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Page 38
“Okay, I suggest we go right now,” she said, taking his arm and urging him toward the exit. “That frightening-looking woman with the bright-red hair is your new editor.”
He took one look at Marsha Sampson and ducked his head. “Got it.”
With as much speed and subtlety as possible, they made their way to the entrance, where he retrieved his backpack, and they went out into the night.
It was cool and quiet after the noise of the party. Second Empire apartment buildings with wrought-iron balconies lined both sides of the street. It even smelled like Paris. Like green trees and good bread.
“Do you know this area?” he asked her.
“Yes. Anywhere near here we’re likely to be spotted by someone in the industry.” She thought. “But a couple of blocks from here there are brasseries that should be safe.”
“Sounds good.” He started off with long, loping steps but soon shortened his stride to keep pace with her killer heels.
“How do you walk in those things?”
“They were designed for beauty, not hiking trails,” she snapped.
He grinned down at her. “I bet you’ve never hiked in your life.”
She didn’t bother answering, but he’d lose that bet. God, when she remembered those miserable summer camps for girls she’d been packed off to as a teenager. Camps intended to build self-esteem and self-reliance. When all she’d wanted was to go to the mall with her friends.
Her poor mother, who’d tried so hard to raise a daughter in her own braless, Birkenstock-wearing image and instead got stuck with a fashion-obsessed girlie girl. What a mismatched pair they were. She had a feeling she got the fashion sense from her father’s side. He was an Italian playboy and one of her mother’s craziest mistakes. He hadn’t been much of a father, but she figured she had him to thank for her current career.
Her mother, a Yale senior at the time she got pregnant, characteristically had refused to marry him, which he, being both Catholic and family oriented, had wanted. However, Evelyn Renton had also demanded that he support the child financially, so Kimi had ended up with a nice trust fund and a father she’d never met. She understood that she was an embarrassment to a high-level businessman with a wife and four children. Her childish ideas of falling into a big, happy, noisy Italian family had died a painful death when it became clear that her father had no intention of ever introducing her to his wife or her half siblings.
She tried to be philosophical about his choices, and as it turned out, the Italian and French she’d studied since high school, in the stubborn belief he’d change his mind, had come in extremely handy in her profession.
She kept up with her father via Google, and liked to believe he followed her career the same way.
“How does this place look?” Holden asked, dragging her out of her memories, as they passed a small bar on a quiet corner.
“Perfect,” she said, and they went inside. Normally, she liked to sit outside and watch the world go by, but she had a feeling that their conversation would be better conducted inside where there was less chance of them being seen together.
Once they were settled and she had a glass of wine in front of her and Holden a beer, he excused himself, but he returned in a few minutes with his cell phone flipped open, as if he was in the middle of a call. “It’s Rhett Markham. He wants to talk to you.”
She’d assumed he’d gone to the bathroom. Instead he was making a phone call to his publisher?
Who wanted to talk to her?
She took the offered cell phone. “Hello?”
“Kimi? It’s Rhett Markham here.”
“How are you, Mr. Markham?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“How’s your wife?”
“Fine. Louise is fine too. She misses the newsroom, but she’s looking forward to the baby coming next month, of course. I’ll tell her you asked after her. Look, there’s something going on and you’re the perfect person to help out. I’ve given MacGreggor permission to tell you everything. We’re relying on your discretion. You understand?”
This sounded like a bad B movie. “Yeah. You’re telling me not to blab.” But blab what? “So? What’s going on?” She’d recognized Rhett Markham’s voice, and if he’d understood she was trying to confirm his identity when she asked about his wife, he’d given her exactly what she needed, since she seemed to be acting as though she were in a B movie too. Trusting no one.
“I’ve hired MacGreggor to do an important job. Any cooperation you can give him, I’ll be grateful for.”
She had no idea what he meant. She didn’t work for the man, so it wasn’t like he was going to make sure she got a bonus, or an extra couple of days of holiday. Oh well, she’d listen to what this Holden MacGreggor had to say, then she’d decide for herself what was going on and whether she should involve herself.
When she finished the call she handed back the cell phone and raised her brows. “Did you call him to check up on me?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, enough goofing around. I feel like I’m in a Bond movie. What is all this?”
“You have to keep everything I tell you in confidence.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’ve already figured that out.”
“I’m a private investigator. Markham officially hired me, but I’m an independent and unofficial part of an international investigation into a fashion crime ring. We’re doing everything we can to keep this completely quiet.”
“Keep what quiet?” She was completely intrigued. Not so much a Bond flick, this was turning into a Philip Marlowe detective novel.
“It started a couple of years ago in the spring couture show, which was in the fall, right?”
“Right. Couture shows are always two seasons ahead. Fall for spring.”
“A major couture piece went missing from House of Sienna.”
She nodded. “I remember that. The dress was listed but never showed up on the runway. The emcee only said it had been pulled from the show.” That happened sometimes and for a variety of reasons, most often because the garment had been damaged beyond quick repair.
“The dress was stolen.”
Her eyes widened. “But the security is so tight. Are you sure?”
“Yes. It was never found. Seems like every major house has had a gown disappear in the last five years. One outfit is annoying, but won’t break the house, and they figured the loss was carelessness or accident. But somebody talked to somebody else and they realized there was a pattern. After that there were a few hush-hush meetings, and a few of the houses decided to do some quiet investigating.”
“And you’re here to try to find out who allegedly stole, what, one gown a season for five years?”
“No. We have reason to believe there will be another theft. This season. I’m here to prevent the theft and gather evidence against the perps.”
“Cool.” She’d always loved detective fiction, and, frankly, the man across from her, with his barely touched beer, was more convincing because he looked exactly like the movie and television version of a P.I. Tough-guy gorgeous, inscrutable. Badly dressed. “So you’re undercover posing as a photographer.” Which would be fine so long as he didn’t have to take any pictures.
“I’m a pretty good photographer, by the way,” he said, as though he’d read her mind. “It’s become a lucrative sideline.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I bet. Catching cheating couples going at it on film. Must be a great job.”
“I don’t do divorce work,” he said, sounding mildly offended. Whether about the way she viewed his profession or his camera skills, she wasn’t sure. “I photograph wildlife.”
“Wildlife. Bears and deer and things? And you think that qualifies you to come to Paris, and shoot super models wearing top couture designs?”
“I capture some of the most elusive and dangerous animals on film. My work may not appear in Vogue, but it does appear in National Geographic, Nature and Midwest Outdoors to name a few.”
“Many of my subjects move pretty damn fast. I’ve been bitten, spit at, stung, clawed and peed on, but I always got my shot.”
“Maybe you do have the skills to deal with high-fashion models, after all.”
How he and Rhett had thought this was a good idea was beyond her. It was obvious that Rhett was fronting for interests here in Paris. Equally obvious that Holden MacGreggor had no intention of sharing more information with her than he absolutely had to. Of course, she was intrigued. Did they know which house was being targeted? Or was the whole detective thing based on guesswork? He’d been so vague with details, she didn’t even know which houses had been victims of theft in the past five years.
Well, fashion week was never boring, but she had a feeling this one was going to be especially memorable.
“What do you want me to do?”
“You’re the insider. The one who knows all the players and can help me navigate.”
“What were you planning to do if I hadn’t come along?”
He scratched his chin. “I thought I’d blend in. Had no idea it was going to be like that.”
And of course Rhett wouldn’t know either.
“Fact is, my partner was supposed to take this gig. She knows a lot more about fashion than I do.”
She glanced up sharply. His partner. Could mean a purely business relationship, or not. Not that it mattered, of course, this was business they were discussing. Serious business, even if he took it somewhat lightly. “But she got called in to testify on a big case we worked on last year—” he shrugged “—so we changed the cover story and here I am.”
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 extreme
ly 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.”