by Gina LaManna
“They’ll set it up tonight,” she drawled in a bored voice. “Tomorrow, the models and designers will do a dry run at three in the afternoon, one after another. The shows begin at eight. The grand finale starts at ten p.m. Lizabeth is in the grand finale.”
“So that means you’re the grand finale of the grand finale,” Meg said. “Wow.”
Angelica looked longingly at the trash bin with the cigarette still smoking in the sandy pit. “Ugh, can we be done yet?”
“Wanna see my high kick?” Meg asked. “It’s so strong that last week when I was practicing, I split my pants straight down the seams.”
“No,” Angelica said, but Meg was already high kicking her way down the runway.
When she was out of earshot, I turned to Angelica. “So you’re the grand finale…what happens after the show?”
“We are all expected to be present at the party afterward.”
“Party?”
“After The Morgan Collection is shown.” She eyed my dress. “I suppose you’re invited, but you’ll need new clothes. It’s…exclusive.”
I feigned horror. “But I paid seven whole dollars at Target for this!”
Angelica’s eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Whaaat?”
“Clearance, you know…never mind. I’ll find something.”
“You should. It’s the party of the year. All of the media will be there, most of the designers, the models, the investors—you get the idea.”
“A perfect time for a final theft,” I said. “And The Miranda would be the perfect target.”
Angelica’s brows pinched together. “I suppose you’re right. Lizabeth has arranged for all of the models to wear the pieces around the party for one hour. It’s a chance for media photos, bloggers, reporters and the like to get up close and personal.”
“With the hopes that they’ll post pictures from this exclusive party, of the expensive jewelry, and it’ll generate buzz.”
“Not with hopes.” Angelica shook her head. “It’s a guarantee. The entire world will be talking about it. The Twittersphere, the blogosphere, the Facebook realm, the Internets, the Redditors, the—”
“If my math is correct, the jewelry will be put away around midnight?”
“Just like Cinderella.” Angelica smiled at her own joke. “It turns into a pumpkin at midnight.”
I tapped my notebook, running through the itinerary in my head. “So if a thief wanted to make a splash, they’d hit at the biggest party of the year. But when, specifically?” I murmured to myself. “During the show? After? Transit to and from the events?”
“They can’t get into the afterparty,” she said, tapping a pack of cigarettes against her empty palm. “The invitations have special anti-counterfeit things on them. Plus, everyone who will be there has a recognizable face. I mean, who doesn’t know what Armani looks like?”
I pretended to re-read my notes. I could hardly spell Armani, let alone draw a picture of him. With a horrified gasp, Angelica raised a hand to cover her red-lipsticked mouth. Then she left it there while she lit a cigarette to calm herself down. “You don’t know Armani? What kind of security are you?”
“The unfashionable kind,” I said. “Thanks for all the information. This is helpful.”
“I think they’d steal it in transit,” she said. “It’s least guarded then.”
“Yeah, but this person enjoys making a splash. My gut tells me they’ll target the actual party. It’ll get them the most attention,” I said. “What I’m missing is the link between these pieces, or the designers.”
Angelica watched as Meg did cartwheels across the Galleria. “Are you suggesting the thief is someone who is invited to the party?” Angelica’s lips parted. “Because nobody else will be able to get inside. And everyone who will be at the party appreciates jewelry. They’re not trying to steal it.”
“Maybe they are invited…” I made a note to check whether or not Alessandra was on the RSVP list.
“How are we doing with self-defense training?” Meg asked, breathing heavily and wiping sweat from her brow. “Were you taking notes, Angie?”
“Angelica,” she corrected.
From my keychain, I pulled a bottle of pepper spray. “Here, Angelica. Carry this with you at all times, and we’ll call our training good.”
“I can’t wear this on stage.”
“Then leave it on the ground when you step onto the runway. Pick it right back up when you step off. Nobody will grab you from the catwalk. We’ll make sure of it.”
“Fine.” She took it. “Can I leave yet?”
“Do you know Leslie Mulhorn?”
“The designer?” Angelica asked, as if surprised I knew the name. “Yes.”
“I need to talk to her. Can you point me in the direction of her showroom?”
Angelica raised a thin arm, gesturing vaguely past the McDonald’s. “Take a right, left, you’ll see it. Can’t miss it.”
“Thank you,” I said. “You have a ride out of here?”
She nodded toward the same orange Lamborghini from the previous day. “My boyfriend.”
“Are you getting married soon too?” Meg grinned. “Maybe you and Lace can have a double wedding.”
I shook my head. “No, I’m not fancy enough to be in Angelica’s wedding.”
“True,” she agreed. “When is your date?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “We haven’t set one yet.”
“Why not?” Angelica had turned to leave, but stopped in her tracks. “Your boyfriend drags his feet?”
“No, it’s mutual,” I said. “We’re waiting.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know, until the right time.”
“Not good,” she said. “Why get engaged if you aren’t getting married? Where is he now, anyway?”
“He’s on a business trip,” I said, my chin tilting upward. “Why?”
“You should get married soon.” Her eyes scanned my body once more. “Before he trades you in for a newer model. Ciao, ragazze.”
“Anthony’s not trading me in for a newer model, is he?” I asked Meg. “I’m not that bad, right?”
Meg frowned. “Maybe you should set a date just to be safe.”
I frowned.
“I’m just saying, lock it down,” she said. “No use waiting.”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” I said. “Let’s go find Leslie.”
“By the way, you won’t find her at her showroom!” Angelica called over her shoulder as she climbed into the sparkling Lambo. “She’s already at a party. The same party I’m going to now. Sorry, you’re not invited.”
“It’s okay, I didn’t want to be invited,” Meg called back. “We’ve got business to take care of, anyway.”
“What business?” I asked. “I want to talk to Leslie.”
“Come on, I’ve gotta get working on my diet and you need to feed Arnold.”
“I also need to find Alessandra…”
“Listen, we might be in a different country, but I’m pretty sure the Italian Internet works just like the American one.”
“Your point?”
“Clay can help! Come on, I’m not sure who’s crying louder—him or Arnold.”
We navigated our way back to the apartment. However, rescuing Clay from the baby would have to wait.
Chapter 11
Outside of our apartment, in the cozy little piazza, a man drew a crowd.
“Lacey, Meg—come on down!” The man was handsome, stunningly handsome, dressed in a suit. A street performer of some sort. A magician, maybe. “Welcome, welcome.” He winked at the crowd. Many of the women inched closer and closer, leaning forward with hopes of catching the man’s eye. “Do I have a surprise for you!”
Intrigued, I stepped closer, following on Meg’s heels. She reached the edge of the crowd first. A step behind, I peered over her shoulder as she craned her neck above the other looky-loos.
The performer smiled at me as if we were old fr
iends. There was only one problem. I’d never met him before. I’d never even seen him, and I would’ve remembered his face. It was unique; blue eyes popped under a shock of dark hair. He moved like Houdini and smiled like a movie star. When he spoke, he sounded like one of Ocean’s Eleven.
“Lacey, you’re engaged, no?” he asked with a knowing smile. “Don’t bother to respond, I know you are. Now, wave that hand around so everyone can see your ring.”
I swallowed, twisting the engagement ring behind my back. I stepped forward, lowering my voice. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He was taller than me, and though he talked a smooth game, his eyes cut through me with sharp intelligence. “Go on, give a wave,” he encouraged. “The audience is waiting.”
I looked up at the crowd, a few of the more excited folks beginning to chant.
I shook my head. “No, thanks.”
“Lacey, you’re like one of them magician’s assistants,” Meg said. “Wave your hand!”
“Let’s hear it for Lacey,” the man said. “She’s a little bit shy.”
“Who are you?” I said, trying not to make a scene. I was failing horribly.
The crowd only hooted and hollered louder.
In front of Mystery Man sat a table. On top, he’d spread all of the typical magician’s accessories: a deck of cards, a hat, cups, ping pong balls, and more. Something in the bag underneath the table rustled, and I wondered if he hadn’t brought a rabbit.
Mystery Man cleared his throat. “Well, will you play the game, Lacey?”
Warning bells rang in my head. “The game…you left me that note!”
“And you, my dear, are in a new relationship.” Mr. Magic ignored me, turning his attention to Meg. He swooped up her hand with a flourish, and playfully planted a kiss on the back of her hand. “I can read it in your aura.”
“You’re a psychic!” Meg’s eyes bugged out of her head. “I knew it! Guess what? I’m psychic too!”
Mr. Magic laughed, and when he did, his eyes lit on fire like sparklers. And though I tried, it was hard to dislike him. He was charming. The ladies loved him. The children admired him, I could see it in their eyes. He knew how to work a crowd.
“Well, I’ve prepared a little show for you today,” Mr. Magic said, traces of an accent seeping into his speech. “We’ll start simple. Cards. Think of a card in your head, Meg. Any card. Then whisper it to Lacey.”
“I’m suspicious of whispering,” Meg said. “I’m gonna text it to her so you can’t hear it.”
Mr. Magic gestured for her to go on ahead.
My phone beeped, and I checked her message.
Meg: queen of hearts
“I’ve got it,” I muttered, deciding to play along. “I know the card.”
Mr. Magic seemed pleased with my answer, smiling as he shuffled the cards. Despite my overwhelming suspicions that he was up to no good, I couldn’t help but watch in awe along with the rest of the audience.
I’d loved magic shows ever since I was a kid. Once in a while, there’d be a comedy magician at TANGO, the bar where my mother had moonlighted as a stripper. At five years old, I hadn’t understood the comedy bits, but I had believed in the magic. Back then, the magician was friends with my mom, and he’d brought little side shows for me and Meg. Card tricks, disappearing coins, things like that. It was a highlight for me then, and apparently the thrill hadn’t gone away.
After some fancy finger work, Mr. Magic had talked enough to get the crowd so ramped up that when he finally pulled the queen of hearts off the top of the deck, they roared in approval. I confirmed its correctness with a show of my phone.
“Impressive,” I said, keeping my voice below the wave of applause. “Now tell me how you knew our names. Our relationship statuses. Our rental apartment.”
“Call me Beckett,” he said. “Let’s just say that I think we should be friends.”
“I’m not looking for friends,” I said. “I have Meg, and I’m happily engaged.”
“Have you picked a wedding date?”
A noise of choked surprise came out of my throat. “Excuse me?”
“Last I heard, you hadn’t set a date. I’m just curious.”
My blood started boiling at the thought that he’d pried so far into my personal life. “Whatever you’re playing at, it’s going to end. Now. Do you understand? It’s not funny.”
“I never meant it to be funny. I like you, and I like your friend,” he murmured. “I think we can work together.”
“How can we do that? Why the elaborate introduction? I have a phone, you know. I bet you could find out the number and call me like a normal human being.”
“Well, now, that’s no fun.” Beckett’s eyes glittered as he leaned close, whispering in my ear. “I don’t like to spoil a good bit of fun, Miss Luzzi.”
Even when he spoke softly, his voice sucked me in, made me listen. I couldn’t turn away. “Why are you—”
“Next up, I need a volunteer!” Mr. Magic turned back toward the crowd and performed one or two tricks while I fumed in the background and debated what to do next.
“Meg, stop cheering,” I snarled, feeling annoyed that she was so enamored by his performance. “He’s not that good.”
“Oh, yes he is.” Her voice was dreamy. “He’s incredible.”
I crossed my arms and narrowed my eyes but, unfortunately, he was good enough that I forgot to be mad. The familiar sense of wonder crept back, drawing me into his flashy performance.
He was unlike any street magician I’d ever seen before. Polished, professional—endearing, even. And his tricks—I’d never seen the like before! His solutions were impossible at best, and if I hadn’t believed in magic before, he might’ve changed my mind.
“That’s all for today, folks.” Beckett smiled at the crowd, held a hand to his ear as the cheering continued. “One more trick, you say? Well, lucky for you, I have a little something else planned.”
Meg clapped the loudest of all. Beckett turned to face her, drawing a single rose from somewhere—thin air?—and handing it to her.
Her eyes widened in surprise. “For me?”
“A special delivery from your beau,” Beckett said. “For my most enthusiastic fan.”
I tried to hide my face. Most likely I looked incredulous, and I definitely didn’t want Beckett to know his tricks had impressed me. I was still puzzling through the solution to his latest hand-waving when Beckett turned his attention to me.
“What are you doing?” I snapped as he sank to one knee and took my hand in his.
Beckett’s lips twitched in amusement. “For you, Miss Lacey Luzzi, I have a promise.”
I gasped, freezing in place as he slipped my engagement ring onto my finger. When I finally managed to speak, it wasn’t elegant. “What the hell is this?”
He hadn’t touched me the entire show. I’d had the ring on my finger at the beginning—I’d felt it, touched it, twisted it.
“How’d you get my ring?” I demanded. “Why are you doing this?”
Beckett’s lips tilted into a frown. “I told you, I think we should be friends.”
“Get away from me, Beckett—or whoever you are. And stay away.” I backed up, pulling Meg with me. “I don’t know what you want, or why, but we will not be working together.”
He sighed. “Suit yourself.”
Before I could think of a response, Clay appeared from behind us, shoving his way through the crowd. His hair lay squashed against his skull and a vein throbbed on his forehead. “You’re out here enjoying some hooligan’s show, while you leave me to care for this…this monster?”
Clay thrust Arnold at me, but the plastic doll was covered in blue goo, had a Cheerio stuck to his forehead, and smelled like day-old yogurt. I recoiled from the pair of them as a few Cheerios went flying from Clay’s shirt and a makeshift diaper bag swung around his neck.
“Clay, he’s plastic! You don’t have to feed the baby real food,” I said. “It’s a toy. I thought I as
ked you to shut it off.”
“It’s foolproof!” Clay wove his hands through his hair and nearly pulled it off his head. Arnold started wailing. “I can’t figure out how to shut the thing up.”
“You can blow up a canoe, but you can’t turn off a doll?” I asked.
“May I?” Beckett stepped forward, the crowd watching in fascination. “I have a way with babies.”
Helpless, I watched as Beckett pulled a tube of blue gel from his sleeve. Gently, he inserted the fake food into Arnold’s mouth. Immediately, the baby stopped crying, settling into a deep sleep. Beckett patted the plastic head.
Clay whirled on Beckett. “You’re a thief! You stole the food from my bag.”
“I prefer the term magician.” Beckett bowed so low his nose nearly swept the floor.
The crowd roared, which only set Clay’s vein to throbbing at a faster rate. “Leave my…” he looked to Meg, debated on which word to call her for a moment before settling on none. “Leave my people alone!”
“He gave me this.” Meg held up the rose. She leaned forward, planting a light kiss on Clay’s cheek. “From you. Thank you, cutie.”
“Really?” Clay’s anger deflated like a balloon. “In that case, thanks, man.”
Beckett smiled. “Of course.”
Clay frowned. “I still think your magic is crap.”
“I think your technology is crap.”
Beckett and Clay stood nose to nose until eventually, I stepped between them. “It’s a good thing we don’t have anything in common. Good performance, Beckett. Thanks for babysitting, Clay. Now everyone go home. Show’s over.”
With muttered disappointment, the crowd dispersed slowly.
“Do you understand me?” I turned to Beckett, my mouth a thin line. “Show’s over. Leave us alone.”
“The show might be over, but the games are just beginning,” he said, the words rolling off his tongue with beautiful fluency. “Ci vediamo.”
“I don’t know what that means,” I said, furiously digging out my pocket dictionary. “Hang on a second.”
Turning my gaze to the page, I spent exactly twenty seconds searching for the phrase. When I found it, the meaning was along the lines of, “We’ll see each other again.”
“No we won’t!” I shouted, but the magician had already vanished.
