“Why don’t you ask him?” Caitlin climbed the steps. “He seems quite taken with you.”
“I was taken with him too. It’s not often I meet such an attractive man. He rather reminds of that Australian actor with the eyes . . .”
“I imagine most of the actors from the land down under have eyes.”
“You know what I mean.” She snapped her fingers. “Mad Max.”
“Mel Gibson.”
Katrine beamed. “That’s right. Anyway, he’s a perfectly beautiful man and I’m sure everything’s going to be fine, Caitlin.”
Caitlin’s lips brushed her mother’s cheek as she passed her and went into the foyer. “I hope so. Good night, Mother.” She moved toward the stairway. “I’ll need the car tomorrow to drive to Cannes.”
Her mother frowned. “I was going to have lunch with Mignon Salanot in Nice.” She added quickly, “But I could cancel it.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll take the pickup instead.”
Katrine wrinkled her nose in distate. “Don’t park near the bank. That old hulk is a disgrace.”
Caitlin smiled. “I like it. It has character.” She started up the stairs. “And it suits me. We’re both plain and less than elegant.”
“You’re not plain. And you make no attempt to be elegant, dear. Take that dress you’re wearing. It’s at least five years old and the hem is an inch too long.” Katrine added sternly, “It’s a woman’s duty to take the trouble to make herself attractive.”
Caitlin shook her head in amusement as she said gently, “I’m afraid we live in different worlds.”
Katrine sighed and then gave a resigned shrug. “Sleep well, Caitlin.”
Caitlin didn’t bother to tell her mother she was going upstairs only to change. She had learned over the years it was always less wearing to avoid imparting any information Katrine might find distressing. “Are you going to bed?”
“Soon. I thought I’d browse through my new copy of Elle. Do you suppose now that Monsieur Karazov is being so generous I could buy a few dresses?”
“We’ll see after we pay the bills.”
“You are happy about all this, Caitlin? At first I thought you were but you—”
“I’m happy,” Caitlin said quickly.
An expression of relief banished Katrine’s anxious frown. “I don’t always know what you’re thinking. I do want you to be happy, Caitlin.”
Katrine had always wanted everyone to be happy, Caitlin thought sadly. She couldn’t understand happiness sometimes had to be paid for with work and sacrifices. She had spoken truly when she had told her mother they lived in different worlds. Katrine would have loved to have a daughter like herself to pore over fashion magazines, gossip over lunch, and get excited over the prospect of new dresses. In many ways Katrine’s life was harder and lonelier than her own. At least Caitlin had Jacques and her friends among the workers who understood her problems and goals. She paused on the landing to smile down at Katrine. “I think we’ll be able to afford at least one new dress. Why don’t you look around when you’re in Nice tomorrow and see if you can find something you like?”
Katrine’s face lit up. “I’ll be very careful not to be too extravagant. There’s that lovely shop up the street from the Negresco Hotel that has the most exquisite things at the most ridiculous prices.” She hurried toward the salon. “Something with a lowered waistline, I think. I saw something in Vogue last month that . . .” Her voice trailed off as she disappeared into the salon to find her precious store of fashion magazines.
Caitlin’s smile faded as she continued up the stairs. They couldn’t afford the dress, but perhaps by the time the bill came, their financial situation would be eased. Besides, Katrine’s dress was a drop in the proverbial bucket. The advance Karazov would give her tomorrow would go toward the mortgage, but that would still leave the expenses of actually running Vasaro.
Karazov. Uneasiness surged through her as she thought about those moments by the car. She couldn’t deny the man disturbed her physically. The chemistry between them had been as stark and blatant as the man himself.
But just because the sexual chemistry existed didn’t mean it had to be acted upon. She wasn’t an inexperienced child and she had felt the pull of physical attraction before. Not lately, of course. She had been too busy to think about men since she had left the university and taken over the running of Vasaro. There had been no one since Claude Janlier, and that awkward affair of her university days could never have been termed a grand passion. Still, it had definitely been an affair.
She was kidding herself, she thought with sudden impatience. She wasn’t experienced enough to hold her own with any man as practiced as Alex Karazov even if she were willing to indulge in an affair. No, it would be best to avoid anything warmer than friendship. A sexual relationship between them might cloud their business dealings, and that must not happen. Nothing must get in the way of safeguarding Vasaro.
3
The statue on the pedestal gleamed in the pitch darkness of the room, its emerald eyes glittering with inhuman wisdom.
Caitlin studied it, adjusted her chair, then sat down at the desk and opened her notebook.
“Christ, it’s the Wind Dancer!” The voice came from the doorway of the perfumery.
Caitlin went still, her fingers clenching the notebook. Dammit, this was her place. She didn’t want him here. “Monsieur Karazov?” She stood up and moved toward the light switch. “I didn’t expect you.”
“What the hell are you doing with that statue here in—” He broke off as she flicked on the lights and pressed a button on the remote in her hand.
The statue on the black marble pedestal disappeared into thin air!
Caitlin smiled as she saw his expression. “Abracadabra.”
His gaze quickly zeroed in on the three projectors set about the pedestal. “Holographic film?”
She nodded. “Guaranteed three-dimensional.”
“So I noticed.” He moved into the room, and Caitlin saw he had discarded the elegant dark blue business suit he had worn when she had met him that afternoon at the bank in Cannes and was dressed in faded jeans and a white sweatshirt. “Your mother told me you’d be out here, but I never thought you’d be playing with projectors when you didn’t show up for supper.” He smiled faintly. “Not very polite. Does this mean you’re willing to take my money but not my company?”
“I had some studying to do and I was sure Katrine would entertain you.”
His gaze wandered to the pedestal. “You were studying the Wind Dancer?”
“You know it?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“I think so, but then, I’m prejudiced. I did a paper on it when I was at the Sorbonne.”
“I saw a picture of the statue in a book recently. You studied antiquities at the university?”
“I majored in agriculture with a minor in antiquities.”
“A curious combination.”
“Not necessarily. Vasaro is my blood, my life.”
“And the Wind Dancer?”
“I suppose you could call it my passion.”
His gaze narrowed. “Why?”
“The Vasaros have been connected with the Wind Dancer for over four hundred years. Naturally, I’ve been fascinated by the—” She shook her head. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I could try.”
“I bought a copy of this holographic film from the Metropolitan Museum in New York when I was doing my paper. The Andreas family funded the original project, but it cost me the earth to have the film duplicated. Holographic film is still in the experimental stages, and I felt terribly guilty about taking the money from the operation here.”
“But you did it anyway.”
“A passion,” she repeated. “And that was before I knew how much trouble we were in here. Whenever I have time I sneak off here and study it.”
“At least you’re not slaving in the fields.” He closed the door behind him. “I suppose I should a
pologize for disturbing you.”
She smiled. “I suppose you should.”
“I apologize.” He grimaced. “Now that we’ve gotten that over with, may I stay for a while? I’m restless as hell.”
She could tell, almost sensing the disturbing waves of tension he radiated. She moved back across the room, sat down at the desk, and set the remote beside her notebook. “I’m afraid there’s not much to amuse you here, Monsieur Karazov.”
“Alex.” He looked around the singularly comfortless room. “What is this place? It looks like a small airplane hangar.”
“It’s my workroom, the perfumery. This is where I create new perfumes.”
“When you’re not sitting in the dark, studying the Wind Dancer.” He looked at the circular desk at which she was sitting. “Interesting.” A multitude of shelves containing hundreds of glittering vials towered high above her head, and a small scale and notebook rested directly in front of her. “You look like you’re about to play an organ.”
“Close.” She smiled. “That’s what this desk is called. All these vials on the shelves contain essence absolue, oils of different flowers and plants. They’re all carefully labeled so that I can blend and measure until I get just the right mixture.” She indicated the scale and notebook. “I have to keep very precise records in case I stumble on something that’s worth keeping. Scents are so subtle that the most minute change of ingredient can alter the entire chemistry of a perfume.”
“I thought you’d already created your perfume.”
“Ah, but that’s the magic of fragrance. You can always create something new, something different. Millions of scents in the world and yet there’s always the chance of—sorry, I get a little carried away. You can’t be interested in all this.”
“Why not? Why is this workroom in a special building instead of the main house?”
She nodded to the wide barnlike doors on either side of the room. “So that I can open the doors and windows and let the breeze clear it of lingering fragrances. It’s very difficult keeping your nose from becoming desensitized. The olfactory nerve goes jaded, then dead rather quickly, reviving only in fresh air. This is a primitive setup compared to some of the streamlined workrooms of other perfumers, but I prefer it.”
He prowled to the bookcases lining the far wall. “Your mother said you were very good at this.”
“I love it,” she said simply.
“More than growing your flowers?”
“It’s all a part of the whole.”
“And the whole is Vasaro?”
She nodded. “Michel said it was like a circle.”
“Michel?”
“Michel Andreas. He lived here at the time of the French Revolution. He married the eldest daughter of Catherine Vasaro and François Etchelet.”
He lifted a quizzical brow. “They weren’t married? Wasn’t that a bit shocking back then?”
“The names? No, Catherine and François were married. According to the terms of the inheritance of Vasaro, the property can be passed on only from the eldest daughter to the eldest daughter, and then only if the woman retains the name Vasaro even after her marriage.”
He pulled down a copy of Fragrance from the shelf and leafed idly through it. “The eighteenth-century women’s libbers must have been ecstatic.”
“Michel created Vasaro’s first successful perfume. It was said that every lady in Napoleon’s court had a bottle of La Dame.” Caitlin’s face was aglow with eagerness. “You should read Catherine’s journal. It’s a journey back in time. She raised Michel as her own son and . . .” She saw his indulgent smile and stopped. “I know I get too involved when I talk about the history of Vasaro. It can’t be of interest to anyone outside the family.”
“On the contrary, I find it fascinating. It must feel very comfortable to have roots.”
“Everyone has roots of some sort. Vasaro’s roots just run deeper than most.”
He was silent.
“I mean, parents and children form a bond that—”
“I know what you mean.” He crossed to her. “For some people it’s better to live without roots.” He picked up a vial from the third shelf of the desk and held it up to the light. “What’s this?”
The vial was labeled; it was clear he wished to change the subject.
“That’s lilac.”
“Do you use it in your perfume?”
She shook her head. “I use a top note of jasmine and a middle note of—”
“Note? Are we back to the organ again?”
She laughed. “Creating a perfume is a little like creating a symphony. There’s a top note that you perceive at once, then the middle note, and then the basic note. But there are really all kinds of notes in between that blend and enhance. A good perfume unfolds for you from moment to moment until it fades away.”
“Like the strains of the symphony.”
“And it can’t fade away too soon. There are all kinds of things to consider. Is it intense but not too intense? Will it be sharp or soft? Does it have body? Does it linger behind when the wearer walks away?”
“And how does your perfume answer those questions?”
“Judge for yourself. This is Vasaro.” She took a vial from the lowest shelf of the desk and poured a drop on the absorbent surface of one of the white blotters stacked on the desk. She handed the blotter to Alex. “I wanted something as spicy and memorable as Opium but with other notes as well. I wanted the freshness of the fields after a rain and the faint scent of the lemon trees and . . .” She made a helpless gesture. “I just wanted it to be Vasaro.”
He lifted the blotter and breathed in the scent. “It’s different from any perfume I’ve ever smelled on a woman.”
She had a sudden vivid picture of Alex standing close to a woman, his face buried in her hair. She pushed the image firmly aside. “A perfume should be distinctive. Do you like it?”
He set the blotter on the desk. “I can’t tell. A perfume smells different on a woman’s skin.” He picked up the vial of Vasaro. “May I?”
He didn’t wait for her to answer but took a tiny drop on his thumb and rubbed it into the sensitive flesh of her left wrist. He lifted her wrist and sniffed experimentally. “Good.”
His tone was impersonal, but his grip on her wrist was hard, warm, excruciatingly intimate. “One more place. It’s the best possible test.” He took another drop of perfume on his other thumb, then set the vial back on the desk. He gently pushed aside the collar of her shirt and encircled her slender neck with his hands. With both thumbs he slowly massaged the perfume into the hollow of her throat. “Your heartbeat is strongest here, and it spreads the scent. . . .”
His hands felt heavy, her throat fragile and vulnerable. She swallowed. “How do you know? I thought you said you didn’t know very much about perfume.”
“I don’t. But I read a research report a few years ago about the olfactory system.”
Her heart was accelerating beneath the pads of his thumbs as he rubbed leisurely back and forth. “And do you always remember what you read?”
“Most of the time. If it might prove useful. Otherwise I try to deep-six it. Memories can become jaded too.” His hands left her throat and he pulled her to her feet. She found herself staring up at him like a stupid ninny, unable to look away from those glacier-light eyes. Dammit, she could feel her heart beating harder, her skin warming as the blood ran faster in her veins.
“That’s right,” he muttered, encouraging, praising the purely involuntary response that caused the fragrance to rise. “Great.” No part of his body was now touching her, but she could feel his body heat. He stood perfectly still, his head bent, breathing in the scent.
She could see the pulse drumming in his temple, and the feathery curve of his dark lashes half closed to hide the blue of his eyes. She caught the faint fragrance of his own scent, lime cologne and something deeper, muskier. There was something starkly primitive about the two of them standing there, breathing each other’s sc
ents like two animals getting ready to mate. She tried wildly to think of something to say that would bring an end to the tension.
He inhaled deeply and she felt the soft warmth of his breath on her throat as he exhaled. Dieu, he wasn’t even touching her and she was beginning to tremble.
“Extraordinary.” He stepped back, his lowered lids still veiling his eyes. “I think we may have a winner.”
Her knees felt suddenly weak, and she dropped back down onto her chair. She knew her face was flushed and she wished desperately for the aura of cool remoteness Alex seemed to be able to produce at will. She laughed shakily. “A good businessman would have found that out before he agreed to launch it.”
“It wouldn’t have helped. I know nothing about what a woman would like in a perfume.” She thought the faintest glimmer of humor appeared in his expression. “But I know what I like.”
And he liked her, he liked the way she smelled and the way she felt and the fact that she was female to his male. Sex, pure and simple. She quickly looked down at the vial of perfume. “What are you going to do about it?”
He didn’t answer, and when she lifted her gaze, she saw that his eyes were twinkling.
“The perfume. You said we needed to talk about the marketing.”
“We do.”
“Well?”
“Not now. I have a few ideas, but I’m waiting for some additional information before I’ll be ready to discuss them. I should be receiving a phone call within the next few days that will give me what I need and then I’ll be ready to move.”
“A phone call from whom?”
“A research specialist. You’d better tell your mother I’ll probably be receiving packets in the mail every day. I hire several agencies to gather information for me.”
“For your novels?”
“Sometimes. I, too, have a passion.” He smiled. “For trivia. I’ll also be making a number of long-distance calls while I’m here. Send the bills to Monsieur Ganold when you get them.” He glanced up at the volumes on the shelves. “Are all these books on perfume?”