by Nancy Warren
So the partner was a professional one, which didn’t mean the woman and Holden might not also be romantically involved, not that it was any of her business.
She sipped her wine slowly, thinking. Finally, she said, “So, your plan is to pose as a fashion photographer and you hope to blend in.”
“Right.”
“Are all your clothes like those ones?”
He glanced down at himself as though he’d forgotten what he was wearing. She didn’t blame him. She’d have tried to forget too. “Pretty much. Shorts for summer, you know, and different grades of boots depending on the terrain.”
Possibly he was making fun of her, she had no idea, but she didn’t care. She said, “I hope that you have a fat expense account. If not, I suggest you negotiate one, because, my friend, before you go anywhere near a fashion event in this city with me, you and I are going shopping.”
3
“YOU WANT to pick out my clothes?” He looked less than thrilled by the idea. Probably how she’d feel if he demanded she don hiking boots and head into the jungle in search of some wild, rarely photographed mongoose.
And yet, when she took a good look at him, she felt excitement stir. He had a build most guys would kill for, good features, a thick head of hair. He was a ten dressed up like a minus two.
With the right clothes, accessories and haircut, he’d be something.
This shopping expedition, she decided, was going to be fun. At least for her.
His thoughts were obviously bent in the same direction, if less pleasurably. He narrowed his gaze at her, very spaghetti-western gunslinger. “You’re not planning to turn me out like that man-tart in blue velvet, are you?”
She narrowed her gaze right back. If you want my help, you’ll do this my way. “Those are my terms. If you want my help, you’ll not only go shopping with me, you’ll buy exactly what I tell you to buy.”
The eyes hardened, the six-shooter about to be drawn, “I get veto power.” His eyes were an amazing color. Hazel with flecks of gold and green, which distracted her for a second.
Focus, she reminded herself. This was work.
“One veto all day.”
A look of revulsion crossed his face. “All day? You were planning to spend a whole day shopping?”
“Of course. And we’ll be pushing it to get everything done in a single outing.”
He shook his head, leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “Two hours of shopping and five vetoes.”
How anyone so disastrously turned out could pique her interest, she had no idea, but this guy was seriously interesting. If annoying. “Do you want my help or not?”
“I hate shopping,” he announced, not a big surprise.
She put down her glass of wine with a snap. “Look, if I needed your help to, say, get to the top of Everest—”
He snorted. As if.
She ignored the interruption. “I would take your advice about purchasing gear, clothing, et cetera, because that is your world and you are the expert. It’s the same with couture week in Paris. This is my world and I am the expert. We do this my way.”
“The difference is that climbing Everest without the proper equipment will get you killed. Even the moderate hike I might agree to take you on can be dangerous without the right gear. Fashion week in Paris is hardly dangerous.”
She smiled. “Clearly, you have never been eviscerated in print. If that man-tart, as you call him, Brewster Peacock, takes it into his head to destroy you in his column, you can hang up your camera. You’ll never work fashion week again.”
“That—that Kewpie doll in pants has that much influence?”
“Oh, yeah. That means the next time you see him, you not only have to look the part of a legitimate fashion photographer, you have to talk the talk.”
“I am a legitimate photographer,” he exclaimed.
“I said fashion photographer. If you want to enter this world you have to understand the rules. Did you do any research at all?”
“I read a copy of Vogue on the plane.” He sounded defensive. As well he should. Even if he’d been handed this assignment at the last minute, there was no excuse for not doing his homework. Obviously, he’d decided fashion was some silly pastime that he could slide into with no effort. He was about to realize his mistake.
“What are the hot colors for fall?” she asked him.
“You have to change colors? Like the leaves?”
Oh, he’d really knocked himself out with that Vogue. “Latest fashion trends? Come on. Something must have stuck.”
“Mostly I looked at the pictures,” he admitted.
“Well, Holden MacGreggor, we’re looking not only at a shopping expedition of at least four hours with a maximum of two vetoes, but you’re also going to fashion boot camp.”
His lips quirked. “Fashion boot camp?”
“Well, boots, shoes, high-end apparel.” He looked so horrified that she threw in a reward. “And if you’re very good, and do all your homework, we’ll also study lingerie.”
“And when do we do all this?”
“Get a good night’s sleep. You’ll need it. We start at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow.”
She leaned back, thinking that she really didn’t have time for this. The scent of French cigarettes reached her, potent and bitter.
He pointed to her nearly empty glass. “You want another one?”
She shook her head. “Big day tomorrow. Shall we meet in my hotel lobby?”
“Sure.” He obviously knew when he was beaten. He rose when she did. “I’ll walk you home.”
Old-fashioned manners. Nice.
“How come you’re not a model?” he asked her when they were back on the sidewalk and headed for her hotel. “You’re more beautiful than most of the women that were there tonight.”
He didn’t seem like the kind of man who gave out random compliments like air kisses, so she turned to him and said, “Thank you. I started out wanting to model, but I didn’t grow tall enough for runway, and—I don’t know, I realized I’d have more fun and a longer career if I worked behind the scenes. Besides, I wouldn’t have to starve myself.”
“So you became a fashion writer.”
“I have always loved fashion. Even when I was a kid I had extremely definite ideas about what looked good. I drove my mother nuts.”
“She’s in fashion too?”
She laughed. “Not even close. She teaches women’s studies at NYU. I could recite to you word for word her theories about fashion and its role in imprisoning women.”
“And yet you chose fashion as a career.”
“I see the other side. I see how fashion allows a woman to express herself.”
“Really.” He seemed intrigued by the idea, though, based on the way he dressed, he and her mother would get along like a couture house on fire.
An elderly man passed them and as she stepped aside to allow him by, her arm bumped Holden’s. Warm, strong and dangerously sexy currents flowed between them. He was one of those guys that you just knew would be great in bed. It was in the way he moved, the confidence in his stride, the way he gave her his complete attention when he spoke to her.
“What are you expressing right now?”
“Pardon?” Had he read her thoughts?
“With the outfit you’re wearing.” He ran his gaze up and down her form in a way that wasn’t sexual, but somehow felt that way. “What are you expressing?”
“You tell me. It doesn’t work if I have to explain.”
She thought he’d refuse her obvious dare, but he didn’t. He pushed his glasses up in a way that reminded her of a professor about to launch into a lecture, and said, “Bearing in mind I know nothing about fashion, here’s what I see.” He eyed her once more, and this time there was no doubt about the expression in his eyes. “I see a grown woman who still likes to play dress-up.”
She raised her brows at that but didn’t comment.
“I see a woman who knows her own worth and the power of
her own beauty.”
A tiny shiver of embarrassment fluttered across her belly. She never consciously thought of herself this way. Was it true?
“You hobble yourself in heels like that,” he said, pointing with his chin toward her black-and-white Blahniks, “but you must know they make your legs look never ending.”
“And the shoes themselves are pretty,” she reminded him. God, she loved these shoes.
His grin was sudden and animal. “I may not know fashion from my ass, but I know that you wouldn’t dress in anything you didn’t think would enhance your appearance.”
She laughed. “You’ve only known me a few hours.”
“I call ’em as I see ’em. Your skirt says you’re a fun woman with a frivolous side, and the jacket says you can also be serious. Formal when it suits you.” His gaze met hers. “And, speaking purely as a man, I’m getting a sense of a woman who is comfortable with her sexuality.”
She tilted her head to the side. “You put that last bit in to be provocative.”
“Or maybe you’re expressing more than you realize.”
Before she could sufficiently annihilate him with words, which would of course entail thinking up something sufficiently annihilating to say, he reached over and kissed her lightly on the lips.
Just a brush of his mouth against hers and she felt her legs go to jelly. He pulled away almost immediately, but she felt as though she’d glimpsed something hot and dangerous. She licked her lips, tasted beer. “What was that for?”
“Good night.” He gestured behind him. “We’re here.”
And there was her hotel, as elegant and grand as Cinderella’s fairy godmother.
“Good night.” She didn’t turn to see if he watched her all the way in. She didn’t have to. She could feel his gaze on her. That man was going to be a serious distraction.
KIMI WOKE with that wonderful feeling of delights in store. She took a moment to savor the fact that she was staying in a gorgeous room in a luxurious hotel in her favorite city in the world. She stretched against top-quality French bed linens and contemplated her day with Holden MacGreggor.
She pondered him the way Pygmalian might have studied a lump of clay, foreseeing the possibilities. The build, the intriguing eyes, the rugged planes of the face, that thick, thick hair. When she was finished with him, he’d be outstanding in a city of superlatives.
She ordered a breakfast of coffee and croissants and fresh-squeezed orange juice, showered and opened her wardrobe. She’d unpacked the second she got into her room, and her closet was organized exactly the way she liked. Casual clothes here, business attire here, dressy there.
Her shoes were lined up according to outfit, and her lingerie was neatly tucked in paper in several of the drawers. Lingerie was her secret weakness, and while she was here, she intended to replenish her stash.
She flipped on the TV for the news while she dressed and prepared herself for the day. This was a ritual she enjoyed and one which she never rushed. She’d rather get up early than deny herself the hour it took to dress, do her hair and makeup perfectly.
At five to nine, she was downstairs in the lobby.
In her hand was the list she’d made last night of Holden MacGreggor essentials.
This was going to be a very good day.
HOLDEN WOKE bleary eyed and short tempered. He could swear his bed smelled like perfume, which was fine if a sexy woman were sharing it, but when he was on his own, not so much.
He’d stayed up late studying the file on last year’s theft. A dress had simply disappeared. One single dress had caused all this fuss. How could one dress be worth more than most people earned in a lifetime?
Just confirmed his notion that the world got crazier every day and he was better off in the wilderness, where there was a natural order that made sense.
He showered, unzipped his duffel, yanked out a clean shirt, fresh jeans and underwear, dressed swiftly and was out the door within a quarter hour of waking. He tried to grab a coffee to go at the first café he passed, but the snooty Frenchman behind the bar couldn’t—or wouldn’t—understand him, and he ended up with a little china cup and saucer. He stood there and downed the coffee, which was at least strong and excellent, before returning the china and heading on his way.
He entered the lobby of Kimberley Renton’s hotel at precisely nine and looked around for an English-language newspaper, assuming he’d have to wait, but to his surprise, she rose from a lobby armchair, looking fresh and more gorgeous than most of the women he’d seen in that Vogue he’d thumbed through on the plane.
She was a class act. He’d assumed when he first saw her last night that she was a native Parisian, but half-Italian made sense. She had lustrous black hair with just enough curl to keep things interesting, skin that hinted toward gold, a full-lipped mouth that had tasted every bit as good as he’d hoped, and then those eyes. Deep blue, a complete surprise. That slam of blue took a man back, made him see her anew.
He liked her height and her long legs. She looked less formal this morning, but no less fashionable. She was wearing a print dress that wrapped around her figure, making him immediately fantasize about undoing the tie and unwrapping her. She had a brownish-colored leather bag hanging from her arm with the name Prada stamped on it, which even he knew was a big designer deal.
He stepped forward with a smile on his face, thinking he might be able to talk her into coffee and pastries in one of the cafés and then use his manly wiles to get all ideas of shopping out of her head. He got closer and his belly turned to stone when he saw that she had a list in her hand. Lists and women, in his experience, were always a bad combination.
She took a good look at him and he could have sworn he saw her shudder and close her eyes for a moment. Then she got over herself.
“Good morning,” she said, perky as all hell. “How did you sleep?”
“Like shit.”
If anything, his surliness amused her, which didn’t lighten his mood. “Try melatonin,” she suggested. “It’s a cure for jet lag. Ready to go?”
He was ready to go back to bed, or, even better, to call Rhett Markham and tell him to find somebody else. He’d imagined this gig as snapping pictures of gorgeous women for a week, which he was definitely up for, while tracking down a ring of thieves. He’d never in his wildest nightmares imagined he’d endure wardrobe fittings and something called fashion boot camp, which he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to enjoy.
However, he needed this woman’s help, so he sucked it up and said, “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Excellent. We’re heading for the Champs-Élysées. Just a short walk.”
He glanced at her feet and noticed she had flat shoes on today. They had intertwining Cs at the front, which no doubt meant something fancy.
God, he hoped CC didn’t make men’s shoes.
“I think we’ll start with the main pieces first. Suits, shirts. Then we’ll move on to shoes and casual wear.”
It was going to be a very long day.
In spite of her bossiness, there was something about Kimi that appealed to him. She was so polished, and yet touchable somehow. All his life he’d stayed away from women like this, with their perfect hair, flawless makeup and overdeveloped fashion sense. But she wasn’t forever fussing over mirrors or excusing herself to go style her eyebrows or something. She seemed like once she was dressed for the day, she didn’t give her appearance much of a thought. Interesting.
Oh, high maintenance for sure, and definitely not his type, but he liked her. He hated to admit it, but he liked her style. She wasn’t the kind of woman he’d ever see himself with, but she was easy on the eyes. Nothing wrong with that. And, as an accomplice in this job, so long as she could keep her mouth shut, she was ideal.
He still had to shorten his stride, but not so much today with her in flats. In hiking boots, he had a feeling she could keep up to him pretty well.
He shook his head. What was he thinking?
The Champ
s-Élysées was one of those streets like Fifth Avenue or Rodeo Drive that would never make his list of top destinations. After walking for a while, she turned off the famous street and he found himself on a quieter and even fancier street. Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. There was a parade of names here, mostly discreetly whispered in gold script. No neon signs here. No big Sale signs in the windows.
He half hoped that his guide and fashion cop of the day would be so dazzled by women’s clothing stores that she’d forget all about their mission, but he soon found he’d misjudged Kimberley Renton. She might have gazed with sharp longing in a couple of windows, but she never slackened her pace until their destination was reached.
The store she took him into was sleek, black-and-white decor, everything minimalist—including the clothing on display. There was hardly anything here. And luckily for him, nothing in blue velvet.
A sleek balding man, who looked like European royalty, came forward with a polite greeting and then, when he got close, beamed. “Mademoiselle Kimi,” he said, putting the accent on the second syllable. So, she went by Kimi.
A quick volley of back-and-forth French followed, and the obligatory double-cheek kissing, and then Kimi switched to English, presumably for his benefit, and explained that they needed to get him some clothes.
After that, they talked about him as though he weren’t there. Monsieur will need three suits for the fashion week, a selection of shirts, ties, the evening wear, bien sur, and before he quite knew how it had happened, he was standing in front of a triple mirror in a dark suit with some poor minion on his knees making markings to hem his pants.
“Valentino for the formal,” Pierre was saying to Kimi, “Armani, of course, and I think Zanetti for the informal. A nice charcoal two-button suit. Can be dressed up with tie and cuff links, but very nice with an open collar. Yes?”
She nodded. Looking him up and down like she was planning to sketch him from memory. He very much liked having a woman undress him, but he wasn’t sure he was as crazy about having one dress him.
