dress came alive, twisting, gathering, and straining, as if buffeted by the winds of Olympus. A goddess walked among them. Nike had descended her podium and graced the Show and Tell.
One person began to clap, and a wave of applause swept across the room. The silent spell was broken. The guests pressed forward to greet the newcomers and to rave over the breathtaking dress.
Napoleon was speechless. Somewhere from the depths of that cerebral, enigmatic Russian mind sprang the most captivating gown Napoleon had ever seen on a woman. An impish smile curved his lips. If Illya thought his partner wouldn't dine out on this, he knew nothing about Napoleon Solo.
Illya bit an hors d'oeuvre, nodded politely, and sought an avenue of escape. He had never seen so much fawning in his life. And most of it not directed at him. Illya suppressed his annoyance. In the last hours, nearly every woman and many of the men had approached him and the ever-present Michael Leary to pay compliments and ask questions. The compliments Leary accepted graciously and the questions he answered politely. Illya was playing the brooding artist, but this was ridiculous. Nevertheless, Leary expected compliance, and a fit of artistic temperament was not going to get him any closer to this man's plans.
Leary was engrossed in conversation with a platinum blond about how he 'discovered' Vanya. Both had forgotten Illya's existence minutes ago, so he seized the opportunity and backed away. His retreat did not go unnoticed. In a corner near the bar, a tall, lanky man with a shock of light brown hair smiled in commiseration. He was dressed in a tuxedo, but its velvet trim and green ascot set him apart from the others. Intrigued, Illya crossed the room.
"So Vanya, how do you like the Show and Tell?" the stranger asked, his accent Parisian.
Illya's expression must have given him away. Before he could say a word, the stranger laughed heartily and gave Illya a friendly clap on the back. "Talent and taste. Ah, mon ami, you'll go far." He gave a slight bow. "Etienne Dubreton.”
Dubreton moved behind the bar and gestured for Illya to sit. “Come, I will mix you a drink.” He began selecting bottles from under the counter, beginning with vodka. Illya had observed guests approach him throughout the night to request cocktails, so he apparently had a reputation as a mixologist.
The Frenchman considered Illya for a moment, nodded to himself and set to work. "You and your model are by far the most interesting Show and Tell tonight. Not that the quartet, one modestly talented chanteuse, and an emotionally unstable poet were much competition. That dress, however, is the liveliest thing I've ever seen at one of Madeline's affairs. I thought I was back in Paris for a moment."
"You mean not all Show and Tells are like this?" Illya asked, as Dubreton muddled something green into a glass.
"Pas du tout! Only Madeline's. She likes her evenings elegant and dignified.” He snorted. "She would be ennui personified, if it was not for her fascinating hobby of collecting men. That magazine writer appears to be her latest acquisition. But I was telling you about Paris. The last Show and Tell we had, the police were called in twice. Someone had brought a rock band psychédélique, and another a fan dancer. And then a rally driver decided to give us a demonstration in the champagne delivery van.” He chuckled, then presented Illya's glass with a flourish. “Et voilà.”
Illya sipped the drink tentatively. It was smooth and well-balanced, with just the right herbal notes. “It's good. What is it?”
“I will call it ‘Winged Victory,’” he said, and Illya raised his glass at the compliment. “Your model, does she like cocktails?”
Illya rotated on the stool to follow Dubreton’s gaze. Faustina was on the dance floor, subtly but skillfully thwarting her inebriated partner’s attempts to nibble her ear. The gentleman he once was longed to lay the man flat, but that would not aid the mission. Across the room, Napoleon was also watching with a resigned frown. They had seen her overcome far worse. “Probably, but she's not to drink on duty. I can't risk her spoiling a dress.” He turned to Dubreton. “What would you mix for her?”
Dubreton stared at Faustina for many moments, seeming arrested and a little bewildered. Illya thought he might be smitten. “Rose water,” he murmured finally, then looked back at Illya with a dazed smile. “I would have to talk with her to decide the rest.”
"Who is your protégé, Monsieur Dubreton?”
"Ah, Lina. She is a very talented girl. She’s sung opera, ridden with gauchos, climbed the Himalayas...she even walked tightrope in the circus for a time. But always she is restless for change. So when she tosses her black hair, flashes her stormy eyes, and pouts up at me, I stretch my imagination for something new for her to try."
Illya decided he liked this Frenchman. "You must need quite an imagination."
"Well, I’ll tell you a secret—Lina is part memory, part fantasy. Most know I invent my stories about her, but as long as they are amused, no one complains." He mixed himself a drink.
"Pardon me, but you do not sound as if you like these people very much? Why then do you do it?"
Dubreton offered a Gallic shrug. "It is just who we are—the young and far-too-wealthy, dedicated to the search for life's greatest pleasures.” He raised his glass to Illya. "Now you are here, with your foot on a golden ladder. The Show and Tell, where the jeunesse dorée come to convince themselves they are contributing something to the human experience." Dubreton spread his arms to indicate the penthouse, the ice tinkling as it jostled in his glass. "To introduce your fashions here, this was smart." He tapped a finger to the side of his nose. "But to involve yourself with Michael Leary, this was not smart."
"Is there something I should know about him?"
"On the surface he is charming. Personally that gallows smile freezes me to the marrow, but women think his pale eyes fascinating. Scratch his surface, however, and what do you find?"
"THRUSH?" Illya murmured.
Dubreton laughed. "Is that a Russian proverb? I myself would have said raven." He grew serious. "Michael Leary is a dangerous man. Outside these walls, you can hear whispers about him—thieving, smuggling...murder."
"What would such a man want with a humble couturier?"
"I do not know, mon ami. I can say I doubt his intentions were philanthropique. Look around you. He controls you, so he controls what everyone now wants. Every woman in the room lies at his feet. And where the women go, the men follow."
Illya drained his glass. Finally he was getting somewhere. "If you had to guess, what would be the most he could gain from this evening?"
Dubreton gazed across the room thoughtfully, and a wan smile curved his lips. "I would say he has already gained it."
Illya turned to see Leary smiling genuinely at the platinum blond. "Who is she?" He had forgotten.
"Eleanor Creighton. If there is anything more elite than the Show and Tell, it is one of Eleanor's house parties. And it looks as if Leary has just accomplished the social coup of the year by receiving an invitation."
"How does one earn such an honor?"
"Oh, it is not earned. It is all on the whim of Eleanor's erratic little brain. If you have something to offer or amuse her, you might get invited. Me, I amuse. And now Michael Leary has something to offer. It seems I will be suffering his presence at Eleanor's this weekend."
The Show and Tell was ending. The few remaining guests chatted on the landing, while the hired help collected glasses and emptied ashtrays. Napoleon watched it all in the mirror while straightening his bowtie. Madeline joined him, flushed and triumphant.
"Well, Napoleon, didn't I promise you a marvelous story? Just think, Beau Monde will have an exclusive on New York's latest Show and Tell."
"Ah, yes. There are just a few details I need to pin down and my notes will be complete." He pulled out his pad and flipped past several blank pages. "Here we are. Now, whose penthouse is this?"
"It belongs to Frederick B. Hayden III. He is...indisposed at the moment."
Napoleon remembered the man, Faustina's intoxicated partner, who had been discreetly carried from the room an hour earlier. From the lack of interest of the other guests, he guessed it was not an infrequent occurrence.
"Very good." He doodled in his pad. "Ah, there was something else. Oh, yes. What about these rumors of your being engaged?"
Madeline's face drained of color. She swallowed noticeably and, glancing around for eavesdroppers, drew Napoleon further from the servants. "Where did you hear that?"
"Here and there this evening. I wanted to confirm it with you before including it in my story."
"No!" she squeaked. Taking a deep breath, she repeated more calmly, "No. Please do not include that in your story. While it is true I have been asked, I have not yet decided whether I am going to accept." She had the good grace to blush.
"Can I know the name of my competition?" His kingdom for a name.
"Oh, you wouldn't know him. He's Austrian and somewhat older that I am. In fact, no one here knows him. I cannot imagine how the story got out." Napoleon saw her glance flash to where Michael Leary stood. Alarum, Napoleon thought, feeling his opportunity slipping away.
"Now, I do not believe you've spoken to Vanya's model this evening. I want your article to specifically state that she debuted his design at my Show and Tell." She herded him toward Faustina.
“Exuent,” he whispered.
Faustina lingered in the powder room, basking in the solitude. It had been an exhausting night in many ways. She was sure she’d danced with most of the men there. Was it because she was supposed to be a designer’s mannequin that they felt free to grope and paw? It was not easy to maintain the persona of the vacuous Miss Leigh, while attempting to preserve some of her dignity. Finally, she'd retreated to the powder room, certain if one more man put a hand on her backside, he'd draw back four broken fingers and a dislocated thumb.
The women were no better behaved. They ambushed her in groups, pulling her aside to exclaim over the dress and the honor it must be to work for such a talented man. Above their smiles, their eyes glinted hungrily, willing her to reveal whether Vanya and his model were more than artist and employee.
Worse than these, she'd learned nothing. Leary was up to something tonight. The width of his smile, the restlessness of his pale eyes—she’d read all the signs on him when they arrived. But she'd been constantly surrounded, unable to observe Leary’s interactions consistently.
And through all this, two brown eyes relentlessly followed her, questioning, disbelieving, examining every move and expression for signs of familiarity. Had she been convincing as Miss Leigh? Or had a single, unconscious gesture given her away? She'd told Mr. Waverly she wasn't afraid of ghosts. But here she was, hiding in the powder room.
She sighed. Assuming her mask of mindless simplicity, she returned to the main room. She found it almost empty. The hired help were heading out. Illya and Leary conversed in the corner. Up on the landing, a few guests finished cigarettes and discussed where to go for a nightcap. The tallest of them fastened his eyes on her. She risked a casual glance in his direction. She could tell by his look that he was waiting to talk with her. Dammit. They couldn't have a scene, not in front of Leary.
Napoleon approached her, Madeline Colbourne in his wake. "Miss Leigh, my name is Napoleon Solo. I work for Beau Monde magazine, and I'd like to ask you a few questions."
The smile she returned was genuine. Curfew shall not ring tonight. “Oh, Mr. Solo, I'd be honored,” she gushed. “Could we step out on the terrace? I would love some fresh air.”
At that moment, Leary interrupted them. "Miss Leigh, it's time for us to leave."
On the landing, the tall man was hailed by his departing friends, demanding to know whether he was joining them or not.
Illya came to her side. "Mr. Leary has been invited to a house party this weekend. He wants to go to the studio and see you model more of my designs, so he can promote them to the other guests."
"We will have to see what we can do about getting you a better showroom,” Leary said, making disapproving noises. “Such an unsafe neighborhood."
Above them, the tall man patted his pockets as if he had forgotten something. If she met him on that landing, their mission might be over right there. She needed to stay with Napoleon until Leary was safely away. Illya would make her pay for what she was about to do. But desperate times, and all that. And turnabout was fair play.
Faustina stepped toe to toe with Illya. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. She pressed herself firmly against his chest, forcing him to wrap his arms around her or be knocked off balance.
"But Vanya,” she pouted, “Mr. Solo was going to interview me for his magazine. I've never had my name in print before." She played with the top button of his jacket. "Please," she coaxed, biting her lip and fluttering her lashes shamelessly.
"It will only take a few minutes,” Napoleon offered helpfully. “By the time you know which dresses you want to see, I'll have Miss Leigh safely escorted to your door.”
"If we're going to be famous, I'll need to learn how to talk to reporters.” Faustina ran a fingertip across Illya’s chin, skirting his lower lip. “It will be like—basic training.”
Faustina looked deeply into Illya’s eyes, willing him to agree. His nod was so slight, she sensed it more than saw it. Then he sighed loudly like a man helpless to resist. "I never could say no to you.”
She leaned forward and pressed a kiss on the tip of his nose. “You're cute.” Then turning to a wide-eyed Napoleon, she tucked her arm in his and led him away with a brilliant smile.
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Date: 2015-11-16 09:35 pm (UTC)Again, you do do good ocs.
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Date: 2015-11-16 09:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-11-16 09:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-11-16 10:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-11-17 09:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-11-18 12:00 am (UTC)