Suckered

by Gina LaManna

  “Nobody has been in here all day except for people I know,” Lizabeth said. “And even they didn’t come near the register.”

  I frowned. “You knew some of your visitors?”

  “Well, first my manicurist came here, upon my request. She gave me a manicure in the break room. She came, did her job, and then left. Then, there was the delivery service that brought champagne, but I signed for that at the door. He didn’t even step inside—Bruce met me and carried it in.”

  “So Bruce wasn’t in the room during the delivery?”

  Lizabeth looked at her guard, frowning. “Well, now that you mention it, I suppose not. I didn’t even think about it. Every now and again we get a delivery, or I need to move furniture, or sometimes there’s a task that I can’t do alone. I usually just call for Bruce to help if the store is empty.”

  “Are you certain the store was empty?”

  She bit her lip in thought, and then nodded. “Yes, I’m fairly certain. In fact, the only other visitor we had today was your cousin.”

  “Clay?” Meg asked. “Why would he come by? Was he buyin’ me jewels?”

  Lizabeth hesitated. “He stopped by to take a look at the collection for tonight.”

  “Did he say why?” My chest tightened with preemptive frustration. “And did you, by chance, show him The Miranda?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  I groaned. “You didn’t open up the case for him, did you?”

  She shook her head, stepped into the middle of the room and gestured to the safe. “The top glass layer is bulletproof and fire-resistant. I had it custom made so we can show the jewels without opening the lock.”

  I peeked through the sheer glass layer on top. Sure enough, I could see right through onto an empty velvet pillow.

  “Dang it, Clay,” I murmured. “What are you doing?”

  “He left the room with me,” Lizabeth said. “He couldn’t have re-entered. He wouldn’t have known the code.”

  “You’d be surprised what Clay knows,” I muttered. “Do you know who sent you the champagne?”

  “I assumed it was from Harold,” Lizabeth said, a blush creeping up her cheeks. “It was anonymous. Harold had told me earlier to expect a surprise.”

  I turned to Meg. “Can you please call your boyfriend and get him and the necklace back here?”

  “Please,” Meg filled in for me. She pulled out her phone and dialed. “Hello, Clay?” she said. “Whatcha up to, sugar cakes?”

  I winced at the nickname. Then I heard him answer. From across the room.

  “Hello, friends,” Clay said, standing in the doorway. “How goes it?”

  “Where are you?” Meg asked, still speaking into the phone. “You have fantastic reception. It’s like you’re right here. It’s freaking me out.”

  “Meg,” I said, doing the spin around motion with my finger.

  When she saw Clay, she put a hand on her hip. “You trickster.”

  Clay smiled, which could only mean one thing. He was pleased with himself.

  Which could only mean one more thing.

  Clay had a new invention.

  “I’ve solved all your problems,” he declared. Clay stomped across the room, a briefcase in his hands. He plopped it on top of the safe, the metal clasp clinking against the glass cover. “You are welcome.”

  “You almost gave us a heart attack,” I said, chastising him even as he flipped the lid open on his briefcase. “You really shouldn’t steal things without asking us first.”

  Lizabeth gave me a funny look. Then she daintily cleared her throat.

  “I mean, you shouldn’t steal things ever,” I corrected. “Is that The Miranda?”

  Clay gestured toward his suitcase, and even though I was majorly annoyed with him, I leaned in and took a look. The shine from the exposed gems sucked me in like a lighthouse.

  “Wow,” I breathed. “Lizabeth, this is amazing. You designed this?”

  She joined me at the case, both of us gazing down at the incredible piece of jewelry. The diamonds were big, cut to sparkle like shooting stars. Just small enough for elegance, just large enough for wonder.

  Meg joined us, too. “That totally looks like a Miranda,” she said. “I was going to switch the name to The Meg, but on second thought, it’s more of a Miranda. I really see The Meg as being more leopard print. With pockets.”

  “Why did you steal it?” I asked Clay. “You almost ruined everything!”

  “If Lizabeth had called the police like a normal person,” Meg added, “things could’ve gone bad.”

  “She might have lost her spot in the show,” I said.

  “Yes, but if the show had gone on as planned, the necklace would’ve been stolen straight off the model,” Clay said. “You know it, and I know it. But watch and wait…I have a solution.”

  Lizabeth looked at the necklace. “How? It looks exactly the same as before.”

  “Why, thank you,” Clay said. “However, it’s not the same.”

  I groaned. “What did you do?”

  “Let’s start with why,” Clay said. “Lacey, you were hired to protect the necklace. But there’s one variable you can’t control, and that’s the model. What if she goes to the bathroom and disappears? Or finds a guy and sneaks off? Or anything, really.”

  “We’ll be by her side all night,” I said.

  “A really good thief could convince the model to give you the slip,” Clay said. “Trust me. A thief posing as a designer or an agent or a reporter? She gives him two seconds of her time and poof, she’s gone. Along with the necklace.”

  It was pointless to argue with Clay, so I focused on The Miranda. “What have you updated here?”

  “Let me demonstrate.” Clay gingerly picked up the necklace. Then in one swift motion, he turned to face me and clasped it around my neck.

  I balked, stepping back. Clay’s tongue was stuck out of his mouth in concentration, and I couldn’t get away.

  “Hold still,” he instructed.

  “Be careful not to break it!” Lizabeth said. “Stand still, Lacey.”

  I stood still.

  “There.” Clay brushed his hands against his pants. “All done.”

  “It doesn’t look different,” Lizabeth said, frowning as she sized me up. “But it does look gorgeous on you, Lacey. Really great with your skin tone.”

  I peered at my reflection in the glass. I opened my mouth to disagree, but all that came out was silence. The necklace sat high up on my collarbone, cinched close to my throat. The jewels belonged on a crown. Even in my jeans and tank top, a sweater draped over my shoulders, I felt like royalty.

  “Wow,” I said, my fingers dancing across my chest underneath the jewels. “This is beautiful.”

  “Shiny,” Meg added. “Me likey.”

  “Good,” Clay said. “I hoped so because you can’t take it off.”

  “What do you mean?” My eyes probably looked wild. “Of course I can!”

  I tried to slip out of the jewels, but the necklace was too small to simply lift over my head. As my hands flew to the back to unlock the clasp, Clay shook his head.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said. “It’s on a timer. The clasp, that is. It’s locked shut, and if for any reason it’s pulled from your neck before midnight, it’ll disintegrate.”

  “Oh, man,” Meg said. “Cinderella all over again. I knew you were a pumpkin, Lacey.”

  I gawked at Clay. “What were you thinking? What are you thinking? Do you think?”

  Lizabeth’s face had turned white. “Disintegrate?”

  Clay did a few whistles with his lips and mimed an explosion. Then he added some kaplooey noises in case we didn’t get it. “Disintegrate. Evaporate. Donezo.”

  “No!” I shook my head. Gently, since I was afraid my head would blow up. “Clay!”

  “How are we supposed to get this onto Angelica?” Lizabeth said. “She’s the model. We’ve already paid her the money. We’ve practiced. No offense to Lacey,
but Angelica has had years of training in this industry.”

  “No offense taken,” I said, turning to Clay. “I want to be a model as much as Cookie Monster wants to eat broccoli.”

  Clay’s eyes flashed in confusion.

  I made an angry noise from my throat, since I was still too afraid to move. “Why do you insist on wiring me into my clothes?”

  At this, Clay grinned like a lunatic. “I combined two past experiments to make one whizbanger. Remember that sparkly dress at the Vegas wedding?”

  Meg snorted. “Yep.”

  “Then at the movie theater in Hollywood, remember that bomb we couldn’t get to shut off?” Clay grew more excited by the second.

  “Yes,” I said evenly. “I remember.”

  “The one that exploded the toilet,” Meg filled in for Bruce, whose eyes widened at the description. “Pretty neat.”

  “Well, this combines the sparkles with a bomb that can’t be shut off,” Clay said. “Genius, huh?”

  “What happens if it falls off?” I shook my head lightly to demonstrate movement.

  Clay raised a finger to his lips in thought. “It won’t just fall off. And anyway, the bomb is small. It’ll melt the jewels, but you won’t die from it. You might lose a few eyebrows, but those are optional anyway.”

  Meg waved an arm. “Lacey’s used to danger.”

  I threw my arms up. “You guys are fired. For good.”

  “I already said that I don’t think you’ll die,” Clay said. “Just try to cover your face if that happens or it might sting.”

  I turned to Lizabeth, my shoulders slumped over. “I am so sorry,” I said. “I don’t know what to do about this.”

  To my surprise, she smiled. “This gives me an idea,” she said.

  “I’ll take one of them too,” Meg said. “I love ideas.”

  Lizabeth tapped a finger to her chin. “I believe I know how to fix this.”

  Chapter 25

  “Nope,” I said. “Not happening.”

  “Show us a pose!” Meg poked me in the butt and yanked Baby Arnold from my hands all in one swift motion.

  “There has got to be another way.”

  “I’m sorry, Lacey, I can’t show a fake necklace, and…” Lizabeth raised her hands, gesturing to my neck. “It’s stuck on you. The only option is for you to wear the necklace during the fashion show.”

  I sighed. “Clay, you’re a really crappy person sometimes.”

  He grinned at me, practically giddy with how things had turned out. “This whole thing is genius. You can thank me later.”

  “Not if the necklace falls off. Not if it’s ruined!” My fingers fluttered around to my collarbone. “So dangerous.”

  “The clasp is locked on there—it’s reinforced really good. It’s not falling off, or getting tugged off, or anything else. It’s gonna take a blowtorch to get that thing off you before midnight.”

  I blinked at Clay. “Wonderful. Now a thief will have to blowtorch my head before they steal the necklace. At least my eyebrows will get cooked one way or another—I wouldn’t want them to be left out.”

  Clay giggled in his high-pitched girly voice. Then he composed himself enough to speak. “The easiest solution is to make sure nobody steals your necklace. All you have to do is wear it down the runway, take a few strolls through the afterparty, and not get in trouble.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Lizabeth, you’re allowed to throw Clay into the Mediterranean Sea without a life jacket if you’d like.”

  A ghost of a smile appeared across Lizabeth’s face. “I have to say, this is not a terrible development,” she said. “I can really see this whole thing being quite revolutionary.”

  We were all packed into a limousine that’d been waiting in front of her storeroom. Bruce doubled as the guard and driver. He had put on a pair of sunglasses, turned into the chauffeur, and parked in front of the D’uomo.

  The place had transformed overnight. The wide piazza normally littered with tourists, pigeons, and shopkeepers had turned into a fairytale. Lights decorated the air, strings of bulbs draped across the sky.

  The place bustled with activity—designers, assistants, models running around in all sorts of undress. Stages had been constructed inside the Galleria, four long catwalks that were currently empty, save for lighting techs walking around in work boots and jeans, calling instructions to their coworkers behind the scenes.

  The outer edges of the area had been roped off, guarded by authorities on the lookout for anyone who didn’t belong. No spectators had been allowed inside yet.

  Lizabeth ushered us to a private area behind the scenes. “This is our trailer,” she said, ushering us into a space that was nicer than my apartment. Makeup artists ran between groups shouting for blush and brushes, while seamstresses mumbled with pins in their teeth, brandishing needles like magic wands.

  One or two harried designers rushed around shouting instructions, while their even more harried assistants bustled around at double the pace, double the volume, double the instructions.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t see “the assistant” Alessandra anywhere.

  “Get up there,” Meg said, herding me up the steps and into the trailer. “Time’s running low, and it’s not like you’re a real model. They’ve got lots of work to do on you.”

  “Thanks for the confidence boost!” I huffed up the stairs and came face to face with my own needle-brandishing seamstress. “Hi, I’m Lacey.”

  This woman, an older lady with tight, white curls crawling across her scalp, took one look at me, closed her eyes, and sighed.

  “Just the reaction I’d hoped for,” I said. “Lizabeth,” I turned to my boss. “Can’t you just use Angelica and show a replacement necklace?”

  Lizabeth raised an eyebrow. “Lacey, you will be fine. You’ll look beautiful up there. I’m truly excited about this. I think it could be a wonderful direction for The Morgan Collection—using ‘real people’ instead of supermodels.”

  I raised my arms helplessly. “I don’t know that it’ll work. Although I might get you some extra media attention when I fall on my face.”

  Lizabeth’s lips twitched in a smile, but she refrained from commenting.

  “Everyday models are all the rage right now.” Meg brushed her nails against her shirt. “You know, the ones who look like normal humans. I read enough magazines to know. At least, I look at the pictures, which is the same thing.”

  “Why don’t you be the model then, Meg?”

  Her lips curled into a pout. “You’re perfectly average. Me? I’m so un-average that I’m freakin’ glamorous.”

  “Lucky me,” I mumbled.

  “I’d say so,” Meg said, chipper as she glanced around the trailer. “Look, it’s not so bad. You’ve got your own ‘sew-er’ and all. I could use help sewing a few things. In fact, I have some more ideas for extra pockets to add to this baby…”

  The seamstress eyed Meg as the latter patted down her vest. The seamstress’s hand rose over her mouth, most likely masking horror.

  “Just look at this assignment as part of the job,” Lizabeth said. “I’m paying you to do it.”

  “Angelica won’t be happy,” I said.

  “I already paid her the agreed upon sum. I just spoke with her, and she has no problem showing a different piece of jewelry tonight.”

  “I sort of want to punch Clay in the ovaries,” I said, my shoulders slumping. I turned to Lizabeth. “If you’re confident that this won’t ruin your entire Collection, then I guess I’ll do it.”

  “Don’t punch me,” Clay said. “I’m helping with your job.”

  “Babe.” Meg nudged him. “You don’t have ovaries.”

  It took Clay a second to work out what Meg meant, but when he finally did, steam oozed from his ears, his face pink as strawberry gelato. He huffed something about girls before stomping out of the trailer.

  Meg sighed. “I love that guy, but sometimes—for being a genius—he misses the most obvious things.”


  My eyes were wide as I turned to Meg. “Love?”

  “Oh, shut up.” She turned and stomped away too, calling back over her shoulder. “At least I’m not the most average model of the year.”

  Then Bruce excused himself too, which left the seamstress, Lizabeth, and myself in the trailer.

  “Lacey, this show means everything to me.” Lizabeth took a few steps forward, her eyes resting gently on my face. “If I didn’t think you could do this, I wouldn’t let you. I’d tell Clay he’d better figure out a way to get that necklace off of you or I’d sic Bruce on him.”

  I rested my hand below the necklace, just above my heart. “Really?”

  “Really, really,” she said with a wry smile. “I’ve fired people for less than this.”

  She gestured to the bomb that was my necklace, and I laughed.

  “You haven’t seen that side of me, but then again you haven’t given me a reason to bring it out. Sure, I was upset when I first found out. But I thought about it the whole way over here. I think this is the piece my show was missing.” Lizabeth smiled. “I want to make a statement, and I think you’re the woman to help me do that.”

  “I have a confession to make.”

  “Yes?”

  “I was sort of trying to diet for my wedding, and I failed.” I hung my head. “I’m afraid it has backfired because I ate mostly gelato and croissants the last few days. And focaccia. I’m afraid to step on the scale.”

  Lizabeth’s eyes glittered with amusement. “Italy will do that to you. Now, get undressed.”

  I cleared my throat. “What?”

  “Anna needs to get your measurements.” Lizabeth nodded to the seamstress. “It’s too late in the game to find you a new dress, so what we’re going to do is open the back of Angelica’s dress and sew you into it. Anna’s the best in the business, and she’ll get it done. You just have to hold still.”

  “Oh, um, well then, I have one more confession,” I said.

  “What is it?”

  “Well, with Baby Arnold projecting blue gel left and right, I sort of ran out of clothes much faster than I intended. Plus that little fact we don’t have a dryer in our apartment…” I started slipping out of my clothes as I spoke. “So most of my clothes are drying on the racks.”