Imogen studied her reflection in bathroom mirror as she attached the silk stocking to the lacy satin garter belt. She had to admit the sensuous feel of the silk as it slipped up her legs was extraordinarily arousing—though not nearly as arousing as the feel of his strong hands slowly removing them would be. Even with the fabulous LaPerla demibra and panties it was a rather "old school" look for her own tastes, but he'd expressed his appreciation of the vintage undergarments in the past—and she wanted to make this evening especially memorable.
It had been more than a month since they'd made love—she was fairly certain it was the longest she'd gone without sex since she'd turned eighteen. She dabbed on a tiny bit of perfume—he preferred less rather than more and draped the Hanne Mori silk scarf she'd worn on the cover of Harper's around her neck.
Papillon, the French word came to her as she adjusted the scarf in the mirror—butterflies, the designer's signature motif. They were a symbol of rebirth, new life, hope—maybe tonight would breathe some new life into their relationship—maybe she could finally escape the tiny box he'd put them in? She added a touch of clear lip gloss, he didn't like it when she wore bright lipstick, and smiled wickedly at her reflection. Neither of them would be getting any sleep tonight.
She returned to the living room to find him stretched out on the couch reading Italian Vogue—Bourdin had told her she was the most exquisite woman he'd ever photographed for that shoot. Kuryakin looked up and gave her a smile that literally made her heart race.
"That scarf is incredible," he said. He sat up and set the magazine on the coffee table.
She struck a pose worth of an Avedon photoshoot then spun around seductively.
"It would be perfect on Lisa with her coloring."
Stunned, Imogen pulled the scarf off, threw it on the floor, and stormed into the bedroom slamming the door behind her.
"Imogen," he called after her. "What's wrong?"
"You!" she screamed coming back out into the living room. "You are what's wrong."
"You're not making any sense. Tell me what's wrong?"
"Look, I know I'm not the love of your life, Illya. I've never entertained any illusions to that effect, but I'll be damned if I'm going to be filling in for someone else."
"Someone else?"
"Lisa."
"What does Lisa have to do with this ridiculous tantrum of yours?" he asked.
"Is she the reason you've been so distant?"
"Distant? I'm hardly distant, Imogen, I've flown three thousand miles to be here with you."
"Are you really, here? Here in this little box with me? What box is she in, Illya?"
"I assure you, Lisa has absolutely no interest in me beyond the professional. It's irrelevant. I must say I don't find this sudden jealousy attractive."
"I don't give a rat's ass about her interest in you. It's your interest in her that concerns me. You can't go ten minutes without talking about her.
"That's not true."
"You really don't see it do you? From where I'm standing it sounds like you're… obsessed with her—how exactly is that irrelevant to me? How can we have any sort of future if you keep me away from the most important parts of your life?"
Though he didn't respond, the panicked look in his eyes, like a startled deer gazing into oncoming headlights, spoke volumes.
"Of course—how did I not see it? You aren't looking for a future for us, are you?"
"I'm not sure how to answer that question. I do care for you, but I've never been one for looking beyond the here and now."
"I think it would be best if you leave.
"You're ending things?"
"You ended things between us at the hospital—I just didn't want to see it-to admit it, until now."
"The hospital?"
"When you woke up at the hospital"—she bit back the flood of tears she knew were coming. "When you opened your eyes, I told you that…I told you I loved you—and you said 'Where is Lisa?'"
"I'd been in a coma for nearly a week, Imogen."
"Don't waste your breath denying it—I don't care anymore, Illya. I'm tired of being in a box—I want to be with someone—really with them. You and I…we're done here. Please just go. I'll call Marcel and he'll get you another room."
"That's unnecessary," he said as he slipped on his black leather holster. His tone was sanguine—as if she'd asked him to go out for an evening paper instead of ending their relationship. It told her everything she needed to know.
"I'll get a taxicab to the airport and see if I can get standby on an earlier flight back to New York." He disappeared into the bedroom for a few minutes and returned with his overnight bag.
"I'm sorry, Imogen. Will you be alright?"
"Don't worry about me- I'm like a cat," she said. "I always land on my feet." She kissed him lightly on the cheek.
"Au revivors, cher."
Imogen poured herself another flute of champagne and gazed out over the magical Paris cityscape. If this was a romantic comedy she would be weeping hysterically and tearing her hair as she maniacally plotted her revenge on Kuryakin and his little Filene's basement paramour. But it was neither romantic nor particularly humorous and life was too short to waste on regret and recrimination. Kuryakin was right about one thing—she was in the most romantic city in the world—and nothing as minor as a bruised heart was going to get in the way of making the most of it.
She got up and changed into the sexy red Valentino evening dress and slipped on the black Italian leather stiletto heels—looking on the bright side, she no longer had to eschew heels to avoid towering over him. She added the Bulgari cloisonné choker and matching earrings the prince had given her for her twenty-fourth birthday, then wiped off the clear lip gloss and fished in her make up bag for the brightest red—a shade appropriately named 'Best Revenge'. She surveyed herself in the mirror and was quite pleased with the results- grade A Paris runway ready. She picked the scarf up from the floor and called Marcel.
"Sorry for the delay, mademoiselle," Marcel said as he entered the room." How may I assist you?"
"I need to have this boxed and shipped to a friend in the United States. Can you take care of that for me?"
"Certainly, mademoiselle, it will go out in the early morning post," he said. "Where shall I send it?"
She took the address book from her purse and found the page with the address for Kuryakin's post office box in New York. She ripped the page from the book and handed it to him.
"Did you wish to enclose a note of some sort?" he asked.
"I suppose so," she responded. He handed her a small pale blue envelope with a matching piece of cardstock. She withdrew the white card with Lisa's number from her wallet and scrawled a quick note on the on the back. She studied the message for a few seconds then pressed the card against her lips leaving a perfect ruby red lip print, then slipped it into the blue envelope and handed it to Marcel.
"Is there anything else I can do for you, mademoiselle?"
"Yes," she said with a mischievous smile. "Can you direct me to a late-night dance club with the sexiest men in Paris?"
"But of course, mademoiselle, of course."
