Free A Touch of Sin by Susan Johnson

Paris."
    "Certainly. I'm sure we can find something," Mme. Ormand replied, astonished at the young woman's unfashionable gown. Not Pasha's usual style. And Mme.
Duras
? How
very
interesting for a man who valued his independence. Although the young beauty had turned rosy pink when he referred to her as his wife. What a delicious little scenario, when no one in Paris thought Pasha Duras had a romantic bone in his body. The dressmaker's mouth curved into an artful smile. This visit should prove delectable. "Would Mme. Duras care for tea?" she pleasantly inquired.
    Pasha glanced at Trixi and at her small nod, he answered, "Yes, please."
    The tall, stately woman who dressed the most fashionable ladies in society and the demimonde concealed her surprise at such deference from a man who generally treated women with a casual disregard. Not that he wasn't generous; he had spent a fortune with her. But he'd never appeared in this solicitous role. The young lady must be exceptional in bed. Motioning gracefully with her hand, she said, "Perhaps one of our private rooms would suit your wife."
    "Thank you, yes," Pasha agreed. Holding out his arm to Trixi, he murmured low, "You're doing beautifully."
    Overhearing Pasha's hushed words, Mme. Ormand reassessed the sumptuous blond woman. Was she truly an innocent? And if so, where had Pasha found her in his profligate world?
    The private room was even more elegant than the reception area, the sense of luxury profound. The ceiling was draped in gold tissue, the walls covered in aquamarine silk, the carpet awash in pale yellow roses, the whole perfumed with the heady scent of jasmine. The delicate rococo furniture was scaled to feminine proportions with the exception of an oversize sofa in tasseled, fringed brocade the color of a muted sunset. Trixi could almost envision harem houris lounging on its sumptuous cushions.
    Interrupting her musing, Mme. Ormand offered her a small pamphlet. "We have these gowns ready as models for our patrons. Might I suggest number six as particularly fine with your coloring. And we have additional sketches for your perusal," she went on, indicating a pile of watercolor pages on a nearby table. "Milk or lemon with your tea?"
    At Trixi's answer, she bowed herself out of the room to arrange the showing.
    "This is overwhelming," Trixi murmured, leafing through the score of sketches spread over the table, each gown lavishly designed, only a few suitable for day wear.
    "Just pick the ones you like."
    "They're all gorgeous."
    "Better yet. Any in violet?" Pasha lazily inquired.
    "I don't see any." Trixi glanced through the small pamphlet now. Looking up, she smiled at Pasha. "But this is a lovely experience, gown or no. I've never seen anything like this room. Is it supposed to resemble a harem or is my imagination overactive?"
    "Looks like a harem to me," Pasha returned, smiling faintly.
    "That sofa seems to fit you." She took in his lounging form sprawled across its length.
    It did, he knew from previous visits; it actually fit two very nicely, but he only said, "That other furniture would break if I sat on it."
    "I suppose men aren't frequent visitors here."
    That need for omission again since Mme. Ormand catered to women who required rich men to keep them, whether in or out of marriage. "This room does have the look of a woman's boudoir."
    "Something you're familiar with?" Trixi noted with a mischievous grin.
    "I suppose as a bachelor I've seen one or two."
    "I feel very wicked, being here with you."
    "How nice," he said, smiling. "Should I lock the door?"
    "Don't you dare," she quickly retorted. "I was just teasing."
    "It wouldn't take long… as I recall," he softly said. "Or are you more restrained in daylight?"
    "Hush," she insisted, blushing. "Someone might hear."
    "I could lock the door, you know. No one would interfere."
    "No, good God, no. Don't move." She nervously straightened the pile of sketches on the table before her. "I couldn't bear the thought of