The Perfume Collector(87)

‘Oh, Andre!’ She shook her head. ‘You’re not quite honest, are you? I understand that. You and I can’t afford to be, can we?’

‘I’m sorry?’ He stared at her, her face illuminated by the city lights like a ghostly apparition.

‘But you must tell me the truth. Look, I’ll make a deal with you – if you’re honest with me, I’ll be honest with you. And believe me, there aren’t many people in this world I would trust.’

He hesitated. But the temptation to confide in someone was too great.

‘My shop is failing,’ he blurted out. ‘I don’t know how to sell things – especially things that I haven’t even made yet.’ He sank back into his chair. ‘In truth, Eva, I loathe people. I always have.’

‘Go on.’

‘I loathe idle chit-chat. I despise idiots. I can’t bear to sit and talk to people.’

‘Imagine that!’

He smiled in spite of himself; she could always see right through him. Relaxing further, he took a deep drag. ‘To me the most irritating part of the business of making perfume is the client. The truth is, I can only really create my best work when I’m moved by someone, as I am by you. I own a shop but I hate customers. Isn’t that mad? And now I’m here, in Monte Carlo, to do little more than prostitute myself to the very people for whom I have the least respect. I am out of money. I am out of time. And now I loathe myself for coming here at all.’

‘Oh dear!’ She tipped her head back, laughing. ‘What a tragic tale!’

Her sarcasm popped his grandiosity like a bubble; he couldn’t help but laugh too.

She spread her arms wide. ‘Welcome to the brothel, my dear Andre! The difficulty is not that you must prostitute yourself but that you do it so badly. You need these people and whether they know it or not, they need you. But if you’re going to get paid to swallow, my dear, you’d better learn not to choke.’

Shocked, he coughed and spluttered on the smoke of his cigarette.

‘You need to learn the art of seduction,’ she continued. ‘After all, prostitutes aren’t paid for ambivalence. There is only one rule – you can sell me anything as long as you adore me.’

‘But I . . . I don’t know anything of these matters. I don’t even want to. I only know how to make perfume.’

‘Yes, but I do. And let me tell you something – your arrogance is justified – you are a genius. With the smallest effort and guidance you could easily be the best perfumer in Paris.’

‘Really?’ He’d doubted himself; her words were like a balm to his bruised and smarting ego.

‘I know all about these people. Their habits and secrets, how they think and feel, every single Achilles heel. And let me tell you, they’re not complicated. You must trust me, Andre.’

‘Why would you help me?’

‘Because,’ there was something both tender and melancholy in her tone, ‘you made it rain.’

He stared at her, enthralled. ‘But tell me, what are you doing here? How did you come to be so, so exquisite?’

She stood up. And with a little shake of her shoulders, her dress slipped to the floor. She was naked except for her silver sandals, which she kicked off as she came closer, stopping in front of him. She was radiant, her skin like white marble in the balmy darkness.

Reaching out, he dared to run his fingers over the smooth arch of her back. ‘Eva . . .’

She held up a finger. ‘Shhhh!’

Leaning forward, she kissed him. Valmont felt his body warm with the heat of an unfamiliar desire.

Pulling her to him, he closed his eyes, burying his face against her. He breathed her in – each moist hollow, every sumptuous curve – inhaling hungrily the vast, varied landscape of her skin.



She sat in the alcove of the window seat, smoking by the open window.

‘So, what are you doing here?’ Valmont propped himself up on his elbow, jamming a pillow under his head. ‘Who are you travelling with? Please say it’s not your husband.’

‘No, it’s not my husband. It’s an associate.’

‘Associate?’ He pulled the sheet across his bare torso. ‘What does that mean?’

She exhaled. ‘He’s the man I work with, Lambert. Although he goes by Lamb here. The man who taught me my trade.’

Again, the word struck him as odd. ‘You have a trade?’ He’d assumed she was someone’s lover or mistress.

‘Do you doubt it?’ She looked across at him, challengingly. ‘You’re not the only one who’s come to Monte Carlo for business. This place is full of people on the make – gigolos, prostitutes, salesmen, schemers, social climbers, snobs.’