See You In My Dreams Page 7

  “You don't have to,” she said with her gaze downcast. “It's only a few steps to the door."

  “No bother,” he murmured, watching her long nylon-clad legs swing out of the limo. Mon Dieu. He was the worst kind of fool. Why hadn't he allowed the chauffeur to simply do his job? He gave her his hand and, once again, felt a flash of desire. At the mere touch of her hand.

  What had come over him?

  Max accompanied Nikki up the steps to the front door, standing patiently, while she fished in a jeweled evening bag for her key.

  “Sorry. I know it's in here somewhere."

  “Never mind, use mine.” He fumbled in his pocket and retrieved his key ring. Selecting the one for his mother's townhouse, he inserted it into the lock and turned it. It gave a quiet click as the dead bolt opened.

  Finally, Nikki met his gaze. “Thanks. Well—uh, good night."

  “Bonne nuit, Nikki.” Max kissed Nikki on both cheeks, in the European manner, more from reflex than desire. He heard Nikki's startled gasp and drew back. Her eyes were open and her soft full lips parted, as if expecting more ... more than he could give and still retain any sense of honor.

  “Sweet dreams, Chèrie. It's late.” Unable to stop himself, before he turned to leave, he stroked the side of her face and felt her tremble in response. Turning quickly he fled down the steps and entered the limo.

  “B-bye,” Nikki called after him.

  He couldn't bear to look back. Instead, he settled back into the soft leather seat, determined he would never risk touching Nikki, again.

  “You care for her, don't you?” Joanne asked, a rueful expression on her face.

  “It isn't difficult. Nikki is a very sweet girl. Quite innocent, despite her background."

  “No, I mean you really care for her. What are you going to do about it?"

  “Nothing.” Max gazed out the window, annoyed Joanne had read his emotions so accurately.

  They rode in silence until they reached the entrance to her apartment building. He watched, without passion, while Joanne gathered her evening bag and wrap and turned toward him. “I think I'd better go up alone."

  Max nodded. “As you wish."

  “I do."

  He'd misjudged Joanne. Another time, another place, he might've been attracted. Then regretting his boorish response, he apologized, “If it's worth anything, I'm sorry."

  The chauffeur had opened Joanne's door, but she turned to him, again. “You may have to wait a long time for her to grow up. What if she doesn't want you?"

  Max shrugged. “I'll have to take my chances."

  “Good luck, then."

  “Thank you."

  Joanne exited the limo, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Passion had ruled his life, once. He wouldn't allow it free rein, again.

  ~ * ~

  Sighing, Nikki shut the door to her blue and white room and leaned against it. Max had actually brought her home in his limo. Of course, his date hadn't seemed very pleased with Nikki's tagging along, but she didn't care. He had even walked her to the door and kissed her cheeks. He'd made her feel special. And she would never forget how wonderful his lips had felt on her cheeks.

  If only she were older or more sophisticated, maybe he would really look at her like a woman, instead of the tarted up kid he'd rescued from the gutter. Someday, maybe...

  Who was she trying to fool, anyway? Max would never look at her that way. Oh, his manners were perfect, but that was as far as it would ever go. And she might as well get used to the idea.

  Nikki removed her dress and hung it carefully on the padded hanger, then quickly stripped down to her panties and walked into the bathroom. She pulled her hair back from her face, twisting it into an untidy knot and began washing her face.

  Free of makeup, she asked aloud, “Who is Nikki Prentice anyway? Will anyone ever love her?

  Resisting the urge to throw the balled up washcloth at her reflection, she walked back into her bedroom, pulled back the comforter and flopped down on the bed. It had been a long day and an even longer evening. She barely managed to pull on her nightgown before sliding between the cool sheets and drifted into sleep.

  ~ * ~

  Time passed in a rush of activity. Nicole spared no time for the lieutenant. She had even received several missives from him, requesting her company for another walk in the gardens, but had refused him, saying she had no time, for she was entirely swept up in the preparations for the ball.

  Her costume must be perfect, and it must be daring. After many frantic consultations with Tante Céline and her dressmaker, Nicole chose a shimmering mermaid costume.

  “Non, Non, ma Chèrie,” Tante Céline declared. “Not this one. It will not do for you at all. It is appropriate for an older, more experienced woman."

  Nicole raised her chin a notch. “I will wear this to the ball. I will."

  The dressmaker looked from Nicole to her aunt in dismay. “Perhaps, we should look through the other costumes again. Something more suitable for the young lady,” she suggested.

  “Yes, that is what we must do,” Tante Céline agreed. “There is nothing on the top. You will be au naturel from the waist up. It is scandalous."

  “A scandal in this court?” Nicole protested, pacing around the room with impatience. “Really Tante Céline, would anyone notice? The Queen herself wanders around Le Petit Trianon dressed as a milk maid, taking lovers wherever she pleases."

  “Hush. You do not know any such thing. You pay too much attention to scandalmongers who would ruin Her Majesty's reputation for their own ends. You will be their next reason for gossip, if you wear that shameless costume,” Céline warned.

  “Do not make such a fuss, Tante. Voila. There is a delicate silk bandeau the color of my skin. I will have my hair styled so it hangs free, and covers my bosom,” she declared with a giggle. “I will not be exposed at all. My costume will be quite daring ... and memorable.” Her poor Tante Céline was quite amusing and not nearly as sophisticated as she thought she was.

  “If you wear this costume, I warn you, you will never find an acceptable husband. No proper courtier will have you—not in marriage.” Céline paced about the boudoir. “Your poor Mama will castigate me, for I have failed. You go too far, my girl!” her aunt shouted, waving her hands in the air.

  “I will wear it, and you will see. I shall capture the most eligible noble at the ball.” So saying, she flounced from the room, leaving her aunt and the costumier alone in their dismay.

  The night of the ball came, and Nicole had her way.

  She stood before the ormolu mirror and admired her image, tugging and adjusting the brief bandeau that covered her small rounded breasts. Her midriff remained bare, while the lower part of her mermaid costume was form-fitting silk covered in sea blue beads. The bottom of the skirt was split and formed into the shape of two fins, edged in pearls. Her sea blue gloves, also trimmed in pearls, had webs of diaphanous silk between each finger. The costume had taken someone hours and hours of work, sewing each bead in place. Silk slippers, dyed to match the blue beading covered her tiny feet. Nicole held the lieutenant's gift up to her face. The lovely mask was the piéce de resistance and made the perfect complement to her costume.

  With great care, she arranged her blonde tresses, assuring her breasts were almost concealed. “Let the ball begin,” she murmured to the lovely creature in the mirror.

  Accompanied and guarded by her scandalized, but resigned Tante Céline, Nicole entered the Hall of Mirrors. The crystal chandeliers glittered and blazed with thousands of candles. Never had she seen anything so magnificent in all her short life. This was where she belonged.

  “Cover your face.” Her aunt warned. “Your mask has slipped."

  “I cannot believe that I am at my first ball, and I am beautiful."

  “Hush your drivel, girl. You are not bound by any necessity to expound every trivial thought in your empty head."

  Nicole tossed her head. “I will do as I please.” Awareness grew. People
were staring at her. C'est bon. I want them to remember me, she thought. She began making her way through the throng of people, then she saw him—Maxime—coming toward her. Her mouth dropped open. She closed it quickly. He was attired in his formal Royal Guard uniform, white trimmed in a mountain of gold braid. He towered over her, and his chestnut hair without a speck of powder or even a wig, gleamed in the candle light.

  “Madame de Sombreuil, Mademoiselle,” he said, making a sweeping bow before them.

  “Lieutenant, you are not in costume?” Tante Céline remarked cooly, by way of acknowledgment.

  “No, Madame, as I guard I do not have that privilege.” Maxime smiled, showing perfect white teeth. His green eyes twinkled with obvious good humor. Nicole had never seen anyone, not even the King, who was more splendid.

  “Mademoiselle, may I have the pleasure of the next minuet?” he asked, then cast a questioning glance at her Tante Céline, who gave a crisp nod of consent.

  Nicole curtsied and placed her hand in his. He led her to the area where the minuet was forming. The staid strains of music started, but no one had started the figure. Everyone was staring at her. When she returned the gaze of the man next to her, she was frightened by the intensity of his stare. For the first time in her life, she understood how it felt to be undressed by someone's gaze. The women turned their backs to her, signaling their disdain.

  Tante Céline had been right after all. Nicole looked down at her costume. Her costume was a terrible mistake. Underneath the mask, her face grew warm with embarrassment. Plying her fan, she lowered the mask. What would Maxime do?

  “If you would permit, Mademoiselle de Sombrieul,” Maxime began. “Perhaps, we should seek some refreshment, instead. I am quite thirsty."

  "Y-yes, of course, Lieutenant,” Nicole said, faltering. “I find I am quite parched myself.” His back straight and head held high, Maxime led a grateful Nicole away from those who had shunned her. Following his lead, she managed to hold her head high and not slink away in shame.

  Wordlessly, Maxime led her through the vast open windows into a small sheltered garden. “Mademoiselle, if you will sit here,” he suggested, indicating a long marble bench, “I will bring you something to quench your thirst."

  “Merci, Lieutenant du Mont. You are too kind. I fear I have humiliated myself and you as well."

  “Not at all, Mademoiselle de Sombreuil.” Maxime hesitated. “If you allow me the honor to say so, you are incredibly beautiful—by far the loveliest woman at the ball tonight. The dancers were simply bewildered by your beauty, nothing more."

  “You are far too kind, Lieutenant. I realize my error.” She looked down at her nearly bare breasts. “My Aunt warned me—forbade me the wearing of this—this—” she stopped, unable to continue.

  Maxime took an audible breath, then admitted, “It is very daring, true, but very ingenious. I thought my very heart would stop beating when first I observed your entrance, but it is less revealing than first appeared. It is an illusion, instead."

  Her face grew warm again. Was it Maxime's nearness which caused her reaction or the well-deserved humiliation. Once more she raised her fan, and fanned her cheeks.

  Maxime straightened, then bowed. “A thousand pardons, Mademoiselle, I forget myself. I will fetch you some refreshment as I promised."

  “Merci, Lieutenant du Mont."

  Nicole watched his back as he left her. His shoulders seemed incredibly wide, the rest of his physique very fit. She was jarred from her reverie by the arrival of an unknown, yet somewhat familiar man. He was attired in the flowing robes and turban of a Moor, while his skin had been darkened with some sort of preparation. His teeth flashed white in contrast to his swarthy face.

  “Well, I see my brother has left his latest trollop in the garden where others may sample her favors."

  “Sir, you are mistaken. I—"

  He swaggered toward her, his eyes narrowing. “You are the loveliest whore I have seen in at least a fortnight. Le Comte du Mont, at your service.” The count sketched a sweeping bow before Nicole.

  “No, Monsieur le Comte. I protest your forward manners. I cannot say I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” She twisted about, anxious for Maxime's return. When she turned back, the count stood within inches of her. She flinched, her discomfort escalating.

  The count tossed back his head and roared in laughter. “You protest? My brother's whore is not pleased to make my acquaintance.” Then leaning forward into her face, he vowed, “Well, my pretty little putain, you will make my acquaintance, pleased or no."

  He reached out and grabbed Nicole by the waist and ran his large hands underneath the filmy bandeau, groping her breasts.

  Stunned by the swiftness of his advances, She gasped, “No. Please.” She pummeled his back with her fists. “Maxime. Help!” Until she heard the welcome rush of Maxime's feet and his shout—

  “You bastard!” The lieutenant attacked his brother, tearing him off Nicole. He followed with a quick punch to Henri's face and a knee to the groin, knocking his older brother to the ground. “You drunken pig!” he yelled at his writhing brother. “Touch her again...” He drew his sword, brandishing it in the air. “...And I will run you through."

  Unable to hear the comte's response, relief flooded her when the roue crawled away.

  Maxime hastened to Nicole, kneeling before her. “Mademoiselle, did my brother harm you?"

  She shook her head. “N-no, you came just in time. I fear he would have.” She looked down at the top of her costume—aghast, her breasts were nearly exposed to the lieutenant's gaze.

  “Here, Mademoiselle, you must wear this,” he offered, removing his uniform tunic. “If you will permit, I will see you to your Tante Céline's suite. I know a passageway which is not heavily traveled."

  “Merci. Once more, Lieutenant, I find myself indebted to your kindness and gentle manners. I do not know what you think of me, but I have learned valuable lessons this night."

  Maxime fell to his knees before her, taking her hand, he pressed it tenderly between his strong tanned ones. “Forgive my boldness, Mademoiselle du Sombreuil, but I fear I must lay my heart at your feet and confess that I have admired you ever since you first came to court. Your beauty is unparalleled. Your sweet, innocent nature has fair overwhelmed me."

  Nicole gasped. “Maxime.” She plied her fan, attempting to cool her flushing cheeks. The sincerity of his words was written across his handsome, nay, his beautiful face.

  “I-I have fallen in love with you, Mademoiselle.” Maxime's eyes glittered, reflecting the full moon that shone above them. “There you have it. My heart and my future are in these two sweet hands.” Still clasping Nicole's hands between his, he pressed tiny kisses on the back and front of them. “Dare I hope that you have formed some tenderness for me as well?”

  Tears welled up in her eyes. “I fear the same, Lieutenant du Mont, but I also fear that my Tante Céline will not look on your suit with favor. She has already cautioned me that you are penniless ... as am I."

  “Penniless though we may be, we will find a way,” Maxime swore, placing his coat around her shoulders. “Now, let us return you to your rooms, then we will consider how best to bend your aunt to our will."

  Nicole looked over her shoulder at the Comte du Mont, who lay on the ground, snoring. “What about your brother?” she asked.

  “Leave him. He has had too much wine. It is doubtful he will even remember his disgraceful behavior."

  Before they walked away, Nicole glanced over her shoulder once again. “The masque? I must not leave it behind. It was your first gift to me."

  “There it lies, beside my disgraceful brother.” Maxime strode to where it lay and picked it up. Returning to her side, he pulled her into his embrace. “Here my sweet. It will not be the last one.” Maxime grazed her lips with his.

  “Mon coeur,” Nicole murmured, feeling the warmth of his breath in her hair, while the hard muscles of his chest pressed against her breasts. Had she been standi
ng at the gates of heaven, it could not have been more transcendent than this moment. Nicole felt as if the entire purpose of her life had been to find this one man, fall in love with him and be loved by him in return. Her previous thoughts of finding a rich husband had vanished like the morning dew with Maxime's heroic rescue. How could she ever look at another? Who needed money? They would live on their love.

  ~ * ~

  Nikki yawned and stretched as the sun rose and cast its early morning rays onto her face. She smiled, remembering her dream of the night before. Her brief dance with Max had been unforgettable. She'd wanted to melt into his arms, but he'd kept her at a distance through the entire dance, before returning to his date.

  Dammit.

  She had to get over her stupid infatuation with Maxim Devereaux. Dreams were nice, but they weren't real.

  Seven

  July 1990

  The next month was a hectic one for both Max and Nikki. For the most part, Max had managed to stay away from his young protegée, but not from this particular shoot. The photographer, Ian Starr, had a reputation for being difficult, as well as having some unsavory habits. Max had decided he would drop by the photo session—just in case.

  From the back of Starr's studio, Max watched Nikki go through her paces. Posing for the famous British photographer was considered a real coup for a fledgling model like Nikki. As a rule, Starr only photographed the supermodels. While the demand for Nikki was increasing steadily, she wasn't at the top, yet.

  This session might actually do the trick, Max thought. He had to give the photographer his due; the lighting was perfect and brought out the dramatic angularity of Nikki's face, making her appear more mature than her sixteen years. She wore a scarlet evening gown that left nothing to the imagination. The V-necked bodice was cut deep to the waist and displayed the inner curves of her small, but exquisitely formed, round breasts. The skirt was slashed on one side as far as the upper thigh, revealing her sinuous legs. Gold spike-heeled shoes were held on by straps around her slender ankles.