Topaz Delirium: Department 57, #5

Chapter One

Jasper Lebec watched every model stride onto the catwalk and heard the gratifying applause as they emerged. That didn’t guarantee anything, of course; the crowd would have applauded if he’d sent them out in bin liners. They’d applauded just as much for his last couture collection, and that had been a bust.

A setback like that had to be expected after the unprecedented success of his house. Not many designers set up their own houses anymore; it was less risky to take a post as head of an established house, but Jasper thrived on risk.

Susan Armstrong brushed past him with an intimate smile and a waft of Topaz Delirium, his new perfume. He didn’t return the smile. The woman wanted to get back into his bed, but he’d had enough of her. She took too much for granted, used their affair to encroach on his business, and even used it as an excuse for her constant unpunctuality and increasing unreliability. He’d warned her today that he wouldn’t tolerate her drug taking before a show, but he knew she’d had something because of widely dilated eyes. He slipped into her mind, into the forefront all Talents kept open as a courtesy to other Talents, and found bliss there. Cocaine, her drug of choice, and something else he couldn’t define.

Fuck, he’d have to fire her. He could choose to ignore it, but she’d only take that as acceptance and continue taking the drugs. As a vampire, Susan could shake off the effects at sunset, when her vampire powers came upon her, but she was pushing that more and more lately. He was worried about her. Not enough to let her near him again, but enough to monitor her when she wouldn’t notice him.

Where’s the veil?

Madame Morel’s sharply snapped-out command alerted him to the tableau under the lights. His principal model and muse, Topaz, otherwise known as Svetlana Yevchenko, stood completely still, suffering the ministrations of his second in command, Madame Morel. The show was drawing to its grand finale. Time to adorn the bride. He took a moment to study her before he crossed the room.

From here, she looked like Cinderella, or a fairy princess. The gown he’d designed swelled around her willowy form like whipped cream, shades of apricot and ivory swirling in preordained drapery, the colors blending with her creamy skin and fiery hair, currently caught up behind her head in loops and artfully arranged ringlets. As he watched, a dresser brought the veil, carrying it more carefully than he would a piece of spun sugar. Svetlana turned her head to look at it, and the beautiful piece glimmered under the lights. Svetlana hadn’t yet appeared on the catwalk, and the crowd was getting restless, wondering if the maestro and Topaz had fallen out, if their notoriously platonic relationship was at an end.

His mouth firmed when he remembered the platonic part. That was how it had to be. He’d wanted Svetlana the minute he’d seen her, but he knew with her there would never be any halfways. It would be all the way, and he couldn’t risk that. Wouldn’t, not with her life at stake. For the first time, he understood why his ancestors had avoided the fate until it was forced on them. It wasn’t their own safety they worried about at all; it was the fate of the women they loved.

Not fair, but when was life ever fair?

Svetlana turned back to face forward, so Madame Morel could ascend the metal stepladder erected behind her and pin the veil in place. Madame’s black-clad form crept up behind Topaz like some giant beetle ready to pounce on its prey. Appearances were deceptive. Svetlana was the strong one, not Madame. Like Jasper, Svetlana was a Talent, a shape-shifting, glorious firebird he’d never been able to properly depict in his shows. That was why she was his muse, not because of the attraction between them that drew him like a magnet. Or so he repeatedly told himself.

When she moved, she saw him watching her, so he stepped forward and assumed his usual pose of concentration, one finger touching his lips. Lips that trembled to touch her, kiss her, but as usual, he put the thought away and ruthlessly tamped it down.

When he slipped into her mind, he didn’t find the arrogant, ethereal creature she presented in public, but someone exhausted by the frantic activity that was Paris Fashion Week, her body scratched and abused by the creations of the designers. Svetlana was close to collapse. The gown, so beautiful on the outside, was an instrument of torture, the boning scratching her skin, the tight lacing making it difficult for her to breathe, the drapery weighing her down and making it impossible to walk without thinking about the placement of the foot for the next step. Just as well it was a wedding gown because a woman wouldn’t want to wear it for very long. Perhaps he’d sell it to a sadomasochist fetishist. There were some very wealthy ones around. They’d have to be, to buy the dress that was presently torturing Svetlana.

And he was about to ask more of her. His heart sank, but he needed her. Not as supermodel, not even as a lover, but in her other capacity as agent for Department 57. She deserved to rest, but she was one of his top agents, and he needed her skills. He’d worked to get Hugo Berthier close to her, now he needed her to sweeten the trap and gain entry where he could not. Rapidly, he went through his list of other agents, to see if there was another he could use. There were a few, but not one with her access and her skill, and none Hugo Berthier panted for as much. Jasper decided he would try to make it as fast as possible and insist she rest afterward. He had a farmhouse in the South of France; he could lend that to her. Even considering, that showed how much she’d gotten under his skin. Nobody knew about that farmhouse except for the other Department heads and the woman who looked after it for him when he wasn’t there. Even she didn’t know who he really was. He’d wanted a retreat, a place where he could be totally alone, and that farmhouse gave it to him. That he’d consider sharing it with her came as a revelation to him. An unpleasant shock.

Svetlana’s bravery and her startlingly perceptive intelligence attracted him more than her beauty. Everyone was beautiful; it went with the job, but Svetlana sparkled like the central diamond in a well-crafted setting.

Which reminded him—he lifted a finger to summon the burly security guards patiently waiting for his signal.

A hush fell over the small crowd as they watched Jasper open the black jewelry case and lift out the item he’d designed. Plus its addition. One of the treasures of France. Worn by Marie Antoinette, the Empress Josephine, and the Empress Eugenie and now by Svetlana Yevchenko—the Désespoir diamond. Svetlana moved her hand; the large marquise diamond on her ring finger caught the light, and when she lifted her eyes, their gazes locked and held for a bare moment that made the day come alive. He broke the contact by walking around her to fix the collar around her neck. The stones felt heavy in his hands, and he regretted adding to her burden. His fingers lingered for a second at the back of her neck, relishing the touch. Then he stepped back around to study the effect.

Stunning. He expected no less, but to see her gowned like this made him realize how wrong he was about his designs. He needed to rethink his path, but at the moment he was too tired to analyze the uneasiness that swam through his head.

It’s missing something.

It. He heard the word from her mind as if she’d spoken it. Svetlana stared at him, silent as she had been all through this ordeal, straight and proud as any Russian princess.

His black jacket rustled in the sudden, brief silence as the music changed, signaling the start of the evening wear section of the show. He took a step forward, then another, pushing her skirts away with his foot, ignoring the gasp from the onlookers who had watched Madame spend fully a quarter hour getting the drape right.

But Jasper Lebec could do whatever he wanted here, and he did. He asserted his presence now, certain what he was about to do was right.

Seizing her around her waist, he dragged her close. Look at me.

He gazed at her, losing himself in her amber eyes before he kissed her. Her mouth opened, and he lost himself in her, tasting her as he’d longed to do ever since she’d walked through the door in her prosaic jeans and tee.

The warmth of his mouth surged into hers. A hum emerged from the onlookers. Or was it in his mind? He shoved her lips apart with one ruthless thrust of his tongue and took possession, owning her. Svetlana gasped into his mouth but responded, ready with her own passion. Her hands gripped his arms as he slid his arms around her waist. She lifted one hand to touch him, smoothing his hair caught back tightly behind his head. Lost in her, needing her, Jasper forgot why he was here, what he meant to do with her. He wanted to throw her to the floor and drive his cock into her body in a primitive act of possession.

His was the kiss of a savage, claiming what already belonged to him. Her awareness of him, her desire for him teased his senses before she snatched it back and locked it away. His senses cried out to the heavens in triumph. She wanted him.

Under his closed lids, he sensed the flash of cameras and came back down to earth with a sickening thud. Touching her mind, he felt anger and bewilderment. He pulled away, releasing her with a suddenness that made her gasp, and stepped back in one fluid movement, but he caught his foot in her veil, and the sound of ripping fabric filled the appalled silence.

Forcing his emotions back behind the mental barrier he never allowed anyone to breach, Jasper examined Svetlana through narrowed eyes, and finally held out his hand. Tissue.

Someone placed a pristine white tissue in his hand. Jasper stepped forward once more and applied it briskly to Svetlana’s face, wiping away the worst of the mess he’d made of her lipstick, nothing personal in his touch now. She snared his cool glance with a fiery one of her own, promising retribution.

He didn’t respond to her challenge, but stepped back. Better. He glanced at Madame, who watched him, expression carefully wiped from her features. I want forbidden passion. Now she has it.

All that for a look. He’d wrecked her composure, made her a laughing stock for a look?

She must look a mess with her lipstick smudged, probably all over her face, and the magnificent gown a wreck. Next to Svetlana, Susan Armstrong smirked, not hiding her joy at the wreck of the gown. Svetlana knew Susan considered her much as the young pretender in All About Eve had regarded Bette Davis, as an obstacle to overcome, a rival to vanquish. Dog eat dog, or to be more accurate, bitch eat bitch.

But when she gazed back into the mirror, she knew Jasper was right. Her eyes flashed with anger and passion mixed in equal measure, her hair mussed, her lipstick too good a brand to be completely gone, but the careful line was now blurred by Jasper’s kiss, the rip to the gown and veil looked exactly as if she’d done something she shouldn’t, something forbidden. Someone had taken Cinderella and turned her into Snow White’s stepmother, beautiful but deadly.

The jeweled necklace felt like a millstone around her neck; her skin suffocated under the heavy layer of make-up. Every time she moved, her hairpins pricked her scalp, and the bones of the gown scratched her rib cage. The underpinning, as severe as anything in a Dior New Look gown, made it hard for Svetlana to breathe.

When she closed her eyes, the vision of a stinking underground cell swam before her. She felt then like she felt now, bound and uncomfortably pinioned, but unlike then, this was her choice. She smelled of Jasper’s new perfume, Topaz Delirium, not sweat and unwashed bodies. From now on, her life would always be her choice, and that cell was a secret between her and one other person. Svetlana was good at keeping secrets. So was the other person.

Jasper’s aftershave, a blend of citrus scents, tantalized her nose. She opened her eyes and he snared her in his brooding gaze.

Jasper Lebec caused it all. That dichotomy of love and hate, torture and beauty, he judged it and used it for his own benefit.

That was why he was hailed as a genius in the cutthroat world of Paris fashion. That was why she wanted him more than any other man and why she detested him, too.

The music, sounding tinny here, changed into something else, something sensual. Jasper had this piece written especially for this moment.

Now go and do your job, he said to her, his voice tightly dispassionate.

She went.

Judging her cue to a nicety, Svetlana set out into the salon, blazing with light and expectation. Heat beat at her from the bright spotlights and the camera flashes.

The music swelled and applause rang out. Svetlana walked down the runway, not adopting her usual toes-first, hip-swaying, aggressive stride because she couldn’t do it, not trussed up like a Christmas turkey. She glided instead, the skirts of the huge wedding gown billowing out around and behind her like a ship in full sail.

Symbols and surprises hid in the folds of the gown representing secrets, not all of them good. A realistically sculpted baby in some new feather-light medium lay on one side, and she heard the collective gasp from the audience when the swirling silk parted around it then closed again when she moved on. Keys hung from her waist and even a hotel keycard and a platinum credit card. All the trappings of a well-endowed bride, in fact.

Shoulder down, catch the eyes of the most important clients, and then move on. As she reached the center of the runway, she turned into the gown in the way she’d practiced and the skirts and train curled around her feet in a picturesque tumble of fabric. Her attendants took their places just in front of her.

When the applause increased, she knew Jasper had appeared with the other models behind him, all applauding the maestro, the creator. In this world, the designer was king, worshipped by a multitude of fans. Even Napoleon failed to achieve the world domination of Jasper Lebec and his kind. And Jasper was in the elite, surrounded by names like Saint Laurent, Dior, and Chanel.

All for scraps of fabric and the illusion of beauty.

Jasper reached her, smiling and bowing his head regally to the front row which contained the journalists, reporters, and the occasional super-wealthy client who would actually consider buying a couture gown at the astronomical if-you-have-to-ask-the-price-you-can’t-afford-it cost.

He held out his hand, and she caught her breath. "Don’t you want to hit me for what I did to you? I can feel your anger, Svetlana." Jasper rarely contacted anyone telepathically, keeping his psi senses locked down tight, so the question came as a shock to her system, hitting her wounded psyche square in its vulnerable middle.

His taunt was more than she could bear. The bastard used her feelings for him to make a fashion statement. That was all she meant to him, another clotheshorse and her work for the Department. He never saw her, the woman, under the clothes and the kick-ass moves.

For sure she wanted to hit him, and if this ended her career, so be it. She didn’t give a flying fuck. She lifted her hand, almost feeling her movement slow down, like a film, the pivotal moment in slow motion. Putting all her strength into her arm, she took a swing at him, all her anger coursing out of her in a great rush.

But Jasper was quicker. He whipped his hand up and caught her wrist, using it to bring himself to her. Face to face. For a brief moment, they stared at each other, their gazes stark and open until he slanted his mouth over hers to give her a brief, hard, kiss, passionate but too short for her to pull back or bring her other hand into play. Then she didn’t want to anymore, and the magic happened all over again. Anger faded, replaced by passion. God, how she wanted this man!

When he drew away, he smiled, a flash of triumph. His mouth slightly open and moist from their kiss, he turned, very slowly, back to his adoring subjects. Here he was a god, and they expected him to act like one.

Jasper’s adorers and acolytes loved the little show, as he must have known they would. Svetlana put up her chin and stared at the wildly applauding crowd down her long nose, forcing her face into freezing immobility, her body in turmoil under the boned gown.

Jasper took her hand, using just the tips of her fingers, and led her forward. The bride usually accompanied the designer at the end of a show, but not like this. Too late, she realized Jasper had found a rose from somewhere and thrust it through the buttonhole at the top of his jacket. She had no doubt he’d planned it, because the lining to his black jacket was precisely the same shade of deep red. Nothing Jasper did in his shows was accidental.

The rose made him look like a bridegroom.

Knowing how impossible any personal connection was between them, knowing all that, she still wanted him, still wanted his attraction to her to be real. And she hated herself for it.

This stunt would catapult Jasper’s show above the others, get him the step-up the relative failure of his last show needed. A new signature perfume, Topaz Delirium, was obviously not enough. Now he had the gossip mags on his side, too. But he needed her to play along, and she had no intention of doing that.

The applause rang out, loud and long, mingled with cheers, and Jasper acknowledged them all. He kept hold of her hand and as she was about to walk off the catwalk into the waiting arms of Madame and her assistants, pulled her close one more time. This time, no kiss. Perhaps he realized he’d pushed his luck with the second one, and this time she wouldn’t telegraph her intentions.

Dinner tonight, he murmured. I’ll send a car.

At the same time, he sent her a mental message. "Department business."

Damn him, he knew any media-savvy person could lip-read his words which would confirm her status as his woman of the moment. So she turned away from the media and said, with a smile, You bastard.

He raised an eyebrow and nodded to Madame, standing just out of sight of the crowd. I’ll see you later.

He turned just in time to catch Susan, who collapsed at his feet.

Chapter Two

At first, Svetlana thought Susan had staged a trick to gain the limelight. But no. Probing gently into Susan’s mind, Svetlana found the girl’s mind a swirling mass of pain. The little fool probably took too much cocaine again. She felt another presence and didn’t need to enquire who it was. Jasper met her and spoke, in the way Talents did.

"This is serious. I detect some kind of poison here."

"She does cocaine."

A pause before he responded, a beat for him to study Susan once more.

"I know. It’s more than that. I’ll take care of her. You go. You’re exhausted. I’ll see you later tonight."

His sudden gentleness disturbed Svetlana even more than his kiss. He shouldn’t have been able to read it. She was used to hiding her emotions away, and around Jasper she always kept her feelings locked up tight. She’d hoped that continued exposure to the cold, unresponsive Jasper Lebec would cure her unreasoning desire for him, but it only increased it.

She watched Jasper carry Susan toward the exit. The model, draped limply in his arms, seemed like a rag doll rather than a real woman.

Madame Morel watched, too, standing next to Svetlana. I hope he remembers to take that gown off her before she goes home.

You’re not concerned about Susan? Svetlana asked. She seems really ill.

Madame laughed harshly. "You should be more worried about yourself. If Maitre Jasper wants an affair with you, Susan Armstrong will do her best to end it."

Svetlana gave Madame a Gallic shrug of dismissal. She could at least stop the rest of the world knowing her true feelings. I’m his designated muse, that’s all. At least for now. I’m only glad he chose a woman with a few curves, instead of one of the refugees.

That was the name the press and other models gave to the super-thin girls. The refugee look. She thought it sick.

Which was why, of course, they did it.

Madame grunted. I agree with you. I, too, prefer a woman with curves. Maybe because Madame Morel was, frankly, dumpy, but her severe black dresses kept the ridicule from her door. As if anyone would dare. Madame Morel was second only to Lebec in this fashion house.

The security men stepped forward purposefully, and with a shock, Svetlana realized they wanted the necklace back. She wore a queen’s ransom around her neck, and she’d forgotten all about it.

Turn around. With swift, sure hands, so different to Jasper’s gentle caressing touch, Madame removed the necklace and handed it to the guards, who bestowed it reverently in its custom-made case and took it away. The diamond would return to its owners and its deep bank vault and the setting to Jasper, who’d commissioned it. He’d probably have her pose for photographs with a replica diamond and then have the lovely thing broken up, or sell it to a valued client. Svetlana never wanted to see it again. Jasper had