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lived in. You and I both know that the secrets of good dressmaking are line, fabric, and color. I’ve used the hard-earned apprenticeship where I learned those elements to design
these
clothes. And I’ve designed them for tactile effect, using contrasts of fabrics. I need buttery-soft suedes, real linen—the sort that creases—coarse cotton knits that feel crunchy against the skin. And silk,Amadeo. The softest, sexiest, most luxurious fabric in the world. The kind that only you produce, Amadeo.”
    Amadeo leaned back against the cushions, watching her indulgently. She was so intense, this child, so carried away by her ideas.
    “Show me,
cara
, show me what you mean,” he suggested soothingly.
    Paris leapt to her feet. Her smile was radiant now. “Wait,” she called over her shoulder, racing across the room to her desk, “just wait a moment while I get the sketches and samples.”
    Her long sweep of black hair swung behind her as she whirled across the room. Its texture looked almost as soft and supple as one of his own silks.
    “Here, you see.” She leaned closer to point out a special color, a change of texture, why this one must be in silk, it was the
only
thing she could possibly use.
    Amadeo slid his arm around her shoulders and her hair brushed his face. She smelled of some familiar, vibrant scent, warm but not too heavy. He liked that, it meant that you could smell her skin, too, not just the perfume. And this close her skin looked and smelled wonderful.
    Paris looked up from her sketches. “Well, Amadeo, what do you think?”
    “Splendid,
cara
, wonderful designs and wonderful colors. You are a gold mine of new ideas.”
    Paris threw her arms around his neck and hugged him enthusiastically. “Of course I am, Amadeo, it merely took someone of your genius to recognize it! I’m going to make a fortune before too long, Amadeo Vitrazzi.” She leaned back a little, her hands resting on his shoulders. “But I need your help.”
    “My help?” His glance was quizzical as he slid both arms around her. “What can I do to help you, Paris?”
    Paris wriggled uncomfortably, realizing her position.His hands were stroking her back and his face was close to hers. Too close. She leaned back farther. “I need credit, Amadeo.” She wriggled free and rummaged through the sketches littered on the floor at her feet until she came up with an itemized list. “I need your fabrics, but I also need six months’ credit, just until I get started. And I need a good price. Only
your
fabrics will do. They are the best, I can’t possibly use anything else.”
    Amadeo knew his fabrics were the best. He also knew that they were very expensive. He’d be a fool to give her credit; only the major houses were permitted to operate on that, and then never six months. And why should Jenny Haven’s daughter need credit anyway? Surely the mother would endorse her own child?
    “Surely you must have made a few samples,” he stalled, “something to show a buyer? Is there nothing I could see?”
    Paris hesitated. “They’re not in your fabrics,” she agreed finally, “so you mustn’t judge them on that basis. Just a minute.” She uncurled herself from the sofa and he let go of her hand reluctantly, eyeing her body as she ran to the velvet curtain and pulled it to one side.
    “Here, there’s this, and this. And this one is my favorite.”
    The garments she held up for his inspection looked formless and yet complicated. They meant nothing to him, and Paris caught the baffled expression on Amadeo’s face behind the polite acknowledgment.
    “Oh, I
told
you,” she said desperately, “that they should only be seen
on
.”
    “Then, my dear Paris, please put one on.”
    Unhesitatingly, Paris slid behind the curtain. Her skirt, top, and boots were off in a flash and she stood for an instant clad only in a pair of mint-green satin French knickers. She felt almost breathless with excitement. He was going to look at her clothes. Amadeo