Legacy of Lies Read Online Free PDF Page A

Légion d’honneur . Although he was not tall, beneath the smock, Debord possessed the broad chest and shoulders of a Picasso etching of a bull.
    â€œAh, Madame Friedman,” he said, greeting her Continental style with an air kiss beside each cheek, “it is a pleasure to meet such a discerning woman.”
    â€œI like your stuff,” Sophie lied adroitly, “although I have to admit, it was a toss-up between you and Gianni Sardella.”
    The room went suddenly, deathly still. The only soundwas the soft strains of Vivaldi playing in the back-ground. Marie Hélène, normally a paragon of composure, blanched.
    Alex’s dark eyes widened. Surely Mrs. Friedman knew of the antipathy between the two designers! Stories of their mutual loathing were legion. Not only did Debord not permit his rival’s name to be spoken in his presence, last spring he allegedly pushed a client down the grand staircase of the Paris Opera for wearing one of Sardella’s beaded evening gowns.
    All eyes were on Debord. The back-and-forth motion of his jaw suggested that he was grinding his teeth. His eyes had narrowed to hard, dark stones; a vein pulsed dangerously at his temple. Just when Alex thought he was going to explode, he forced a flat smile.
    â€œI am honored you chose me,” he said between clenched teeth.
    That, more than anything, displayed to Alex how far her employer had fallen. Before this season’s showing, he would have shouted something about philistines and demanded Mrs. Friedman leave these hallowed halls and never darken his doorway again.
    Sophie appeared undaunted by the tension surrounding them. Indeed, Alex considered, from the twinkle in her eyes, she appeared to be having the time of her life.
    â€œYour reputation is equaled only by your prices, monsieur, ” she said. “I hope you realize how lucky you are to have Alexandra working for you.”
    He looked at Alex, as if seeing her for the first time.
    â€œWhat I can’t understand is why she isn’t a designer,” Sophie declared. “With her talent, along with her Seventh Avenue experience, I would have thought you’d have wanted her creative input on this season’s collection.”
    â€œA designer?” Yves looked at his sister. “You did not tell me that Mademoiselle Lyons was a designer.”
    Marie Hélène looked as if she could have eaten an entire box of Alex’s straight pins and spit out staples. “She designed day wear. Little polyester American dresses,” she tacked on dismissively, her tongue as sharp as a seamstress’s needle.
    â€œThey may have been polyester, but if they were like any of the designs I saw this afternoon, they must have sold like hotcakes,” Sophie shot back.
    Debord turned to Alex. “You have sketches?”
    â€œYves…” Marie Hélène protested.
    The designer ignored his sister. “Do you?” he asked Alex again.
    Alex finally understood why her sketches had been rejected without comment. Debord had never seen them. Alex shot a quick, blistering glare Marie Hélène’s way. The directress responded with a cool, challenging look of her own.
    Knowing that to accuse his sister of treachery would definitely not endear herself to the designer, Alex bit her tongue practically in two. “My portfolio is at my apartment.” Anger and anticipation had her heart pounding so fast and so hard she wondered if the others could hear it.
    â€œYou will bring your sketches to my office first thing tomorrow morning. I will examine them then.”
    Ignoring his sister’s silent disapproval, Debord turned again to Sophie. “I hope you enjoy your gowns, madame . As well as the remainder of your time in Paris.”
    â€œIf the rest of my trip is half as much fun as today has been,” Sophie professed, “I’m going have one helluva time.” She winked conspiratorially at Alex.
    For the first