“Lucien, who the hell is Henri?”
“Come and have some breakfast.” I was pulled out of bed and thrust into my fluffy robe, then brought out to the dining room to find a veritable spread before me. “I organised for my favourite vendors to deliver us some food, thinking you’d be too trashed to want to try walking around Paris in the morning. Have something to eat and—”
“I’ll settle for half a stale Vegemite sandwich if you’ll tell me what’s going on today,” I said, my eyes narrowing. He just smirked and pulled out a chair for me, but I resisted. I turned around, facing down at this massive man, his chest bare and magnificent in the morning light, looking up at him through my lashes as I spread my hands across it, lightly teasing his nipples when he didn’t push me away. “I’ll be nice to you—so very, very nice…”
I went to lower myself in the chair to get access to the cock that was starting to rise in his pants, but he turned me around resolutely to face the food.
“Eat, or I’ll sit you on my lap and force feed you.”
“I’ll just wriggle on your cock until you forget about everything but telling me what I want to know,” I retorted, so he gave up arguing, dumping a featherlight pain au chocolate on my plate and filling my mug with black coffee before adding milk and sugar. He looked at it pointedly before opening the paper and starting to read as he ate some breadstick smeared with a soft cheese.
Breakfast was in equal turns delicious and frustrating, Lucien smirking each time I sighed. He didn’t even give me directions about what kinds of clothes to wear, so I put on a grey pinstriped pantsuit, thinking it passable for most contexts. I styled my hair and put on my makeup, and when I emerged, he offered me his arm and we walked out, but it wasn’t an office or a museum that we ended up in. I peered through the windscreen of the big SUV at what looked like a beautiful storefront, though this wasn’t one that was open to the public. Dresses and skirts and bolts of fabric filled the window in a display that delighted and dismayed me. If Lucien was hoping for aPretty Womanmoment where he dressed me up in some off the rack couture dress, he was gonna be disappointed. Instead, we walked around to a side door, and he rapped on the sage green wood with his knuckles.
“Monsieur Luc!”
The man seemed small and not, all at the same time. He had a head of fine white hair, a neat beard gracing his chin, and the skin around his eyes formed deep wrinkles as he smiled at us.
“Come in! Come in! And this must be Mademoiselle Sage?” He peered at the bite mark peeking out the top of my collar. “Or is that Madame Lockwood?”
“Not yet, Henri.”
When Henri stepped aside, we walked into a space that was…magical.
Mum used to make a lot of her own clothes when I was young, and I remember going to all the fabric shops, being transfixed by all the textures, colours, and sparkles. I used to hide within the clusters of cloth rolls, creating a little hiding space as Mum chatted with the shop owner, but that was before I grew up and into a body that said no. No sparkles, because that would draw attention to the parts of my body I didn’t like. No butter soft velvet, because that added bulk. No bright colours, no horizontal stripes. Nothing too tight or too loose. Just no.
“Lucien…” I hissed at him as Henri ushered us deeper inside his workspace, the massive room filled with bright light, big tables, and rolls upon rolls of fabric. “What the hell?”
Except he didn’t answer me, instead turning to Henri.
“I apologise, but I told Sage nothing about this visit. I knew if she were forewarned about this, she would just get wound up and anxious.”
Henri looked a little surprised and then nodded, indicating we should take a seat on one of the antique stools around the table.
“If you could tell her a little about your atelier?”
“Of course.” Henri let out a sigh and then smiled at me. “My great-great-grandfather set up this place many years ago. There has been a Moreau working in this space since then, producing bespoke women’s clothing. We are not one of the successful ones.” His smile indicated both a resignation and a curious delight in that fact. “We make enough to keep the lights on, but…”
He shrugged.
“If we were like the big fashion houses, creating devastatingly chic creations that shock as much as they amaze, perhaps our fortunes would be better. Perhaps my son or one of my grandsons would be willing to take this place on after I die.” He shook his head slowly. “But that was never the focus of our business. See the beauty in everyone—that was my great grandfather’s vision. Find that beauty, and then match fabric, style, and cut to that, making it clear to all. That is what your Lucien has tasked me to do, but I can see this will be no difficult task.”
He got to his feet, approaching me slowly, with all of the confidence of a born hunter, and when he held out a hand for me to take, I did, despite myself. He twirled me around, even though he was shorter than I was, particularly in these heels, and then nodded.
“You have given me very fine clay to work with, Luc.”
“I like to think so,” Lucien replied, watching the two of us closely.
“I will create a beautiful collection of clothes for the mademoiselle, yes?”
Henri was asking for my permission, waiting for me to agree to this little scene, but right now, I would have rather gone into one of Scarlet’s dens and handed him a cat-o’-nine-tails instead. I couldn’t say that, though, could I? My lips parted, wanting to say something, seeing the quiet expectation in the older man’s eyes as he waited patiently, but when I went to reply, the backdoor to the atelier opened and a gorgeous creature strode in.
He—she? No, definitely he—was tall and slender, but elegant with it, like an antelope. A subtle spray of gold glitter had been applied across his sharp cheekbones, his amber eyes glancing absentmindedly across the room until they zeroed in on us.
“Oh, hey.” His accent sounded British. “I’m Fabian. I didn’t realise we had a client today.”
“Do we have a client?” Henri asked me.
“If you’re wondering if he’s the man for the job, sweets,” Fabian said, depositing his messenger bag on the bench. “Don’t. This man is a god.”