Assistant couturier Gilles Vasse stood partly hidden in the hanging slabs of dark-brown glass panels and rows of tiny light bulbs, chain-smoking Gauloise cigarettes and somberly viewing Mortessier's afternoon customers in the first row of seats.

The salon's showroom was a madhouse, just as it had been for the past two years at Christmas. December was traditionally the holiday lull in Paris fashion before the haute couture houses showed their spring collections, but this snowy winter afternoon the crowd for the regular 3 P.M. showing had overflowed the chrome and white-leather chairs provided for customers. There had been an embarrassing fifteen-minute delay in getting started while the vendeuse, her assistant the seconde, and the receptionist from the foyer had gone to round up more chairs from the fitting rooms.

Gilles had heard all the racket at his drawing table in the design room, and had come out to see what was going on. Now he stood in the hanging glass panels that masked the models' entrance area with his silver ashtray in one hand, watching the saleswomen try to restore some sort of order. His handsome, young face with its high cheekbones and sensitive mouth was dramatically offset by his trademark black sweater and tight, black jeans. In the audience, two wives of Arab oil sheiks decked out in lavish diamond jewelry from Bulgari, the oil kingdom's favorite jeweler, were rather grudgingly making room in the front rows for some Japanese businessmen. Behind them a clutch of uniformly ash blond women with the look of Houston and New York, the mainstay clientele of Paris high fashion, had settled into their seats.

It seemed a little bizarre to Gilles that Americans and Japanese -- not to mention the wives of Middle Eastern oil sheiks -- would come thousands of miles to Paris to shop when there were perfectly adequate, perhaps even more expensive high fashion salons in Tokyo, Kuwait, and Dallas. But the lure of a Paris label was an obsession among the world's wealthy.

Not that he was complaining, he thought hastily. All he wanted to do was become fabulously wealthy himself.

The business offer Gilles had been mulling over for several days popped up in his mind again. He paused, cigarette suspended over silver ashtray, his expression suddenly abstract.

The announcement of a new haute couture house by, incredibly enough, a New York clothing manufacturer, had rocked Paris months ago. Now the gossip in the insular world of haute couture said that Jackson Storm, the emperor of American mass-market fashion, needed a French designer or else his multimillion-dollar, widely heralded couture fashion project would not get off the ground. He wanted a good Paris designer, an exceptional one -- someone young and ambitious and eager to break out on his own. Someone, Gilles thought, sighing, like me.

Behind the alcove there was a faint rustle of fabric, of clothes being adjusted, followed by the seconde's low hiss as she cued the first model. Mortessier's show was beginning, this cold winter afternoon, with the somewhat passé best sellers of the fall and winter collection, even though some of the trendier Paris houses were already showing the first of their spring collections.

As the signal for the show to begin, the recorded music system segued from the pounding beat of a French rock group into a rendition of an old Beatles song, "Yesterday." Rudi Mortessier, the premier couturier and owner, loved Paul McCartney; it was the cue for the opener, winter coats, to begin.

Gilles knew he should go back to work. But the wedding gown he was working on depressed him. He was an artist; he hated creating on demand, especially anything as predictable as a white satin outfit for a Danish countess who was marrying a Copenhagen furniture manufacturer. He was just killing time hiding in the glass panels and watching the show; he knew Mortessier's fall collection, most of which he had designed himself, to the point of boredom.

But as the first mannequin brushed past him, lifting her eyes in surprise to find Gilles standing there, he told himself that someone was needed to stand there and check out the mannequins, see that their turns were kept up to standard. The girls got amazingly careless, even had a tendency to move through their routines too fast unless someone kept an eye on them. And, Gilles had to admit, he enjoyed watching the American model, Alix. Even now, after so much time at Mortessier's, she was phenomenal.

It was incredible that he almost hadn't hired her that day nearly three months ago on the grounds that she was much too beautiful for a couture house mannequin. Now she was Mortessier's, perhaps even Paris's, top model. And still wildly beautiful.

Gilles fished out the crumpled pack of Gauloises from his jeans and scooped another cigarette from it into his mouth. There was so much about Alix (he wasn't even sure that was her real name) that still remained a mystery. Had she really been a music student at the Sorbonne as she said? A student who had thrown up a promising career when she'd failed a vital exam. He did know that she'd had a make-over at a chic salon de beauté, the famed Alexandre of Paris; she'd admitted as much in her interview. That was unusual; few models looking for work had that sort of money to spend.

He watched the American girl glide out into the show area in a violently lavender felt coat, pause, and turn on her heel. She held the coat open to show a matching lavender wool dress underneath. There was a little murmur of pleasure from the first few rows of seats, then a ripple of protracted "aaahs" through the back rows of customers.

The lavender felt coat was not one of Gilles's favorites. He'd almost dropped the number from the winter collection when the bulky layers of felt seemed too overwhelming for the wealthy, middle-aged women who were Mortessier's usual customers. But once Alix had begun showing the number, it had become a best seller.

If there was an immutable truth in the world of fashion, Gilles knew, it was that a mannequin need not be beautiful nor even very pretty; in fact, a model who was too good-looking was a definite liability, as she detracted from the clothes. Instead, top-flight models had an almost mystical faculty for making clothes look good. It was a gift defying analysis, but all of them had it.

Of course, one could not do without the basics. It was necessary to have a slender body with level shoulders and hipbones -- even though Mortessier's did not demand the bizarre thirty-two-inch hip measurements the haute couturier Ungaro was said to require. The best mannequins had exceptionally long legs, reasonably sized feet, and a sexy, well-shaped bust, preferably a small one.

"C'est fou, the way l'Américaine sells," a voice murmured at Gilles's elbow.

Rudi Mortessier, fourth-ranked couturier in Paris after Dior, St. Laurent, and Givenchy, looked like a small, plump gray rabbit with thinning hair. Rudi had just come from the atelier where the spring lines were in production. There were untidy scraps of multicolored threads all over his vest.

"Of course, everything about this American girl is wrong." Rudi's eyes twinkled amiably behind thick, rimless spectacles. "The hair, the purple eyes like a circus poster -- tchah, everything about her is terrible!" He flapped small white hands in mock despair. "Except, of course, that when it is all put together, she is irresistible."

Gilles stepped a fraction of an inch back from his employer. "You wanted her hair that color," he said, "not me."

Rudi shot him an enigmatic glance. "So I did, so I did." He turned his attention back to the model, who was revolving slowly on a lighted gold Plexiglas disk set in the floor. "Of course, in the old days we would never have hired her, this technicolored siren of yours. Taste was more subdued then. Who would believe," the little couturier mused, "violet eyes with that incredible color of hair? It is like this terrible rock music -- it hurts the mind!"

Impulsively, Rudi put his hand out to touch Gilles's arm.

"Ah, but look at the Japanese there in the front rows. They are enchanted! They are going to buy this lilac coat because of her. Merde, this coat is a monstrosity, Gilles," he observed suddenly. "Lavender and thick, horrible felt. Have you no shame?"

Gilles didn't answer. He designed his avant-garde clothes as an attack on the senses, like the rock music blaring from the showroom speakers. Gilles Vasse creations were meant to be experienced, as well as seen. Actually, Gilles had often declared, the wearer was fairly irrelevant -- as long as she was skinny. Gilles's creations were designed to stand alone. Of course, in the old days haute couture had been quite different. Afternoon showings were dignified, reverent affairs, not the noisy, with-it spectaculars of the present-day avenue Montaigne. Some showings were still that way in the older establishments across the city, in the district around the rue de la Paix where the last of the old guard, Gres, Patou, and Chanel, still held forth. There the collections were virtually silent, decorous affairs where the vendeuse, the main saleswoman, knelt discreetly beside the chairs of important customers, answering their questions in whispers. And where the mannequins did nothing more than gracefully glide into the salon's cathedral-like stillness, holding a piece of cardboard with the number of the design, to aid in ordering.

"I don't know how she does it," Rudi Mortessier cocked his head thoughtfully as he watched the redheaded model go into another turn to show the coat. He gave his assistant couturier a small nudge with his elbow. "Eh, Gilles, there are even times when Alix reminds me of Lisianne. Do you see it? She has the same air of secrets. It's very intriguing."

Gilles stiffened. He told himself that it meant nothing, the passing reference to his wife, Lisianne; Rudi was always reminiscing about former great models, old couture houses, past fashions. But Rudi's hand on his arm was another matter.

Gilles moved a fraction of an inch away from his employer. "Not if you could see Lisianne now." His wife was seven-months pregnant.

"My friend, Lisianne is still gloriously beautiful." Rudi pursed his lips and kissed his fingertips in homage. "I saw her last week in the Tuileries. She was magnificent!"

"She doesn't think so." Gilles looked away, frowning. "She is very sensitive about -- about this pregnancy. Naturally, I am happy about the baby," he added quickly. "But I will be even happier when it is over with."

The stereo tape switched to a rendition of an old Dire Straits hit, "Walk of Life," and the American girl in the lavender coat exited through the smoked-glass panels to the left of the men. A beautiful Ethiopian, six feet tall and slender as a rail, squeezed past Gilles and Rudi Mortessier and entered the salon wearing another felt coat, this one in orange with the winged collar drawn up almost to the brim of a bizarre yellow sombrero.

The affectionate hand crept back to Gilles's arm. "That hat, I thought you had dropped it from the show," Rudi whispered. "How many orders have we had on this one?"

Gilles didn't move. It was no secret in Paris that Rudi Mortessier was in love with him. At one time, barely two years ago, when Gilles had just begun to work for Rudi, the situation had made his life hell. They had been one of Paris's most gossiped-about triangles: Lisianne, the beautiful Ungaro model, the famous couturier Rudi Mortessier, and his protégé, twenty-two-year-old Gilles Vasse. The gossip had stopped abruptly when Gilles, goaded beyond endurance, had attempted his own life with a gun Rudi had given him.

"I wish you had dropped the hat. They hate it." Rudi sighed. "At least the American would have shown it with spirit."

"I needed Alix for the lavender coat," Gilles said stiffly."She can hardly model everything in the collection."

The pressure of the hand on Gilles's arm increased as the little couturier craned to look past the partitions, checking the reactions of the sheiks' wives in the front row to the orange coat being shown.

Ordinarily the Arab oil ladies loved orange almost as much as they loved fire engine red or anything dripping with sequins. But they were not marking their order cards. "The atelier gossips that you have made your Alix wear contact lenses," Rudi murmured. "That there is no such color as this girl's purple eyes."

Gilles looked startled. "Contact lenses? Haven't those poules back there in the sewing room got enough to keep them busy? What merde!"

Gilles was aware that he ought to move out of Rudi's grasp. The argument with his fretful, unhappy wife that morning, the unfinished wedding gown design, and the fact that Rudi seemed always to find a way to put his hands on him were, at the moment, particularly galling. Thank God Rudi didn't know he was considering a job at the American's couture house! That was one secret, miraculously enough in the gossip-ridden world of Paris fashion, that had remained confidential.

Gilles shook off his employer's light touch, "God, Rudi, if you don't like Alix, fire her!"

He hadn't meant to shout. Almost instantly, the seconde responded with a hiss for them to be quiet.

Rudi was staring at him. "Gilles, what is the matter with you? You are very touchy these days." When the younger man said nothing, he sighed. "Alors, I do not wish to annoy you. I will go. I, too, have work to do."

Gilles knew he had hurt Rudi's feelings and, despite his annoyance, he owed everything he had to Rudi. "Wait," he muttered ungraciously, "don't go. Alix is coming back with number twenty-four. The 'fantaisie' you like."

Rudi's face immediately showed delight. Inwardly, Gilles cringed. You see, he told himself, it's impossible to work under these conditions. At that moment he would have accepted the American dress manufacturer's offer. Eagerly.

"Gilles, what is bothering you?" Rudi was watching him, baffled by his volatile mood. "I feel that you are --"

His voice trailed off as the American mannequin, Alix, came up behind them. A head taller than both men, she was wearing a magnificent glittering sheath, the space-age "fantaisie" Gilles had mentioned. Seed pearls and silver sequins clung to her body, shooting sparks of pale fire. Her burnished red-gold hair had been sprayed into antennalike projections from which fell a pearl-beaded fringe that trembled on either side of her delicately tinted cheeks. Her extraordinary eyes were indeed the color of wild violets. With her ivory skin, red hair, and startling eyes, she was unearthly, beautiful.

Predictably, another round of aaahs greeted her entrance into the salon.

Gilles heard it with a sinking feeling. Perhaps Rudi was right. Perhaps something about Alix did sell his designs. It was an unsettling thought. In that moment Gilles realized how badly he wanted to get away from Mortessier's. Rudi was driving him mad.

The little man was still watching Alix. "Have you noticed this girl is very tense? Look at the way she walks. Alors, Gilles, she never says who she is."

Gilles shook out another cigarette and lifted it to his mouth. Go ahead and tell him, he was thinking. Get it over with. Tell Rudi that you have been offered a job elsewhere. "She is an American, that is all I know. Brown, I think is the name on her papers. For work she uses only 'Alix.'"

Rudi shook his head. "Her French is good. Maybe she is not American."

"She studied music here, at the Sorbonne. Of course she speaks good French." Tomorrow, he promised himself. He would tell Rudi then. "Believe me, there is no mystery."

The couturier looked skeptical. "She is beautiful. She should be too ambitious for this, only to be a mannequin."

Gilles scowled. "She doesn't need to be ambitious."

"But one can be beautiful and ambitious, my friend." Rudi's smooth expression did not change. "It is not necessarily a contradiction."

Gilles stopped, a new cigarette halfway to his mouth. Had the conversation suddenly become about something more than a model? Was he just nervous, or could it be that Rudi suspected something? God, if he were only older, Gilles thought, more established, his reputation a certainty! If he had more money in the bank. If his wife were not expecting a child. If Rudi Mortessier were not in love with him, damn him.

"Too many secrets, I think." Rudi had his back to him. "It does not inspire trust."

Gilles could only stare at the crown of Rudi's slightly balding head. My God, had the moment come? Had Rudi read his mind? Was the decision to leave Mortessier's or stay going to be forced on him in this moment, after all?

On the other hand, Gilles thought wildly, Rudi would probably tell him to accept the American's offer. Generous, good-hearted Rudi would probably even wish him, Gilles the traitor, great success!

"What secrets?" Gilles knew his voice was hoarse. "I don't understand."

Rudi looked bland. "The girl, Alix -- what else are we talking about? Ah, look," he said quickly, "now she has the attention of someone who is very interested!"

Gilles turned his head. At the back of the room, among a small sprinkling of tourists and less affluent Parisiennes stood the elegantly dressed figure of a dark, hard-faced young man. Someone important, Gilles knew at once. He hadn't had time to remove his black Chesterfield coat, which had the undeniably expensive look of London's Saville Row. The tall man held a homburg in his hand, black eyes narrowed as he followed the models turning gracefully on the lighted gold floor.

"Charming, isn't he?" Rudi whispered. "Do you recognize him?"

Gilles shook his head.

"Young Nicholas Palliades. The ship-owning Greeks." Rudi sounded inordinately pleased. "The grandson who is taking over the empire from old Socrates himself. Do you see what he is doing?"

Even Gilles knew that not since Aristotle Onassis had there been a family that dominated Greek shipping like the shadowy, secretive Palliadeses.

"Of course, you can see why he's here." Rudi's elbow nudged Gilles in the ribs again. "Palliades has heard of your beautiful Alix!"

"She's not my beautiful Alix." But a terrible suspicion had seized Gilles. The commanding figure in the back of the room was not here just to look over the models, Gilles was sure; there was something far more sinister going on. The American fashion entrepreneur Jackson Storm was wooing investors for his new couture house, and Gilles had heard rumors that the fabulously wealthy Palliades family were interested. Of course -- Nicholas Palliades was really there to scout the collection of Gilles Vasse!

Gilles felt cold beads of sweat break out on his forehead. His talent was being assessed, his future had taken several dazzling turns in a matter of moments, and all he could do was stand there nearly paralyzed! He barely heard the little man at his side say, "Ah, look, young Niko is lifting an eyebrow -- you see it? He is looking at me, asking permission to approach the American girl."

Gilles was too distracted to think. What was Rudi saying? The Palliades grandson was interested in Alix? Then he was not --

Ah, but he was, Gilles told himself. The Greek millionaire had come to look over his designs, he was sure of it. Whatever else Palliades was doing, such as ogling the model, was merely a diversion.

"God, don't encourage him!" When Rudi glanced back at him, Gilles turned bright red. "I don't like this sort of thing," he said lamely.

Rudi looked slightly astonished. "What is the matter with you? It's a tradition for the young tigers to flirt with the mannequins. Alors, Gilles, it is almost un-French not to! Besides," he pointed out, "it's not the first time one has asked for Alix."

"She never accepts." For some reason, Gilles found himself thinking of his wife, Lisianne, who had also been a model. He didn't conceal his distaste. "This Greek playboy has had every woman in Europe."

Rudi smiled. "Ah, Gilles, for you there has always been only Lisianne. Which is very admirable," he added quickly at Gilles's ferocious look. "Besides, it is up to the girl, is it not?" Without waiting for a reply, Rudi gave a definite nod to the man in the back row. "See, I have signaled him that he may ask her out."

Gilles threw down his cigarette. "I'm so sick of this --  everything! That damned wedding gown is driving me crazy." He saw Rudi's mouth drop open as he rushed on, "I have enough on my mind." That was true. If he stayed in the salon one moment more, he couldn't promise to keep his sanity. "I'm going home!"

Gilles whirled and plunged between two hanging partitions of smoky glass. A French model wearing the first of the evening gowns, a black silk faille, entered the gold-lighted area of the plastic floor.

Rudi watched the model somewhat distractedly as she held out the gathered skirt to show the black-on-black design. Poor Gilles, to be so young, so impetuous. Now he had gone storming off again for some reason Rudi could not fathom.

Rudi concentrated on the evening gown being shown. The design was not as innovative as something Gilles would do, but he had come to think of it as his own version of art.

Alas, this was no longer the era for high art. People came to Paris not just to buy haute couture clothes, custom-designed, every seam hand-sewn, they came to purchase glamour, excitement, instant status. It was not as it had been once, when merely wearing exquisite clothes made one a veritable work of art, too.

Mortessier noted the audience's lackluster response to the dress he had designed. He wondered, not for the first time, if the House of Mortessier could survive in this day and age without his young protégé, Gilles Vasse.

The thought bothered him. Long ago, Rudi had accepted the harsh fact that he had to share his beloved, angry young designer with a woman. That was bad enough. What was worse, Rudi now realized that his salon could not survive without Gilles Vasse's designs.

Behind the salon, the long hall that ended in the mannequins' changing room was jammed with Mortessier's staff. Two harried fitters, on their knees, were putting last-minute repairs to a tulle ball gown that had torn during pressing. The African model, Iris, naked except for a pair of scandalously abbreviated "tanga" bikini panties, searched up and down the corridor for the mate to a white silk shoe to be worn in the finale. The seconde, who had come back to warn them that both the assistant couturier and the big boss were watching the collection that afternoon, tried to quiet the models. Unfortunately, the seconde's warning only generated more turmoil in the already chaotic changing room.

"You're blocking the way," the seconde snapped. She pushed past the spot where Alix was using the wall-mounted telephone. "What a time to talk! A personal call, yes? From now on take your calls in the office," she ordered. "Tous comprenez?"

Alix didn't bother to answer. The voice from Washington was saying into her ear, "You didn't expect this, did you? That we'd find out where you worked? I hope this demonstrates how serious we are, Catherine."

Alix still wore the beaded and sequined fantaisie from the evening wear part of the show, and the dress weighed a ton. She was sweating under her heavy makeup. Wearily, she propped her elbow against the wall and leaned her forehead against it. "Don't call me at work." She tried to keep her voice steady. "Are you deliberately trying to get me fired?"

"Whatever it takes, Catherine," the voice said, "whatever it takes. Didn't we tell you that this morning?"

Still clutching one white silk peau de soie shoe in her hand, Iris winced as the fitter tried to pin the back of her gown. The Ethiopian girl spoke English as well as French; she mouthed a question silently. What's the problem?

Alix only shook her head.

"You're trying to cause trouble for me, aren't you?" she said into the telephone. "Do you really think this is going to work? You must be out of your mind!"

Someone had come into the back hallway from the salon. The seconde dashed up, pushing the French model MarieYvonne out of her way. Iris covered her bare breasts with one hand.

A man stood in the far end of the hallway.

With the dim light behind him, all Alix could make out was a tall, leanly built figure in a black overcoat. He held a homburg hat in his hand.

"You have to come back, Catherine," the voice in her ear insisted. "The pressure isn't going to let up. You were told that things would get unpleasant when you called New York this morning, weren't you?"

Alix eyed the man waiting in the hallway in his expensively tailored clothes. Good Lord, another one, was all she could think. Her average was two a week. But Rudi usually didn't let them come backstage.

The tall man moved a few steps toward her. Although his eyes were shadowed, from the way he held his head she could tell he was studying her thoroughly. "When you're through," he said, indicating the telephone. He spoke in English. "I'd like to have a few words with you."

Alix took a moment to study him just as intently, while the voice of the caller droned on in her ear. Broad-shouldered and rather young, she decided, with an arrogant, long nose, dark hair, and glinting black eyes. She wondered what the suggested scenario would be this time. Dinner at Maxim's, followed by "my-place-in-the-country" afterward? Or maybe a straightforward time-saving pitch for a few hours' dalliance in a suite at the Crillon?

"Don't call me here again." She kept her voice low. "You're defeating your own purpose, hassling me like this." She suddenly felt reckless, a return of the morning's defiance. "I have --  important friends." She lifted her eyes to the hardfaced man standing under the hall light. "They'll help me."

Suddenly, Alix knew just how and when she was going to make her move. It was brilliant, perfect for the moment. And it had just popped into her head.

She turned to face the man in the corridor. The shimmering sparks of sequins and glass beads from the gown that sheathed her body evoked an answering fire from his dark, lidded eyes.

Whoever he was, he looked experienced, assured, even ruthless, she thought, somewhat tremulously. Young, but there was a world of sensual knowledge in that chiseled face. He was known and accepted at Mortessier's, or he wouldn't be allowed in the back area. It was the only reassuring thought.

"You want to take me out?" she asked in French, startled that her voice sounded so sultry.

He hesitated only a moment, his expression saying that he hadn't expected it to be this easy. "The invitation is for dinner, yes. Now, tonight. If you are free."

The voice on the telephone grew louder. "Who is that? What are you doing, Catherine? What are you trying to pull now?"

She said softly, "I have to work late. At least another two hours."

Out of the corner of her eye, Alix noticed that the seconde was hovering, but not interfering. So he was someone rich and important. Not some bon chic-bon genre with a wife out of town. Still, his intentions were obvious. That black, speculative look had never wavered.

"Is it possible to pick me up here, at the side door?" she asked.

He nodded again. "Eight o'clock?"

"Yes." While she watched, he turned and started back toward the salon. "What are you doing, Catherine?" the voice on the phone shouted. "What the hell's going on over there?"

She turned back to the receiver, her lips curving. "I've just taken a lover," she murmured. She was amazed and delighted that she could sound so calm.

The immediate results were more than she could have hoped for. The voice on the other end of the transatlantic telephone went silent with shock. If she'd planned her revenge for weeks, it couldn't have been better.

A moment later a series of disbelieving, inarticulate sounds came over the wire. Then there was a hoarse demand that she speak, say something, for God's sake.

Alix stared thoughtfully at the telephone box on the wall.

She was going to meet a man at eight o'clock. It was what she wanted, even though she knew that afterward nothing would ever be the same again. A lover. Someone totally unknown. It was a step calculated to thoroughly demoralize, an action so wonderfully random. That was the beauty of it -- that it made no sense at all. And it would break their hold on her.

Leaning against the wall, her head bent and her eyes closed, she listened to the voice a thousand miles away, now almost hysterical.

Unfortunately, she realized too late, the only flaw was that she didn't even know her intended lover's name.

Copyright © 1990 by Maggie Davis