"I wish. Now if you'll excuse me - " She pivoted to leave.
"Non." He took hold of her arm. "I saw you copying the white gown. It is twenty thousand dollars. Since you are so interested in it, you should buy it."
She snorted. "I wouldn't be caught dead in that gown."
"What?" His eyebrows shot up. "There's nothing wrong with that design."
"Are you kidding?" She pulled away from his grasp. "What was Echarpe thinking? The neckline plunges past the navel. The skirt slits up to North Dakota. No woman in her right mind would wear that thing in public."
His jaw shifted as he ground his teeth. "The models are happy to wear it."
"My point, exactly. Those poor women are so malnourished, they can't think straight. Take my friend Sasha. Her idea of a three-course meal is a celery stick, a cherry tomato, and a laxative. She's killing herself to fit into these clothes. Women like me can't dress like that."
His gaze drifted over her again. "I think you could. You would look...superbe."
"My breasts would fall out."
"Exactly." The corner of his mouth tilted up.
She huffed. "I'm not showing my breasts in public."
His eyes twinkled. "Would you do it in private?"
Damn him and his pretty blue eyes. She had to think a moment to remember the gist of the conversation. "Are you going to arrest me or drool on me?"
He smiled. "Can I do both?"
What a confusing man. "I haven't done anything wrong. I mean, other than the crab cake. But I wouldn't have taken it if I could actually afford anything in this place."
His smile faded. "You are in need of money? You plan to sell the designs you copied to another house?"
"No. I just wanted to make one for myself."
"You are lying. You said you would not be caught dead in one of these gowns."
Lying? This guy was full of rotten accusations. "Look, I would never wear one of these gowns the way Echarpe designed them. I tell you, the guy is completely detached from reality. Does he even know any real people?"
"Not like you," he muttered, then held out his hand. "Let me see your sketchings."
"All right. If it'll help clear things up." She showed him her notepad. "The first one is the white gown, but I fixed it."
"Fixed it? I can hardly recognize it."
"I know. It looks so much better now. I could actually wear it without getting arrested for indecent exposure."
He gritted his teeth. "It's not that bad."
"If a young boy saw me in it, I'd be listed on a web-site as a sex offender. But the point is moot, since I could never afford the dress in the first place. I can't even buy a pair of socks here without getting my truck repossessed."
"This merchandise is designed for an elite few."
"Oh, pardon me. I'll just have Cheeves bring around the Rolls-Royce, so I can putter over to the airport and take my private jet back to my villa in Tuscany."
His mouth twitched as he turned to the next page. "And this is the red gown?"
"Yes, but much better after I fixed it. There are four more designs there. I was coming up with so many ideas all at once, I just had to get them down before they were lost. If you know what I mean."
"Actually, I do." He gave her an odd look.
It was odd. He didn't look like the type to understand the whimsical creative process. He looked more like an athlete, but with the build of a swimmer, not a weightlifter.
Could he actually have her arrested? His strange accusations combined with his handsome looks had confounded her to the point that she'd babbled like a nervous idiot. She needed to relax and be nicer. "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to steal anything. Am I in trouble?"
He glanced at her with a hint of a smile. "Do you want to be?"
She stopped herself from saying yes. Good Lord, this guy was sexy. And much too gorgeous for his own good. No doubt he had trouble finding clothes that fit those broad shoulders and long legs. He probably had problems with women, too. They took one look at him and their clothes accidentally fell off.
Aha! That's what she'd do if he arrested her. She'd offer herself to him as a sacrifice. How noble. How ridiculous. She would never have the nerve.
He finished studying her drawings. "These are actually quite good. I can see how they would be more flattering for a woman with a...more luscious figure."
He really liked her designs? Heather's heart swelled with pride and joy. She liked being called luscious, too. "Thank you. And thanks for not calling women like me fat."
He stiffened. "Why would I say that when it's not true?"
Whoa. This man was serious trouble. Not only was he gorgeous, but he knew the right things to say to women. Double the danger. And double the fun? No, she slapped herself mentally. She'd just rid herself of one male disaster. No way was she hanging around for the sequel. "I'd better be going." She turned to leave.
"You forgot your sketchings."
She pivoted to face him. "You'll let me keep them?"
"On one condition." He glanced behind her. "Zut. We must go."
She looked over her shoulder. A big guy in a kilt was confiscating a young woman's camera phone.
"But I wanted a picture for my blog," the young woman objected.
"Come." The gorgeous security guard grabbed Heather's arm and led her toward a set of double doors with the word Private printed above them.
"Wait a minute." Heather slowed down. "Where are you taking me?"
"A place where we can talk."
Talk? Wasn't that code for something else? Good Lord, he was dragging her off to ravish her. "Uh, I don't talk with strangers."
"You've been talking to me." He gave her a wry look as he pulled her through the double doors and into a hallway. "You've given me quite an earful."
"Well, yes." She glanced back at the showroom. "I just hope you're not expecting something more."
He halted by another set of double doors and returned her notepad. While she stuffed it in her purse, he punched in a number on a keypad. "What I am about to show you is very private."
Oh God, she was afraid of that. "Only seen by an elite few?"
"Exactly. I know you're a tough critic, but I think you will be impressed."
Her gaze wandered south. "I'm sure I will."
"Heather."
His soft way of saying her name made her feel all melted and gooey inside. She lifted her eyes to meet his.
His mouth curled up. "Are we talking about the same thing?"
"I don't know." Her heart pounded. It was hard to think when he looked at her like that.
"I'm going to show you the rest of the fall collection."
"Oh." She blinked. "Right. That's what I thought."
"But of course." The twinkle in his eye was suspicious. He opened the door and escorted her inside.
"It's dark - " She hushed when some lights came on.
A quick glance at the high ceiling let her know he'd turned on only half the lights. Her gaze moved downward. The room was huge, much bigger than the showroom. Shelves lined the walls, filled with bolts of beautiful fabric. Her fingers itched to touch it all. In the back, she spotted two sewing machines. They were reflecting off the glass of French doors along the back wall. To the left of the room sat two large cutting tables. To the right, rack after rack of fabulous clothes. In the center, a host of male and female mannequins stood in a circle like the Stonehenge of high fashion.
Good Lord, what she would give to have a workroom like this. It was heaven. "This is where the magic happens."
"Magic?" He shut the door. "I would call it hard work."
"But it is magical." She wandered toward the first rack of clothes, her heels clunking on the wooden floor. "This is where ideas give birth to beautiful things."
He followed her. "Then you like the design studio?"
"Oh yes." She eyed the cleverly cut jackets and skirts on the first rack. "Adorable." She rubbed the fabric between her fingers and frowned.
"What's wrong?"
"It's wool."
"It's a winter jacket."
"And this is Texas. You might sell it in the Panhandle, but down here, you'd have to turn on the air conditioning to wear it, even in the winter."
"I didn't realize that." He crossed his arms, frowning.
"The cut is remarkable, though." She admired one of the jackets. "The guy's a genius."
"I thought he was completely detached from reality."
Heather laughed. "That, too." She proceeded to the second rack.
"Did you make your dress?"
She winced. "Is it that obvious?"
He shrugged. "It is well made, actually. The fabric is crap, but so much of it is these days."
"Oh, I know. I've bought things that literally fall apart after two washings." She halted in front of a beaded bolero jacket as a thought suddenly occurred to her. Since when did security guards know anything about fabric?
"Is it your own design?" he asked.
"Sorta. I like to combine different features from different patterns to make something...unique."
He nodded. "It is unique."
"Thank you." Who was this guy? "Do...do you work for Echarpe as a designer?"
"Would you like to?"
Her mouth fell open. "Huh?"
"You've convinced me that I'm neglecting part of the market, and women such as yourself deserve to look your best."
"Oh."
"I believe more of these designs could be adapted for fuller figures, and you might be just the person to do it."
"Oh."
"Come back Monday evening if you wish to start."
"Oh." Good Lord, she was sounding like a moron. "I could work here? In this magical place?"
"Yes."
"Oh my gosh!" Obviously this guy wasn't security. "Are you the manager? I - I hope you weren't offended by some of the things I said. I did say Echarpe was a genius."
"And that he was completely detached from reality. And that you had to fix his designs."
Heather winced. "I got a little carried away. But it's only because I feel so passionately that women like me deserve to look as good as our skinnier sisters."
"You have passion." He motioned to her dress. "And talent. Otherwise, I would not hire you."
She grinned. "Oh, thank you! This is a dream come true." She pressed a hand to her chest. "I'm so excited, Mr. - uh, what shall I call you?"
He bowed slightly. "Allow me to introduce myself." His eyes gleamed as he slowly smiled. "I am Jean-Luc Echarpe."
Chapter 3
Jean-Luc expected her reaction to be entertaining, and it was. Heather's mouth fell open. Her lovely green eyes widened in horror. Blood rushed from her face, leaving her so pale, even her freckles faded away.
He grinned. He hadn't had this much fun in years. She opened and shut her pretty mouth, but no words came out, so she looked rather like a fish. An adorable fish.
He tilted his head. "You were saying?"
She managed to choke out a few strangled squeaks. "How can you be - I - I thought you were really old."
He arched a brow.
"I mean...oh God, I'm sorry." She pushed back her thick curls. Her purse tumbled to the floor. "Aw, shoot."
He leaned over to retrieve it.
"No, I'll get it." She grabbed her purse so fast, she stumbled as she was straightening.
He reached out to steady her.
"I'm okay." She stretched an arm toward some clothing to catch herself. Unfortunately, the clothes parted like the Red Sea, leaving her to plummet to the floor. "Aagh!"
"I've got you!" He grabbed hold of her sleeve. Rip.
She crashed onto the floor with him holding her sleeve in his hand. Merde.
He leaned over her. "Are you all right?" Her skirt had ridden up, revealing her shapely legs. He couldn't help but imagine those thighs wrapped around his waist. Or his neck.
"Are you really Jean-Luc Echarpe?" she asked.
"Oui."
She moaned and covered her face. "Do you have a cellar I can crawl into for about fifty years?"
Actually he did, and he was tempted to invite her there. She would certainly brighten up his long exile. But he had no right to imprison a mortal just to entertain himself.
He sat on the floor beside her. "There's no need to be embarrassed."
"I'm mortified. Just kill me now."
He chuckled. "I was saying the same thing earlier this evening. We are too melodramatic, non?"
"I said some awful things about you." She lowered her hands. "I'm really sorry."
"Don't apologize for being honest. I like it. In this business, very few people are honest."
She sat up and winced when she noticed her skirt. She hurriedly adjusted it. "I don't understand how you can be so hand - young. You've designed clothes for people like Marilyn Monroe."
Had she almost called him handsome? His smile faded when he realized it was time to start lying. Zut. She'd been so honest with him. "I'm the...son of the original Jean-Luc Echarpe. You may call me Jean, so you won't confuse me with my father."
"Oh. That's great that you inherited his talent."