Page 89 of Brooke
The door slid open as she dropped her hands, regarding his tailored matte black suit, silk black tie, and the blue-black shirt he wore underneath. Not too many men could wear three shades of black and make it work, but he looked like the Viking god they called him. Axel would be noticed tonight. People would drool, not only over his striking masculinity, but his fashion sense. She was proud to have him by her side. “You don’t need any help there,Elskede.You look hot, and my fixing your tie was only a way to touch you.”
“I feared you would worry I look too much like Madison in all black,” he said, making her snort out a laugh as they stepped out of the carriage, the pulse of the DJ’s playlistbouncing off her skin. “The night will feel too long until I can take you into my arms again.”
“I hear you there.” She surveyed the room, giving the slightest nod of recognition to Marcello, who stood at the front of the ballroom so he could greet guests like the good host he was. “But we’ll need to be on our best behavior.”
Axel’s brows knit as he looked at her, but then she spotted Marcello heading toward them, so she crossed to meet him. Her switch to French was immediate as she kissed his cheeks Parisian style. “That rose velvet jacket looks dashing on you, Marcello. I adored it at your recent fashion show.”
The fifty-eight-year-old huffed as he flicked his slender wrist toward her, a diamond bracelet flashing. “You, however, look less dashing than you might. You are not wearing a Marcello tonight, Brooke.”
She swatted him playfully, a gesture that had won him over since her first days atTRENDS.“You know I don’t play that game, Marcello. Wearing a designer’s dress to his party. It would simply be too much to keep up with.”
His overdramatichmmmwas all for show. “Somehow, I believe you could manage it, Brooke, knowing there is nothing you cannot do. I see you have brought a guest, one I know by reputation, of course.”
She watched as the two men introduced themselves; Axel’s French was quite exquisite to hear. They sometimes spoke in French, but more often in English, although she’d asked him to teach her more Norwegian. So far the new phrases were like marbles in her mouth, but she was managing it and learning a few more words on her own during her commutes across Paris in cabs. The hardest part was the three extra letters in the alphabet—Æ, Ø and Å. They gave her fits.
Marcello motioned to the ceiling suddenly, his round face cast in the soft light of the room. “Axel, I simply basked in your design for Albert Kohl at his Manhattan penthouse afew years ago when I was there for his New Year’s party.” He gave one of his persuasive smiles, the kind Brooke knew portended trouble.
“That was an enjoyable project,” Axel only replied.
“Enjoyable?Your use of color and textures is brilliant! It had me wishing I had your genius around me. I am a sensitive creature, and nature calms me. I have heard you are the same way.”
Brooke could hear the ask coming a mile away. Clearly Axel did too, because his face reminded neutral. The look wasn’t one Brooke was used to seeing on him.
“Marcello was hoping you would consider doing something spectacular for him as well. He has a country house in Burgundy that needs your vision.”
Brooke knew Marcello’s use of the third person was the kind of thing grandiose creative people did when they wanted to remind others of their stature to get their way. She watched Axel give a mysterious shrug, applauding him for not falling for the dramatic plea. “It is a possibility, I suppose. Right now, I am working with Brooke on her new home with her Paris roommates.”
Not an outright no, which was smart, but not a yes either. Marcello would be mad with desire now. Axel knew how to handle potential clients. Not that she was surprised. People practically begged him to design all the time. She would have to ask him later how he chose who to work with. God, they had so many topics they’d yet to discuss. She should make a list.
“Brooke, you have roommates!” Marcello pressed his hand to his dyed blond brow as if fainting at the mere thought. “Tell Marcello this is not true.”
She fought a laugh. “They are my family, Marcello—like your little dogs, only better house-trained.”
“Bah!”He pointed over to the corner, where one of hisPomeranians was being held in check by a tight-faced assistant in all black. “I only brought one of my babies tonight, and already he has lifted his leg on that poor orange tree. They are impossible, but I love them. But tell Marcello more. I believe I heard Monsieur Erikson say he was working with you, Brooke. How is this possible when you work for our much-lovedTRENDS?”
When he looked down his nose at her, she only gazed back without expression. “We share an interest in expanding. Axel wishes to make his vision more available under his own home designer label, Marcello.”
“I see.” His nearly black eyes gleamed brightly. “Marcello knows how difficult creating such a label can be. Few in fashion have managed it better than Ralph Lauren. Don’t tell Vera Wang or Calvin Klein I said so, but Ralphisthe most famous and successful, I think.”
His voice was a full-on whisper now, making Brooke lean forward.
“I personally only want to dream about clothes,” he continued with a passionate sigh, “although Imusthave a beautiful space to live and breathe in. Hence why I had hoped you would create such a space for Marcello, Axel.”
Axel did not rise to the second bait, and Brooke had to give him credit for the openness of his silence. Few people could pull it off. Especially with Marcello’s direct pleas. For her, it was downright nerve-racking to witness their silent battle. She was used to managing conversations differently, but this was Axel’s game. Not hers. Still, Brooke’s bet was on Axel winning the Master of Silence Oscar.
Marcello finally lifted his shoulder and stared off wistfully. “Designing a home collection sounds so tedious to me, what with all those bed and bath linens, lighting fixtures, and accessories. My brain would go mad! Your challenge, Axel, is your lack of retail space, I believe.”
Brooke felt fireworks start inside her. God bless Marcellofor telling Axel what she’d said. The fashion gods couldn’t have served up a better gift.
“I do not see that as a challenge,” Axel only replied, his glacier blue eyes amused. “Retail space presents its own difficulties.”
“True,” Marcello replied, pausing to pluck a flute of champagne from a passing waiter, “but people must have somewhere to shop. That dratted internet cannot completely take over the desire to touch and feel their purchases.”
Brooke wanted to shout her agreement. She didn’t want to live in a world like that.
“In Marcello’s case, my clients wish to try on their clothes and perhaps have them fitted to perfection.” He cut a dashing pose of someone modeling. “Thank the gods! Still, some only wish to wear my label because it makes them appear fashionable, even though clothes can never fully do the job. To be fashionable comes from the inside first.”
Brooke couldn’t have agreed more.
