Satin Doll Read Online Free PDF Page A

front of them with the number of the design, so the customers can jot it down on their order cards. And there’s always a vendeuse, a very refined lady who wears black and who usually goes around kneeling by the side of customers’ chairs answering their questions in whispers. The old rue de la Paix crowd is Paris haute couture the way it used to be. The only thing that’s kept up with the times are the prices. Don’t expect anything much under five thousand dollars, even for a day dress.”  
    Samantha burst through the doors into the Maison Louvel and skidded to a stop just inside. This particular temple of conservatism and high-fashion art happened to be, at that moment, a madhouse.  
    The redhaired girl in the bloody satin nightgown had careened into the room, colliding with a short, middle-aged woman who had a tape measure around her neck and had been carrying a glass of water. Both of them lurched into the way of a bizarre, witchlike figure in black rags who was brandishing an ebony cane. In the collision the glass of water arced through the air, spraying them all, and rolled away over the carpet.  
    As the redhead and the seamstress went down in a tangle, there was a dismayed burst of screams from all three. The old crone in black tatters and a shawl that hid most of her face lashed out with her cane indiscriminately, howling like a steam calliope. It was this voice, Sam realized, she’d first heard on the stairs.  
    The salon of the Maison Louvel was sparsely furnished with several spindly-legged white and gilt bergères flanking a worn-looking Louis Quinze sofa. The morning sunlight fell dimly through tall, grimy windows onto a marble table cluttered with a display of lingerie in a froth of ivory silk and lace. A general air of neglected grandeur made the place seem larger and emptier than it was, in spite of the small riot that seemed to be taking place.  
    “Good lord!” Sam cried. It was obvious her first look at a Paris couture house was not going to be exactly the way Jean Ruiz had described it.  
    “ Merde! Merde! ” the redhead was screaming hysterically. “ Aidez moi! Ah, mon Dieu, c’est une catastrophe! ” Her toe caught in the hem of the satin gown as she got halfway to her feet. She lost her balance, pitching headlong onto the floor.  
    At the center of the confusion a burly young workman in jeans and work boots was on his knees holding a fragile, white-faced girl. His right hand held the girl’s wrist at shoulder height, while a thin trickle of red ran down the girl’s forearm and dripped off her bare elbow in a steady stream. As the redhead fell, the workman looked up and barked something at her in French, holding his free arm out to keep her from falling on top of them.  
    The only quiet spot in the room seemed to be where a tall, good-looking man wearing a jogging suit held up an expensively dressed, middle-aged blonde, who appeared to be in a deep swoon. For a moment, as the man lifted his sun-gilded head, his amber eyes met Samantha’s and registered surprise at seeing her standing in the doorway and then quick, male admiration. In the next second he gave a rueful shrug. Whatever was going on, his face said, he wasn’t any part of it.  
    “Bloody hell,” the baritone voice shouted, “don’t just stand there, lend us a hand!” The workman on his knees was trying to hold off the hysterical redhead, who had now grabbed his arm. “Christ, Sophie, will you shut up?” he told her. Then, his black eyes darting to Sam, “Yes, you by the door—Calamity Jane. You understand English, don’t you?”  
    The old woman in the black tatters had lifted her gargoyle face to the ceiling and now, with both arms outspread and waving the ebony cane in one hand, was fervently imploring Il Dio to do something in a language that sounded vaguely Italian.  
    The black-haired workman glared at Sam irritably. “Mind what you’re doing, the old ducchessa’s out of her head. And mind the